Three questions only, were asked—the replies covered one hour and a half of constant talking. Louis had supposed that questions and answers would be categorical, after the manner of procedure he had been taught in America, where, to epitomize, it might be said the chief interest centered around the exact date of the discovery of America. Now Louis felt the earth leave him, as the first question came: “Monsieur, will you be kind enough to tell me the story of the Hebrew People?” Then the earth came back, but the question remained immense. Still the situation was not altogether infelicitous, for Louis had read considerably in the Bible, and had heard far more than he had read—in spite of the fact that John Edelman had cautioned him that no one should read the Bible before the age of mental maturity, which he had placed at forty, and was reserving that treat for himself. So Louis began safely with the desert tribes, the sojourn in Egypt, the wandering in the desert, carrying the story down to the destruction of Jerusalem, and the captivity. He also sketched the patriarchal age, the prophets in captivity, the final triumph of ritual over inspiration and righteousness. The charm of this examination lay in the fact that Louis was encouraged by the examining professor to give a pictorial and rather dramatic recital, and the professor’s frequent questioning concerning what Louis had said and as to why he thought thus or so. He, for instance, asked Louis what had impressed him most vividly in the story of the Jews, and Louis said: The emergence and vivid personality of Jehovah, their God.
The next question now followed: “I would like an account of the ten emperors of Rome.” Another half-hour of talk as Louis covered the ground, from the bookish point of view, and made a few remarks on his own account, which led the professor to say: “You do not seem to be in sympathy with Roman civilization.”
“No,” said Louis, “I feel out of touch with a civilization whose glory was based on force.”
Then came the third question: “Monsieur, I see you have a certain faculty, a bit crude as yet, of making word pictures, of discerning something real beneath the glamour of the surface, which it is the particular business of the true historian to uncover. Now, therefore, as this is to be the last question, do your best and give me an intimate account of the times of Francis First.” Louis did this with joy. On account of Leonardo’s part in it, he had studied the period with especial care and devotion. He had seemed to live in this time, and with its people, its manners, its customs, its thoughts, it stood forth for him as a very present picture of the past.
At the close the examining professor smiled. He said: “The object of these examinations is not to ascertain an array of facts devoid of shaping context, but to discern the degree of intelligence possessed by the candidate; to ascertain his capacity for interpretation, and if he possess, to any perceptible degree, the faculty of constructive imagination—without which the pursuit of history is merely so much wasted time. I am agreeably surprised at times to find this latter quality present, and in you it is vivid, amazing and rash. To be sure you are not expected to be profound in historic knowledge, but you have shown me, in your faithful way, that instinctively, you know how to go about it, so I say: Continue, continue. After some years you will begin to understand a little, and as you mature, you may perhaps feel inclined to turn the teachings of history upside down. I can now do no less for your gratification and as well my own, than to give you the highest rating, and to wish you happiness. I shall doubtless have been long gone hence before your studies shall have matured into a valuable and personal idea; a contribution to the knowledge of mankind, but courage, courage—and Adieu!”
Thus Louis, in Paris, spent an hour and a half answering three history questions. At home he would have been asked perhaps five times as many questions, all categorical in nature, and would have been through with them in a half an hour. It was this immense difference in matter and manner, especially as applied to mathematics and history, that opened Louis’s eyes to the quality and reach of French thought; to its richness, its firmness, its solidity, and above all, the severity of its discipline beneath so smooth a surface.
Examinations over, Louis received his card of admission to the school, good until the age of thirty. Then he made his entrée into the atelier of Monsieur Emil Vaudremer, practicing architect. He much preferred an atelier libre—or free—independent—to the official ateliers of the École. There were a number of such ateliers, under the care of architects of distinction, men who had been winners of the Grand Prix de Rome—veritable Polar Star of the École. As Eugene Letang had come from the Atelier Vaudremer, it seemed but natural that Louis should feel at home there.
The Director of the École gave out the program of a three-months projet; the twenty-four-hour sketches were made en loge, and filed as briefs; whereupon, to Louis’s surprise, everybody vanished. So Louis bethought him to vanish.
During his preparatory work he had discovered three small volumes by Hippolyte Taine devoted to the Philosophy of Art in Greece, in Italy, and in the Neatherlands. From these works he derived three strong impressions, novel shocks: First, that there existed such thing as a Philosophy of Art; second, that according to M. Taine’s philosophy the art of a people is a reflex or direct expression of the life of
