_PAUL INQUIRES WHAT ARCHITECTURE IS._
Eugène expected Paul to return to the discussion of the previous
evening, and in fact, when they were going early in the morning to
visit the works, Paul did not fail to throw out hints about it. But he
did not know how to give his curiosity a definite shape. His cousin
would not help him, but wished to give him full leisure to bring his
ideas to a focus.
“Is M. Durosay a judge of architecture?” said Paul, at last.
“Well, he talks about it like a person who has some acquaintance with
the art.”
“But yet you did not seem disposed to accede to what he asked.”
“What did he ask?”
“Why——you know very well what I mean——. He would have liked Marie’s
house to be——more——.”
“More what?”
“More——less severe; that it should have a portico and a loggia. What is
a loggia?”
“It is a wide covered balcony, most frequently closed on the two
sides, but opening in front—whether on the ground floor or the upper
stories—to the high road or the country.”
“And why should not a loggia be added to Marie’s house?”
“We might make one, or several.”
“Well, then?”
“Why then it must be placed in front of one of the apartments—the
drawing-room, for example, on the ground floor, in the middle of the
garden front, or if on the first floor, in front of the best bedroom.”
“And would not that have a good effect?”
“Perhaps it might: but the apartment next to it, opening upon this
loggia, would be dark and gloomy, as the windows would be shaded by its
ceiling.”
“Ah! yes, that is true; but in fact we have loggias at the end of the
drawing-room, the billiard-room, and the dining-room.”
“Yes; only they are closed, instead of being open towards the outside,
and these apartments gain in area through them. These loggias are
therefore recesses—what they formerly called ‘bays.’ We have thus all
the advantages of a loggia without the inconveniences which in our
climate it would entail.”
“Why did you not say so to M. Durosay?”
“He could see it well enough; there was no need to mention it to him.”
“He would have liked a portico, too.”
“For what purpose?”
“I do not know——. He said it would be pretty—that my sister and her
children would form a _group_ under it, and that this would have a
pretty effect at a distance.”
“And would it be very agreeable to your sister to produce ‘a very
pretty effect’ at a distance?”
“Oh, I don’t think she would care about it.”
“But who are we building the house for?”
“Why, for my sister.”
“Not for strolling idlers, therefore. But the portico in question
would have the same inconveniences as the loggias; it would make the
apartments opening under the arcades or colonnades dark and gloomy.
Since then, in our country we spend more of our time in rooms than
under porticos, we should have to pay rather dearly for the pleasure of
forming groups for the gratification of passing strangers.”
“Doubtless we should. Besides, in front of the billiard-room we have
a conservatory, with steps down to the garden, which may serve for a
portico without darkening the room, as it will be glazed.”
“Certainly.”
“Perhaps M. Durosay did not observe this.”
“Oh! I daresay he did; but it has nothing imposing about it. He
would have liked a real covered portico, in the style of the Italian
porticos.”
“He seems to be very fond of Italian architecture.”
“Which?”
“Why, that he was talking about.”
“But there are many kinds of architecture in Italy, belonging to
different ages and latitudes, and varying with the habits of the
peoples who inhabit the peninsula.”
“You did not call his attention to that.”
“He must have known it.”
“I see that you don’t think M. Durosay earnest in his opinions.”
“M. Durosay is an excellent man; his opinions are sincere, and
therefore I regard them as serious; but he and I look at things from
a different point of view. He judges questions of art as a man of the
world, on a ground of sentiment, while I think we artists ought to
decide them by reasoning. Sentiment does not reason; it is like faith;
so it is impossible for us to understand one another, since we speak a
different language.”
Paul’s views on the subject were as yet far from clear. Hitherto he
had thought that architecture could be learned as we learn grammar
and spelling; and here was his cousin telling him that it found
expression in several languages, one of which might be known, while
the other remained quite unintelligible. He could not understand what
reasoning could have to do with a matter entirely relating to form and
appearance; yet he did not even know how to put questions to his cousin
on the subject with a view to gaining light upon it. He was going
along, therefore, with his head bent, striking down with his stick the
withered thistles that encumbered the side of the path—Eugène, on his
side, not seeming desirous of breaking the silence. They arrived thus
at the works; they were almost deserted.
“It froze last night,” said Branchu; “and it’s going to be a hard
frost.”
“Well, you must cover the stone-work with litter or straw, and we shall
have to stop. Put some scaffold planks on the walls, the straw over
them, and slabs with stones at intervals. Take care that the planks
project beyond the faces of the walls. If you have not straw enough,
put soil on the slabs, or turf clods. As to the cellar vaults, spread
a good layer of mould over them, and contrive some openings in the
haunches, so that the rain or melted snow may run off. Come, set to
work! Let all this be arranged for and finished to-morrow evening; then
we will stop till the end of the cold weather.”
“So much the better,” said Master Branchu, “for all the young fellows
are gone, and none but poor creatures are left at the works.”
“This suspension of the building,” said Eugène, when they were
returning to the _château_, “will permit us to work out the details of
construction without having to hurry over them.”
“Yes,” replied Paul; “but I should much like to know how you set about
it when you have to draw one of the details.”
“You must have learnt that in the two months we have been doing this
sort of work.”
“Not quite; I perceive that you say what you intend, and that what you
intend shows itself drawn on paper; now, I have tried to do the same,
but though I knew well what I intended, I could bring nothing to paper;
or if I did draw anything, it made me forget what I had in my mind.
Yet, surely, for everything one wants to do in architecture, there must
be a method, a process, a—what should I call it?—a recipe.”
“Ah! now I see what you mean. But you must perceive, my young cousin,
that people often fancy they understand and intend, while they really
do not always know what they intend, and do not clearly understand
the question in hand. All this morning, for instance, you have been
revolving in your mind this question which you have only just put to
me; and I have wished to give you leisure to present it in a definite
form—to do which your brain has been obliged to work. Now, thanks to
the effort you have made, you will comprehend the answer I am able to
give you better. You remember those two lines of Boileau’s—
“Ce que l’on conçoit bien s’énonce clairement,
Et les mots pour le dire arrivent aisément,”
and which are applicable to all the arts. The great thing is to
habituate one’s self to clear conceptions. Unfortunately we learn to
form phrases before we learn to reason, and try to express an idea
before it is completely elaborated in the brain. Then we fancy we
can supply what is incomplete in this idea by a happy combination of
words. In architecture we think of forms that have seemed attractive,
before knowing whether they will be exactly appropriate to what reason
and the rigorous observance of the necessities of construction, or
the requirements of the case, demand. In a speech, the vulgar are
readily seduced by a brilliant phrase, and perceive only too late the
intellectual void which this seductive form conceals. Similarly, in
architecture, the vulgar are seduced by a picturesque aspect and an
attractive form, and have to pay the penalty of their error in the
defects of the building. M. Durosay, in his admiration for certain
forms that had charmed him as a tourist, has not thought of asking
himself whether these externals were in harmony with the requirements
to be satisfied, and what the structure itself demanded; the turn of
the phrase has arrested his attention, and he has not inquired whether
there was a clearly developed idea behind it. We might, therefore,
have argued together in this way for days, without hope of convincing
one another—he being entirely occupied with the form or fashion of
the phrase, and not troubling himself as to whether this form has a
signification—whether this phrase expresses a clear idea. All depends
on this, my dear Paul, and, in my judgment, our country, which is so
near the verge of absolute ruin, will not recover itself until it
learns to reflect before it speaks. We build immense edifices, costing
fabulous sums, yet we have no clear idea as to what they shall contain.
Or rather, we think only of making the casing, and leave it an open
question whether we shall use it for such or such a purpose. And I
would have you observe that this unfortunate habit prevails not with
regard to public buildings only. How many respectable men there are
who, like M. Durosay, in proposing to build a house for themselves,
first determine to erect a _chalet_, or an Italian villa, or an English
cottage, according to the fancy of the moment, and make it quite a
secondary question whether life will be comfortable in the case they
are going to put up! Consequently you will see Italian villas in the
north of France and Swiss _chalets_ at Nice. Learn to reason, to
observe before you proceed to act, and you will be a good barrister, a
good physician, a good soldier, a good architect. If nature has endowed
you with genius, so much the better; it will supply a noble complement
to your faculties; but if you have not gained the habit of reasoning,
genius will be of no use to you, or rather, it cannot develop itself.
Now, to learn to reason, you must labour much and labour long, and not
allow yourself to be led astray by appearances, however attractive.
Unfortunately, our education and instruction in France lead us to
content ourselves with mere appearances, and to rely on traditions
which are regarded as articles of faith, and which consequently may
not be discussed. You will find M. Durosay’s _portico_ confronting
you everywhere. The army, the government, literature, politics, and
the arts have their portico, which you must adopt, whatever has to
be done or wherever an entrance has to be provided; unless you have
sufficient energy, power for work, independence of character, practical
knowledge, persistent determination, and the authority which that alone
can secure, to say:—I will adopt your portico only as far as I think
it advantageous to make use of it. But to return to your question
as to whether any definite prescriptions or rules of procedure can
be given in architecture, I reply that there are practical rules of
procedure suitable to construction; but as the materials and the means
of execution vary continually, any such rules ought to be modified by
these variations. In architecture there is a method to be followed
in all cases that present themselves, but there are no definite
prescriptions or rules of procedure. This method is none other than
the application of your reasoning faculty to all particular cases; for
what is desirable in one set of circumstances is not so in another.
It is therefore on the observation of these circumstances—of facts,
customs, climate, and hygienic conditions—that your reason must rely
before forming the conception of your work. And when this operation is
complete, and all is properly arranged in your mind, then you will be
able to put on paper without hesitation the result of this intellectual
labour.”
“I think I apprehend your meaning; but how must I begin?”
“By acquiring the habit of observing everything, and reflecting on
everything you see, hear, or read. When you have a ditch before you
that you want to cross, do you not ask yourself whether your legs
will carry you to the other side? do you not know, as the result of
previous observation, whether you can jump the ditch or not, and do
you not decide accordingly? You do not ask yourself before jumping
whether Achilles or Roland was alleged by the poets to have leaped much
wider spaces. It is yourself, your own strength, that you consult—not
that of heroes—on pain of tumbling into the water. Exactly in the same
way, if you have to build a house for a person you know, you first
remind yourself that a house is made for people to live in; then you
represent to yourself the habits of the owner, you calculate the number
of apartments he requires, and what relations they will have to each
other. You know whether he lives alone, or entertains much company;
whether he will live in the house at such or such a season; whether
he affects luxury or lives quietly; whether he has many servants, or
employs only one, &c.: and when you have thoroughly considered all
these essential conditions, you will try to put on paper the result
of these observations. But if the first thing you think of is putting
this person and his family in a house like those of Pompeii, or in a
feudal _château_, it is a thousand to one that you will build him an
uncomfortable habitation—that you will be obliged to sacrifice the
convenience of its arrangements in order to assign them a place in a
building that belongs to a period and a civilization differing from our
own civilization and times.”
“I can quite understand that, but still we can learn how to make a
door, a window, or a staircase.”
“That is to say, it is possible to explain how people in former times
set to work to make a door, a staircase, or a floor; but it is not
proposed, nor ought it to be proposed, in teaching you the methods
employed by our predecessors, to oblige you to do exactly what they
did, since you perhaps possess materials which they did not, and your
customs differ from theirs. The instructions given you run thus,—at
least they ought to run thus: ‘These are the results of the experience
acquired during past ages; make these your starting-point; do as your
predecessors have done; use your reasoning faculty in applying the
knowledge that has been acquired, but in obedience to the requirements
of the present. You ought not to be ignorant of what has been done
before you,—it is an accumulation for the common good, a possession
secured to mankind. You ought to be acquainted with its existence
and value; but, as a partner in its advantages, add your store of
intelligence; make a step in advance, do not retrograde.’ But observe:
there is only one means of preventing retrogression in architecture,
and that is making art the faithful expression of the requirements of
the time in which we live,—making the building a casing suited to that
which it is destined to contain.”
“And is not this always done?”
“Not exactly. We are something like persons who have inherited from
their ancestors a costly stock of furniture,—a venerable and venerated
heirloom—who keep and make use of this furniture, though it is
inconvenient to them, and no longer suits the habits of the times; who
have even gone so far as to appoint a guardian for this old lumber,
who is enjoined not to allow it to be modified. If therefore you, the
master of the house, want to change the covering of this furniture,
or send some of the articles themselves, which are more inconvenient
than useful, to the lumber-room, the guardian you pay and lodge assumes
a dignified air, and declares that the function with which you have
invested him, and which he makes a point of strictly discharging,
forbids him to allow these modifications or suppressions; that his
honour is concerned in not allowing these relics to suffer injury or
change, since he is commissioned to preserve them. For the sake of
peace, you continue to make use of this intolerable furniture, and you
retain its guardian.”
“I do not quite understand you.”
“By and by you will. But observe, I have given you fair warning. If
you go into some old mansion crammed with antiquated furniture, take
care not to criticise it; for though the host and hostess may content
themselves with smiling, the guardian of those curiosities will take
good care that you never set foot in that house again.”