_THEORETICAL STUDIES._
The cold and the state of the times prevented the works from being
continued. The winter might be a long one. Eugène and Paul prepared
themselves, therefore, to employ this compulsory leisure to advantage.
It was decided between them that they should not merely draw out the
details necessary for finishing the works, but that Eugène should
take advantage of these winter days to enlighten Paul on many points
respecting which, as clerk-of-works, he was deficient.
Paul took an increasing interest in this employment. Hitherto the
execution had immediately followed the labours of the study, and
example and practice came to ratify theory; but he was quite aware
that all his attention and desire to follow the lead of his chief were
not sufficient, and that at each step he found himself confronted by a
difficulty. The further the work advanced, the more utterly incapable
did he feel himself. He set to work, therefore, with a hearty desire
to learn; indeed, so much the more eagerly as all that surrounded him
assumed a more and more gloomy and desolate aspect. Paul had never
spent a winter in the country, although he used to come home to the
Christmas festivities; the few days spent at his father’s _château_ had
passed away so quickly, that he had not time to consider how things
looked out of doors. Besides, the house was full of guests at that
time; the presence of his elder sister gave it animation; everything
had a holiday aspect. But the scene was quite changed at the beginning
of December, 1870; the neighbouring villages were deserted, or occupied
only for a few hours by troops ill-clad, dying of hunger, generally
going to fight without enthusiasm, and leaving the exhausted and the
sick in the cottages. Then would come long lines of carriages that
looked like so many funeral processions.
The snow was beginning to cover the fields and to muffle distant
sounds. Seldom did any of the peasants come to the _château_. The
postman still paid his regular visits, but the letters and newspapers
he brought tended only to depress the spirits of the inmates. Sometimes
they gave shelter to members of the Garde Mobile, or to soldiers of
the line; but all were dumb: the officers themselves would ask to be
allowed to rest in their rooms under pretext of fatigue, rather than
go down to the drawing-room. M. de Gandelau, up early in the morning,
in spite of his gout, seemed to be omnipresent; he was to be found
everywhere, among the farms and at the neighbouring town, facilitating
the transport of munitions of war, organizing hospitals, supplying
provisions and lightening the difficulties imposed by routine. “Set
Paul to work, my friend,” he said to Eugène every evening; “that is all
the demand I make on your friendship. I feel it is a considerable one,
but grant it, I entreat you.”
In fact, the greater part of the day was passed in studying
some question relating to building; then the architect and his
clerk-of-works would go and take a walk before the evening, during
which Eugène did not fail to start some interesting topic. The
country and natural phenomena were the habitual subjects of these
conversations; and thus Paul was learning to observe and reflect, and
it became every day clearer to him how much knowledge must be acquired
to accomplish a task of even limited scope. His cousin did not fail
to reiterate the sentiment: “The more you know the more you will feel
your want of knowledge; and the highest acquisition in science is the
conviction that we know nothing.”
“What good is it to learn, then?” rejoined Paul, one day.
“That we may become modest; that we may occupy life with something
better than those things to which vanity prompts us; that we may make
ourselves of some little use to our fellows, without exacting gratitude
from them.”
Eugène made Paul draw a good deal, and always from nature, or from
drawings executed while he was present, for he had not brought with him
any specimens of architectural design. Besides this, Paul made a fair
copy of memoranda relating to the parts of the house already erected.
Thus he gained a complete acquaintance with the structure of every part
of the stone-work.
Paul was therefore acquiring the power of drawing architectural details
neatly, and his cousin never failed to answer his questions. Paul had
soon laid aside all timidity—or, if we choose to deem it so, _amour
propre_—and no longer fearing to reveal his ignorance, asked a good
many questions. Eugène generally waited for such inquiries before he
gave a lesson on any subject. He wished the mind of his pupil to be
already prepared by the craving for knowledge, before teaching him.
It may be observed that these lessons treated of a great variety
of subjects; but Eugène took care to connect them together by an
exposition of those several principles which were continually suggested
by them.
One day Paul wished to know what an “order” is, and what is understood
by this word in architecture.
“That is a comprehensive question, Paul; and I scarcely know whether I
shall be able to answer it so as to enlighten you on the subject. The
word has two significations in architecture: ‘order’ may be understood
to mean subordination, or correlation between the parts. But I think
that is not what you are thinking of; you probably intend to ask me
the meaning of what are commonly called ‘orders of architecture.’ The
idea of an ‘order’ in your mind implies a row of columns or vertical
supports bearing an entablature. That is it, is it not?”
“Yes, that is what I mean.”
“Well, then, in remote ages, architects conceived the idea—which
was a very natural one—of erecting vertical supports, and placing
cross-pieces of wood or stone connecting their summits; and on this
open colonnade they raised a roof. This formed a shelter open below,
but covered in—what we call a _halle_. But, as in many cases it was
also necessary to close in these covered spaces, they built walls
behind these vertical props, leaving between them and the isolated
supports a space called a ‘portico.’ It was thus, for instance,
that certain Greek temples were designed. By degrees the genius of
architects, study, and the observation of the exterior effect, led them
to give to these vertical props, and to that which they support—that
is, the entablature—relative proportions, of delicate and harmonious
type, whence laws were deduced; for I would have you remark that the
example always precedes the rule, and that rules are only the results
of experience. In this way the Greeks invented three orders: the Ionic,
the Doric, and the Corinthian—each of which possesses its system of
harmonious proportions and its special type of ornamentation. Among
the Greeks these systems were not so rigorously distinct as to prevent
their frequently trenching on each other’s precincts.
“But the Romans, who were devotees of _order_, and who undertook to
impose it in everything and everywhere, in adopting these arrangements
from the Greeks, insisted on reducing these three systems to an almost
absolute formula. That simplified matters, and the Romans were fond
of inclosing whatever appertained to art in an administrative frame.
A step further in the wrong direction was taken as the result of the
study of classical antiquity in the sixteenth century; authorities
on the subject presumed finally to settle the relations between the
different members of each of these orders; and with a view to leave
some degree of latitude to architects, they even added two orders
to the three original ones, viz., the _Tuscan_ and the _Composite_.
These stereotyped orders have been applied on every occasion, and in
every fashion, just as hangings are attached to a wall to decorate it.
Architects have frequently bestowed more thought on placing an order
on a façade, than on the disposition of the building erected behind
this front. Certainly nothing of the kind more contrary to reason has
been produced than the Colonnade of the Louvre, for its _ordonnance_
has no relation to what it contains; and this immense portico, situated
on the first story, absolutely serves no other purpose than to obscure
the openings for light placed along it, while you never see any one
walking in it. But in those days it was obligatory to be magnificent,
at whatever cost. We have not entirely renounced this solemn fooling;
and even now you may see ‘orders’ placed, without its being possible
to say why, in front of buildings that could very well dispense with
this adventitious decoration, which is merely designed to prove to the
public that there are such things as ‘orders,’ and architects capable
of presenting them in those proportions which their formula requires.
“But you will study these branches of architecture a little later on. I
think it a bad method of teaching art to allow flowers to be introduced
into discourse before the power of expressing thought clearly has been
acquired; and it is thus that writers and speakers are formed who
take balderdash for eloquence; and architects, who before they think
of doing justice to the exigencies of construction, and studying the
requirements of the case, amuse themselves with reproducing forms into
whose origin, justification, and real meaning they have never inquired.
But just now, let us keep to our proper business. It is a house, not a
temple or a basilica, that we are building. We have to consider all its
parts; and this is work enough for us.
“We have leisure to consider the details of our building thoroughly,
since the frost obliges us to suspend the works. Construction, my dear
fellow, is an art requiring foresight. The good builder is he who
leaves nothing to chance, who does not put off the solution of any
problem, and who knows how to give each function its place and value
with respect to the whole, and that at the right moment. We have drawn
plans for the several stories; we have given the details necessary for
constructing the lower parts of the house; now we must draw the working
elevations. The first thing is to make an exact section of the front
walls giving the height of the floors, the levels of the tie-bars, and
the base of the roof.”
Eugène, who, as we may suppose, had previously realized to himself, if
not drawn, all the parts of the building, had soon sketched out this
section for Paul, who did not cease to wonder at the promptitude with
which his master succeeded in drawing on paper any detail required. He
could not help remarking it again.
“How do you manage to indicate the arrangement of all these parts of
the building without hesitating a moment?” said he.
“Because I have thought about them, and have represented to myself all
these parts while drawing or setting you to draw their combinations.
If they are not on the paper they are in my head; and when I have to
render them intelligible to those who are commissioned to execute
them, I have only to write, so to speak, what I know by heart already.
And thus it is always desirable to proceed. Look at this section, and
these few details (Fig. 42); let us examine the drawing together; you
will soon observe that you have already seen all that the sheet of
paper contains, and that with a little attention you would be able
to arrange these different parts in their due order. You see the
thickness of the wall on the ground floor figured, and with its central
line dotted; the height of the window sill, A, and its support; the
arrangement of the window casing and its lintel; the height of the
floor and its thickness. The string-course, B, had to be determined; it
should have the thickness of this floor; it indicates it externally.
Then, reducing the outside walls to 1 foot 8 inches on the first
floor, we put a set-off course at C; window sills like those of the
ground floor. The height of the first story from floor to floor has
already been settled. The under member, D, of the cornice indicates
the thickness of the second floor; lastly comes the cornice table of
hard stone which receives the eaves-gutter. As regards the first floor
windows, they are formed like those of the ground floor, excepting
that the inside reveal is less deep by 4 inches, since the wall is 4
inches less in thickness. Their lintels are similar, as well as the
casing which has to take the sheet-iron jalousies, and the tie-bars
come underneath these lintels. As we have gables, the cornices cannot
return, and must stop against a projection, E, which, rising above the
roof, receives the coping, F, which will have a projecting fillet to
cover the junction of the slating with the gable. At G, then, I draw
the angle of the building with this projection, E, and the coping we
have spoken of. As I foresee that the joists will have too long a
bearing in some places, I suppose the intermediate beams, H, to carry
them and the corbels, I, for the support of these joists.
[Illustration: FIG. 42.—SECTION OF THE SIDE WALLS, WITH DETAILS.]
[Illustration: FIG. 43.—AN ORIEL WINDOW.]
“At K I have drawn the string-course of the first floor, with the
projections figured from the centre of the wall, and the set-off course
above; also at L, the cornice and its table-course. You will observe
that this table-course slopes towards the outer edge, beneath the
gutter, so that, in the event of an overflow, the water may run off
outside, and not find its way into the wall. This table-course has a
throat, _a_, as well as the string-course, to prevent the water from
running down the wall. These mouldings will have to be drawn to their
full size for the stone-mason. On the course, M, behind the gutter,
will stand the dormer gables, which will admit light to the second
floor in the roof. As to the roofing, of which I merely indicate here
the base, I will show you what it is to be. Take these sketches, then,
and make from them figured drawings to a scale of half an inch to a
foot, so that they may be worked from.
“In the meantime, I am going to make a perspective sketch of the
projecting bays or _loges_ of the billiard-room and dining-room, with
the aid of which you may draw out these details. We shall see how you
acquit yourself.
“The English in their country-houses are fond of employing this kind of
projecting window. They call them _bay_ or _oriel_ windows, and often
construct them on corbelling. Stay—here I have a sketch in my note-book
of such a window in a house at Lincoln, dating from the sixteenth
century (Fig. 43). This projecting oriel, supported by a bracket, is
terminated by a small terrace forming a balcony on the first story.
Observe, by the by, how well-devised this construction is. This part of
England possesses stone, but that material is less common than brick.
The builder has used the dearer material only for the oriel window,
which he could scarcely erect in brick, and for the jambs and lintels
of the windows. The rest of the structure is built of brick.
“But,” continued Eugène, “your bay windows project too far to allow of
their resting on corbelling.”
“What do you mean by corbelling?”
“It is a projecting piece of construction, not rising from the bottom,
but supported by corbels; whence the name corbelling. The weight of the
masonry resting on the tail, _i.e._ the part of the corbels fixed in
the walls, allows us to place on their projecting part a construction,
which, being less heavy than that resting on their tail, is thus
sustained without fear of overbalancing. We must also calculate the
length of the arm of the lever—that is to say, the relation of the
projection of the corbels to the weight that secures their tail and
that which rests on their head. Of course, the further the corbels
project the more does the weight placed on their outward extremity tell
on that which keeps the balance. So that a very trifling weight placed
at the extremity of a greatly projecting corbel might overbalance a
heavy mass placed at the tail. Corbels have, therefore, been frequently
replaced by _squinches_—that is to say, a system of masonry which
brings the weight at the extremity to bear on the walls. The architect
who designed the oriel window I have just shown you did not trouble
himself to make such an arrangement. He constructed what is called a
bracket—that is, an inverted pyramid, by means of three courses of
corbelling; or, if you choose, projecting one beyond the other, so as
to obtain a portion of a polygon. On this supporting surface he has
erected his window framing, which is scarcely 9½ inches thick. The
bracket being built into the wall, supports the window framing, without
being over-balanced, on account of the weight of the wall. Closed
balconies of this kind were frequently employed during the Middle Ages,
because they gave space in the upper stories without encroaching on
the street, and afforded side views. And though civic regulations no
longer allow us to build these projections in our cities, nothing
would hinder us from erecting them when we build in the country. Still,
there ought to be a good reason for adopting them. And in our case
these corbel constructions serve no purpose, and it will cost us less
to raise our bay window direct from the ground.”
[Illustration: FIG. 44.—BAY WINDOW OF BILLIARD-ROOM.]
In about an hour Eugène handed to Paul the accompanying sketch (Fig.
44), giving the arrangement of the bay window of the billiard-room,
that he might study its construction. It required a good deal of
attention from our clerk-of-works, and he could not master it
thoroughly without frequently applying to his cousin for information
and explanation.