“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.