the hunchback of notre dame-第38部分

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　letters　of　stone。

　　　*The　book　is　about　to　kill　the　edifice*。

The　invention　of　printing　is　the　greatest　event　in　history。　It　is　the　mother　of　revolution。　　It　is　the　mode　of　expression　of　humanity　which　is　totally　renewed；　it　is　human　thought　stripping　off　one　form　and　donning　another；　it　is　the　complete　and　definitive　change　of　skin　of　that　symbolical　serpent　which　since　the　days　of　Adam　has　represented　intelligence。

In　its　printed　form；　thought　is　more　imperishable　than　ever；　it　is　volatile；　irresistible；　indestructible。　　It　is　mingled　with　the　air。　　In　the　days　of　architecture　it　made　a　mountain　of　itself；　and　took　powerful　possession　of　a　century　and　a　place。　　Now　it　converts　itself　into　a　flock　of　birds；　scatters　itself　to　the　four　winds；　and　occupies　all　points　of　air　and　space　at　once。

We　repeat；　who　does　not　perceive　that　in　this　form　it　is　far　more　indelible？　　It　was　solid；　it　has　become　alive。　It　passes　from　duration　in　time　to　immortality。　　One　can　demolish　a　mass；　bow　can　one　extirpate　ubiquity？　　If　a　flood　comes；　the　mountains　will　have　long　disappeared　beneath　the　waves；　while　the　birds　will　still　be　flying　about；　and　if　a　single　ark　floats　on　the　surface　of　the　cataclysm；　they　will　alight　upon　it；　will　float　with　it；　will　be　present　with　it　at　the　ebbing　of　the　waters；　and　the　new　world　which　emerges　from　this　chaos　will　behold；　on　its　awakening；　the　thought　of　the　world　which　has　been　submerged　soaring　above　it；　winged　and　living。

And　when　one　observes　that　this　mode　of　expression　is　not　only　the　most　conservative；　but　also　the　most　simple；　the　most　convenient；　the　most　practicable　for　all；　when　one　reflects　that　it　does　not　drag　after　it　bulky　baggage；　and　does　not　set　in　motion　a　heavy　apparatus；　when　one　compares　thought　forced；　in　order　to　transform　itself　into　an　edifice；　to　put　in　motion　four　or　five　other　arts　and　tons　of　gold；　a　whole　mountain　of　stones；　a　whole　forest　of　timber…work；　a　whole　nation　of　workmen；　when　one　compares　it　to　the　thought　which　becomes　a　book；　and　for　which　a　little　paper；　a　little　ink；　and　a　pen　suffice；how　can　one　be　surprised　that　human　intelligence　should　have　quitted　architecture　for　printing？　Cut　the　primitive　bed　of　a　river　abruptly　with　a　canal　hollowed　out　below　its　level；　and　the　river　will　desert　its　bed。

Behold　how；　beginning　with　the　discovery　of　printing；　architecture　withers　away　little　by　little；　becomes　lifeless　and　bare。　　How　one　feels　the　water　sinking；　the　sap　departing；　the　thought　of　the　times　and　of　the　people　withdrawing　from　it！　　The　chill　is　almost　imperceptible　in　the　fifteenth　century；　the　press　is；　as　yet；　too　weak；　and；　at　the　most；　draws　from　powerful　architecture　a　superabundance　of　life。　　But　practically　beginning　with　the　sixteenth　century；　the　malady　of　architecture　is　visible；　it　is　no　longer　the　expression　of　society；　it　becomes　classic　art　in　a　miserable　manner；　from　being　Gallic；　European；　indigenous；　it　becomes　Greek　and　Roman；　from　being　true　and　modern；　it　becomes　pseudo…classic。　　It　is　this　decadence　which　is　called　the　Renaissance。　　A　magnificent　decadence；　however；　for　the　ancient　Gothic　genius；　that　sun　which　sets　behind　the　gigantic　press　of　Mayence；　still　penetrates　for　a　while　longer　with　its　rays　that　whole　hybrid　pile　of　Latin　arcades　and　Corinthian　columns。

It　is　that　setting　sun　which　we　mistake　for　the　dawn。

Nevertheless；　from　the　moment　when　architecture　is　no　longer　anything　but　an　art　like　any　other；　as　soon　as　it　is　no　longer　the　total　art；　the　sovereign　art；　the　tyrant　art；it　has　no　longer　the　power　to　retain　the　other　arts。　　So　they　emancipate　themselves；　break　the　yoke　of　the　architect；　and　take　themselves　off；　each　one　in　its　own　direction。　　Each　one　of　them　gains　by　this　divorce。　　Isolation　aggrandizes　everything。　Sculpture　becomes　statuary；　the　image　trade　becomes　painting；　the　canon　becomes　music。　　One　would　pronounce　it　an　empire　dismembered　at　the　death　of　its　Alexander；　and　whose　provinces　become　kingdoms。

Hence　Raphael；　Michael　Angelo；　Jean　Goujon；　Palestrina；　those　splendors　of　the　dazzling　sixteenth　century。

Thought　emancipates　itself　in　all　directions　at　the　same　time　as　the　arts。　　The　arch…heretics　of　the　Middle　Ages　had　already　made　large　incisions　into　Catholicism。　　The　sixteenth　century　breaks　religious　unity。　　Before　the　invention　of　printing；　reform　would　have　been　merely　a　schism；　printing　converted　it　into　a　revolution。　　Take　away　the　press；　heresy　is　enervated。　Whether　it　be　Providence　or　Fate；　Gutenburg　is　the　precursor　of　Luther。

Nevertheless；　when　the　sun　of　the　Middle　Ages　is　completely　set；　when　the　Gothic　genius　is　forever　extinct　upon　the　horizon；　architecture　grows　dim；　loses　its　color；　becomes　more　and　more　effaced。　　The　printed　book；　the　gnawing　worm　of　the　edifice；　sucks　and　devours　it。　　It　becomes　bare；　denuded　of　its　foliage；　and　grows　visibly　emaciated。　　It　is　petty；　it　is　poor；　it　is　nothing。　　It　no　longer　expresses　anything；　not　even　the　memory　of　the　art　of　another　time。　　Reduced　to　itself；　abandoned　by　the　other　arts；　because　human　thought　is　abandoning　it；　it　summons　bunglers　in　place　of　artists。　　Glass　replaces　the　painted　windows。　　The　stone…cutter　succeeds　the　sculptor。　Farewell　all　sap；　all　originality；　all　life；　all　intelligence。　It　drags　along；　a　lamentable　workshop　mendicant；　from　copy　to　copy。　　Michael　Angelo；　who；　no　doubt；　felt　even　in　the　sixteenth　century　that　it　was　dying；　had　a　last　idea；　an　idea　of　despair。　　That　Titan　of　art　piled　the　Pantheon　on　the　Parthenon；　and　made　Saint…Peter's　at　Rome。　　A　great　work；　which　deserved　to　remain　unique；　the　last　originality　of　architecture；　the　signature　of　a　giant　artist　at　the　bottom　of　the　colossal　register　of　stone　which　was　closed　forever。　　With　Michael　Angelo　dead；　what　does　this　miserable　architecture；　which　survived　itself　in　the　state　of　a　spectre；　do？　　It　takes　Saint…Peter　in　Rome；　copies　it　and　parodies　it。　　It　is　a　mania。　It　is　a　pity。　　Each　century　has　its　Saint…Peter's　of　Rome；　in　the　seventeenth　century；　the　Val…de…Grace；　in　the　eighteenth；　Sainte…Geneviève。　　Each　country　has　its　Saint…Peter's　of　Rome。　　London　has　one；　Petersburg　has　another；　Paris　has　two　or　three。　　The　insignificant　testament；　the　last　dotage　of　a　decrepit　grand　art　falling　back　into　infancy　before　it　dies。

If；　in　place　of　the　characteristic　monuments　which　we　have　just　described；　we　examine　the　general　aspect　of　art　from　the　sixteenth　to　the　eighteenth　century；　we　notice　the　same　phenomena　of　decay　and　phthisis。　　Beginning　with　Fran？ois　II。；　the　architectural　form　of　the　edifice　effaces　itself　more　and　more；　and　allows　the　geometrical　form；　like　the　bony　structure　of　an　emaciated　invalid；　to　become　prominent。　　The　fine　lines　of　art　give　way　to　the　cold　and　inexorable　lines　of　geometry。　　An　edifice　is　no　longer　an　edifice；　it　is　a　polyhedron。　　Meanwhile；　architecture　is　tormented　in　her　struggles　to　conceal　this　nudity。　　Look　at　the　Greek　pediment　inscribed　upon　the　Roman　pediment；　and　vice　versa。　　It　is　still　the　Pantheon　on　the　Parthenon：　Saint…Peter's　of　Rome。　　Here　are　the　brick　houses　of　Henri　IV。；　with　their　stone　corners；　the　Place　Royale；　the　Place　Dauphine。　　Here　are　the　churches　of　Louis　XIII。；　heavy；　squat；　thickset；　crowded　together；　loaded　with　a　dome　like　a　hump。　　Here　is　the　Mazarin　architecture；　the　wretched　Italian　pasticcio　of　the　Four　Nations。　Here　are　the　palaces　of　Louis　XIV。；　long　barracks　for　courtiers；　stiff；　cold；　tiresome。　　Here；　finally；　is　Louis　XV。；　with　chiccory　leaves　and　vermicelli；　and　all　the　warts；　and　all　the　fungi；　which　disfigure　that　decrepit；　toothless；　and　coquettish　old　architecture。　　From　Fran？ois　II。　to　Louis　XV。；　the　evil　has　increased　in　geometrical　progression。　　Art　has　no　longer　anything　but　skin　upon　its　bones。　　It　is　miserably　perishing。

Meanwhile　what　becomes　of　printing？　　All　the　life　which　is　leaving　architecture　comes　to　it。　　In　proportion　as　architecture　ebbs；　printing　swells　and　grows。　　That　capital　of　forces　which　human　thought　had　been　expending　in　edifices；　it　henceforth　expends　in　books。　　Thus；　from　the　sixteenth　century　onward；　the　press；　raised　to　the　level　of　decaying　architecture；　contends　with　it　and　kills　it。　　In　the　seventeenth　century　it　is　already　sufficiently　the　sovereign；　sufficiently　triumphant；　sufficiently　established　in　its　victory；　to　give　to　the　world　the　feast　of　a　great　literary　century。　　In　the　eighteenth；　having　reposed　for　a　long　time　at　the　Court　of　Louis　XIV。；　it　seizes　again　the　old　sword　of　Luther；　puts　it　into　the　hand　of　Voltaire；　and　rushes　impetuously　to　the　attack　of　that　ancient　Europe；　whose　architectural　expression　it　has　already　killed。　　At　the　moment　when　the　eighteenth　century　comes　to　an　end；　it　has　destroyed　everything。　In　the　nineteenth；　it　begins　to　reconstruct。

Now；　we　ask；　which　of　the　three　arts　has　really　represented　human　thought　for　the　last　three　centuries？　which　translates　it？　which　expresses　not　only　its　literary　and　scholastic　vagaries；　but　its　vast；　profound；　universal　movement？　which　constantly　superposes　itself；　without　a　break；　without　a　gap；　upon　the　human　race；　which　walks　a　monster　with　a　thousand　legs？Architecture　or　printing？

It　is　printing。　　Let　the　reader　make　no　mistake；　architecture　is　dead；　irretrievably　slain　by　the　printed　book；slain　because　it　endures　for　a　shorter　time；slain　because　it　costs　more。　　Every　cathedral　represents　millions。　　Let　the　reader　now　imagine　what　an　investment　of　funds　it　would　require　to　rewrite　the　architectural　book；　to　cause　thousands　of　edifices　to　swarm　once　more　upon　the　soil；　to　return　to　those　epochs　when　the　throng　of　monuments　was　such；　according　to　the　statement　of　an　eye　witness；　〃that　one　would　have　said　that　the　world　in　shaking　itself；　had　cast　off　its　old　garments　in　order　to　cover　itself　with　a　white　vesture　of　churches。〃　~Erat　enim　ut　si　mundus；　ipse　excutiendo　semet；　rejecta　vetustate；　candida　ecclesiarum　vestem　indueret~。　　（GLABER　RADOLPHUS。）

A　book　is　so　soon　made；　costs　so　little；　and　can　go　so　far！　How　can　it　surprise　us　that　all　human　thought　flows　in　this　channel？　　This　does　not　mean　that　architecture　will　not　still　have　a　fine　monument；　an　isolated　masterpiece；　here　and　there。　　We　may　still　have　from　time　to　time；　under　the　reign　of　print