We go into the church through a vestibule of utmost fantasy in stucco ornament, its overdoors in several shades of gold and silver, in jade green, and in vivid tones of white and coral.
The oval body of the church, opening beyond this, glitters across at us like a lit cave or grotto, and projects a gilded crown that fills the circle of the dome as with a cornice.
There are magnificent side altars, difficult to take in because of the drama and excitement, as we move in the direction of that grotto towards the scarlet and gold curtain over a projecting balcony that is surely a theatre-box, with another theatre-box and curtain facing it across the chancel, and overdoors below both that are like side entrances onto the stage with a motif above them that is a woman's bust in silver, with a head-dress of silver plumes.
The proscenium, itself, is framed in by four very tall Salomonic columns of elegant twisting shape, with gilded capitals, linked together by chains of gilded flowers. They carry a cornice which embodies, and to purpose, a trophy of the coat-of-arms of the Bavarian Order of St. George, in chequers again, of blue and white, crowned with the ducal hat, this touching in its turn upon a burst of clouds, and on a host of angelic figures upon a nimbus that vanishes in a blinding gliitter of golden rays into the heavens.
Below this, and filling the centre of the stage, the life size figure of St. George, a knight in golden armour on a silver stallion, rides out into the light. His high-plumed helmet is like that of the cavaliers in the court masquerades of Le Roi Soleil, and with a courtly gesture of his right-hand he despatches the dragon. His lance, like the tournament lances, is given the same Salomonic twist as the twisted pillars upholding the proscenium.
The maiden, but it its difficult not to think of her as Andromeda, is dressed like a peasant girl, and holds up her hand before her eyes at this blinding vision. At the side of the pillars, in front of the stage, two saints are commenting upon the stage action. St. Martin in golden robes takes off his biretta in homage; and opposite him St. Maurus points to the audience, while the golden goose at his feet takes the action from the stage into the church by hissing at the dragon.
The ineffable grace of St. George's horsemanship, his attitude of arrival to the rescue, are rendered in a wonderful blaze of inspiration, yet with all the intensity of a ghostly vision.
When I read this passage in the book Monks, Nuns and Monasteries, by Sacheverell Sitwell, I too must have been blinded by this vision of utmost fantasy. Like the maiden (whether she is a peasant girl or Andromeda) I almost held up my hand before my eyes in surprise at the vision of this building - a building with an altar with panniers, like an 18th century dress - like the bust of a woman's body - like a feathered head-dress - like a theater box - like a grotto - like the heavens - like the sun.
Blinded, surely, for what other than color blindness could explain the image on the following page.
Well, it's an old book, written in 1965, and the illustrations are all in black and white.
St. George and the Dragon. Man and Lizard. St. George, always wearing armor, and seated on a horse, which makes him a kind of dragon himself. St. George and the Dragon - both carapaced, both scaly, one rearing, one slithering, in recognition. Where do their encounters take place? In Sitwell's book it occurs on the altar of Weltenburg Abbey, in Bavaria. There's also somewhere in England where it is said to have happened, in a village appropriately called Wormingford, in Essex - there's a stained glass window commemorating the encounter in St. Andrew's Church, and a mound in the village where perhaps the dragon is buried.
Where else? My house. Both St. George and the Dragon, on the wall of my living room, present present trophies. And to purpose.
