itself, on a great scale, carried up by galleries, arches,
windows, sculptures, and supported by the extraordinarily thick
buttresses of which I have spoken and which, though they embellish it
with deep shadows thrown sidewise, do not improve its style. The
portals, especially the middle one, are extremely interesting; they are
covered with curious early sculptures. The middle one, however, I must
describe alone. It has no less than six rows of figures--the others have
four--some of which, notably the upper one, are still in their places.
The arch at the top has three tiers of elaborate imagery. The upper of
these is divided by the figure of Christ in judgment, of great size,
stiff and terrible, with outstretched arms. On either side of him are
ranged three or four angels, with the instruments of the Passion.
Beneath him in the second frieze stands the angel of justice with the
scales; and on either side of him is the vision of the last judgment.
The good prepare, with infinite titillation and complacency, to ascend
to the skies; while the bad are dragged, pushed, hurled, stuffed,
crammed, into pits and caldrons of fire. There is a charming detail in
this section. Beside the angel, on the right, where the wicked are the
prey of demons, stands a little female figure, that of a child, who,
with hands meekly folded and head gently raised, waits for the stern
angel to decide upon her fate. In this fate, however, a dreadful big
devil also takes a keen interest: he seems on the point of appropriating
the tender creature; he has a face like a goat and an enormous hooked
nose. But the angel gently lays a hand upon the shoulder of the little
girl--the movement is full of dignity--as if to say: "No; she belongs to
the other side." The frieze below represents the general resurrection,
with the good and the wicked emerging from their sepulchres. Nothing
can be more quaint and charming than the difference shown in their way
of responding to the final trump. The good get out of their tombs with a
certain modest gaiety, an alacrity tempered by respect; one of them
kneels to pray as soon as he has disinterred himself. You may know the
wicked, on the other hand, by their extreme shyness; they crawl out
slowly and fearfully; they hang back, and seem to say "Oh, dear!" These
elaborate sculptures, full of ingenuous intention and of the reality of
early faith, are in a remarkable state of preservation; they bear no
superficial signs of resto