There have been times in the history of mankind
when the Earth seems suddenly to have grown warmer,
or more radioactive.
I don't put this forward as a scientific proposition
but the fact remains that three or four times in history,
man has made a leap forward
that would have been unthinkable under ordinary evolutionary conditions.
One such time was about the year 3,000 BC,
when quite suddenly civilisation appeared.
Not only in Egypt and Mesopotamia but in the Indus Valley.
Another was in the late 6th century BC,
when there was not only the miracle of lonia and Greece -
philosophy, science, art, poetry,
all reaching a point that wasn't reached again for 2,000 years,
but also in India, a spiritual enlightenment that has perhaps never been equalled.
And another was round about the year 1 1 00.
It seems to have affected the whole world - India, China, Byzantium.
But its strongest and most dramatic effect was in Western Europe,
where it was most needed.
It was like a Russian spring.
In every branch of life - action, philosophy, organisation, technology -
there was an extraordinary outpouring of energy,
an intensification of existence.
Popes, emperors, kings, bishops,
saints, scholars, philosophers - they were all larger than life.
The incidents of history are great heroic dramas,
or symbolic acts that still stir our hearts.
The evidence of this heroic energy,
this confidence, this strength of will and intellect,
is still visible to us.
From where I'm standing,
the east end of Canterbury still looks very large and very complex.
In spite of all our mechanical skills
and the inflated scale of modern materialism,
Durham Cathedral remains a formidable proposition.
These great orderly mountains of stone
rose out of a small cluster of wooden houses.
Everyone with the least historical imagination has thought of that.
What people don't realise is that this happened quite suddenly.
In a single lifetime.
Of course, these changes imply a new social and intellectual background.
They imply wealth, stability, technical skill,
and, above all, the confidence necessary to push through a long-term project.
How had all this suddenly appeared in Western Europe?
There are many answers.
But one is overwhelmingly more important than the others.
The triumph of the Church.
It could be convincingly argued
that Western civilisation was basically the creation of the Church.
In saying that, I'm not thinking for the moment
of the Church as the repository of Christian truth and spiritual experience.
I'm thinking of her as the 1 2th century thought of her - as a power.
Ecclesia - sitting like an empress.
And she was powerful for positive reasons.
Men of intelligence naturally and normally took holy orders.
And could rise from obscurity to positions of immense influence.
The Church was, basically, a democratic institution,
where ability - administrative, diplomatic, sheer intellectual ability - made its way.
And then the Church was international.
The great churchmen of the 1 1th and 1 2th centuries came from all over Europe.
Anselm came here from Aosta via Normandy to be Archbishop of Canterbury.
Lanfranc had made the same journey, starting from Pavia.
It couldn't happen in the Church or in politics today.
One can't imagine two consecutive Archbishops of Canterbury being Italian.
But it could happen and it does happen in the field of science.
Which shows that where some way of thought or human activity is really vital to us
then internationalism is accepted unhesitatingly.
This internationalism of the 1 2th century extended to architecture and sculpture.
The master masons, who were both sculptors and architects,
travelled all over Europe.
Canterbury was built by a Frenchman, William of Sens.
The extraordinary thing is that wherever they went
these masters seemed able to recruit a force of skilled workmen
who carried out technical feats which seem infinitely beyond all that we know,
or think we know, of the mechanical skill of the time.
They were inspired by the feeling that beyond all their hoisting and hammering
there was some great controlling intelligence based on mathematical laws.
A human reflection of God, the great architect.
This expansion of the human spirit
was first made visible in the abbey of Cluny,
about 250 miles to the southeast of Paris.
It was founded in the 1 0th century,
but under Hugh of Semur, who was abbot from 1 049 to 1 1 09,
it became the greatest church in Europe.
A huge complex of buildings, with a famous library
in which was made the first translation of the Koran.
The first attempt to understand the infidel,
instead of merely fighting him.
Well, the buildings were destroyed in the early 1 9th century,
used as a quarry, like Roman buildings.
Only a part of the south transept remains, where I'm standing now.
But we've many descriptions of its original splendour,
the abbey church alone was the size of a large cathedral.
On feast days the whole of the walls were covered with hangings,
the floors were a mosaic with figures, like a Roman pavement.
And of all its treasures the most astonishing was a seven-branched candlestick of gilt bronze,
of which the shaft alone was 1 8 feet high.
A formidable piece of casting, even today.
Of all this, nothing remains.
Only a few candlesticks, later and much smaller.
This is one of them.
It's only about 1 8 inches high,
but it's so full of detail that one can imagine it 1 8 feet.
Although made for the Cathedral of Gloucester,
it's a perfect example of Cluniac elaboration.
This first great eruption of ecclesiastical splendour
was unashamedly extravagant.
Apologists for the Cluniac style
tell us that all the decoration was subordinated to philosophic ideas.
My general impression is
that the invention which boiled over into sculpture and painting in the early 1 2th century
was self-delighting.
As with the similar outbursts of the baroque,
one can think up ingenious interpretations of the subjects,
but the motive force behind them
was simply irrepressible, irresponsible energy.
The Romanesque carvers were like a school of dolphins.
All this we know, not from the mother house of Cluny itself
but from the dependencies that spread all over Europe.
There were over 1,200 of them in France alone.
I'm sitting in the cloisters of a fairly remote one,
the Abbey of Moissac in southern France,
which was important because it was on the pilgrimage route to Compostella.
The carvings have much that is typical of the Cluny style.
The sharp cutting,
the swirling drapery,
the twisting line, as if the restless impulses of the wandering craftsmen,
the goldsmiths of the Viking conquerors, still had to be expressed in stone.
You can see this on the mullion of the door,
with its fabulous beasts.
When one considers that they were once brightly coloured,
because Cluniac ornament seems all to have been painted,
and the manuscripts show what kind of colour it was,
they must have looked even more fiercely Tibetan than they do today.
I can't imagine that even the Medieval mind,
which was adept at interpreting everything symbolically
could have found much in them of religious meaning.
But what has this column to do with Christian values?
With compassion, charity or even hope?
It's not at all surprising that the most influential churchman of his day,
St Bernard of Claireveaux,
should have become the bitter and relentless critic of the Cluniac style.
Some of his attacks are the usual puritan objections,
as when he speaks of "the lies of poetry".
Words that were to echo through the centuries
and become particular favourites in the new religion of science.
But St Bernard had an eye as well as an eloquent tongue.
And in the cloisters, he says, "Under the eyes of the brethren engaged in reading,
what business have those ridiculous monstrosities?
That misshapen shapeliness and shapely misshapenness.
Those unclean monkeys, those fierce lions,
those monstrous centaurs, those semi-human beings.
Here you see a quadruped with the tail of a serpent,
there a fish with the head of a bird.
In short, there appears on all sides, so rich and amazing a variety of forms
that it is more delightful to read the marbles than the manuscripts,
and to spend the whole day in admiring these things piece by piece,
rather than in meditating on the divine law.
That last sentence shows, doesn't it, that Bernard felt the power of art.
In fact, the buildings done under his influence, in the Cistercian style,
are closer to our ideals of architecture than anything else of the period.
Alas, most of them were abandoned and half-ruined
simply because it was part of St Bernard's ideal
that they should be built far from the worldly distractions of towns.
And so, when after the French Revolution,
town monasteries were turned into local churches,
the Cistercian monasteries fell into ruins.
And yet it's there that the spirit of monasticism has survived.
...quem ponebant quotidie ad portam templi,
quae dicitur Speciosa,
ut peteret elemosynam ab introeuntibus in templum.
Is cum vidisset Petrum et lohannem incipientes introire in templum
rogabat ut elemosynam acciperet.
Intuens autem in eum Petrus cum lohanne dixit respice in nos.
At ille intendebat in eos sperans se aliquid accepturum ab eis.
Petrus autem dixit argentum et aurum non est mihi
quod autem habeo hoc tibi do...
These white monks, in their unchanging habit,
this round of work and prayer, which has continued unbroken since the 1 2th century,
bring the old building back to life.
It's a way of life that is concerned with an ideal of eternity.
And that is an important part of civilisation.
But the great thaw of the 1 2th century was not achieved by contemplation alone -
that can exist at all times -
but by action.
A vigorous, violent sense of movement,
both physical and intellectual.
On the physical side this took the form of pilgrimages and crusades.
I think they're one of the features of the Middle Ages which is hardest for us to understand.
It's no good pretending that pilgrimages were like cruises or holidays abroad.
For one thing, they took far longer. Sometimes two or three years.
For another, they involved real hardship and danger.
In spite of efforts to organise pilgrimages,
and Cluny ran a series of hostels along the chief routes,
elderly abbots and middle-aged widows often died on the way to Jerusalem.
Pilgrimages were undertaken in hope of heavenly rewards.
They were often used by the Church as a form of penitence,
a spiritualised form of extradition.
The point of a pilgrimage was to look at relics.
The Medieval pilgrim really believed that by contemplating a reliquary
containing the head or even the finger of a saint,
he could persuade that saint to intercede on his behalf with God.
How can one hope to share this belief,
which played so great a part in Medieval civilisation?
I'm on my way to the town of Conques.
A famous place of pilgrimage dedicated to the cult of Sainte Foy.
She was a little girl, who in late Roman times refused to worship idols.
She was obstinate in the face of reasonable persuasion.
A Christian Antigone.
And so she was martyred.
Her relics began to work miracles, and in the 1 0th century
one of them was so famous that Bernard of Angers was sent to investigate it
and report to the Bishop of Chartres.
It seemed that a man had had his eyes gouged out by a jealous priest.
After a year or so, the blind man went to the shrine of Sainte Foy
and his eyes were restored.
The man was still alive. He said that at first he had had terrible headaches,
but now they had passed and he could see perfectly.
There was a difficulty.
After his eyes had been put out, witnesses said that they had been taken up to heaven.
Some said by a dove, others by a magpie.
That was the only point of doubt.
The report was favourable.
A fine Romanesque church was built at Conques
and in it was placed this strange Eastern-looking figure
to contain the relics of Sainte Foy.
A golden idol studded with gems.
How ironical that this little girl who was put to death for refusing to worship idols
should have been turned into one herself.
That the very head should be a gold mask of a late Roman emperor.
Well, that's the Medieval mind.
They cared passionately about the truth,
but their sense of evidence was different from ours.
From our point of view, nearly all the relics in the world
depend on some completely unhistorical assertion.
And yet, they, as much as any factor, led to that movement and a diffusion of ideas
from which Western civilisation derives part of its momentum.
Of course, the most important place of pilgrimage was Jerusalem.
After the 1 0th century,
when a strong Byzantine Empire made the journey practicable,
pilgrims used to go in parties of 7,000 at a time.
And this is the background of that extraordinary episode in history -
the first Crusade.
Because, although other factors may have determined its course,
Norman restlessness, the ambitions of younger sons,
economic depression,
all the factors that make for a gold rush;
there can be no doubt
that the majority of people joined the Crusade in a spirit of pilgrimage.
Among many things they brought back from the East were Persian decorative motives
which were combined with the rhythms of Northern ornament
to make the Romanesque style.
I see these as two fierce beasts, tugging at the carcass of Graeco-Roman art.
Very often one can trace a figure back to a classical original,
but it has been entirely tugged out of shape.
Or, perhaps one should say, into shape by these two new forces.
This feeling of tugging, of pulling everything to bits and reshaping it,
was characteristic of 1 2th-century art.
And was somehow complementary to the massive stability of its architecture.
I see rather the same situation in the realm of ideas.
The main structure of the Christian faith was unshakable,
but round it was a play of minds, a tugging and a tension,
that has hardly been seen since.
And was, I think, one of the things that prevented Western Europe from growing rigid,
as so many other civilisations have done.
It was an age of intense intellectual activity.
To read what was going on in Paris about the year 1 1 30 makes one's head spin.
And at the centre of it all was the brilliant, enigmatic figure of Peter Abelard.
The invincible arguer.
The magnetic teacher.
Abelard was a star.
Like a great prizefighter,
he expressed contempt for anyone who met him in the ring of open discussion.
The older Medieval philosophers, like Anselm, had said,
"I must believe in order that I may understand."
Abelard took the opposite course:
"I must understand in order that I may believe."
He said, "By doubting we come to questioning,
and by questioning we perceive the truth."
Strange words to have been written in the year 1 1 22.
Of course they got him into trouble.
Only the strength and wisdom of Cluny saved him from excommunication.
He ended his days calmly in a Cluniac house
and after his death the abbot of Cluny wrote to H¨¦lo? Se
saying that she and Abelard would be reunited where
"beyond these voices there is peace."
I'm standing in a Cluniac house - the Abbey of V¨¦zelay.
I'm in the covered portico where the pilgrims gathered.
Above my head is the relief on the main door, showing Christ in glory.
He's no longer the judge, as at Moissac, but the Redeemer.
V¨¦zelay's full of sculpture - on the doors, on the capitals, everywhere.
But fascinating as this is,
one forgets about it when one looks through the door at the architecture of the interior.
It's so harmonious that, surely, St Bernard, who preached the second Crusade here,
must have felt that this was an expression of the divine law
and an aid to worship and contemplation.
It certainly has that effect on me.
Indeed, I can think of no other Romanesque interior
that has this quality of lightness, this feeling of divine reason.
It seems inevitable
that the Romanesque should here merge into a beautiful early Gothic.
We don't know the name of the architect of V¨¦zelay,
nor of the highly individual sculptors of Moissac or Toulouse,
and this used to be taken as a proof of Christian humility in the artist,
or, alternatively, a sign of their low status.
I think it was just an accident.
Because, in fact, we do know the names of a good many Medieval builders,
including the architects of Cluny.
And the form of their inscriptions doesn't at all suggest excessive modesty.
One of the most famous
is bang in the middle of the main portal of the Cathedral of Autun.
You can see it under the feet of Christ.
"Gislebertus hoc fecit."
"Gislebertus made this."
One of the blessed looks up at the name Gislebertus with admiration.
He must have been considered a very important man
for his name to have been permitted in such a prominent place.
At a later date, it would not have been the artist's name, but the patron's.
And, in fact, Gislebertus was important to Autun
because he did something unique in the Middle Ages, and very rare at any time.
He carried out the whole decoration of the cathedral himself.
This extraordinary feat was in keeping with his character as an artist.
He wasn't an inward-looking visionary, like the Moissac master.
He was an extrovert.
He loves to tell a story and his strength lies in his dramatic force.
Look at the row of the damned under the feet of their judge.
They form a crescendo of despair.
They're reduced to essentials in a way that brings them very close to the art of our own time.
A likeness terrifyingly confirmed by these gigantic hands
that carry up the head of a sinner as if it were a piece of rubble on a building site.
The capitals also have this vivid narrative quality.
They contain rich pieces of ornament.
But, in the end, it's the story that counts.
Look at this charming donkey.
And at the protective way in which the Virgin holds the Christ child on their journey to Egypt.
Even in this abstract-looking design
of the three kings asleep under their magnificent counterpane,
what matters is the angel's gesture
and the delicate way he places one finger on the hand of a sleeping king.
Like all storytellers,
he had a taste for horrors and he went out of his way to depict them.
This really horrifying work is the suicide of Judas.
However, I must, in fairness, admit that he also did a figure of Eve,
which is the first female nude since antiquity to give a sense of the pleasures of the body.
The work of Gislebertus was finished in about 1 1 35,
and by that time a new force had appeared in European art...
the Abbey of St Denis.
The royal abbey of St Denis had been famous enough in earlier times.
But the part it played in Western civilisation
was due to the abilities of one extraordinary individual, the Abbot Suger.
He was one of the first men of the Middle Ages whom one can think of in modern -
I might almost say transatlantic terms.
His origins were completely obscure and he was extremely small,
but his vitality was overwhelming.
It extended to everything he undertook - organisation, building, statesmanship.
He was Regent of France for seven years, and a great patriot.
Indeed, he seems to have been the first to pronounce those now familiar words:
"The English are destined by moral and natural law
to be subjected to the French and not contrariwise."
He loved to talk about himself, without any false modesty.
And he tells the story of how his builders assured him
that beams of the length he needed for a certain roof
could never be found because trees just weren't as tall as that.
Whereupon he took his carpenters into the forests.
"They smiled," he says, "and would have laughed, if they had dared."
And in the course of the day,
he discovered 1 2 trees of the necessary size and he had them felled and brought back.
You see why I used the word "transatlantic".
And, like several of the pioneers of the New World,
he had a passionate love of art.
One of the most fascinating documents of the Middle Ages
is the account he wrote of the works carried out at St Denis under his administration.
The gold altar, the crosses, the precious crystals.
There they are, seen through the eyes of a 1 5th-century painter,
who has, no doubt, made his figures much too large in proportion.
Actually, Suger's great gold cross was 24 feet high
and it was studded with jewels
and inlaid with enamels made by one of the finest craftsmen of the age, Godefroy de Claire.
All destroyed in the Revolution.
All that is left of Suger's treasures is a few of the sacred vessels.
Like this Egyptian porphyry jar,
which he tells us he found, forgotten, in a cupboard.
Suger's feeling for all these objects was partly that of a great collector -
love of brightness and splendour and antiquity -
and a love of acquisition.
But he was not merely a collector. He was a creator.
His work had a philosophic basis that is very important to Western civilisation.
Suger accepted the belief that we could only come to understand the absolute beauty,
which is God,
through the effect of precious and beautiful things on our senses.
He said, "The dull mind rises to truth through that which is material."
Well, this was really a revolutionary concept in the Middle Ages.
It was the intellectual background of all the sublime works of art of the next century,
and in fact has remained the basis of our belief in the value of art until today.
In addition to this revolution in theory,
Suger's St Denis was also the beginning of many new developments in practice -
in architecture, in sculpture, in painted glass.
But one can still see that Suger introduced - perhaps really invented -
the Gothic style of architecture.
Not only the pointed arch, but the lightness of high windows -
what we call the clerestory.
"Bright," he says, "is the noble edifice
that is pervaded by new light."
And in these words he anticipates
all the architectural aspirations of the next 200 years.
Alas, the exterior of St Denis doesn't look too bright today.
It's been knocked about and restored
and is now engulfed in a squalid industrial suburb.
To form any notion of its first effect on the mind,
one must go to Chartres.
In some miraculous way, Chartres has survived.
Fire and war, revolution and restoration,
have attacked it in vain.
One can still climb the hill to the cathedral in the spirit of a pilgrim.
Even the tourists have not destroyed its atmosphere,
as they have in so many temples of the human spirit
from the Sistine Chapel to the Todaiji in Japan.
The south tower is still more or less as it was when it was completed in the year 1 1 64.
It's a masterpiece of harmonious proportion.
Was this harmony calculated mathematically?
Well, ingenious scholars have produced a system of proportions based on measurements,
but it's so complex that I find it very hard to credit.
However, Chartres was the centre of a school of philosophy, devoted to Plato,
and in particular to his mysterious book called the Timaeus, from which it was thought
that the whole universe could be interpreted as a form of measurable harmony.
So, perhaps, the proportions of Chartres reflect a more complex mathematics
than one is inclined to believe.
Chartres contained the most famous of all relics of the Virgin,
the actual tunic she had worn at the time of the Annunciation.
From the first, this relic had worked miracles
but it was only in the 1 2th century
that the cult of the Virgin began to appeal to the popular imagination.
I suppose that in the earlier centuries life was simply too rough.
At any rate, if art is any guide - and in this series I am taking it as my guide -
the Virgin played a very small part in the minds of men
during the 9th and 1 0th, and even the 1 1th, centuries.
The Romanesque churches we've been looking at
were dedicated to saints whose relics they contained -
St Etienne, St Lazarus, St Denis, St Mary Magdalene -
none of them to the Virgin.
Then, after Chartres, almost every great church in France was dedicated to her -
Paris, Amiens, Rheims, Rouen, Beauvais.
What was the reason for this sudden change?
Well, I think the cult of the Virgin must have come from the East.
Because all the early representations of the Virgin as an object of devotion
are in a markedly Byzantine style.
This is a page from a manuscript from Citeaux, the community of St Bernard.
And St Bernard was one of the first men to speak of the Virgin as an ideal of beauty
and a mediator between man and God.
But certainly a strong influence in spreading the cult of the Virgin
was the beauty and splendour of Chartres.
The main portal of Chartres
is one of the most beautiful congregations of carved figures in the world.
The longer you look at it,
the more moving incidents, the more vivid details, you discover.
I suppose the first thing that strikes anyone is this row of pillar people.
In naturalistic terms, as bodies, they're impossible,
and the fact that one believes in them is a triumph of art.
The sculptor was not only a man of genius but one of great originality.
He must have begun carving
when style was dominated by the violent, twisting rhythms of Cluny.
And he's created a style as still and restrained and classical
as the Greek sculptors of the 6th century BC.
But was it really Greek?
I mean Greek in derivation.
Were these reed-like draperies, the thin, straight lines, the fluted folds, the zigzag hems,
and the whole play of texture which so obviously recalls the Greek archaic figure,
arrived at independently
or had the Chartres master seen some fragments of early Greek sculpture
in the South of France?
Well, for various reasons, I'm quite certain that he had.
But the most important thing about the central doorway,
more important even than its Greek derivation,
is the character of the heads of the so-called kings and queens -
no-one knows exactly who they are.
These heads seem to me to show a new stage in the ascent of Western man.
Indeed, I believe that this refinement, this look of selfless detachment and spirituality,
is something entirely new in art.
Beside them, the gods and heroes of ancient Greece look arrogant, soulless -
even slightly brutal.
I fancy that the faces which look out at us from the past
are perhaps the surest indication we have of the meaning of an epoch.
And the faces on the west portal of Chartres
are amongst the most sincere and the most aristocratic
that Western Europe has ever produced.
From the old chronicles,
we know something about the men whose states of mind these faces reveal.
In the year 1 1 44, we are told,
when the towers seem to be rising as if by magic,
the faithful harnessed themselves to carts which were bringing stone
and dragged them from the quarry to the cathedral.
The enthusiasm spread throughout France.
Men and women came from far away,
carrying heavy burdens of provisions for the workmen - wine, oil, corn.
Amongst them were lords and ladies,
pulling carts with the rest.
There was perfect discipline and a most profound silence.
All hearts were united and each man forgave his enemies.
Its very construction was a kind of miracle.
The old Romanesque church had been destroyed by a terrible fire in 1 1 97.
Only the towers and the west front remained.
And the people of Chartres feared that they had lost their precious relic.
Then, when the debris was cleared away,
it was found intact in the crypt.
And the Virgin's intention became clear -
that a new church should be built, even more splendid than the last.
The building is in the new architectural style
to which Suger had given the impress of his authority at St Denis - what we call Gothic.
Only at Chartres,
the architect was told to follow the foundations, of the old Romanesque cathedral,
and this has meant that the Gothic vaulting had to cover a space far wider than ever before.
It was a formidable problem of construction,
and in order to solve it, the architect has used the device known as flying buttresses -
one of those happy strokes where necessity has lead to an architectural invention
of marvellous and fantastic beauty.
Since the beginning of settled life, say, the Pyramid of Sakara,
man had thought of buildings as a weight on the ground.
He'd always found himself limited by problems of stability and weight.
In the end, it kept him down to the earth.
Now, by the devices of the Gothic style -
the shaft with its cluster of columns, passing without interruption into the vault
and the pointed arch - he could make stone seem weightless.
The weightless expression of the spirit.
By the same means, he could surround his space with glass.
Suger said that he did this in order to get more light,
but he found that these areas of glass
could be made into an ideal means of impressing and instructing the faithful.
"Man may rise to the contemplation of the divine through the senses."
Well, nowhere else, I think, is Suger's favourite saying so convincingly illustrated
as it is in Chartres Cathedral.
As one looks at the painted windows which completely surround one,
they seem almost to set up a vibration in the air.
Chartres is the epitome of the first great awakening in European civilisation.
It's also the bridge between Romanesque and Gothic,
between the world of Abelard and the world of St Thomas Aquinas,
the world of restless curiosity and the world of system and order.
Great things were to be done in the next centuries of high Gothic -
great feats of construction, both in architecture and in thought -
but they all rested on the foundations of the 1 2th century.
That was the age which gave European civilisation its impetus...
...our intellectual energy, our contact with the great minds of Greece,
our ability to move and change,
our belief that God may be approached through beauty,
our feeling of compassion,
our sense of the unity of Christendom -
all this and much more appeared in those hundred marvellous years
between the consecration of Cluny and the rebuilding of Chartres.