“Still, however, I should have liked to give a warmth to these fronts (which have a somewhat frigid aspect) by light and airy projections, and a covered gallery, with a terrace over it.”
“Warmth? warmth? Why instead of that, you would give us the rheumatism with your galleries. They may do very well at Nice or Mentone, but they are not to be thought of in our part of the country. We want the sun upon the walls of our habitations, while your porticos are like mushroom-houses.”
“I see, my dear friend,” resumed M. Durosay, after a pause, “that you keep to your taste for what you call the practical side of things. Yet see what a good opportunity you have of giving your daughter one of those dwellings which, while satisfying the material requirements of life, would possess that perfume of art which is too rarely found in our country districts. A little exterior elegance is a powerful charm which leaves an indelible trace in the mind. It is thus that the Italians preserve the poetry of the brilliant eras of their civilization. They are willing, at need, to sacrifice something of what we call ‘comfort’—the material conveniences of life—to keep up among them the noble traditions of high art.”
“I do not know what the traditions of high art are, or whether those traditions preserve us from rain, wind, and sun; but I must confess that your Italian villas in the environs of Verona and Venice appear very dull and gloomy with their colonnades and closed shutters. I have never had the wish to visit them, for I imagine one would be very uncomfortable in them. If they build them so with a view to offer tourists models of architecture, all well and good; but I make no pretensions to amuse or interest tourists, and my daughter shares my ideas in the matter.”
“Perhaps ... but just now your daughter is travelling in Italy; she is going to sojourn on the shores of the Bosporus; who knows whether on her return here she would not be charmed to meet a kind of souvenir of the impressions she will not fail to have experienced there, and whether the surprise you have in store for her would not be still more delightful if you tried in some measure to revive those impressions? What do you think of it, Mr. Architect?”
“As for myself,” said Eugène, “I am listening, and cannot but be delighted to hear you discourse so ably on our art.”
“I may take it for granted, then, that you share my opinion, and that you would be inclined to give this habitation, which you have so skilfully arranged, some of those external charms in which perhaps it is now deficient.”
“I cannot say that I should. M. de Gandelau, with his usual courtesy, has left us quite at liberty, and has simply stated the limit of expense to which he is prepared to go. As regards other considerations, our programme having been agreed upon, we have not been restricted to an excessive severity of style, nor forbidden the adoption of what you consider the exterior charms of a dwelling-house.”
“Well; although my friend with his practical mind does not appear sensible to these charms, do not you, as an artist, think it desirable to add something to these fronts, which are perhaps a little severe in aspect, and which certainly with the help of your talent you could render less cold? You know Italy; you have visited Pompeii: do you not find in the architecture of those countries abundant suggestions from which inspiration may be drawn—charming models, in fact?”
“Yes; I have visited Italy and France, but I must confess that I have never been struck by the architectural works of those countries, except so far as they preserved the imprint of the manners and customs of those whose genius produced them. You mention Pompeii. That which has vividly affected me in the remains of this little provincial town of Italy is precisely this characteristic. Its small dwellings exactly suited the habits of antiquity, the time when they were erected, and the climate of the district. But from the study of these habitations I infer that since we do not live on the shores of the Gulf of Naples, and have customs very different from those which suited the Pompeians, our dwellings ought not in any way to suggest the peculiarities of theirs; that while, for example, it may have been very agreeable to them to sup in an open triclinium, sheltered from the wind by a velum, we cannot arrange dining-rooms after this model in the Département de l’Indre; and that though it might have been a luxury to them to sleep in a room whose area was only five or six square yards and the door of which, left open, introduced you to a court surrounded by a portico, this would be very inconvenient here, as we should run great risk of catching cold if we left the door open, or of being suffocated if we shut it.”