Fifteen years later, Carlier had grown into a mustachioed man with thick eyebrows, often wearing a fedora and scarf, who, though thin of build, possessed a zealous, all-out spirit and forceful energy which cast him at the front of the crusade to safeguard the Chartres stained-glass windows. He had studied at the École Française de Rome and won a Grands Prix de Rome in architecture and French Artists Medal of Honor. Early in his career, he had spent time studying Gothic architecture in Cyprus and had published on, among other things, the subject of the French character of the Cypriot landscape, arguing for it to be treated as a province of French archeology. He later maintained an office in Paris and became an ardent supporter of the preservation of French medieval monuments.
Carlier specialized in the architecture of the French Middle Ages. In the 1930s, he led a fierce fight against “interventionist” practices of the Historic Monuments Service. His numerous articles published in the interwar period defended the vision of restoration championed by John Ruskin, English art historian and prominent social thinker and philanthropist. Ruskin advocated that the British should adopt the Venetian architectural style, celebrating its “imperfection” as an essential feature of Gothic art, in contrast to the mechanical regularity of neoclassical buildings. He extolled the value of creative freedom and artistic fulfillment enjoyed by individual workers.
As an architectural historian, Carlier became a proponent of reversing what he viewed as the distortions caused by prior so-called restorations and became a harsh opponent of the school of Viollet-le-Duc. Carlier militantly defended medieval art, drawing attention to the need for the protection and careful restoration of the Gothic monuments of France. He advocated with such passion that he was seen by government officials as an adversary who spoke in exaggerations. One might argue that Carlier’s fervor and foresight played a productive role in driving the Fine Arts Administration to move ahead at a pace faster than it would have without him—and to productively tolerate more risks, such as breakage, loss, and theft of the stained-glass windows—if for no other reason than to counter the heat of the spotlight his advocacy imposed on them.
René Planchenault was another key technocrat in monument preservation. In 1923, he was a new graduate of the School of Chartres when Marceau Prou, director of his school, introduced Planchenault to Paul Léon, director of fine arts, who selected Planchenault to take over assembly of the Supplementary Inventory of Historic Monuments, a task Planchenault performed with distinction. To reward him for that work, in 1930 Minister Prou appointed Planchenault inspector of all movable objects considered historic monuments, a role in which he would serve for fifteen years. Starting in 1932, Planchenault took on another heavy burden: preparing a national plan of “mobilization” to centralized protective measures for historic monuments to be implemented in case of conflict.
Throughout the 1930s, as the French continued to repair damage done during World War I to cultural monuments, including churches, Hitler’s rise to power in Germany became a growing concern, placing increasing pressure on France’s Department of Fine Arts. Its officials, anticipating another war, hurried to finalize plans to protect French historic buildings and sites. The rise of air combat in wartime and recent advances in weaponry were forcing them to focus on averting consequences of bomb explosions near buildings, such as rumbles that could bring down unsteady buildings or blow out windows.
As early as 1923, the French government had made general plans for wartime preservation, but because of faith in France’s strong defense strategy, no specific measures were adopted. In March 1935, Germany reintegrated the Saarland into the Reich, reintroduced conscription, and reestablished the German Air Force. The French reacted by enacting a passive-defense organization that April, which established a High Commission on Civil Defense in the Ministry of the Interior to coordinate between ministries. It encouraged construction of shelters, protection of vulnerable structures, and creation of detachments of local residents to prepare for, and respond to, effects of aerial bombardments. Although planning was under way, in the view of citizens who considered Chartres Cathedral and its windows to be national treasures, the government was doing far too little.
The people of Chartres became increasingly concerned. Carlier, though a Parisian, and editor of his own quarterly publication, Les pierres de France (The stones of France), shared their passion and focused his attention on the windows of Chartres. In alliance with the Paris newspaper L’Écho de Paris, Carlier launched a campaign to spur the Fine Arts Administration to take action to save the cathedral and its windows. Carlier and the newspaper pressed dual campaigns. First, they planned to take aim at the military, hoping to force it to relocate the Chartres airbase, which threatened the destruction of the cathedral. Second, they pressed the Fine Arts Administration to create plans and assemble equipment and personnel to be able, on short—very short—notice, to remove the windows and pack and store them in a safe place before any military attack in or near Chartres.
In April, Georges Huisman, who just the year prior had been appointed director general of the Fine Arts Administration, wrote Carlier soliciting his ideas for protecting Chartres’ windows. Then, in May, the Archeological Society of Eure-et-Loir again became involved: ASEL president Charles Louis invited Carlier to present his proposal. Carlier contended that officials in the Fine Arts Administration were engaging in wishful thinking if they thought they still could apply World War I planning to successfully protect monuments from future war damage. He argued that destruction suffered by French monuments during World War I—as bad as it was—could no longer be the standard for expected wartime destruction. If a new German attack were to come—which was feeling more likely every day—the attack would be much swifter than those made in the World War I and would come initially from the air. The air base at Chartres, located less than a half mile from the cathedral, would be a prime target.
The solution, Carlier insisted, was to relocate the air base at least twelve miles away from the city, to one of the many possible sites available in the wheat field–covered plains surrounding Chartres. The editors of L’Écho de Paris joined Carlier in that argument. If the airfield were to remain where it was, he and the newspaper contended, only one solution remained: the immediate removal of the threatened windows, even in peacetime.
Chartres’ rail hub presented a second grave risk. The rail depot was only six hundred yards from the cathedral. France’s rail system was then under competitive pressure from the growth of roads and autos—which would soon lead to the nationalization of the railroads. Due to the competitive atmosphere, the rail depot could not be expected to be moved any time soon. At Chartres, two main rail lines from Paris branched off, toward Bordeaux and Brittany.
Carlier summarized his plan for the ASEL: Given the risk that the rail depot, together with the air base, would be targeted by an invading force, he was convinced that the danger to the cathedral would be imperiled immediately at the start of an invasion. So he devised a plan to protect the windows on the assumption that there would be no more than a two-hour alert before the attack.
Carlier’s plan—he called it a “study”—anticipated a number of obstacles. First, no one could count on the air base being relocated; the government must therefore plan to remove the windows from the cathedral and place them in safe storage. That plan presented its own set of challenges, including the need for equipment and trained personnel, since most trained men experienced with such work would be subject to immediate mobilization at the outbreak of fighting. So, Carlier determined, the authorities should organize a special military unit assigned to the removal operation for at least a couple of hours after the initiation of any attack. But, he proposed, until the authorities could create such a force, they should recruit a staff of nonprofessionals and young people to be trained and supervised by professionals to carry out a rapid, large-scale, almost choreographed, removal. This approach would allow a much larger workforce to be assembled quickly. He envisioned a team of 350 p
eople, which could execute the plan within the two hours.
After all, Carlier contended, the actual work of removing the windows required, in most cases, only a limited skill level, given training and supervision. The program would call for teams trained to work together. Training, he said, should be conducted with high schoolers a couple of hours per week in lieu of physical-education classes. And Carlier determined that a new type of scaffolding would be needed—one that could be assembled quickly, yet be sturdy enough to securely hold workers simultaneously at multiple levels. The scaffolding must be collapsible so multiple sets could be prepositioned in the attics and other rooms of the cathedral and swiftly lowered into position to be erected in front of all windows. The keyhole opening at the apex of each ceiling vault above the various windows could be used, he said, to drop the equipment down using ropes for the removal of the low-lying windows. Other equipment necessary to removing the upper windows could be stored in unused rooms in the cathedral towers. That equipment could be passed through the doorways onto the balconies. Since all scaffolds would have multiple levels, separate teams of workers could occupy all levels and work simultaneously on separate windows.
Carlier suggested that the authorities designate and train a special supervisory staff—who need not be architects or building professionals—to replace the architects and building experts likely to be called up for military service in the opening hours of an attack. He advocated procurement of a large supply of custom-fitted cases to hold the removed windows, fabricated from metal, not wood, so as to be light and fireproof, with custom inserts to safely and firmly hold the panels of each window. The crates should be as small as possible to facilitate their being lowered through the keystone holes. Cases needed for larger window panels should be fitted with hinges to be foldable, small enough to pass through keystone openings. He contended that windows, once in the cases, should not be removed from the cathedral. Transport would present too great a risk to the windows. Instead, they should be first placed in the cathedral’s crypt. In the meantime, the authorities should explore the ancient excavated spaces below the crypt—sufficiently far underground to withstand bombing and fires, Carlier felt—and clear them of debris to make them available to hold the windows.
During the removal, sentries should guard all doors to keep out unnecessary personnel, even townspeople seeking refuge in the crypt in the event of a threatened attack. The guards should also enforce one-way traffic in the stairways, to maintain safety and facilitate rapid movement. Since the removal work might have to be done at night, Carlier also said blackout lights, equipped with blue bulbs to be invisible to overhead aircraft, should be positioned throughout the cathedral, powered by a petrol-fueled power generator at the cathedral, independent of the city’s electrical grid.
The architects should not perform as line workers. Instead, they should limit their role to standby in reserve and should only handle emergencies and contingencies, such as designing and directing the laying of shoring were the cathedral bombed. Architects should also refrain from ordering any new activities or directing alteration of any established plan of action for which teams would already have been trained. Those teams, Carlier insisted, must remain free to carry out the preestablished plan, and not be distracted by new directions from supervisors.
Within a few weeks of Carlier’s presentation to the Archeological Society of Eure-et-Loir, he sent the study to the director general at the Fine Arts Administration, thereafter placing unceasing pressure on the authorities to take action. He sent letters, made calls, and worked with local citizens to do the same.
The Fine Arts Administration did not respond swiftly.
After four months of no action, Carlier increased the intensity of his campaign. He published his study as a twenty-eight-page article in Les pierres de France, the entire first page of which was an aerial photo of Chartres oriented to show the cathedral virtually next to the railroad complex. He wrote,
The Cathedral of Chartres is one of the most precious works of art to be created by Humanity . . . [and] represents the pinnacle of dedicated work of many generations and a privileged time in history, one of those pieces of cultural heritage [that] is properly inestimable and [that] nothing on earth could replace. Sadly, citizens of other countries have a greater understanding of this than many French! Hence, those who come, often from far away, to contemplate this great work are met with the sad surprise of . . . its immediate neighbor . . . a military aviation camp . . . continually amid an uninterrupted fracas of engines, test flights, exercises. . . .
But it gets worse. These monuments . . . were not constructed, to all evidence, by generations equally as indifferent and unprepared to value them as ours. We owe it, however, to the future, and this transmission must be the first and most sacred of the duties of our civilization.
This impudent folly, this danger [that] the neighboring aviation camp brings headlong to the monument, is obvious to everyone. In the initial hours of first hostilities, it is one of the sites [that] will be struck by the enemy . . . and more precisely the area immediately around the cathedral will be one of the chief goals of a sudden attack. Moreover, we have only too cruelly learned, during the last war, how fiercely the enemy can target both the noncombatant population and the great masterpieces that contribute to our glory. Suppos[e], however, that the formidable bombs that fall on Chartres in a moment of surprise fall only on their strategic target. Even in this instance, where the cathedral will not be touched, without a doubt, all the stained-glass windows will have been shattered.
In November, prominent citizens of Chartres formed a new organization they called the Safeguarding French Art Society. SFA initiated a publicity campaign targeted to appeal to various French scholarly societies. Later the same month, Carlier set out to design the new kind of scaffolding that he intended to be assembled quickly and easily by minimally trained volunteers, and he presented the design to both the ASEL and the SFA. The device would consist of metal tubes connected in units that could be stacked on top of one another. Each unit could support a stack of six wood-plank work platforms, with units stackable to a height of thirty-five feet or more, which would enable a half dozen pairs of workers to operate concurrently. An attachable narrow ladder of thin metal tubing would run from bottom to top to provide access.
By early December, Carlier had fabricated a prototype of the new scaffolding and assembled it in an alleyway in town. To test for stability, he climbed it with two other men, stood atop, and posed for a photo. He made final modifications to the design and placed an order with a manufacturer to fabricate a model for testing.
He wrote to the director general of the Fine Arts Administration, requesting permission to conduct a test at the cathedral. In his letter, he explained that he’d been authorized to place the initiative under the patronage of the SFA, which would participate in financing the project. A week later, Carlier took delivery of the scaffolding prototype for final evaluation and modification and then ordered two units built. Again he wrote the director general, this time informing him that the SFA had now placed funds at his disposal to purchase the custom scaffolding and run the tests, and he promised to personally cover any overage from his own funds should the tests prove more costly than anticipated.
By the end of January, Carlier had received many inquiries about and criticisms of his published study, but none yet from the Fine Arts Administration. So on January 31 he published a twenty-five-page supplement to his study of the Chartres dilemma in Les pierres de France. In this “Supplement No. 1,” he refuted many of the criticisms lobbed at him, further explained his position, and considered further complications that had come to light: It was urgent that all installed windows be prepared for easier removal by replacing their cement anchors with malleable material. This would reduce the risk of damage to the windows in their actual removal. He further urged the authorities to detach and prepare for movement any built-in furnishings in the cathedral that might obstruct the window-removal w
ork.
Carlier’s public-relations efforts found an audience, and both of his aims—to force peacetime relocation of the air base and rapid removal of the windows upon first word of any German invasion—gained support. In February 1936, two weeks after publication of the study supplement in Les pierres de France, reporter Anne Fouqueray wrote a story for the Paris newspaper Le Journal. In the article, she included the same aerial photo of Chartres’ proximity to the airfield that Carlier had put on the cover of the supplement. Fouqueray led her story with the ironic observation that the cathedral that had withstood fires from seven lightning strikes between 1539 and 1833 now faced growing danger from proposed expansion of an airfield, which project was awaiting the approval of the prefect. “Now,” Fouqueray wrote, “what these desires could not do, a modern projectile, in a minute, alas!, would accomplish . . . and the mere explosion of one of these formidable war engines, falling in its neighborhood, would annihilate in an instant the incomparable windows . . . which include no less than 5,400 panels of the thirteenth century.” Plying pressure on the military to relocate—or at least not expand—the air base, she went on to describe Carlier’s window-removal scheme.
On March 7, Hitler ordered German troops into the Rhineland. France at the time was suffering through a financial downturn and did not have the monetary reserves to maintain the value of the franc. Short-term loans alone prevented France from defaulting on debts and causing further decline in the value of the franc. French newspapers and public opinion, though denouncing the German aggression, with a few exceptions did not call for war. Most newspapers called for the League of Nations to use sanctions to force Germany to back down and for France to strengthen existing alliances. France’s political left opposed war. The French premier announced that French forces and resources would be at the disposal of the League of Nations as long as Britain and Italy did the same. So long as the Rhineland had remained unmilitarized, France had been secure in the knowledge that it could easily reoccupy the territory and threaten Germany’s industrial area. But Germany’s mobilization had removed this safeguard.
Saving the Light at Chartres Page 8
