There is a cathedral not far from my house, Lutherische Pfarrkirche St. Marien, the oldest
parish church in Marburg. The back pew is the best, where one has an unrivaled
view of the rising columns and the graceful curve of stone where it meets the
apex above. This is a quiet, little-visited place; one must climb a multitude
of steps and navigate a maze of narrow cobblestone streets in order to find it.
The steeply-pitched, shingled spire marks the way, sitting slightly askew; a
peaked hat in jaunty rebellion aslant the brow or perhaps teetering as if
finally wearied of holding itself erect after this long passage of time. It is
small, so far as cathedrals go; the stained-glass windows tall and slender but
interspersed with robust exterior walls that suggest Romanesque roots. One does
not have to travel far to find a cathedral in this part of the world – indeed,
they seem dotted upon the landscape like daisies on a spring lawn. But for all
their abundance, they remain, to me, unfailingly magnificent.
Within, ribbons of burnt orange line the column flutes,
forming an elegant star where they connect far overhead in the soaring splendor
of the cross-vault, and faded frescoes cover the eastern wall. I sit, quiet and
still, breathing in the musty scent of centuries past. There seems a higher
degree of receptivity here, within the cool smoothness of old-quarried stone
where space and light expand to impossible heights, where a rich kaleidoscope
of color spill from narrow windows. A place of elegant quietude amidst the
tumult of the modern world; a retreat – even for a heathen such as I. Where the mind can roam and wander, until one
reaches the inevitable conclusion that such commonplace thoughts, whatever they
may be, are dull indeed in the face of such astounding architectural
achievement. For at last there is nothing left but to simply marvel at the
manner in which stone (a noun oft associated with a heavy solidity of form, a
dense, immobile weight) is here transformed into slender flutes, elegant
curlicues and lofty arches. It is colossal but it is also fluid, even supple,
as if it is life itself riveted, pinned and wielded into place; the skeletal interior
of some long-dead creature turned to stone, fixed by Medusa’s glare, its delicate
curve of rib now the vault beneath which men worship.
Someone told me yesterday that he thought we had lost
something in recent centuries; that the skill of true artisans - of the wood
carvers who created the rococo intricacies that decorate palatial interiors, of
stonemasons who fashioned the languid flow of robe and hair in a medium that
seemed impervious to such fluidity – is, in short, a thing of the past. And
that technology, for all of its conveniences, also plays a role in homogenizing
cultural disparities. Elizabethkirche,
St. Marien’s more famous
architectural cousin, is perpetually thronged with curious travelers recording
their impressions of Germany’s oldest Gothic cathedral through the screen of an
i-phone or tablet. And I cannot help but wonder if they ever saw the original
or only its miniature facsimile within the flickering medium of bits and bytes. Doubtless monarchical
absolutism was an essential economic precondition for such massive building
projects, but it seems it is also a matter of what we choose to invest in. Not
only the architecture we leave behind (the concrete bunkers of the 60’s and 70’s
still pain the collective sensibilities), but the art – whether it be in paint,
wood, stone or bound within the covers of a printed book. Perhaps for writers
of historical fiction, there is a visceral need to hang on to something – to try
to enliven some aspect of the past, an element still discernible within
fictional clothing. For a literary work cannot be historically accurate in
every respect (and indeed should not strive to be so – for where then lies the
power of the imagination?) but most seek to illuminate, however obliquely, some
past truth that lies in shadow; a historical personage that should not be
forgotten, an event that seemed too strange to be true, a particular conjunction
of people and places that define a pivotal moment - these provide the requisite
fodder for writers of historical fiction.
I muse upon these themes as I sit in my pew, keeping company
with solemn-eyed saints who gaze down from their elevated perches. For despite
the gold cloth that drapes the altar and the thick bible that sits upon the
pulpit (both of which denote a working-cathedral – St. Marien earns its keep still), I am often alone in this place;
the parishioners temporarily absent. Truth be told, I find myself envious of
those who regularly attend to their religious devotionals beneath these
awe-inspiring walls. I am not, however, preoccupied with religious matters, in
my quiet seat in the back, nor do I wish for the company of a congregation in
this sacred space. Instead, I am thinking of toiling artisans, of stoneworkers
and architects, of lifetimes spent in the labor of construction, and the
profound pleasure of modern living (however briefly) among such architectural
marvels. For this is a visceral experience of medieval history that I have
seldom experienced – having long resided in youthful nations where two
centuries constitutes a localized antiquity. While there is an exuberant
freshness to those young lands (America,
a great democratic experiment that is still, perhaps, in the throes of self-invention),
the crumbling castles and the grand
splendor of ancient estates, the elaborately formal gardens and gilded rococo
palaces, the plaster and timber houses with awkward thresholds and warped, sagging
beams have a humbling history that is felt in the bones…not just for a writer
of historical fiction, but for anyone enamored of the past and the long path that winds out behind. Whether our ancestors numbered among these laborers or their
overlords, whether our particular past finds root in the heartland of Europe or
not, it is still representative of a common and collective heritage of mankind
– of what can be achieved in art and architecture and the profound effect of it
still a millennium later.
