The Mysteries of the Great Cross of Hendaye

by Jay Weidner

  In general, though, the eighteenth century was not kind to the old cathedral. Renovations damaged much of the original interior. The stained glass was removed from the choir level and the rose windows were remodeled. And then, of course, came the Revolution. The cathedral became the Temple of Reason, and much of its ornamentation was destroyed. The citizens of 1793 toppled the kings of Israel from their gallery and the western facade was severely damaged.

  Napoleon restored relations with the Church and crowned himself emperor at Notre Dame in 1804. His son was proclaimed king of Rome in the cathedral at a solemn Te Deum in 1811, as Napoleon planned a vast invasion of Russia. Within a few years, Napoleon would go into exile, twice, and the monarchy would be restored and then overthrown again. The election of Louis-Philippe as king of a constitutional monarchy in 1830 marked an upswing in the fortunes of Notre Dame.

  The 1820s and 1830s saw a young Victor Hugo use his romantic sensibilities to shine a light on the medieval exuberance of Notre Dame. Published in 1831 as Notre-Dame de Paris, the novel was an immediate hit and launched a craze for Gothic architecture. English readers know it as The Hunchback of Notre Dame, after its main character, the bell ringer Quasimodo, but the novel is truly about the cathedral itself. Set in the 1480s, the book captures that transitional moment when traditional forms gave way to the modern, the books of stone to the printed page.

  One young Parisian influenced by Hugo’s novel was the seventeenyear-old architecture student Eugène Emmanuel Viollet-le-Duc. In the next thirty years his name would become synonymous with restoration. While still in his early twenties, he was appointed to the national commission for the preservation of historic monuments. There was a new feeling emerging, thanks to Hugo’s romanticism, about the relics of the past.

  The head of the commission, Prosper Mérimée—best known to us as the author of Carmen—noticed the young architect and directed his training in the subtleties of medieval engineering. Soon Viollet-le-Duc was handling the commission’s difficult projects, sometimes as many as twenty at once. In 1845 he was appointed architect for the restoration of Notre-Dame-de-Paris, and spent the next twenty years on the project. No one could have been better prepared for the task.38

  The cathedral that we see today, and as described by Fulcanelli, is really Viollet-le-Duc’s reconstruction. From the top of the reconstructed fléchette, where a statue of Saint Thomas bears the likeness of Viollet-le-Duc, throughout the entire fabric of the cathedral, the touch of its restorer is apparent in everything. The Gothic has been refracted through the lens of romanticism, and, to purists such as Fulcanelli, the result is somewhat pallid. The reconstruction, however, did restore Notre-Dame-de-Paris to its rightful place in the national consciousness.39

  Joan of Arc’s beatification, the first step to sainthood, was celebrated at Notre Dame in 1909. A mass Te Deum was sung for the Armistice of 1918. By the time Le Mystère des cathédrales appeared in 1926, Notre-Dame-de-Paris was publicly venerated and privately ignored. The official separation of church and state in 1905 had cast religion in France into an intellectual backwater. Fulcanelli’s work drew attention to an aspect of the cathedrals that was in danger of being forgotten. The romantic reworking of the Gothic in Viollet-le-Duc still contained and concealed an important philosophical teaching. Fulcanelli identified it as alchemy.

  Obviously what is dealt with here is the very essence of things. Indeed the Litanies tell us that the Virgin is the Vase containing the Spirit of things: vas spirituale. “On a table, breast high to the Magi,” Ettelia tells us, “were on one side a book or a series of golden pages or plates (the book of Thoth) and on the other side a vase full of celestial-astral liquid, consisting of one part of wild honey, one part of terrestrial water and a third part of celestial water. . . . The secret, the mystery was therefore in this vase.”. . .

  It is therefore on the dragon, the sign of mercury, that we should look for the symbol representing the mutation and progression of the Sulphur or of the Elixir. . . .

  The Sybil, when asked what a Philosopher was, replied: “it is a man, who knows how to make glass.”

  —LE MYSTÈRE DES CATHÉDRALES

  EIGHT

  THE GRAND HERMETIC THEME AND THE TREE OF LIFE

  FULCANELLI’S NOTRE-DAME-DE-PARIS

  At the very beginning of this journey, we decided to follow Fulcanelli’s trail wherever it might lead. A reference to chiliasm in the Hendaye chapter of Le Mystère des cathédrales led us to the Gnostic origins of alchemy and its connection to the apocalyptic doctrine of chiliasm. Following the fingerprints of the secret led us into the mystical traditions of all three Abrahamic religions. We saw how these traditions fragmented and went underground, and that a thousand years ago Pope Sylvester II and the Chroniclers of Mount Zion rediscovered them in the West.

  These discoveries, which included mathematics and astronomy as well as alchemy, reanimated the West, providing a motive for the Crusades and the great heretical movements. One of these movements was the spread of a gospel of light in the form of the lux continua–style of church building initiated by Abbot Suger at Saint-Denis. In ways that are not entirely clear, both the Order of Zion and the Knights Templar were involved in this new cathedral-building movement.

  By the time our research brought us to this point, we felt that we had answered most of our main questions: “Is Fulcanelli telling the truth? Is there any connection, in history or tradition, between alchemy and a Gnostic eschatology such as chiliasm? And if there is a connection, how has it been maintained through the centuries? Is the secret really displayed on the walls of certain Gothic cathedrals?”

  To answer that last question, we must turn to our hermetic tour guide, Fulcanelli, and the subject of his lessons, the cathedrals themselves. Did the cathedral builders know the secret of the ancient illuminated astronomy, the wisdom of Abraham, and how the alignment of the dragon axis foretold the quality of time? Does this knowledge still appear on the cathedrals? Without that key piece of evidence, we can’t be sure that we have the same mystery.

  Today, walking across the broad parvis in front of the western facade, armed with a good French guidebook and a copy of Le Mystère, one is first struck by how massive the cathedral looks. It is hard to imagine, as we watch the tourist buses come and go, loading and disgorging waves of visitors from around the planet, how the cathedral appeared in its youth. Gustave Doré left us a glimpse of the old congestion on the Ile-de-la-Cité in his illustrations to Rabelais’s Gargantua (fig. 8.1). The gentle giant looms over the hemmed-in towers of the cathedral and its crowded surroundings like a cloud, and we catch a brief sensation of how it must have felt to stand in the narrow medieval parvis and look up at that massive facade and its soaring towers.

  Figure 8.1. Gargantua towering over Notre Dame. (Nineteenthcentury engraving by Gustave Doré)

  Walking closer, we find that it is possible to stand, at the edge of the new parvis, and see in one eyeful the entire western front (fig. 8.2). The impression it makes from this distance is not so much one of power, but rather of subtlety and refinement. Harmonies leap out at us and we feel the unity of the design. If God is the Supreme Architect, then man could do no less in honor of Him, or Her. With that thought in mind, it is possible, at least slightly, to feel the faith of the cathedral’s builders.

  Figure 8.2. The front of Notre-Dame-de-Paris from the parvis. (Photo by Darlene)

  When we turn to Fulcanelli, we find that his selection of symbolic images focuses our attention almost exclusively on the western facade. The seal of Alchemy (see fig. 8.3), the first image discussed by Fulcanelli in his “Paris” chapter, can be found on the base of the central pillar of the great porch, the Porch of Judgment.

  Our guidebook agrees, with a question mark, however, calling it both Philosophy and Theology as well as Alchemy. The other six images around the base are clearly the liberal arts, listed in the guidebook as Arithmetic, Astronomy, Rhetoric, Geometry, Grammar, and Music. Philosophy, whether theological or a
lchemical, is indeed the overview required to understand the other six.

  Figure 8.3. The figure of Alchemy on the central pillar of the Porch of Judgment, Notre-Dame-de-Paris. (Plate 2 from Le Mystère des cathédrales)

  If at this point we can pull our attention away from the Porch of Judgment, then a climb to the towers is in order. On the northeastern corner of the southern tower we find Fulcanelli’s second image, the Phyrigian-capped Alchemist (see fig. 8.4). As Fulcanelli suggests, he is watching over his work, and staring intently at one spot deep in the interior of the cathedral. Interestingly enough, both of these sculptures, Alchemy and the Alchemist, are restorations by Viollet-le-Duc. A fascinating photo survives, and may be seen in the Notre Dame Museum, of Eugène Viollet-Le-Duc standing with an enigmatic smile next to the restored Alchemist, who, seen face on, appears to be deeply shocked by what he sees.

  Returning to ground level, we find that the rest of Fulcanelli’s Notre Dame images can be found on the western porches. The next twenty-two images are on the basement, or lower register, of the central porch, the Porch of Judgment. The guidebook calls them Virtues and Vices, but offers no insight into how these meanings apply to the obscure symbols. To give it credit, the guidebook does mention Fulcanelli and the possibility that these images may have something to do with alchemy, even though it doesn’t agree with his theory.

  Four images come from the Porch of the Virgin, to the left of the central porch, and the last image from the Porch of Saint Anne, to the right. Fulcanelli uses the central image on the Porch of the Virgin as an example of the planetary metals (fig. 8.5), without mentioning the legend that the scene depicts, the resurrection of Mary. As we contemplate this inexplicable gap, the light begins to dawn. Fulcanelli is choosing his images to form or reflect a predetermined pattern. He is not concerned with the tales and legends, except as they can be used to demonstrate his point.

  Figure 8.4. Alchemist from the south tower, Notre-Dame-de-Paris. (Plate 3 from Le Mystère des cathédrales)

  Figure 8.5. Porch of the Virgin, Notre-Dame-de-Paris. Fulcanelli calls the seven designs on the sarcophagus “the symbols of the seven planetary metals.” (Plate 26 in Le Mystère des cathédrales)

  His last Notre-Dame-de-Paris image is the perfect example of this selection process. The central pillar of the Porch of Saint Anne contains a sculpture of Saint Marcel (fig. 8.6), the Dark Ages bishop of Paris who defeated a local dragon. Fulcanelli goes on for five pages before he mentions the legend. Along the way he gets in a few shots at restorers who add romantic flourishes. Fulcanelli insists, however, that the very key to the mystery of alchemy is contained in the decorative details of the original plinth and its dragon.

  Figure 8.6. Saint Marcel on the middle pillar of the Porch of Saint Anne, Notre-Dame-de-Paris. (Plate 30 from Le Mystère des cathédrales)

  In this image, it is the dragon that is important, not the saint who overcame him. Our conviction grows that Fulcanelli is choosing his images carefully to describe a much larger process than just turning lead into gold. Could this image be our evidence of the larger eschatological pattern interwoven with alchemy?

  Walking back across the parvis, we turn once more to look at the western facade. There is so much more information in this cathedral, so many more stories. Why did Fulcanelli focus on just those images? He augmented them with images from Amiens and other places, but the heart of the mystery must be here, we feel, bound up with the mystery of Notre Dame itself.

  Fulcanelli left us clues, however, and those clues are hidden within Le Mystère. The next step is to unravel Fulcanelli’s message, the grand hermetic theme behind the alchemical meaning of the cathedrals, by examining the text of Le Mystère itself. Fulcanelli structured Le Mystère as a series of four—five counting the later Hendaye chapter— interrelated essays, each of which covers similar symbolic territory from different perspectives. The overall result is that of a complex mosaic, whose unity and integrity of design can be seen only when viewed from a distance. Up close, all we see is myriad tiny symbolic pieces, all important and all fitted just so with the ones around them, but the isolated symbol setting limits our perception. We can’t see the forest for the trees.

  To see the message, we must learn to use our minds in what is for us moderns a very novel and foreign way. Much like those computer-generated 3-D images so popular in the 1990s, in which relaxing the focus of the eyes while allowing “vision” to continue made the hidden image float above the apparently chaotic background, we must relax the focus of our intellect and let the symbols themselves form the hidden message. When we do this, when we internalize the symbols to the point that the hidden message floats above the background noise, we are left with a riddle: How does a Tree become a Stone, and then a Star?

  Fulcanelli is telling us, Solve this riddle and you will know the mystery. And like all good puzzle masters, Fulcanelli has included the solution in the riddle itself. But compounding paradox with parable, one can’t know the mystery without becoming the riddle. In Fulcanelli’s case, the mystery of the cathedrals is the starting point for the personal riddle of his identity.

  So, taking Fulcanelli as our hermetic tour guide, let us embark on our quest for the solution to the riddle and the true mystery of the cathedrals.

  OUR HERMETIC TOUR GUIDE POSES A CONUNDRUM

  “The strongest impression of my early childhood—I was seven years old—an impression of which I still retain a vivid memory, was the emotion aroused in my young heart by the sight of a gothic cathedral.” The opening words of the first chapter, which is called “Le Mystère des cathédrales,” places us firmly in the personal realm. Fulcanelli, from the very first sentence of the book, strikes us as a real person with a message to communicate. “I was immediately enraptured by it. I was in ecstasy, struck with wonder, unable to tear myself away . . .”1

  Here is passion, the beginning of a lifelong involvement, an attempt to get to the heart of “the magic of such splendor.” It never faded, Fulcanelli tells us: “I have never acquired a defence against a sort of rapture when faced with those beautiful picture books erected in our closes and raising to heaven their pages of sculptured stone.”

  And so, in his third paragraph, Fulcanelli clearly tells the reader the reason for his work: “In what language, by what means, could I express my admiration? How could I show my gratitude to those silent masterpieces, those masters without words and without voice?” How better indeed than to write a volume explicating, for those who could read the symbolism, the great teachings contained in those “pages of sculptured stone”?

  But, of course, as Fulcanelli immediately reminds us, they are not entirely without words or voice. “If those stone books have their sculptured letters—their phrases in bas-relief and their thoughts in pointed arches—nevertheless they speak also through the imperishable spirit which breathes from their pages.” This imperishable spirit makes them clearer than their younger brothers, manuscripts and printed books, because “it is simple in expression, naïve and picturesque in interpretation; a sense purged of subtleties, of allusions, of literary ambiguities.”

  It is this Voice of the Imperishable Spirit, Fulcanelli suggests, that speaks “the gothic of the stones.” He links this emotive “language” to the grand theme of music by suggesting that even Gregorian chants can “but add to the emotions which the cathedral itself has already aroused.”2

  At the very beginning of the book, Fulcanelli slyly informs us that he has personally experienced the Voice of that Imperishable Spirit that gives its auditor the ability to understand “the gothic of the stones.” He knows, in the ancient sense of gnosis, the secret behind the symbolism. Here in fact we are reminded of Wolfram von Eschenbach’s insistence, in Parzival, that the mystery of the Grail, the lapsit exillis, could be understood only by one who had learned his “ABC’s without the aid of Black Magic.”3 Only those who have had the initiatory and illuminatory experience can interpret the language of the mystery.

  From this subtle
declaration of intent, Fulcanelli moves on to a bold statement on the value of the Gothic cathedral “as a vast concretion of ideas” in which the “religious, secular, philosophical or social thoughts of our ancestors” can be read. He develops this idea by showing how the sacred and the profane mingled in the civic uses of the cathedrals, from guild rituals, to funerals, to commodity markets.

  In this shift, we sense a sleight-of-hand taking place under our very eyes. With dizzying suddenness, we have changed our focus from the nature and meaning of language and initiation to the practical details of a laboratory for their explication. The cathedral, we are told, is “an original work of incomparable harmony; but not one, it seems, concerned entirely with religious observance.” Fulcanelli assures us that along with “the fervent inspiration, born of a strong faith” there exists “an almost pagan spirit.” This allows the cathedrals to express “the thousand and one preoccupations of the great heart of the people” in a way that reveals “the declaration of its conscience, of its will, the reflection of its thought at its most complex, abstract, essential and autocratic.”