Marks of Opulence: The Why, When and Where of Western Art 1000–1914

That first eleventh-century trickle of church transfers rose to a flood after the triumph of the reforming party at the Concordat of Worms in 1122 had brought the Investiture Contest decisively to an end. And it is very clear that, as the conscience of lay proprietors increasingly got the better of them, the contemporary rebuilding of parish churches throughout the West owed more to changes of ownership than to population growth, to landowner wealth, to developing ritual, or any other cause. One especially well-documented example of such a rebuilding, where the new church still survives, is an arrangement of the 1170s by which William, son of Ernis, gave the English Cluniacs of Castle Acre three acres in Long Sutton ‘in the field called Heoldefen next the road, to build a parish church there. And my wish is that the earlier wooden church of the same vill, in place of which the new church will be built, shall be taken away and the bodies buried in it shall be taken to the new church.’27 Long Sutton, in the fertile Lincolnshire fens, was a developing market-town, and its church was ambitious from the start. For another century and more, church and town continued to grow in unison, before the Great Pestilence brought calamity and recession.

‘Each man [they say] must have a beginning, for the fair lasts but a while.’28 And for many reforming clergy, both in the twelfth century and the next, that beginning could come only in the towns. In particular, that was true of the regular canons – Augustinians for the most part – who, as priests as well as monks, attracted endowments which almost always took the form of parish churches. Then, in the thirteenth century, it was in the towns again that the friars – Dominicans and Franciscans, Carmelites and Austin Friars – made their homes. Not so the Cistercians, nor other ‘hermit-monks’, whose statutes from the start had provided that ‘none of our monasteries is to be constructed in towns, castles or villages, but in places remote from human intercourse’.29 Paradoxically that policy, far from removing their abbeys from the natural growth-points of the economy, located them initially on those expanding frontiers of wealth – of clearance and reclamation, of conquest and new settlement – at which major development was still possible. Frontiers are hostile places. And when, in 1112, a young Burgundian nobleman, Bernard of Fontaines, joined the little community of ascetics settled since 1098 in ‘the wilderness known as Cîteaux … where men rarely penetrated and none but wild things lived’, it was weak and on the point of collapse. Yet just as soon as Bernard had absorbed Cîteaux’s disciplines, he left it again to found his own community in its image. And it was from Bernard’s Clairvaux – with Morimond and Pontigny and Cîteaux itself – that the huge expansion of the Cistercian order almost immediately took place, so that just forty years later, on Bernard’s death, there would be well over 350 abbeys in a mighty monastic family which even its rivals acknowledged to be ‘a model for all monks, a mirror for the diligent, [and] a spur to the indolent’ of all convictions.30

‘That was the golden age of Clairvaux’, wrote William of St Thierry, re-telling the story of Abbot Bernard’s first two decades, when ‘men of virtue, once rich in goods and honour and glorying now in the poverty of Christ, established the Church of God in their own blood, in toil and hardship, in hunger and thirst, in cold and exposure, in persecution and insults, in difficulties and in death, preparing the Clairvaux of today, which enjoys sufficiency and peace.’31 But Bernard’s first ‘little huddle of huts’ at Clairvaux, ‘strangled and overshadowed by its thickly wooded hills’, was quickly filled to bursting by the many who hurried there to join him. And the standard Cistercian abbey of the order’s main expansion period – with ‘no statues or pictures’, with ‘windows of clear glass’, and with ‘no bell-towers of stone’ (provided the statutes) – would have had much more in common with the new Clairvaux II after 1135, when the saint at last agreed to its rebuilding. ‘Should you wish to picture Clairvaux’, begins a famous description of Bernard’s second abbey, ‘imagine two hills and between them a narrow valley, which widens out as it approaches the monastery. The abbey covers the half of one hillside and the whole of the other. With one rich in vineyards, the other in crops, they do double duty, gladdening the heart and serving our necessities, one shelving flank providing food, the other drink.’ Characteristically, though, it was not in his account of Clairvaux’s buildings – as a Cluniac might have done – that the Cistercian author came to life, but in his transparent delight in the tumbling waters of the Aube and in the ‘smiling face of the earth’.32 It was another Cistercian writer, Gilbert of Swineshead, who described the site of his own English abbey as ‘a secret, cultivated, well-watered, and fertile place and a wooded valley [which] resounds in springtime with the sweet song of birds, so that it can revive the dead spirit, remove the aversions of the dainty soul, [and] soften the hardness of the undevout mind’. And it was a third, Walter Daniel, who found Paradise (no less) in the wooded hills and dashing streams of Aelred’s Rievaulx.33

Of Abbot Aelred, Walter wrote: ‘This man turned Rievaulx into a veritable stronghold for the comfort and support of the weak … an abode of peace and piety where God and neighbour might be loved in fullest measure.’ To Rievaulx, ‘monks in want of brotherly understanding and compassion came flocking from foreign countries and the farther ends of the earth’; and no restless ‘rolling-stone’ was turned away. Yet Rievaulx’s lush meadows, like those of its Yorkshire sister-house at Fountains, had only lately been ‘a place of horror and vast solitude … thick set with thorns, and fit rather to be the lair of wild beasts than the home of human beings’. And the gentle Aelred, abbot from 1147, was as much successful manager as caring father. Before his death in 1166, Aelred had more than doubled Rievaulx’s size in ‘monks, lay-brothers, hired men, farms, lands and chattels’, leaving it well equipped to support an even greater company than the already huge throng of 140 choir-monks and 500 lay-brethren and servants which had packed the church on feast-days ‘like bees into a hive, unable to move forward for very numbers’.34

Aelred was a Cistercian of the second generation. And by his death, many white-monk houses had ceased to live by the austere code of their founders. One sharp contemporary verdict on what the Cistercians had become – especially worth attending because delivered by an admirer and reported by an abbot of their own order – is that of Wulfric of Haselbury Plucknett, a well-regarded Somerset recluse. Wulfric, said Abbot John of Ford, his biographer:

clasped all Cistercians in a close embrace, like sons of his own body, or rather of Christ Jesus. He lauded the Order to the skies and never hesitated to direct to it those who came to consult him about reforming their lives. There was only one matter, according to this friend and champion of our Order, in which the Cistercians displeased God: when it came to lands made over to them, they exercised their rights too freely and, more intent on law than on justice, seemed insufficiently mindful of their duty to those men committed to their lordship.35

However, the problem for the Cistercians, as for the other rural orders of the twelfth-century reform – the Carthusians and Tironensians, the Gilbertines, Premonstratensians and Grandmontines – was that both in the quality of their recruitment and in the largesse of their friends, support was very rapidly falling off. To meet their continuing building commitments – and Aelred’s hugely expanded Rievaulx was only one of many white-monk houses already rebuilt almost entirely before 1200 – Cistercian abbots everywhere had begun accepting those very properties, from feudalized lands to parish churches and their tithes, which their predecessors had on principle rejected.36 Those earlier abbots had invariably made sure that their houses were sufficiently endowed. And few Cistercian communities ever ran much risk of the wretched poverty felt, for example, by the hermit-monks of Grandmont, struggling to maintain themselves on a mountain-top so ‘stern and cold, infertile and rocky, misty and exposed to the winds’ that even ‘the water is colder and worse than in other places, for it produces sickness instead of health’.37 Yet from the mid-century already, the very success of the Cistercians had begun to cost them dear, losing them the respect and loyalty of just those powerful men and women for whom the soldierly discipline of Abbot Bernard’s troops had always been their principal attraction.

Bernard had communed easily with princes. However, the West’s most affluent patrons – bishops as well as dynasts – were beginning to find other homes for their money. One major beneficiary would be the Friars Mendicant, who arrived with the new century. But before that fresh distraction, the rebuilding of Europe’s cathedrals had entered a new phase, driven at least in part by popular piety. ‘We have begun the construction of a larger church [at Aix-en-Provence]’, promised Archbishop Rostan de Fos’s encyclical of 1070, addressed to all the faithful of the diocese, ‘in which you and other visitors will have space enough to stand … We ask each of you to give what he can, so as to receive from God and us a full remission of his sins … [then] for everything you give, you will receive a hundredfold from the Lord in the day of Judgement.’38 And it was pilgrims again, drawn to Chartres Cathedral by the Virgin’s shrine, who had contributed to its rebuilding after the great fire of 1020. At Chartres, the chief attraction was an ancient image of the Virgin ‘about to bring forth’, with the Tunic she was wearing at childbirth. And there were already some lone voices – among them that of Guibert, Abbot of Nogent – who spoke out eloquently against the folly of such cults.39 Yet there is no mistaking the furious passion of those Chartres citizens who, as their new cathedral neared completion in 1145, ‘in silence and with humility … [and] not without discipline and tears’, dragged waggon-loads of stone and wood to aid the works. ‘Powerful princes of the world’, wrote Abbot Haimon of that same scene, ‘men brought up in honour and wealth, nobles, men and women, have bent their proud and haughty necks to the harness of carts, and, like beasts of burden, have dragged to the abode of Christ these waggons loaded with wines, grains, oil, stone, wood, and all that is necessary for the wants of life or for the construction of the church’.40 But already Haimon’s emphasis was on the high birth of his devout penitents, and it was from the rich that the works received their funding. Thus when, on 10 June 1194, Chartres Cathedral burnt down again, what made another start feasible was not the Sisyphean labours of the city’s ardent poor but the solid wealth of its prudhommes and their friends.41

Cathedral-building is almost always long-term. And those great twelfth-century programmes at Laon and Notre-Dame de Paris, at Norwich and Canterbury, at Zamora and Salamanca, at Tournai, Worms and Mainz, all took generations to complete. Cologne Cathedral, the most ambitious yet, although begun at a fine pace in 1248, was not finished until the late nineteenth century. However, the mere fact that so many ambitious projects were launched at the same time says much for the health of the economy. Rhineland Cologne, always a minting capital, was at the centre of a revival which, after more than a century of bullion shortages, took off again in 1168 with the chance discovery of an important new silver source at Christiansdorf (later Freiberg), in Meissen. In less than twenty years from that first opening of Freiberg’s seams, the circulation throughout the West of hundreds of millions of silver pfennigs had transformed its trading economy.42

For cathedral-building bishops everywhere, the fact that this new wealth was largely created in the towns gave them whatever assurances they still needed. With population on the increase and labour cheap and plentiful, the ideal context had been established for daring programmes of new works characterized by leap-frogging ambition. Silver-rich Cologne remained for generations the most insanely ambitious project of them all. However, a seductive target had been set. And Cologne’s challenge, taken up first in 1386 by Gian Galeazzo Visconti, tyrant of Milan, was then accepted by the canons of Seville. It was one of those canons who, in 1401–2, made the famous boast: ‘We shall build a cathedral so fine that none shall be its equal … so great and of such a kind that those who see it completed will think that we were mad.’43

And that, in just a century, is what they did.

CHAPTER TWO Commercial Revolution

Europe’s commercial revolution is now sometimes seen as beginning at the Millennium, with that ‘birth of the market’ and ‘transformation of town/country relations’ which Guy Bois has located within a few years of 970.1 However, most historians would date it later, and all agree that it was in the long thirteenth century – from the 1150s (or a little earlier) to the 1340s (or a little later) – that genuine surpluses built up, to result in the huge cathedrals of today. Cologne was only one of many Western cities which grew spectacularly in the twelfth century, adding two new circuits of defences; Rheims, at least doubling its size, was another. Both then began cathedrals – Rheims in 1211, Cologne in 1248 – on a scale so vast that nobody could have known how they would end. ‘Spend and God shall send’, the cathedral-builders told each other; ‘God loves a glad giver’, they advised their friends. But prayer was not the only funding strategy they employed. Abbot Suger, in the previous century, had shown the way. Before beginning on the rebuilding of his abbey church at Saint-Denis, Suger’s first priority had been to set about the recovery of his rents. Only after that, he reported, ‘having put the situation to rights, I had my hands free to proceed with construction’. Even so, he had been concerned about the future: ‘[but] when later on our investments became more substantial, we never found ourselves running short, and an actual abundance of resources caused us to admit: “Everything that comes in sufficient quantities comes from God”.’2 Yet in 1148, when Suger told his story, a more reliable source of funding was the rising rent-roll of his abbey, having all the wealth of Paris on its doorstep.

With the economy speeding up and money no longer tight, one circumstance especially favoured large-scale building. ‘Thou shalt not lend upon usury’, ran the ancient teaching of the Church, whether ‘usury of money, usury of victuals, [or] usury of any thing that is lent upon usury’ (Deuteronomy 23: 19). And while frequently disregarded from the thirteenth century if not earlier, that doctrine remained unchanged throughout the Middle Ages, holding back the evolution of money markets. It was not, for example, until late in the seventeenth century that London developed fully the sophisticated banking and commercial systems which helped make it into Europe’s largest city. And before that time, the unresolved problem of the urban rich was where – if not in land or treasure – to keep their money. In compensation, towns before the plague were good places to live: they were free, well-protected, and expanding quickly. But where fully a third of Europe’s cultivable land-space was already alienated to the Church, and where most of the remainder was locked away in the protected family holdings of the nobility, what was left sold only at a premium. Confident in their own abilities and anticipating little profit from the fields outside their walls, the comfortably-off citizens of Chartres, Bourges and Rheims, of Beauvais, Tours and Amiens, were the more easily persuaded to put their money into building when almost every other option was circumscribed.

Where they began was on the rebuilding of their cathedrals. But with the arrival of the friars, from early in the thirteenth century, another popular receptacle for surplus profits opened up. It was in 1210 that Francis of Assisi’s Regula Prima was first approved at Rome, and as late as 1216 that Dominic of Caleruega’s Order of Friars Preachers was formally recognized by Pope Honorius III. Yet so well targeted were the Mendicants, closely focused on the towns, that Matthew Paris (a Benedictine of St Albans) would say about them by the mid-century:

Brothers of many orders swarmed, now Preachers [Dominicans], now Minors [Franciscans], now Cruciferi [Crutched Friars], now Carmelites … The Preachers indeed and the Minors at first led a life of poverty and the utmost sanctity, devoting themselves wholly to preaching, hearing confessions, divine services in church, reading and study. Embracing poverty voluntarily for God, they abandoned many revenues, keeping nothing for themselves for the morrow by way of victuals. But within a few years they were stocking up carefully and erecting extremely fine buildings.3

Writing in 1250, Matthew Paris had seen the friars triumph over his own brethren too many times. And what he neglects to mention is that it was not always – nor even usually – the friars themselves who had chosen to build with such magnificence. Both the Dominicans and the Franciscans – the two senior orders – had insisted from the start on simple life-styles. ‘Our brothers shall have modest and humble houses’, runs a Dominican constitution of 1228, ‘so that the walls of houses without an upper room shall not exceed twelve feet in height, and of those with an upper room twenty feet, the church thirty feet; and their roofs should not be vaulted in stone, except perhaps over choir and sacristy.’4 And when, in 1260, Bonaventure (the ‘Seraphic Doctor’) brought the Franciscans back to unity after the divisions which had followed their founder’s death, his new statutes insisted that no churches of the order should have bell-towers of their own; that expensive vaults (as with the Dominicans) should be limited to the presbytery; that the only stained-glass imagery should be in the great east window over the high altar; and that ‘since exquisite craftsmanship and superfluity are directly contrary to poverty, we order that such exquisite craftsmanship, whether in pictures, sculpture, windows, columns and suchlike, and any superfluity in length, width or height above what is fitting to the requirements of the place, be more strictly avoided’.5

Such ‘superfluities’ had indeed characterized a great number of Franciscan churches, not least the huge basilica at Assisi itself which Brother Elias began building, soon after Francis’s death in 1226, in clear contravention of the saint’s explicit wishes. Yet it was overeager patrons, in almost every case, who had commissioned them. ‘King Louis’, wrote Jean de Joinville in his hagiographic history of Louis IX of France (1226–70), ‘loved all people who devoted themselves to the service of God by taking on the religious habit; none of these ever came to him without his giving them what they needed for a living.’ And while it was the Franciscans and the Dominicans who profited most from that largesse, Louis bought land also for the Carmelites on the Seine near Charenton, ‘where he built them a monastery and supplied it, at his own expense, with vestments, chalices, and such other things as are essential for the service of our Saviour’; he provided a site and built a church for the Austin Friars ‘outside the Porte Montmartre’; and he gave the Friars of the Holy Cross (Crutched Friars) a house ‘in the street once known as the Carrefour du Temple, but now called the rue Sainte-Croix’. In this way, boasts Joinville, ‘the good King Louis surrounded the city of Paris with people vowed to the service of religion’.6

‘They have already encircled the city’, sang Rutebeuf, the jongleur, taking the opposite view; ‘God keep Paris from harm/and preserve her from false religion.’7 And it was undoubtedly the case that Louis IX’s too obvious advocacy of the friars in their long mid-century dispute with the secular masters of the University cost him much support in his own capital. ‘There were times’, Joinville admits, ‘when [even] some of those who were most in his confidence found fault with the king for spending so lavishly on what seemed to them over-generous benefactions’.8 Yet the friars, whether as preachers to urban audiences or as buriers of the dead, were in no danger of losing their appeal. It was in Louis’s own Sainte-Chapelle – built at huge cost in the 1240s to house his most precious relic, the Crown of Thorns – that the king and his family heard the friars preach on many occasions. And high on the list of Louis’s favourite preachers was that same Bonaventure, once himself a famous teacher in the Paris schools, who restored order to the Franciscans in 1260. Over a quarter of Bonaventure’s sermons while minister-general are known to have been delivered on return visits to Paris, when the king was very often in his audience. They satisfied an addiction as powerful in Louis IX as the passion of Henry III, his English brother-in-law, for hearing masses.9

With Louis’s monumental reliquary rising before him as a challenge, Henry III was at least as determined to build a shrine of his own of similarly exemplary magnificence. Begun in 1246, when work on the Sainte-Chapelle (consecrated in 1248) was still in progress, Henry’s abbey church at Westminster replaced the demolished pre-Conquest church of King Edward the Confessor, whose canonization in 1161 had made him the focus of a developing cult to which Henry was personally devoted. No materials were too expensive nor spaces too grand for a work of such intense royal piety. Yet Henry was impatient to see it finished: ‘Because the king wishes that the works of the church of Westminster should be greatly speeded up (multum expedirentur)’, orders Henry III’s testy writ of 30 October 1252, ‘Henry, the master of the said works, is directed to have all the marble work raised this winter that can be done without danger.’10 The cost of this one project was enormous; Westminster alone (of all Henry’s many building enterprises) absorbed the equivalent of more than a year of the royal revenues, and contributed significantly to the popular unrest which culminated in the Baronial Revolt of 1263–5. Yet as Louis IX had told his critics: ‘I would rather have such excessive sums as I spend devoted to almsgiving for the love of God than used in empty ostentation and the vanities of this world.’11 And where ‘magnificence’ in every gesture was routinely demanded of a king, there was little to be gained by royal parsimony. A generation later, in typical Mendicant-speak, the Dominican Federico Franconi would invoke a pagan Greek philosopher to justify the pious works of Louis’s nephew Charles II, King of Sicily (1285–1309):

According to Aristotle, Ethics 4, it is the part of the magnificent man to go to great expense and to make donations, and especially in connection with God and the building of temples. Thus our lord King Charles acted as befits a magnificent man and went to great expense and made gifts to knights, counts, and the like … How great were the gifts he made to clerics and religious! Indeed, too, how many were the churches and monasteries, how many were the convents that he built and endowed!12

Magnificence was as desirable in the government of cities also, for as the Florentine patrician, Pagolantonio Soderini, would later explain to his fellow disputants in Francesco Guicciardini’s political Dialogue of the 1520s: ‘Although cities were founded principally to protect those who took refuge in them and to provide them with the commodities of everyday life, nevertheless their rulers are also responsible for making them magnificent and illustrious, so their inhabitants can acquire reputation and fame among other nations for being generous, intelligent, virtuous and prudent.’13 But public works, in the last resort, are usually funded by private wealth. And probably the most significant contribution the friars ever made to the self-esteem of Europe’s cities was to give wealth-creation recognition in the Church. It was to Aristotle again, only recently become accessible in translations of their own making, that Mendicant scholars turned for a less condemnatory view of personal profit – deemed, until then, to be no better than exploitation – which began with the defence of private property. Aristotle, in his own day, had seen nothing wrong with private property. And for the Aristotelian Dominican, Thomas Aquinas, not only was personal wealth no sin, but the rich stood a better chance of being virtuous: thus ‘exterior riches are necessary for the good of virtue, since through them we sustain ourselves and can help others’.14 Contemporaneously, it was the Franciscan master Guibert of Tournai, teaching alongside Aquinas (the ‘Angelic Doctor’) in the Paris schools, who assured the class of merchants that ‘gold and silver make neither good men nor bad men: the use of them is good, and the abuse of them is bad’: in effect, that there is nothing sinful in buying and selling provided always that the motives are not base.15 And while some of the friars’ other rationalizations of money-making – of interest (‘usury’) as an acceptable charge for venture capital, and of a fair (or ‘just’) price as being whatever the market would bear – were more problematic, they were nevertheless entirely successful in promoting Christ the Good Merchant (Bonus Negotiator) as a commerce-friendly figure, on a level with Christ the Lawyer (Advocatus) or Christ the Lord (Dominus).