Introduction
The object of architecture Two kinds of building Public buildings
Private buildings
Variations in buildings
How architecture is usually studied
The usual division of architecture into three parts: decoration, distribution, construction
Architecture has as its object the composition and execution of buildings, both public and private.
These two kinds of building are subdivided into a great number of types, and each type in turn is capable of an infinity of modifications.
Public buildings comprise city gates, triumphal arches, bridges, squares, markets, schools, libraries, museums, town halls, basilicas, palaces, hospices, baths, fountains, theaters, prisons, barracks, arsenals, cemeteries, and so on.
Private buildings comprise private town houses, tenements, villas, and country houses; along with all their dependencies, workshops, factories, storehouses, and so on.
Differences in manners, customs, places, materials, and financial resources introduce a host of necessary variations into every class of building.
If, in order to learn architecture, it were necessary to study all the classes of building in succession, together with all the circumstances that are liable to modify them; then, even supposing such a study possible, it would be not only lengthy but highly imperfect. Nothing would be gained but isolated notions that, far from corroborating each other, would often conflict; and the more of them there were, the more confusion they would create.
If, instead of pursuing such a course, we were to return to the first principles of the art—that is to say, to the pursuit of certain ideas that are few in number but general in application, and from which all the particular ideas would necessarily derive; then the labor would not only be very much curtailed but rendered more fruitful; for we should have a safe and rapid way to compose and execute buildings of all kinds, in all places, and at all times.
But the principles of any art, or of any science, are none other than the results of observation. To discover them, one must observe; and to observe with profit requires method.
In all courses of architecture, the art is divided into three distinct parts: decoration, distribution, and construction. At first sight, this division appears simple, natural, and fruitful. But, to make it so in fact, the ideas that it suggests would have to be applicable to all buildings; they would have to be entirely general, affording elevated vantage points from which to embrace the art as a whole before descending to survey the whole range of particulars. Now, of the three ideas expressed by the words decoration, distribution, and construction, only one is applicable to all buildings. In the sense normally
assigned to the word decoration, most buildings are incapable of it. By distribution, nothing more is meant than the art of disposing, in accordance with our present-day customs, the different parts that make up a building intended for habitation: for no one speaks of the distribution of a temple, a theater, a courthouse, and so on. The word construction, which expresses the combination of the various mechanical arts that architecture employs, such as masonry, carpentry, joinery, locksmith’s work, and so on, is thus the only one that affords an idea general enough to apply to all buildings.
But since architecture is not only the art of executing but also of composing all buildings, public and private, and since no one can execute any building without first conceiving it, the idea of construction needs to be accompanied by another general idea, which would be the source of all those particular ideas that must guide us in the composition of all buildings.8 As this method fails to supply any such general idea, it is consequently defective.
Not only is this method defective, in that it affords an incomplete idea of architecture, it is positively dangerous, for the ideas it affords are utterly false, as will soon be apparent.
What is more, even if this method were to afford a sound and comprehensive view of architecture, its practical shortcomings would in themselves be reason enough to reject it. To divide architecture into three entirely independent arts, which may and indeed must be studied separately, is to ensure that the aspiring architect will develop a predilection for one of those arts, devote himself to it, neglect the two others, often fail to concern himself with them at all, and consequently acquire only a portion of the knowledge that he needs.
However, it remains impossible to embrace at one time all the particular ideas comprised within the general idea of architecture. A division is indeed necessary; but—far from pitting particular ideas against each other in mutual opposition, as often happens—it must be a division that binds them together through the simple and natural order in which it presents them to the mind.
To succeed in anything, one must have a tangible and rational aim. Otherwise, success would be purely a matter of chance. But if the aim itself is a chimerical one, then the further one proceeds, the further one departs from the true aim; and this is something that we observe all too often.
Nor is it enough to have a tangible aim in view: one must have the means to attain it. And so, our first concern must be with the aim to be pursued in the composition and execution of buildings, both private and public, and the means to be employed.
From this, once established, we shall naturally deduce the general principles of architecture; and once these are known, it will only remain for us to apply them, (1) to the objects that architecture uses, that is, the elements of buildings; (2) to the combination of these elements, in other words, composition in general; and (3) to the alliance of these combinations in the composition of a specific building.
Such are the objects of our study and the order in which we shall examine them.
The first defect of this method
The second defect
The third defect
The right way to study architecture
The idea of architecture conveyed by most writers on the subject
These ideas considered
Laugier’s description of the hut
Most architects take the view that architecture is not so much the art of making useful buildings as that of decorating them. Its principal object, accordingly, is to please the eye and thereby arouse delightful sensations: an object that, like the other arts, it can attain only through imitation. It must take as its model the forms of the earliest huts erected by men and the proportions of the human body. And, as the orders of architecture invented by the Greeks, imitated by the Romans, and adopted by most of the nations of Europe are an imitation of the human body and of the hut, it follows that they constitute the essence of architecture. It follows that the ornaments formed by the orders are so beautiful that in matters of decoration no expense is ever to be spared.
But no one can decorate without money; and it follows that the more one decorates, the more one spends. It is therefore natural to consider whether it is true that architectural decoration, as conceived by architects, gives all the pleasure that it is expected to give; or at least, whether the pleasure justifies the expense.
If architecture is to please through imitation, it must, like the other arts, imitate nature. Let us consider whether the first hut made by man is a natural object; whether the human body can serve as a model for the orders; and, finally, whether the orders constitute an imitation of the hut and of the human body.
Let us first of all form an idea of the hut and the orders in question. Here is what Laugier says on the subject of the hut:9
Let us consider man at his origins, without aid or guide other than the natural instinct to satisfy his needs. He requires a place to rest. Beside a quiet stream, he notices a stretch of grass; its nascent verdure delights his eyes; its downy softness invites him; he comes; and, reclining at his ease on that carpet of flowers, he thinks only of enjoying the gifts of nature in peace; he lacks for nothing; he desires nothing. But soon the burning heat of the sun compels him to look for shelter; he sees a forest that offers him its cool shade; he hastens to conceal himself beneath its dense foliage, and he is content. In time, it happens that a host of vapors, dense clouds obscure the air, and a fearful deluge of rain falls on that delightful forest. Ill sheltered by the leaves, man has no defense against the unwelcome moisture that soaks him through. A cave presents itself; he slips inside; finding himself in the dry, he congratulates himself on his discovery; but new discomforts make him uneasy in this refuge: he finds himself in darkness, breathing foul air, and he comes out determined to remedy the negligence of nature through his own efforts. Man wants a dwelling that will shelter him without smothering him. A few branches, broken off in the forest, supply what he needs. He chooses four of the strongest, sets them upright, and arranges them in a square. He lays four others across their tops; and on these he raises more branches on a slope, so as to meet in a point at either end. This sort of roof is covered with leaves, close-packed enough to keep out both the sun and the rain; and man has a home. He will, it is true, suffer the effects of cold and heat in his house, while it is open on every side; but then he will fill in the spaces between his pillars, and he will be secure.
“The little hut that I have just described,” continues Laugier,
is the model from which architecture in all its magnificence has been derived; it is by approximating to the simplicity of this first model that the elementary faults of execution are avoided and the true perfections captured. The upright pieces of wood gave us the idea of columns. The horizontal pieces above them gave us the idea of entablatures. And, finally, the inclined pieces that form the roof gave us the idea of pediments. All the masters of the art have acknowledged this.
Columns, entablatures, and pediments, united to form what are known as the orders of architecture: these are the essential portions of the art, which constitute its beauties; and walls, doors, windows, vaults, arcades, and all the other parts that necessity alone compels us to add, are no more than indulgences, to be tolerated at best. Such is the conclusion drawn by the author whom we have just quoted.
From the nature of the hut, let us pass to that of the orders and read what Vitruvius has to tell us on the subject:10
Dorus, king of the Peloponnese, built a temple to Juno at Argos, and it so happened that it was in the manner that we call Doric; later, in a number of other cities, others were built in this same order, no rule yet being established for the proportions of architecture. At that time the Athenians sent several colonies to Asia Minor under the command of Ion; and they gave the name of Ionia to the country where he settled. The first temples they built there were Doric, the principal one being dedicated to Apollo. But, not knowing how to proportion their columns, they looked for a way to make them strong enough to support the load of the building, and at the same time pleasing to the eye. To this end, they took the measure of a man’s foot, which is the sixth part of his height, and on this they patterned their columns, so as to give them a height of six diameters. And so the Doric column was used in those buildings that possessed the proportions, the strength, and the beauty of a man’s body.
Some time later, they built a temple to Diana and sought for a new manner that would achieve beauty by the same method. They imitated the delicacy of a woman’s body; they raised their columns upon a base formed like twisted cords, to serve as the shoe; they carved volutes on the capital to represent the locks of hair that hang to left and right; they placed on the brow of their column a cyma and echinus to imitate the rest of the hair, gathered and tied behind a woman’s head; in the flut-ings, they imitated the folds of their dresses. This order, invented by the Ionians, took the name of Ionic.
The Corinthian represents the delicacy of a girl, whose age makes her figure more slender and better suited to those ornaments that serve to enhance its natural beauty. The invention of its capital is due to the following accident. A Corinthian maiden of marriageable age died, and her nurse placed on her tomb a basket containing certain little vases that she had loved when she was alive; and, lest they be immediately spoiled by the weather, she laid a tile on the basket. By chance, this
What is usually understood by the term order
Greek orders
Doric, imitated from the human body
Ionic, imitated from the body of a woman
Corinthian, imitated from the body of a girl
Roman orders Tuscan
Composite
Are the proportions of the orders imitated from those of the human body?
They are not, and can never have been
had been set down on an acanthus root; when the leaves began to sprout, the basket, which was over the center of the root, caused the stalks of the plant to grow up over its sides. Where they met the corners of the tiles, they were forced to turn over and to curl into the form of volutes. Callimachus, a sculptor and architect, saw this object with pleasure and imitated its forms in the capitals of the columns that he afterwards executed at Corinth: establishing on this model the proportions of the Corinthian order.
A number of Greek colonies brought to Etruria, which is now Tuscany, the knowledge of the Doric order, which was the only one then used in Greece. This order long continued to be built there in the same way as in the country of its origin; but in the end a number of changes were made: the column was extended and given a base, the capital was changed, and the entablature was simplified. The order thus modified was adopted by the Romans under the name of the Tuscan order.
Long after, the Romans, who had adopted the three Greek orders, conceived the notion of adding the Ionic volutes to the Corinthian capital; and this combination caused those columns in which it appeared to be given the name of Composite.
Such are the five orders, which are regarded as the essence of architecture and the source of all the beauties of which decoration is capable, because they are supposed to have been imitated from the forms of the hut and from the proportions of the human body. Let us consider whether they are in fact such an imitation.
Let us begin with the Doric order, which the Greeks, it is said, defined by the proportion of six diameters, because a man’s foot is one-sixth of his height. First of all, a man’s foot is not one-sixth but one-eighth of his height. What is more, in all Greek buildings, the proportions of Doric columns are endlessly varied (see the Recueil et parallele, plate 63); and, within this infinite variety, the exact proportion of six to one is not found in a single case. If any Greek architect ever did see fit to assign this proportion to the Doric order, it would appear that the Greeks took no notice; otherwise, it would be found, if not in all their buildings, at least in those of the age of Pericles: buildings that are justly regarded as masterpieces.
The same variety is observed in the proportions of the other orders, supposedly imitated from the body of a woman and from that of a girl (see Recueil et parallele, plate 64). It is therefore untrue that the human body served as a model for the orders.
But even supposing that the same order always has the same proportions in the same circumstances; that the Greeks consistently followed the system attributed to them; and that the length of a man’s foot is one-sixth of his height: does it then follow that the proportions of the orders are an imitation of those of the human body? What comparison is there between a man’s body, which varies in width at different heights, and a kind of cylinder with a constant diameter throughout? What resemblance can there be between these two objects, even if one were to suppose them to have the same base and the same
height? Clearly, the proportions of the human body did not serve, and can never have served, as a model for those of the orders.
The forms of the orders were no more imitated from a hut than their proportions were derived from the human body. Columns possess either a base and a capital or, at least, a capital; for a column consisting of a plain cylinder would never be recognized as a column at all. There is no trace of any of this in the trunks of trees or in the posts that support the hut. It would be vain to argue that planks or boards were subsequently laid on the posts to broaden the upper part and make it more capable of carrying the entablature; seeing that for an equal length a piece of wood made up of longitudinal fibers is less likely to break than a piece of stone composed of an aggregation of little grains. If one of these objects had served as a model for the other, it would be more natural to suppose the wooden boards to have been imitated from the stone capitals than to suppose the latter to have been imitated from the former.
The entablature is no more a close imitation of the upper parts of the hut than the columns are imitations of its supports. In a square building, where mutules or modillions — said to represent the ends of the sloping pieces of the roof of the hut—are employed, they are used all around; it would be absurd to do otherwise. In the hut, however, they appear only along the sides; the same applies to the triglyphs. Besides, in the hut, the ends of the beams or joists, which the triglyphs are said to imitate, are smooth. Triglyphs are channeled, and owe their very name to the two whole and two half channels that are seen in them. If, therefore, the architects who invented the orders were seeking to imitate the hut, they imitated it extremely badly. However, it appears from more than one passage in Vitruvius that the Greeks, far from slavishly imitating the hut, were at pains to conceal those parts of their buildings that might most have resembled the parts of the hut. Here is what that author has to say on the subject of triglyphs:
Long after columns came to be made of stone, entablatures continued to be made of wood. The Greek architects, finding the smooth ends of the joists unsightly where they rested on the architrave or main beam, added small boards to form what we call the femurs of the triglyphs and coated them with wax. As this wax, unlike the rest of the entablature, was impervious to rainwater, the water ran down the channels thus formed and gathered below in drops, which were subsequently imitated in stone entablatures.
In the entablatures of the Ionic and Corinthian orders, the Greeks went still further: they eliminated all reference to the hut (see Recueil et parallele, plates 65 and 66); and yet, by a strange contradiction, the adherents of the hut theory consider these last-named orders to be the most beautiful.
It is evident, therefore, that the Greek orders were not an imitation of the hut at all; and that, if they had been, this imitation would have been utterly imperfect and consequently incapable of producing the effect that was intended.
Are the forms of the orders imitated from those of a hut?
The triglyphs of the Doric order, made to conceal from view the ends of the joists
The smooth friezes of the Ionic and Corinthian orders
The forms of the orders are not imitated from those of a hut, or only imperfectly so
Is the hut a natural object?
Imitation is not a means proper to architecture
Inquiry as to the true aim of architecture
Furthermore, is not such a model even more defective than the copy? What is a hut, open to every wind, laboriously built by man to shelter himself, and yet sheltering him not at all? Can such a hut be regarded as a natural object? Surely this is no more than the inchoate production of the first falterings of art? Might it not be that the instinct that directed man in this construction was so crude that it does not merit the name of art, and might it not be for this reason that it is regarded as a product of nature?
Now, if a hut is not a natural object; and if the human body can never have served as a model for architecture; and if, even on a contrary assumption, the orders are not an imitation of either; the necessary conclusion must be that these orders are not the essence of architecture; that the pleasure to be expected from their use, and from the decoration that derives therefrom, is nil; that such decoration is itself a chimera; and that the expense that it entails is folly.
From this it follows that, if the principal aim of architecture is to please, it must either imitate to better effect, or choose other models to imitate, or adopt other means than imitation.
But is it true that the principal aim of architecture is to please and that decoration is its principal concern? In the passage by Laugier, quoted above, it will be seen that the author, for all his curious prejudices, is forced to acknowledge that this art owes its origins to necessity alone and that it has no other goal than public and private utility. How could he ever have imagined otherwise, even if we suppose that the builder of the hut, the alleged prototype of all architecture, was capable of conceiving the idea of decoration? Surely, the idea of his needs, and of the means proper to satisfy them, would have presented itself first, and would indeed have banished all other ideas? Is it reasonable to suppose that, left alone to defend himself from the inclement weather and from the fury of wild beasts, needing to provide himself with many advantages that he had always lacked, the builder of the shelter gave a moment’s thought to making it an object to delight his eye? Is it any more reasonable to suppose that men in society, with a host of new ideas and, consequently, a host of new needs to satisfy, adopted decoration as the principal concern of architecture?
Some writers, who have sustained and elaborated the hut theory with all conceivable ingenuity, will object that we have been speaking of mere building; that in this respect architecture is no more than a manual trade; and that it never merited the name of art until the nations, having attained the height of wealth and luxury, undertook to adorn the buildings that they had erected. But here we appeal to these authors themselves. Was it after the Romans attained the height of wealth and luxury, covering their buildings with moldings, entablatures, and so forth, that they produced their best architecture? The Greeks were far less wealthy; and is not their architecture, in which such objects are so few in number, preferable to the architecture of the Romans? These same authors readily admit as much; indeed, they go so far as to say that the Greek is the only architecture worthy of the name. Now, Greek
architecture, which they admire, and which deserves to be generally admired, never took pleasure as its aim or decoration as its object. Of course, care and purity are apparent in its execution; but is not care essential for solidity? In some buildings, sculptural ornaments are to be found; but the others are, for the most part, totally devoid of them, and are none the less highly esteemed. Is it not clear that such ornaments are not essential in architecture? And when architecture does use them, do they not show that it cannot aspire to give pleasure by virtue of the intrinsic beauty of its proportions and its forms? And even if some forms are found that do not directly spring from need, do not the differences that appear in them, from one building to the next, prove that the Greeks attached no importance whatever to architectural decoration?
Whether we consult reason or examine the monuments, it is evident that pleasure can never have been the aim of architecture; nor can architectural decoration have been its object. Public and private utility, the happiness and the protection of individuals and of society: such is the aim of architecture. Whether it be accorded or denied the name of art, it will nonetheless deserve to be practiced, and the means to its end will deserve to be examined; and this we shall now do.
We shall find, on looking into the matter, that, in all ages and in all places, all of men’s thoughts and actions have sprung from two principles alone: love of comfort and dislike of all exertion. Accordingly, whether building their own private dwellings in isolation, or erecting public buildings in society, men inevitably sought (1) to derive from their buildings the greatest possible advantage, consequently making them as fit as possible for their purpose; and (2) to build them in the way that would in early times be the least laborious and later—when money had become the price of labor—the least costly.
Thus, fitness and economy are the means that architecture must naturally employ, and are the sources from which it must derive its principles: the only principles that can guide us in the study and exercise of the art.
First, if a building is to be fit for its purpose, it must be solid, salubrious, and commodious.11
It will be solid: if the materials employed in its construction are of good quality and intelligently disposed; if the building rests on good foundations; if its principal supports are sufficient in number, placed perpendicularly for greater strength, and equally spaced so that each may support an equal portion of the load.
It will be salubrious: if it is situated in a wholesome place; if the floor or pavement is raised above the soil and protected from humidity; if there are walls to fill the intervals between the supports that form its skeleton, and to protect the internal parts from heat and from cold; if those walls are pierced by openings permeable to air and light; if all the openings in the internal walls correspond to each other and to the external openings, thus promoting the renewal of the air; if a covering shelters it from rain and sun in such a way that the edge of this covering, projecting beyond the walls, throws the water
The aim of architecture
The means that it must employ
Fitness and economy
General principles relative to fitness Solidity
Salubrity
Commodity
General principles relative to economy
Symmetry
Regularity
Simplicity
May not architecture blend the pleasurable with the useful?
It is impossible for the productions of this art not to give pleasure
Beauties observed in architecture
They present themselves naturally, when we concentrate on disposition
away from them; and if its exposure is to the south in cold countries, or to the north in hot countries.
Finally, it will be commodious: if the number and size of all its parts, their form, situation, and arrangement, are in the closest possible relation to its purpose.
So much for fitness; now for economy.
If a given area demands less length of perimeter when bounded by the four sides of a square than when bounded by those of a parallelogram, and less still when bounded by the circumference of a circle; if the square form is superior in symmetry, in regularity, and in simplicity to that of the parallelogram, and inferior to that of a circle: it will be readily supposed that the more symmetrical, regular, and simple a building is, the less costly it becomes. It is hardly necessary to add that, since economy demands the utmost simplicity in all necessary things, it absolutely forbids all that is unnecessary.
Such are the general principles that must have guided reasonable men, everywhere and in every age, when they came to erect buildings; and such are the principles that governed the design of the most universally and justly admired of ancient buildings, as will later become apparent.
It will be argued that, since there are buildings that are rightly admired, or rightly despised, it follows that there must be beauties and defects in architecture; that it must pursue the former and avoid the latter; and thus that it is capable of giving pleasure; that, if such is not its principal aim, it must at least attempt to blend the agreeable with the useful.
So far from denying that architecture can give pleasure, we maintain that it cannot but give pleasure, where it is treated in accordance with its true principles. Has not nature associated pleasure with the satisfaction of our needs, and are not our keenest pleasures the satisfactions of our most pressing needs? Such an art as architecture, which immediately satisfies so many of our needs, which places us in a position to satisfy all the others with ease, which defends us against the seasons, and which leads us to enjoy all the gifts of nature: an art, indeed, to which all the other arts owe their very existence: how could it fail to give us pleasure?
Certainly, the grandeur, magnificence, variety, effect, and character that are observed in buildings are all beauties, all causes of the pleasure that we derive from looking at them. But where is the need to run after such things, if a building is disposed in a manner fitted to its intended use? Will it not differ sensibly from another building intended for some other use? Will it not naturally possess a character—and, what is more, a character of its own? If all of the parts of the building, being intended for different uses, are disposed as they should be, will they not inevitably differ? Will not the building afford variety? And if the same building is disposed in the most economical, that is to say, the simplest manner, will it not appear as grand and as magnificent as it is possible to be? Undoubtedly, it will, because the eye will embrace the greatest number of its parts at one glance. Again, where is the need to chase after all those partial beauties?
Far from being necessary, indeed, such a pursuit is harmful even to decoration itself. For if, smitten with the effect of certain beautiful features in one building, you attempt to transfer them to another, where they are out of place; or if, where such beauties are naturally present, you seek to amplify them further than the nature of the building permits: is it not plain that they will disappear; and, worse still, that they will be transformed into faults? The Medici Venus and the Farnese Hercules are admirable figures. But if anyone, on the grounds that one head is more graceful or has more character than the other, were to set that of Venus on Hercules’s body, and vice versa, would not those masterpieces of art become masterpieces of absurdity? And if, because the individual parts of those statues are admirable, the sculptor had sought to enhance the beauty of the whole by increasing their number, and had given his figures four arms, four legs, and so on, would they not be downright monstrous?
From all of this, it follows that one must neither strive to make architecture give pleasure —seeing that it is impossible for it not to give pleasure—nor seek to endow buildings with variety, effect, and character, since these are qualities that they cannot be without.
Disposition must therefore be the architect’s sole concern—even if he were a lover of architectural decoration, even if he wished only to please —since decoration cannot be called beautiful or give true pleasure, except as the necessary effect of the most fitting and the most economical disposition.
Thus, all of the architect’s talent comes down to the solution of two problems: (1) in the case of private buildings, how to make the building as fit for its purpose as possible for a given sum; (2) in the case of public buildings, where fitness must be assumed, how to build at the least possible expense.
It will thus be seen that in architecture there is no incompatibility, and no mere compatibility, between beauty and economy: for economy is one of the principal causes of beauty.
One example will serve to cast light on these ideas and present these principles with the greatest certitude. The building now known as the Pantheon Frangais was first intended as a temple.12 The purpose envisaged in buildings of this kind, whatever the form of worship for which they are intended, is not only to assemble the multitudes but to capture their imagination through the senses. Grandeur and magnificence are the aptest means to this end. It might consequently appear that decoration ought to be, if not the sole aim, at least the principal concern in the composition of such a building; and that expense must be no object. We shall see, however, that if, in the building in question, all idea of decoration had been set aside in order to dispose it in the fittest and most economical way, the result would have been a building far more likely to produce the desired effect. The Pantheon Fran^ais is 110 meters long by 80 wide. It is made up of a portico and four limbs united by a dome, the whole forming a Greek cross. The perimeter of the walls is 612 meters. There are 206 columns, distributed as follows: 22 in the portico, 136 in the limbs, and 48 in the dome, which has 32 outside and 16 inside.
Who would not expect such a building as this, of such dimensions, and
They disappear when we concentrate on architectural decoration
It is unnecessary and even dangerous for architecture to seek to please
Disposition is the principal object of architecture
Architecture consists in the solution of two problems
Plate 1
Recapitulation	with so prodigious a number of columns, to present the grandest and most magnificent spectacle? And yet it does nothing of the sort. Inside, the building is only 3,672 [square] meters in true area. The apparent area is even less, since the cruciform shape adopted by the architect allows hardly more than half of it to be seen on entry. The quantity of columns no more succeeds in conveying an idea of magnificence than the dimensions convey an idea of grandeur. Of the twenty-two columns of the portico, only six or eight are clearly visible. Those of the dome are three-quarters masked by the portico. Once inside, no more than sixteen are clearly seen, and those sixteen mask all the others. Of the columns inside the dome, only half are visible; and even then one is forced to make an effort. And yet this building, so lacking in grandeur and in magnificence, cost nearly seventeen million to build. If, instead of pursuing the forms that the architect considered most apt to produce effect and movement, he had used those that economy naturally suggests for the disposition of a building that is formed of a single room, in other words a circle; if he had arranged his columns concentric to this circle, so as to reduce the span of the vault on the inside, and to form a spacious portico on the outside capable of receiving a vast crowd from every direction: then what would have been the grandeur, the magnificence, of such a building! Its area, no part of which would have been concealed from the eye, would have been 4,292 [square] meters; the exterior would have presented, from every angle, 32 columns to the view, while the interior would have offered a multitude of them. These are two very different buildings. And wherein lies the difference? In the former, there was an effort to create something beautiful, and it was supposed that the only way to do so was to spend lavishly; whereas, in the latter, the only consideration was to dispose the building in the fittest and most economical way. And, indeed, the latter, though grander and more magnificent than the former, incorporates only 112 columns; its walls are only 248 meters in circumference; and it would cost just half as much. That is to say that, for the cost of the other, two buildings might have been built, not like the one that exists but like the one that here replaces it; or else one single building, twice the size of the one just proposed. This example, although the least favorable to the system that we propose, nevertheless suffices to make known the truth of our principles and the consequences, for the wealth and the comfort both of private individuals and of society at large, that stem from an ignorance of those principles, or from the failure to observe them. Let us recapitulate in a few words what we have found to be true of the nature of architecture, its object, its purpose, its means, and its general principles. Architecture is an art of a kind unique to itself, and its object is the composition and execution of buildings, both public and private. Its purpose, in composing and in executing such buildings, is to satisfy a great number of our needs, and to place us in a position to satisfy all the others.
The means that it employs to this end are fitness and economy.
Fitness includes solidity, salubrity, and commodity.
Economy comprises symmetry, regularity, and simplicity.
Solidity consists in the selection and use of materials, and in the number and disposition of supports.
Salubrity depends on the situation, on the exposure, on the elevation of the ground, on the walls, on the openings in them, and on the covering.
Commodity springs from the relation between the form of a building, its magnitude, and the number of its parts, on the one hand, and its purpose, on the other.
The most symmetrical, most regular, and simplest forms, such as the circle, the square, and the slightly elongated parallelogram, are the forms most suited to economy, since they enclose a given area with a smaller perimeter than other forms; and these forms are consequently to be preferred.
Decoration is not the architect’s business; unless what is meant by decoration is the art of applying painting, sculpture, and inscriptions to buildings. This kind of decoration, however, is no more than an accessory.
The orders, as objects of imitation, have nothing to contribute, because they resemble nothing in nature.
Disposition must be the architect’s sole concern; and this is so, even if his only end is to give pleasure. Character, effect, variety—in a word, all those beauties that are found in buildings or that men seek to introduce into architectural decoration—naturally emerge from any disposition that embraces fitness and economy.
But before disposing any edifice, before combining and assembling its parts, the parts must first be known. And they, in their turn, are combinations of other parts that may be called the elements of buildings, such as walls, openings, supports both engaged and detached, raised foundations, floors, vaults, coverings, and so on. First of all, therefore, these elements must be known.
Materials used in buildings Three kinds of material
First kind divided into two classes
Marbles in general
Granite, porphyry, jasper
Marbles proper
Veined marbles and breccias
Antique marbles
Section One. Qualities of Materials
The objects that architecture employs are built with materials of different kinds and consequently possess dimensions, relations, proportions, and forms. We shall consider them under all of these separate aspects.
First, let us consider materials, which are the substance, so to speak, of the objects concerned.13
These may be arranged in three classes:
Those that are hard and laborious to work, which are for this reason very expensive.
Those that are softer and easier to work and therefore cheaper.
Finally, those that serve only to join together the other materials.
The materials of the first kind are granites, porphyries, jaspers, marbles, and hard stones.
Those of the second kind are soft stones, rubble, brick, tile, slate, and timber.
Those of the third kind are plaster, lime, sand, ballast; the various mortars prepared by mixing these; iron, copper, and lead.
Materials of the first kind are divided into two classes.
Those of one class are found in masses in quarries, such as granite, porphyry, jasper, marble, and some sandstones; and the others, such as limestones, appear in beds.
Although the composition of granite, porphyry, and jasper differs from that of marble, all these materials, being in general hard and colored, are classified in the trade as marble.
Granite exists in various colors: red, pink, green, gray, russet. The colors of porphyry vary similarly: red, brown, green, and gray. Jasper, likewise, may be black or purple, red or gray or green.
A distinction is drawn between two varieties of marble, antique and modern. Antique marble is that from quarries now lost and known to us only through some of the works of the ancients; modern is that from quarries still extant and in use today.
Among the various antique and modern marbles, a further distinction is made between veined marbles, which present veins in one or more colors, and breccia marbles, which offer a mass of pebbles or shells encrusted in a sort of paste.
The antique marbles are as follows: red and green porphyry; lapis, which
is a dark blue; serpentine, which is a brownish green; alabaster; blanc antique; African marble, spotted with red and veined with white and green; noir antique, spotted with white; brocatelle, with shades of yellow, red, and gray; jasper, greenish with red spots; vert antique, jaune antique, and so on.
The modern marbles are: white marble, found at Carrara and the most esteemed; that of the former province of Languedoc, which is the least esteemed, being of a dirty vermilion with prominent white veins and spots; the marble of the former province of Bourbonnais, of a dirty red, veined with gray and yellow; serancolin, which is gray and yellow, spotted with blood-red; griotte, which is flesh-colored; vert campan, mingled with red, white, and green; vert d’Egypte, of a dark green, spotted with tow-gray; vert de mer, lighter than vert campan; violet breccia, and the other breccias; veined white; bleu turquin, dark blue; ranee; and so on.
Marbles in general have the advantage of being hard, of presenting a combination of the most beautiful colors to the eye, and of taking a perfect polish.
Marbles that are rejected as defective include the following: those that are excessively hard and difficult to work; those that are fibrous, having fissures that run through them, as do ranee and serancolin; those that are terreous, having soft parts that have to be filled with mastic, like most of the breccias; those that are dull, failing to take a polish; those that are soft, like sandstone, incapable of taking a sharp arris.
The various marbles are imitated by a composition known as stucco, which, although comparatively hard, is affected by changes in humidity; it is consequently little used except in interiors.
Marble is costly, and for this reason is not commonly used except as a revetment or an incrustation. It is seldom used in blocks, except for columns, vases, basins, figures, and so on, or in perpend.
The various colors of marble call for some care in their combination. Veinless white marbles must be reserved for sculpture; veined whites for the backgrounds; and the variegated sorts for columns, friezes, and inlay panels. Avoid combinations of colors that contrast too sharply, and even more those of colors that are too similar.
In Paris, sandstone is hardly used except for paving; it exists in hard and soft varieties. The color of the latter is grayish. For jointing sandstone use a mortar composed of lime and cement. Where sandstone is used for building, zigzag cavities must be cut in its courses, to prevent the mortar from drying too quickly.
Limestones are always found in beds, but some are hard and some are soft. We shall not give a detailed account of the limestones of every region, but restrict ourselves to those that are most used in Paris and in its environs.
The finest of the hard limestones is lias. There are a number of quarries around the Faubourg Saint-Jacques, at Saint-Cloud, and at Saint-Leu. It is found in thicknesses varying from 18 cm (7 in.) to 27 cm (10 in.). There are two kinds, the “free,” franc, or doux, and the “false” or ferault. The latter is the harder and is used by preference for exteriors. The chapel at Versailles is built
Modern marbles
Qualities of marble
Defects of marble
Stucco
Use of marble
Combinations of marbles
Sandstone
Limestones
Hard limestones Lias
Arcueil and Bagneux stone
Tonnerre stone
Vergelee stone
Soft limestones Saint-Leu stone
Conflans stone
Slate
Rubble
Burrstone
Qualities of stone
Defects of stone
of it. For the sake of economy, lias is often used in place of marble: vestibules, antechambers, and dining rooms are paved with it; chimneypieces and architraves are made of it; all those works, in fact, that require a hard, fine stone.
The second variety of hard limestone, and the most frequently used, is that of Arcueil and Bagneux. These stones are classified by depth into high and low. The former will measure anything between 48 cm (18 in.) and 80 cm (2% ft.); the latter from 32 cm (1 ft.) to 48 cm (18 in.). It is used to make steps, architraves, door and window sills, and shelves.
Tonnerre limestone is highly esteemed for its fine, close grain. As solid as lias, it is softer, whiter, and will measure approximately 48 cm (18 in.). It is commonly used for sculpture. The Grenelle Fountain is entirely built of it.
Vergelee limestone, which is quarried at Saint-Leu, is rustic and full of little holes. It is excellent for building under water.
Of all the soft limestones, that of Saint-Leu is the most commonly used. It measures from 64 cm to 1.28 m (2 to 4 ft.). It may be used to advantage for elevated parts; but not in damp positions, nor under heavy loads.
Another soft limestone that is used is that of Conflans-Sainte-Honorine, near Saint-Germain; its grain is very fine. The entablature of the porch of the Pantheon Frangais is made of this stone.
Chalk and gypsum are of little value. The latter is so apt to dissolve in water, and to crumble under any burden, that its use in building is forbidden by law.
Slate is a black, gray, or greenish stone that is easily split. There are two kinds, hard and soft. The hard is used to make paving stones and tables; the soft, which is sold in whatever thickness may be required, is used to roof buildings. There are several sizes: the largest roofing slate is 32 by 20 cm (12 by 8 in.), and the smallest is 20 by 10 cm (8 by 4 in.). Anjou slate is the best.
All these varieties of stone, and a host of others, are used only in dressed form. There are others that are used just as they come out of the quarry, such as rubble and burrstone.
Rubble consists of large blocks of stone that are too irregular to be dressed. They most often come from the quarry roof and are used in foundations.
Burrstone is also used in foundations, because the mortar readily adheres to its cavities; it can also be used to advantage in the lower parts of buildings. Its reddish color, which contrasts with the yellowish white of the other stones, can introduce a natural element of variety into the appearance of a structure.
In general, for stone to be good, it must be clean, that is to say, without fissures, soft veins, and shells; it must harden on exposure to air; it must be sound, that is to say, neither as hard as the stones that form the quarry roof nor as poor in quality as those that adhere to the floor. It must also have a fine and even grain.
Fissures, shells, and soft veins are defects in stone: fibers, because, being harder than the rest, they make the stone liable to split; shells, because once the stone is dressed, its face is not smooth enough; and soft veins, because they crumble under load.
When stones are taken from the quarry, their layers or beds are covered with a friable layer known as bousin, which must be cleaned off, as it is liable to crumble to dust under the action of rain and humidity in the same way as soft veins.
Those materials that are quarried in masses may be placed in any direction; but those that are formed in beds must be laid in the same direction as in the quarry; that is to say, along their courses. Experience has shown that they hold better in this position than in any other. For stone is like a book: laid flat, it can support enormous loads; but upright it yields to the least pressure that separates the pages.
This is not to deny that stones have very often been placed vertically. The Goths were in the habit of making their columns in this way; and the same applies to the columns of the garden front of Versailles, and of the courtyard of the Louvre. Wherever columns are used without necessity, merely for decoration, as in the examples that we have just cited, it is of little consequence how the stone is placed; but in a rational building, where the columns must serve to carry loads, it is highly important to bed the stones correctly.
Besides the names that stones derive from the places where they are found, they assume other names either from the place that they occupy in buildings, or from the state in which they are before being laid, or even before arriving at the building site.14
Fierre d’echantillon is stone dressed in accordance with measurements sent by the mason to the quarryman;
pierres de haut ou de has appareil are dressed stones of greater and lesser height, respectively;
pierre brute, stone that has yet to be cleaned off;
pierre en chantier, stone fixed in place by the stonecutter before being dressed;
pierre debitee, stone sawn, with a toothed saw in the case of hard stone, an untoothed saw for soft stone;
pierre faite, stone that is entirely dressed and ready to be laid;
pierre fichee, with the inside of its joints filled with mortar or plaster;
pierres de parpain, those that pass through a wall and appear on both faces;
pierre d’attente, a stone that projects from the end of a wall; and
pierres perdues, those stones that are cast into rivers when work is to be constructed there, and when the depth or the nature of the soil does not allow the driving of piles.
Rubble is taken either from the quarry waste or from a thin vein broken up to use in this form. Its main quality is to be well squared and lie well, because then it has more bed and consumes less mortar.
Rubble must be cleaned off, or else the friable layer would prevent adhesion; it must also be bedded.
Coursed rubble, reduced to a uniform depth, is called picked rubble, because the face is often picked with the point of the hammer. This is how it is used in carefully finished work. In less-finished work it is used more or less
Precautions to be taken
How stones should generally be laid
Names given to stones
Rubble
Brick
Qualities and defects of brick
How to judge its quality
Use of brick
Tiles
Quarry tiles Timber: Three classes Carpentry timber
Oak
Pine
Joinery timber Veneer timber
as it comes from the quarry. Then it is plastered, to compensate for the unevenness of the courses.
Brick is a kind of artificial stone, made from clay, kneaded and tempered to produce a ductile paste that is shaped in molds. It is then dried in clamps and burnt in a kiln fired by wood or by coal.
For a brick to be sound, the clay used for its making must be moist, strong, and free of stones and gravel; it must be sufficiently tempered with a beater and adequately and evenly burnt.
An essential precaution is that bricks must be allowed to cool slowly; otherwise they are liable to spall and crumble when exposed to frost and to loads.
Brick is sound when it resists frost, when it gives a clear note on being struck, and when the grain is fine and close.
The dimensions of a brick are 20 cm (8 in.) in length, 10 cm (4 in.) in width, and 5 cm (2 in.) in depth. Its color is a yellowish red or brown.
The best brick comes from Burgundy, but there are few places where it cannot be obtained. It can perfectly well substitute for stone in places where the latter is scarce; it is far more resistant to fire and to humidity. Its lightness makes it valuable in a large number of structures, and for vaults above all. Few materials combine so many advantages. Chimney funnels, fireplaces, ovens, kilns, and so on, are almost always made of brick.
Tiles are of the same composition as brick, and should have the same qualities, except that they are burnt harder. They are made in two sizes. The Burgundy tile, which is the better of the two, and which is called the grand tnoule tile, is 34 by 23 cm (13 by 8V2 in.); the petit moule tile, which comes from the neighborhood of Paris, is 27 by 16 cm (10 by 6 in.).
In Italy, in Holland, in Flanders, and in part of Germany, tiles, instead of being flat, are hollowed out in an S-shape.
The disadvantage of tiles lies in their weight, which forces roofs to be more steeply pitched than if they were covered with slates.
In addition to bricks and roof tiles, burnt clay is also used to make floor tiles, with which buildings are paved.
Timber, as used in building, is classified into the woods used for carpentry, for joinery, and for veneering.
The woods most commonly used for carpentry are oak and pine. Elm, beech, hornbeam, walnut, lime, and so on, are also used. But none of these bears comparison with oak or even with pine.
Oak is the wood that best resists weathering, lasts longest when sunk in water or driven into the earth, and can offer the largest pieces in length and squared thickness.
Pine has the advantage of being lighter than oak and of lasting longer under a coat of plaster.
For joinery and for carving, the woods commonly used are soft oak, pine, aspen, and so on.
The woods used for veneers are ebony, mahogany, Oriental woods, palisander, and others, which are sold in sheets, and which take a high polish.
The advantages of wood over stone are that it is less brittle and easier to work. It is more convenient to transport, may be placed under tension as well as compression, and can be placed in any direction; but it has the disadvantage of being vulnerable to fire.
Wood must not be used too green, otherwise it would bend too easily and decay very quickly.