The Autobiography of an Idea

that of the West was that one was older and staler; and he cited Fifth Avenue, New York, as an instance. It is true that, scattered through the east were architects of book-attainment in fair number, and a few of marked personality and red blood⁠—particularly one Henry Richardson, he of the strong arm and virile mind⁠—sole giant of his day. In Chicago there were two or three who were bookish and timid, and there were some who were intelligently conscientious in the interest of their clients. Among the latter may be mentioned Major Jenney. The Major was a free-and-easy cultured gentleman, but not an architect except by courtesy of terms. His true profession was that of engineer. He had received his technical training, or education at the École Polytechnique in France, and had served through the Civil War as Major of Engineers. He had been with Sherman on the march to the sea.

He spoke French with an accent so atrocious that it jarred Louis’s teeth, while his English speech jerked about as though it had St. Vitus’s dance. He was monstrously pop-eyed, with hanging mobile features, sensuous lips, and he disposed of matters easily in the manner of a war veteran who believed he knew what was what. Louis soon found out that the Major was not, really, in his heart, an engineer at all, but by nature, and in toto, a bon vivant, a gourmet. He lived at Riverside, a suburb, and Louis often smiled to see him carry home by their naked feet, with all plumage, a brace or two of choice wild ducks, or other game birds, or a rare and odorous cheese from abroad. And the Major knew his vintages, every one, and his sauces, every one; he also was a master of the chafing dish and the charcoal grille. All in all the Major was effusive; a hale fellow well met, an officer of the Loyal Legion, a welcome guest anywhere, but by preference a host. He was also an excellent raconteur, with a lively sense of humor and a certain piquancy of fancy that seemed Gallic. In his stories or his monologues, his unique vocal mannerisms or gyrations or gymnastics were a rich asset, as he squeaked or blew, or lost his voice, or ran in arpeggio from deep bass to harmonics, or took octaves, or fifths, or sevenths, or ninths in spasmodic splendor. His audience roared, for his stories were choice, and his voice, as one caught bits of it, was plastic, rich and sweet, and these bits, in sequence and collectively had a warming effect. The Major was really and truly funny. Louis thought him funny all the time, and noted with glee how akin were the Major’s thoughts to the vertiginous gyrations of his speech. Thus we have a semblance of the Major’s relations to the justly celebrated art of architecture.

The Major took Louis in immediately upon application, as he needed more help. And to the fact that Louis had been at Tech he attached the highest importance⁠—as alumni of any school are apt to do; so much for temperamental personality.

There was work enough in the office to keep five men busy and a boy, provided they took intervals of rest, which they did. In the Major’s absences, which were frequent and long, bedlam reigned. John Edelmann would mount a drawing table and make a howling stump speech on greenback currency, or single tax, while at the same time Louis, at the top of his voice, sang selections from the oratorios, beginning with his favorite, “Why Do the Nations so Furiously Rage Together”; and so all the force furiously raged together in joyous deviltry, and bang-bang-bang. For a moment Louis quieted the riot and sang, “Ye people rend your hearts, rend your hearts, but not your garments,” whereupon there followed a clamor of affronts directed toward Elijah the Prophet. The office rat suddenly appears: “Cheese it, Cullies; the Boss!”, which in high English signifies: “Gentlemen, Major William Le Baron Jenney, our esteemed benefactor, approaches!” Sudden silence, sudden industry, intense concentration. The Major enters and announces his pleasure in something less than three octaves. Thus the day’s work comes out fairly even. For “when they work they work; and when they don’t they just don’t.”

On the stool next to Louis sat patient Martin Roche, now, and for many years, of Holabird & Roche. There was a tall, fleshy, mild-voiced American-German who had taught school; and a rachitic, sharp-faced, droll, nasal Yankee, who drawled comic cynicisms and did the engineering. “The old man,” he would say, “is some engineer.⁠ ⁠… Like the Almighty, he watches the ‘sparrow’s fall,’ but when it comes to the tons he’s a l-e-e-t-l-e shy now and then, and sometimes then and now. You fellows work for glory, but I just work for coin.” And then he rasped in song: “And as I said be-f-o-o-o-r, don’t fall in love with a groceryman what keeps a grocery store,” and thus he cackled on, as he figured strains; this time, he said, on a basis of three sparrows, while Louis hummed: “And as I said before, don’t fall in love with a groceryman what keeps a grocery store.”

John was the foreman. By nature indolent, by vanity and practice very rapid. He laughed to scorn and scattered to dust those that were slow; and would illustrate, in roseate tales, how fast he had done this and that. It speedily became evident that John was a hero-worshipper, as John blandly worshipped John in the presence of all; and Louis casually remarked that John’s unconsciousness of his own personality was remarkable to the point of the fabulous and the legendary, whereupon they became fast friends.

Louis had instantly noted in John a new personality; brawny, twenty-four, bearded, unkempt, careless, his voice rich, sonorous, modulant, his vocabulary an overflowing reservoir. A born orator⁠—he must talk or perish. His inveterate formula was, “I myself”⁠—did⁠—was⁠—said⁠—am⁠—think⁠—know⁠—to the sixteenth decimal and the nth power of egoism. It