_OBSERVATIONS ADDRESSED TO EUGÈNE BY PAUL, AND THE REPLIES MADE TO
THEM._
Paul, with his head bent over the paper covered with sketches, and
his hands between his knees, could not help thinking, for his part,
that his cousin was covering a good deal of paper in making ceilings,
whereas they had always seemed to him the simplest thing in the world,
and the least susceptible of complication. In his own mind, in fact,
Paul made scarcely any distinction between a sheet of paper stretched
on a board, and a ceiling. So when Eugène had repeated the phrase, “Is
it quite clear to you?” Paul hesitated a little, and said, “I think
so,” adding, after a pause—
“But, cousin, why not make floors and ceilings as they do everywhere
else?”
“It seems to you a complicated affair, my dear fellow,” replied Eugène,
“and you would like to simplify the matter.”
“It is not exactly that,” rejoined Paul; “but how do they manage it
generally; do they employ all these contrivances? I have not seen what
you call bearers, and trimmer-joists, and trimmers and corbels, in any
of the ceilings I am acquainted with. It is possible, then, to dispense
with them, is it not?”
“None of these appliances are dispensed with in ceilings of carpentry
work, but they are concealed by a coat of plaster; and, as I was
telling you just now, this covering of plaster is one of the causes
of the decay of wooden floorings. In all these floorings there are
trimmer-joists and trimmers next the flues and hearths; sometimes
there are also bearers. All this is bound together by iron work, to
form a rigid framing between two plane surfaces with as little space
as possible between them. In Paris, where the houses are very dry,
this method is still allowable; but in the country it is difficult to
obviate the damp, and inclosed ceilings of this kind run the risk of
soon falling into decay. The timbers must be exposed to the air, (I
say once more) if we would preserve them. This framework of wooden
floorings exists in all that are constructed with these materials,
only you do not see it. Now it is desirable in architecture to make
use of the necessities of the construction as a means of decoration,
and frankly to acknowledge those necessities. There is nothing
discreditable in allowing them to be seen; and it is a mark of good
taste, good sense and knowledge, to exhibit them by making them
contribute to the decoration of the work. In fact, to people of good
taste and good sense, this is the only kind of decoration that is
satisfactory, because it alone is suggested by the requirements.
“We have accustomed ourselves in France to decide everything, but
especially questions of Art, by what is called _sentiment_. This is a
convenient state of things for many persons, who presume to talk about
Art without having ever had a pair of compasses, a pencil, a modelling
tool, or a paint-brush in their hands; and professional men have
gradually lost the habit of reasoning, finding it easier to take refuge
in the conclusions of those amateurs who fill pages while really saying
nothing to the purpose, and in so doing flatter the taste of the public
while perverting it. Little by little, architects themselves, who of
all artists should make good use of reasoning in their conceptions,
have acquired the habit of concerning themselves only with appearances,
and no longer trying to make these harmonize with the necessities of
the structure. At last these necessities have come to be looked at by
them as annoyances; they have concealed them so completely, that the
skeleton of an edifice—if I may so call it—is no longer in harmony with
the dress it puts on. We see on the one hand a structure,—often left to
the mercy of contractors, who manage it as best they can, but naturally
in subservience to their own interests,—on the other hand a form which
indifferently suits that structure. With your permission, then, we will
not follow this example, but will produce a building, unassuming it
may be, yet one in which not a detail shall be found that is not the
result either of a necessity of the structure or of the requirements of
its occupants. It will not cost us more on that account; and when the
work is completed, we shall rest satisfied that there has been nothing
disguised nor factitious, nor useless, in what we have produced, and
that the _architectural organism_ we have built will always allow us to
see its organs, and how these organs perform their functions.”
“How is it, then,” rejoined Paul, “that so many architects do not show
(as you propose to do here) those necessities of the construction, but
disguise them? Why do they act in that way? Who obliges them to do so?”
“It would take a long time to explain that to you.”
M. de Gandelau entered at these last words of the conversation.
“We have worse and worse news,” said he. “The German armies are
spreading everywhere; we must expect to see the enemy here. Poor
France!... But what were you saying?”
“Nothing,” replied Eugène, “that can have any interest in presence
of our disasters.... I was trying to make Paul understand that in
architecture we should not disguise any of the means of construction,
and that it is even in the interest of this art to avail itself of them
as a basis for decoration; that, in a word, we should be sincere, that
we should reason and trust only to ourselves——”
“Certainly!” rejoined M. de Gandelau, “you lay your finger on our
plague-spot as a nation—— To reason, to trust only to ourselves, to get
a clear idea of everything and of every fact by study and labour, to
leave nothing to chance, to disguise nothing from one’s self or from
others; not to take phrases for facts——not to fancy ourselves protected
by tradition or routine—— Yes, this is what we should have done—— It
is too late, and who can tell whether, after the misfortunes which I
anticipate, our country will recover enough elasticity, patience, and
wisdom to leave sentiment and keep to reason and serious work! Try to
teach Paul to reason, to habituate himself to method, to acquire a love
for mental labour; and whether he becomes an architect, an engineer,
a soldier, a manufacturer, or an agriculturist like myself, you will
have rendered him the most valuable service. Above all, may he never
become a mere half-savant, half-artist, or a half-practitioner in
any department—writing or talking about everything, but incapable of
doing anything himself. Work! The more sinister the character of the
news we receive,—the more heavily they weigh upon our hearts,—the more
energetically should we give ourselves to useful and practical labour.
Lamentations are to no purpose. Work!”
“Let us go and look at the building,” said Eugène, who saw that Paul
continued in a meditative mood, and was scarcely inclined to set to
work again.
[Illustration: FIG. 35.—VIEW OF THE BUILDING OPERATIONS]