The ArchiTecTure of empire

the
architecture
of empire
France in India and Southeast Asia,
1664–1962

Gauvin alexander Bailey

McGill-Queen’s University Press

Montreal & Kingston | London | Chicago
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LiBrAry AND ArchiveS cANADA cATALoguiNg iN puBLicATioN

Title: The architecture of empire : France in India and Southeast Asia,

1664–1962 / Gauvin Alexander Bailey.
Names: Bailey, Gauvin A., author.
Description: Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220142041 | Canadiana (ebook)
20220142076 | iSBN 9780228011422 (cloth) | iSBN 9780228012443 (epDf )
Subjects: LcSh : Public architecture—India—History—17th century. |
LcSh: Public architecture—India—History—18th century. | LcSh: Archi-
tecture, French colonial—India—History—17th century. | LcSh : Archi-
tecture, French colonial—India—History—18th century. | LcSh : Public
architecture—Indochina—History—19th century. | LcSh : Public archi-
tecture—Indochina—History—20th century. | LcSh : Architecture, French
colonial—Indochina—History—19th century. | LcSh : Architecture,
French colonial—Indochina—History—20th century. | LcSh : India—
Buildings, structures, etc. | LcSh : Indochina—Buildings, structures, etc.
Classification: Lcc NA 9050.5 .B 35 2022 | DDc 725.0959—dc23

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contents

Acknowledgments ix

1 iNTroDucTioN
Architecture, Empire, and Hubris 3

2 origiNS
Fort Dauphin, Surat, Pondicherry ca 1672 41

3 DipLomAcy
Ayutthaya ca 1688 89

4 grANDeur
Pondicherry ca 1752 129

5 iNTerregNum
Diên Khánh ca 1793 179

6 SemBLANce
Saigon and Hanoi ca 1900 212

7 AppropriATioN
Phnom Penh ca 1917 262

8 ASSociATioN
Saigon and Hanoi ca 1925 295

9 hyBriDiTy
India and Southeast Asia 1738–1962 324

Notes 379
Bibliography 437
Index 461
acknowledgments

As always, this book would not have been possible without the
support and companionship of Peta Gillyatt Bailey, particularly on
the long, often strenuous, but always fascinating research exped-
itions that we made together – fortunately all completed by March
2020. I also wish to thank the following people for their assistance,
conversation, and generosity: Gabrielle Abbe, Aliki-Anastasia
Arkomani (British Library), Leïla Audouy (Réunion des Musées
Nationaux-Grand Palais, Paris), Trần Quốc Bảo, Leslie Barnes, Lt
Governor Kiran Bedi of Puducherry, Pius Bieri, Pierre Brocheux,
Claire Brossard, Jonas Burvall (Nationalmuseum, Stockholm),
Hélène Cainaud (Archives municipales de Cannes), Bernard
Camier, Erica Chan, Chacorn Charoensin, Hubert Delcroix,
Jean Deloche, Brigitte Denis, Tim Doling, Nguyễn Thế Dương,
Dung Cu Thi (Vietnam National Archives Centre Number 2,
Ho Chi Minh City), Edmond Fernandez (Archives nationales
d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence), Dhivya (The Promenade, Pudu-
cherry), Michael Falser, Christophe Feuillerat (Département des
estampes et de la photographie, bnf ), Bénédicte Gady, Dominic
Goodall (École française d’Extrême Orient, Puducherry), Dr
Ganesa (Institut français de Pondichéry), Adrien Goetz, François
Guillemot, Asha Gupta (Raj Niwas, Puducherry), Caroline
Herbelin, Denise Heywood, Amélie Hurel (anom ), Fabienne
Jolly (CentraleSupélec – Bibliothèque), Heng Kimsoun, Tim
Klähn (Canadian Centre for Architecture), John Kleinen, Ramesh
Kumar, Arnauld Le Brusq, Le Huu Phuoc, Le Minh Son, William
S. Logan, Pierre-Yves Manguin (efeo ), Linda Mazur, Christine
Minjollet (Musée de la Légion d’Honneur et des Ordres de Cheva-
lerie), Shri M. Murugesan (National Archives of India Record
Centre, Puducherry), Anurupa Naik (ifp ), Raghul M. (Art and
Culture Department, Puducherry), Raphaël Malangin (Lycée
 français de Pondichéry), Virginie Malherbe,
Sakekasitd Muang thong, Khieu Anh Nguyen,
Nghia Nguyen, Ngoc Phong Nguyen, Ashok
Panda (intach , Puducherry), Olivia Pelletier
(anom ), Lisette Pereyra Ducastaing, Srey Pov
(Indochina Tour), Christian Preverot, Alexandre
Ragois (Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine,
Paris), Shanty Rayapoullé (efeo ), Lesly Rivera
Tremolada, Philippe Rochefort (Archives de
l’École centrale de Lyon), Bruno Sagna (bnf ),
Guillaume Saquet (École nationale des ponts et
chaussées), Jean-Claude Sauvage (Archives de
l’École centrale de Paris), Léonard de Selva, N.P.
Suresh, Saravut Thinpathom, Sathaporn Thittham
(Fine Arts Department of Thailand), Trần Thị
Mai Hương (Vietnam National Archives Centre
Number 1, Hanoi), Margherita Trento, Eric
Vigneron (bnf ), and Zo from Malagasy Tours.
I am frankly humbled by the generosity of col-
leagues during the first year of the coronavirus
pandemic when I was unable to return to ar-
chives or revisit libraries. I am especially grateful
to Gabrielle Abbe, Trần Quốc Bảo, Khamvone
Boulyaphonh and the rest of the staff at the Bud-
dhist Archive of Photography in Luang Prabang,
Tim Doling, Michael Falser, Volker Grabowski,
Caroline Herbelin, Arnauld Le Brusq, R. Sathy-
anarayanan, Le Minh Son, Khieu Anh Nguyen,
Pierre-Yves Manguin, Margherita Trento, and
Ines Županov for their kindness and assistance.
I also would like to make a special acknowledg-
ment of the help of Leslie Barnes, who shared her
contacts with me via her listserv and first put me
in touch with many of her colleagues. Indeed, it
AckNowLeDgmeNTS
was Leslie who inspired me to write this book
when I attended a conference that she organized
in Canberra in 2016, and I am very grateful for
the suggestion. I hope I can thank her again soon
in person. Once I was able to travel again, in
2021, I visited the Royal Archives (Rigsarkivet)
and Nationalmuseet in Copenhagen and the
x
Institut de recherche France-Asie in Paris. I am
particularly grateful for the warm reception I
received in Copenhagen from Esther Fihl, Bente
Wolff, Simon Rastén, and Asger Svane-Knudsen,
and the kind assistance in Paris of Marie-Alpais
Dumoulin and Brigitte Appavou. I also acknow-
ledge the generous hospitality on that visit of
Hélie de Noailles, who graciously welcomed me
to the Château de Champlâtreux, the near twin of
the Pondicherry Gouvernement and Palais du
Gouvernement Général in Saigon.
This book would not have been finished in
such a timely fashion without the assistance of
a graduate student and former graduate stu-
dent who have made vital contributions to this
book: Sophia Erdmann, who bravely undertook
the formidable job of compiling the index, and
Anna-Maria Moubayed for her magnificent maps,
which combine accuracy with creative flair. I am
also indebted to my editors at McGill-Queen’s
University Press, especially Jonathan Crago, James
Leahy, and Kathleen Fraser, for their invaluable
support and guidance and to my three reviewers
for their insightful and detailed reports. They, and
book designer Garet Markvoort of zijn digital,
have all helped make this a better book.
Financial support for this project was provided
by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research
Council of Canada and the National Endowment
for the Humanities, for which I am extremely
thankful. I am also particularly indebted to the
continuing support of my Alfred and Isabel Bader
research fund at Queen’s University. I am also
grateful for all the scholarly and logistical support
I have received from my confrères at the Académie
des inscriptions et belles-lettres at the Institut de
France, especially Michel Zink. This book is
dedicated in part to the memory of my friend and
fellow académicien Marc Fumaroli (1932–2020),
whose lively conversations on all manner of sub-
jects demonstrated that the reports of the death
of la langue française are greatly exaggerated. We Finally, on a personal note, I would like to
had many discussions about this book in its early thank Kendra Brennan and Alexandra Gajew-
phase; I only wish I could have let him see the ski for their friendship, near and far, during
finished version. the pandemic.

China
India

Tonkin
Pagan Chu Quyến

Burma Hanoi/Thăng
Long Haiphong
Luang Prabang
Phát Diệm
Laos Thanh Hóa
Hai Nan
an
e Gulf of
ti
Vien Tonkin
Bay of
Bengal Rangoon South China Sea
Huế
Siam
Quảng Ngãi
Lopburi Tourane (Đà Nẵng)
Ang Thong
Nước Mặn
Ayutthaya Thanh
Qui Nhơn Faifo Chiêm
Thonburi Bangkok (Hội An)
Samut
Prakan Angkor Wat Annam Bình Định Province
Siem Reap
Battambang
Mergui Cambodge
Diên Khánh
Phnom
Penh Tây Ninh
i ne
Gulf of Thailand Kampot
ch
Hà Tiên hin Saigon
Phú Quốc
Hòn
C oc (Ho Chi Minh City)
Đất Mỹ Tho
South China Sea

Indian Ocean Indochina

 Mughal India
Lahore China

Persia Delhi

Agra

Chandernagore

Calcutta
Gujarat Surat

Bombay
AHMADNAGAR DA
Arabian Sea C ON
Hyderabad OL
G Bay of Bengal
Golconda Fort
Yanaon
BIJAPUR
Goa
Vijayanagara
Coromandel Coast
Chandragiri
Bangalore Madras
Gingee
Mahé Pondicherry
Calicut NAYAK
Tranquebar
Maldives KINGDOMS
Karikal
Thanjavut
Cochin
Madurai

Ceylon
Indian Ocean
Colombo
The ArchiTecTure of empire
1
introduction
Architecture, Empire, and Hubris

Two Buildings, Two Empires

In the early 1750s Jean-Louis Champia de Fonbrun (fl.1745–after

1773), a newly promoted royal engineer from Piedmont, and
Gabriel-Pierre-Martin Dumont (1720–1791), a young professor
at the Académie royale d’architecture in Paris, each made a set of
presentation drawings of the Palais du Gouvernement, the re-
splendent new administrative headquarters of the French Indian
colony of Pondicherry, 150 kilometres south of Madras (1738–52)
(figs. 1.1–2; 4.14–17).1 Overlooking the Bay of Bengal from within
the walls of the colossal citadel of Fort Louis, a stronghold a 1746
visitor called “one of the finest that the Europeans ever built
in India,” the palace was handily the most opulent structure in
France’s global empire (figs. 4.1–2).2 However Dumont and Fon-
brun were not the architects of this monumental folly. Dumont
never even visited India. When the building was under construc-
tion he was in Rome, first as a pensionnaire at the French Academy
(1742–46) and then (in 1749–50) on a study tour with the men
who would found the neoclassicist movement: Jacques-Germain
Soufflot (1713–1780), later architect of the Paris Panthéon;
engraver and critic Charles-Nicolas Cochin (1715–1790); and
Abel Poisson (1721–1781), the brother of Madame de Pompadour
(1721–1764) and (from 1751) director-general of the King’s Build-
ings.3 Although Fonbrun did go to India, following seven years’
 1.1 (Top ) Jean-Louis Champia de Fonbrun, Facade of the
Government House of Pondicherry, ca 1752. Signed “fait
the architecture of empire
Champia de Fonbrun sous-lieutenant d’infant.” Wash and
ink on paper, 73 × 26.5 cm. Archives Nationales d’Outre-
Mer (ANom ). The building was designed by Emmanuel-
Julien Gerbaud and the executing architect was Jean
Le Bosecq.
1.2 (BoTTom ) Here attributed to Gabriel-Pierre-
Martin Dumont, sectional view and rear facade of the
Gouvernement of Pondicherry, ca 1755. Watercolour,
wash, and ink on paper, 94 × 58 cm (detail). ANom . For
the complete drawing, see figure 4.17.
4
service with the Piedmont Artillery Regiment, he
arrived only the year the building was completed.
Dumont and Fonbrun were only commissioned
to produce high-quality drawings of the palace,
possibly as prototypes for engravings, Fonbrun on
site in India around 1752 and Dumont executing
the finished sheets in Paris based on Fonbrun’s
models in 1755 (perhaps at the behest of Poisson,
now the Marquis de Marigny). The engravings do
not seem to have materialized, but had they been
published the Palais du Gouvernement would
have been the only building in the French colonial
empire to have been so honoured by the state.4
The real designers and builders of the palace
were not academicians or court architects but
royal engineers and humble contractors and
artisans who fell under the official radar, as was so
often the case in the early modern French empire,
where state architecture was a military secret and
even the foremost members of the Génie militaire
(Army Corps of Engineers) were known by sur-
names alone – if identified at all.5 The building’s
mastermind, who nearly saw it through to com-
pletion, was Pondicherry native Emmanuel-Julien
Gerbaud (ca 1703–1746), son of a Nantes sea
captain and an Indian convert from Manapp-
attu (south of Pondicherry), who prepared two
preliminary plans in 1738 (figs. 4.14–15).6 His
executing architect was maître constructeur and
lieutenant de port Jean Le Bozecq (1694–after
1742) from Lorient (Brittany), who reached
Pondicherry before 1723.7 Gerbaud was suffi-
ciently important that he travelled with a crew
of fifteen Indian masons in 1731–32 when he
served as inspecteur des travaux in Île-de-France
(now Mauritius). Le Bozecq’s daughter Marie
Madelaine’s wedding in 1737 was attended by the
cream of Pondicherry society, including Governor
Pierre-Benoît Dumas (1668–1745). The palace’s
finishing details were supervised by royal engineer
Jean-Joseph Abeille (1721–1771) from Toulouse,
son of an ingénieur du Roi and future member of
Pondicherry’s Conseil Supérieure, who arrived in
1742.8 These fittings included the lavish interior
decorations by “master carpenter of the Com-
pany” Jean Roze dit Du Frêne (d. 1760) from La
Manche, probably assisted by his acquaintance,
the mixed-race cabinetmaker Jacques Hernault
(b. 1712).9
Thus, this extravagant testament to French
hubris in the East – also known as the Palais
Dupleix after its flamboyant first incumbent
Governor Joseph-François Dupleix (1697–1763;
in office 1742–54) – was primarily the work
of a half-Tamil architect who never set foot in
France. It boasted an 80-metre-long facade with
a thirteen-bay loggia supported by sixty-six stone
columns, three pediments bristling with relief
carvings of military trophées and the French
royal arms, and Versailles-style roof balustrades
festooned with urn finials. Inside, a vestibule
adorned with life-sized allegorical statues and
fountains led to a two-storey stairhall decorated
with Ionic pilasters and stucco trophée panels,
which in turn led to the highest room in the
building: a sunbathed two-storey salon with
rococo mirrors and console tables and a coved
cupola encircled by a gilt bronze railing. The
palace wings accommodated seven spacious
public halls on the ground floor and another
pair of staircases, and the first floor, or “étage,”
would have included other reception rooms and
offices, although its plan does not survive. The
palace’s centrepiece was a sumptuous, bejewelled
clock personally commissioned for the building
by Madame de Pompadour, demonstrating that
the court was directly invested in the palace and
making Poisson’s involvement all the more likely
(see chapter 4).
Even in France there was nothing quite like
the Palais du Gouvernement. While it resembles
noble country seats such as Jean-Michel Chevo-
tet’s Chateau at Champlâtreux (1751–57) (fig. 1.3),
which has a similar arrangement of porticoes
with round and triangular pediments, only royal
commissions make comparable use of freestand-
ing columns, beginning with the eastern facade
of the Louvre (1667–70) (fig. 1.4), considered by introduction
many to be the epitome of France’s architectural
“Grand Siècle” under Louis XIV (r. 1643–1715).
The Palais du Gouvernement went to unpreced-
ented lengths to impress Indian potentates used
to the splendour of the Mughal emperors, but
5
1.3 (oppoSiTe Top ) Jean-Michel Chevotet, Château de
Champlâtreux, 1751–57.
1.4 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Louis Le Vau, Claude Perrault,
and Charles Le Brun, east facade of the Louvre, Paris,
1667–70.
1.5 (ABove ) Jan Van Ryne, Fort St George on the
Coromandel Coast belonging to the East India Company
of England. 1754. Fort St George in Madras (Chennai) was
begun in 1695 and the main Fort House (on the right)
was rebuilt in 1714. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
it was more specifically designed to outshine
Britain’s more modest Fort St George in Madras
(1714) (fig. 1.5).10 Unsurprisingly, the building
drew the ire of France’s traditional enemy: a mere
nine years after completion, in 1761, the Palais du
Gouvernement was detonated by British troops
following the siege of Pondicherry during the
Seven Years War (known in India as the Third
Carnatic War, 1756–63), and British royal en-
gineers eradicated the ruins in 1761–62 with the
painstaking thoroughness Allied forces used to
obliterate Nazi monuments after the Second
World War (figs. 4.24–5). The most surprising
thing about the palace is that it was built in a
colony over which France had a fragile hold and,
while a major textile trading centre and reason- introduction
ably populous (it had 130,000 inhabitants in 1741,
the vast majority of them Indian), it was consider-
ably smaller in area and had far fewer European
colonists than did France’s Western Hemisphere
possessions.11 Pondicherry could fit three times
7
 into the island of Martinique or several thousand
times into French North America, depending
upon where one drew the borders. The Palais du
Gouvernement’s scale was thus inversely propor-
tional to the geographical size of the colony and
its patrons’ actual power in the region.
In fact, until the eighteenth century no one
used the term “colony” to refer to anything in the
French East Indies, unlike in France’s American
possessions – the vast settler colonies of Nouvelle-
France and Louisiana in North America, the
mostly uncharted rainforests of Guiana, and the
sugar islands of the Lesser and Greater Antilles.12
The sugar islands were also much more profitable
than France’s scattering of entrepôts in the Indian
Ocean – above all Saint-Domingue (Haiti), the
richest colony of any European power in the
world thanks to the cane harvested by hundreds
of thousands of enslaved Africans.13 By contrast,
the French paid a high price for the produce of
India, spending 30 tons of silver and gold annually
to pay for the textiles and other manufactured
goods of the subcontinent.14 As traveller François
Bernier (1625–1688) put it, India was “an abyss
for a large quantity of the world’s gold and silver,
which finds many ways to enter and almost no
way to leave it.”15
The Atlantic colonies were also conquered ter-
ritory in which the French could do more or less
as they pleased whereas Pondicherry, which was
granted to the French by the rulers of the former
Vijayanagara stronghold of Gingee, had to be
the architecture of empire
maintained by means of expensive gifts and tactful
diplomacy: “the situation of French trading posts
was a delicate matter – set up through agreement
or by gift, the right to settle permanently was
granted to or withheld from Europeans by South
Indian princes.”16 The only equivalent in the At-
lantic world were France’s West African entrepôts
of Saint-Louis, Île Gorée (both Senegal) and
Ouidah (Dahomey, now Benin), which were tiny
8
and limited to mercantile activities.17 Yet with the
exception of the 97-metre-long Chateau Saint-
Louis in Quebec City (begun 1692) – which
grew by accretion and was as austere as a mon-
astery – the official French architecture of the
Western Hemisphere could not compete with the
Pondicherry Gouvernement’s scale and luxurious-
ness and was usually made of cheaper materials.
Significantly, almost no buildings in the Atlantic
empire used columns, and those that had them,
such as the Intendance of Nouvelle-Orléans (New
Orleans, 1749) or the Hall of the War Council in
Port-au-Prince (1774), made them out of wood
or brick.18
A century after the Pondicherry Gouverne-
ment’s demise, builders laid the foundations of
another palatial French Asian government house,
the Palais du Gouvernement Général in Saigon
(1868–73), renamed Palais Norodom in the early
twentieth century after the Cambodian King
Norodom (r. 1860–1904) who had requested a
French protectorate over his kingdom in 1863
(figs. 1.6–7). Emperor Napoleon III (r. 1852–70)
and his ministers were driven to found a new col-
onial empire in what they would call Indochina
(present-day Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos) by
nostalgia for the era of Louis XIV and XV, when
France’s empire was at its height before the Seven
Years War brought it to its knees – precisely the
era epitomized by the Pondicherry Gouverne-
ment, which became, in absentia, a shrine to per-
ceived French glory. To justify the conquest, they
seized upon a tenuous foundation story of French
seventeenth- and eighteenth-century mission-
ary and military adventurers in Đại Việt (Viet-
nam), and more recent persecutions of French
priests there. But in reality, the French empire
in Asia was discontinuous, unlike those of the
British or Dutch (or even the Spanish and Portu-
guese). France had little left in Asia after 1760 and
had sat on the sidelines during the century when
1.6 Palais du Gouvernement Général, or Palais Norodom,
Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City, 1868–73), ca 1875–79.
Photograph by Émile Gsell. Université Côte d’Azur,
Bibliothèque.
Britain and the Netherlands made their major
inland conquests and, enjoying the benefits of the
industrial revolution, gained the kind of decisive
military, technological, and mercantile advantage
over Asian powers that had never existed when
the French were still in the game. Although Brit-
ain had returned Pondicherry in 1763 along with
a scattering of enclaves and factories across India,
France had only a small number of troops there,
and its only other Indian Ocean possessions were
the little volcanic islands of Île-de-France (until
1810) and Île Bourbon (Réunion) off the coast
of Madagascar, used for plantations, scientific
gardens, and victualling ships. France conquered
Madagascar itself only in 1895. The Palais du
Gouvernement Général was therefore intended
as a celebration of the triumphant return to
Asia of French grandeur in the ancien régime
mould and, like its predecessor in Pondicherry,
to provide an “indisputable” example of French introduction
superiority.19 Upon the building’s completion in
1884, Le Monde illustré declared: “[i]t is one of
the finest specimens of European architecture in
these distant parts. In a style that is at once simple
and grandiose, surrounded by a beautiful park,
9
 it enhances the authority of the representative of
France in the eyes of the subject populations.”20
After a local architectural competition in 1865
failed to produce a design of sufficient “distinc-
tion,” the colonial government of Cochinchina
(France’s first Indochinese possession) handed
the commission to Achille-Antoine Hermitte
(1840–1870), a Paris-born Beaux-Arts-trained
architect who was working on Hong Kong’s City
Hall (begun 1866; demolished 1933–47) and
the neogothic Cathedral of the Sacred Heart
1.7 Palais du Gouvernement Général, or Palais Norodom,
Saigon (1868–73). Ballroom (Salle des fêtes). Photograph
from a glass plate negative, ca 1920. BNf .
the architecture of empire
10
in Canton (Guangzhou; 1861–88) – the latter
for the French missionary group known as the
Missions-Étrangères de Paris (mep , founded
1659) who will play a major role in this book.21
The concours insisted that this building was to
be as French as possible, stating that “[A]ll work
except artistic works would be carried out by the
workers of the country, but those such as sculp-
tures, decorative painting, [and] gilding had to
be made by the workers and artists whom the
contractor would be required to hire in France.”22
Hermitte was made chief of the newly founded
Service des bâtiments civils (Civil Buildings Ser-
vice) at a liberal salary of 36,000 francs a year,
and within a few days he drew up a plan in the
shape of an inverted T. The basement level housed
the kitchens and utility rooms, the ground floor
accommodated the offices of the governor and his
subordinates and the reception and dining room,
and the first storey was reserved for the private
apartments of the governor, his guests, and his
staff. The wing perpendicular to the main struc-
ture at the back contained the grand ballroom
with a vaulted ceiling supported by freestanding
Corinthian columns (fig. 1.7), and the palace was
approached via a circular driveway leading to a
monumental staircase and a double ramp for car-
riages. If the irony about the Pondicherry palace
was that it was built by a mixed-race architect
who had never been to France, the irony here was
that – despite the stated goals of the 1866 com-
petition – most of the builders were British
and Chinese brought in from Hong Kong and
Canton. One of them, chief engineer Biddle, even
toasted France, the Republic, and France’s mission
civilisatrice (civilizing mission) at the opening
ceremony in February 1884 – perhaps his gener-
ous tribute to French patriotism was inspired by
an equally generous salary.23
Like its predecessor in Pondicherry, the two-
storey Palais du Gouvernement Général cost
a fortune (almost five million francs, or about
€15,534,000 in today’s currency) and it was in-
spired by the same sort of ancien régime models –
1.8 Alfred Foulhoux, Palais de Justice, Saigon,
in fact, it quite closely resembles Champlâtreux
completed 1884.
(fig. 1.3) – but this time refracted through the
eclecticism that had become fashionable in
mid-century France, manifested in the Italian and order, signalling France’s mission to bring
Renaissance double loggia arcade on the side civilization and improvement to the indigenes
wings, inspired by the villa architecture of Andrea (fig. 1.8). The building materials were largely
Palladio (1508–1580).24 The central portico with imported from France, including 2,600 cubic introduction

columns on both storeys is a near exact match
with the Pondicherry Gouvernement (fig. 1.1),
and similar porticoes reappeared in colonial
buildings such as the Saigon Palais de Justice
(1884) to project an image of French classicisme
metres of granite, 151 tons of cement, almost five
million bricks, and 581 cubic metres of concrete,
and it was built by a small army of masons, car-
penters, stonecutters, roofers, and blacksmiths.25
Its symbolic centrepiece was the sculpture group

11
 in its reception room: not allegories this time but
nine marble busts (costing 50,000 francs, €155,340
today) of members of the imperial family and
“the three men who contributed the most to en-
dowing the homeland with this beautiful colony
of Cochinchina”: Admiral Rigault de Genouilly
(1807–1873), Admiral Léonard Charner (1797–
1869), and the Marquis de Chasseloup-Laubat
(1805–1873).26 Later a tenth was added of Pierre
Pigneaux de Béhaine (1741–1799), the mep
missionary whose meddling in Cochinchina sixty
years earlier gave Napoleon III one of his excuses
to claim the colony for France (see chapter 5).27
The statues did not survive the transition to the
Third Republic in 1870 and the building was
downgraded to a ceremonial venue in 1887 when
the governor-general of the newly minted Indo-
chinese Union moved to Hanoi and the governor
of Cochinchina was relocated to a more modest
building two blocks to the southeast. Never-
theless, the Palais du Gouvernement Général
survived Vietnamese Independence in 1954 and
served as the presidential palace for the South
Vietnamese government until it was bombed and
demolished during the failed 1962 assassination
attempt on president Ngô Đình Diệm (in office
1955–63) – as it happens, almost exactly two
centuries after the systematic obliteration of its
predecessor in Pondicherry.
As with the Pondicherry Gouvernement, the
bombast projected by the Palais du Gouverne-
ment Général was an overcompensation for
the architecture of empire
France’s precarious authority in the region. As
I will explore in chapter 5, France’s control over
the Indochinese Union during its near-century
of rule was unstable and unevenly distributed
between the cities, where colonizers had greater
authority, and the countryside, where they had
little. Only one (Cochinchina) was an actual
colony: the rest (Annam, Tonkin, Cambodia, and
Laos) were protectorates in which an indigenous
12
ruler wielded token authority, and China was
a restraining presence on the northern border.
The French adventure in Indochina was wracked
by decades of bloody warfare – guerrilla and
conventional – with independence fighters who,
although possessing divergent political, religious,
and regional affinities, were united in their efforts
to expel the colonizers. The French military and
colonial government responded with vicious
reprisals and arrests that did nothing to win over
the hearts and minds of the population, despite
patronizing efforts to improve education (on
French terms) and the so-called policy of associ-
ation, or engagement with local cultures – a token
gesture that could never compensate for systemic
political and social injustices. Associationism had
a profound effect on architecture, as we will see in
the last three chapters of this book.
The fall of French Indochina was not an event
of the last few decades of the patchwork colony’s
existence: its seeds were sown just after the Con-
quest of Saigon in 1859 when freedom fighters
were already striking back from the marshlands of
the Mekong Delta and sporadic but entrenched
opposition to French rule wracked Indochina
until the final French defeat at Điện Biên Phủ in
1954. There is a whiff of desperation in the jingois-
tic introduction to the Indochinese section of the
1900 Paris Universal Exposition, which celebrates
a colonial unity that did not exist in reality:
If there are subdivisions in our possessions in
the Far East: Cochinchina, Cambodia, Laos,
Annam and Tonkin, there should no longer
be any real difference between our posses-
sions proper and the protectorate coun-
tries; in the above-mentioned subdivisions
only geographical and non-administrative
expressions should be seen. Informed people
will no doubt recall that there is an old ruler
in Phnom-Penh who still bears the title of
 king, having long since lost his prerogatives.
They will also be able to remember that in
Hue there is a young man adorned with
the title of emperor, and who, in his palace,
remains completely free to enjoy any distrac-
tions he wishes; but it remains nonetheless
demonstrated, by the very organization
of the Indo-Chinese Exhibition, that the
achievement of this unity of which we speak
above is a fait accompli. Strictly speaking
there is no exhibition or building specially
assigned to Cochinchina, Cambodia,
Tonkin, etc. There is only one indo-
chinese exhibition.28
Although this propagandistic text was meant
for a European audience and did not represent
the views of all colonial officials, many of whom
in fact defended the idea of a specific identity
for each territory of the colony (as evidenced in
the regional pavilions I will discuss in chapters 7
and 8), it projects a popular if fictitious image of
French power that would have well pleased the
patrons of the Palais du Gouverneur-Général
sixteen years earlier and the more hawkish polit-
icians in the French Parliament.
About This Book
This book considers the large-scale military,
civic, and religious buildings associated with
French colonialism in Asia: in seventeenth-
century Madagascar, France’s foothold in the
Indian Ocean and staging point for India, in
seventeenth- and eighteenth-century India and
Siam (never a colony but a place of intensive
French missionary activity and diplomacy), and
nineteenth- and twentieth-century Indochina, the
largest colony France ever administered on the
continent. It is the first to include the Siamese
episode and the first to encompass both the “old”
and “new” empires: the early modern empire of
the ancien régime (1643–1761), and the modern
empire established by the Second Empire and
Third Republic (1852–1940), which ended two
centuries after its predecessor in 1962, having been
shattered by the Second World War. This book
will also look at French architectural activity
during the century-long interregnum between
them, when Pondicherry and France’s other
Indian factories lingered on as minor trading
posts and French missionaries and engineers
operated in the two independent kingdoms of
Đại Việt: Tonkin and Cochinchina. This interval
is particularly significant as the activities that took
place then were used as political propaganda,
as just noted, to justify the French invasion of
Indochina. It is therefore crucial that the historian
examine what happened during those years with
particular care and detachment.
When I began writing this book I envisioned
it as a more or less straightforward companion to
my last one (2018), since the two regions inter-
connected in many ways and reflected the same
general colonial objectives and ideologies, and
because the style of their buildings, approach to
architecture, and the training of their engineers
and civic architects seemed at first to be quite sim-
ilar.29 However as I delved deeper into the history
of French colonialism in India and Southeast
Asia, I realized that this would have to be a very
different book. First, given the scarcity of extant
early modern buildings and relevant primary
source documents compared with those of the
nineteenth- and twentieth-century empire, I have
extended it to embrace 298 years of history (the
last one covered 226 years, ending in 1830 with introduction
the July Monarchy). By adopting a longue durée
approach I could now choose from hundreds
of buildings, but this embarrassment of riches
created its own challenge: difficult decisions had
to be made about which of them to include and
13
 which had to be left out. In the case of Indochina,
the riches extended to primary sources: complete
construction records survive for many buildings
in French and Vietnamese archives of the sort
that are piecemeal at best for the early modern
period, as well as published government reports
and a flourishing media (both metropolitan and
colonial newspapers) – not to mention docu-
ments about the personal lives of the architects
and contractors, whether baptism, marriage
and death records, military service files, notarial
documents, school attendance records, or Légion
d’honneur dossiers. Since the human factor is a
major preoccupation of this book (as it was in my
last) these latter are especially important.
Nevertheless, I was astonished by how little has
been published about the architects, builders, and
decorators of the structures in this book. Except
for figures such as Ernest Hébrard (1875–1933),
whose history has been well chronicled because he
enjoyed a high profile in Europe and was a savvy
self-promoter, the scholarship provides few clues
about most of these people, whether their place of
origin, how they trained, their fate, or even their
first names. The impression one gets is of a mono-
lithic army of state functionaries imposing a tri-
umphalist architectural vision onto the colonies.
The reality was very different. Architects and
builders came from every walk of life, and those
who left France – many did not – fetched up in
India or Indochina for any number of reasons.
Some enjoyed success and prominence in colonial
the architecture of empire
society while others vanished into obscurity.
Some championed colonialism while others
fought against its institutions or were simply
indifferent to it. Some fell in love with Asia while
others could not wait to go home or to try their
luck in another French colony. Many of them –
more than has been acknowledged before – were
Eurasian or indigenous, whether Tamil, Vietnam-
ese, Cambodian, or Lao. Indeed, I hope that this
14
book will show that, despite the dearth of refer-
ences to them in the official literature and a persis-
tent discrimination that kept them in subordinate
positions (particularly in Indochina), mixed-race
and Asian architects, contractors, sculptors, and
painters made decisive contributions to the design
and execution of some of the most important
monuments in this book, as we have already seen
with Gerbaud’s Pondicherry Gouvernement.
Although compelled to work under European
superiors, Vietnamese architects, engineers,
and contractors are responsible for many of the
government and municipal buildings in Vietnam,
Cambodia, and Laos and for the many French-
style villas that line the streets of Hanoi, Saigon,
Vientiane, or Luang Prabang (after the mid-1930s
Vietnamese architects could form independent
practices but only for private commissions).
Asians most certainly did not just provide brute
labour, and this book will argue that the most
successful example of associationist architecture,
the Musée Albert-Sarraut, was primarily designed
by an uncredited Cambodian architect and a
Cambodian-Vietnamese engineer (figs. 7.13–15).
The French architects include a Provençal
nobleman who abandoned ship in Poulo Con-
dore (Côn Sơn Island) to work for the king of
Cochinchina; a veteran of the Franco-Prussian
War and business partner of Guy de Maupas-
sant (1850–1893); the leading opera set designer
of Belle Époque Paris; a seamstress’s son who
attained the heights of Hanoi high society and
received the largest state funeral in the colony’s
history; a child of the dreaded Salpêtrière Hos-
pital for mentally ill women who struggled with
depression and eventually died by a self-inflicted
gun wound; a fabulist self-promoter and amateur
archaeologist who served in France’s embryonic
air corps in the First World War before becom-
ing the self-professed saviour of Cambodian
art; a prosperous contractor and Hanoi society
figure with a taste for auto racing; a victim of a
gas attack in the First World War who went on
to become a leading member of Saigon’s power-
ful Corsican community; and a temperamental
Beaux-arts graduate who had a higher opinion of
his work than did his employers and spent much
of his life filing lawsuits accusing his rivals of pla-
giarism and demanding compensation from his
superiors for perceived wrongs.
The Asian architects include the chief palace
architect at the Cambodian royal court, con-
sidered to be the greatest Cambodian painter of
the twentieth century but who was also known
for ruthless attacks on his rivals; a gregarious
Vietnamese contractor with a taste for expensive
restaurants and charities who had a shrewd ability
to win remunerative contracts even when up
against European competitors; a Vietnamese-
Cambodian Christian engineer, brother of a
high-ranking mandarin at the Phnom Penh court,
who trained at the best schools in France and par-
layed that expertise into prestigious commissions
and business ventures; a charismatic Vietnamese
Christian priest who sided with the French during
the conquest of Tonkin but also worked his whole
life to rid Christianity of any associations with
French culture; an equally charismatic Pope of the
Caodaist sect and amateur architect who designed
one of Vietnam’s most famous monuments based
on instructions he received in spirit séances from
the sixth-century Daoist poet Li Bái; and a Lao
Buddhist monk who trained in the Fine Arts
school Saraphatchang in Bangkok but who made
it his life’s work to promote a unique Franco-Lao
style for monasteries in Luang Prabang and the
surrounding countryside.
The second departure from Architecture and
Urbanism is that this book does not consider
urbanism except where it directly relates to in-
dividual buildings. The sheer number of monu-
ments under consideration leaves no room for it.
However, this omission is not an impediment: in
fact, so much has been written about urbanism
in French India and Indochina (whether about
Pondicherry, Saigon, Hanoi, or Dalat) that most
of the actual buildings in these cities have been
neglected. Scholars have long focused on the ways
in which the Compagnie des Indes (cio ; about
which more below), French officials, and indi-
vidual municipalities used city design to impose
order on the colonized. Such were the urbanistic
schemes aimed at improving health and sanitation
but also at dividing the cities into indigenous and
white quarters: the infamous “cordons sanitaires,”
carved like fireguards between neighbourhoods,
like the canal dividing “black town” and “white
town” in Pondicherry.30 By contrast, except in the
work of Arnauld Le Brusq and Caroline Herbelin
on Vietnam (Herbelin deals primarily with do-
mestic architecture) – and in studies of Hébrard –
the buildings that populate these cities and towns
have been treated superficially if at all: studied
not as works of architecture but in the aggregate
through the lens of such disciplines as social
and political history, post-colonial theory, and
anthropology.31 Others have been examined from
the viewpoint of heritage preservation – organiza-
tions such as intach (Indian National Trust for
Art and Cultural Heritage) have measured and
surveyed historic buildings and executed excellent
plans and elevations with an eye to conservation,
but they are not concerned with historical or styl-
istic analysis.32 The most famous buildings of all,
such as the Belle Époque monuments of Saigon
that were extolled and lambasted by the likes
of Osbert Sitwell, Norman Lewis, and Graham
Greene, are barely understood. A concentrated introduction
study of the public buildings of French Asia is
long overdue.
Paradigmatic structures such as the Saigon
Opera House (Théâtre de Saigon, 1898–1900)
(fig. 6.2) are dutifully mentioned in passing to
15
 make the same points about hubris or folly, with
perhaps an illustration but little else, frequently
repeating factual inaccuracies about chronology,
size, and architects.33 Few have made serious
efforts to study their building histories or such
fundamental issues as style and the models they
used (whether actual buildings or engravings),
analyses of their plans and elevations, patronage
(state, civic, private, or religious), and – espe-
cially – the identities and careers of their archi-
tects and builders. Early modern French India
has fared even worse in the scholarship, partly
because, as Marie Ménard-Jacob comments, it
lay “in the shadow of the West Indies,” with its
“great maritime operations, profitable profits and
victorious squadrons.”34 This is why a building like
the Palais du Gouvernement in Pondicherry has
never been examined in any depth, even though
it was the most important architectural commis-
sion of the old empire and one that was approved
at the highest levels of the court, probably by
Louis XV himself.
The sheer number of potential buildings to
consider has necessitated another change in this
book’s approach. My last book was not exhaust-
ive, but it could be more inclusive, discussing not
only the main extant structures but also those that
were destroyed or never built, and it included a
chapter on vernacular architecture. The present
book must be more selective, examining just
over fifty buildings in detail to explore key trends
and moments in French colonial architecture.
the architecture of empire
However, I have also chosen them because they
provide an opportunity to investigate the lives
and attitudes of the widely diverse people who
commissioned, built, used, and wrote about
them. John Darwin, writing about Britain’s global
empire, comments that “‘Empire’ is a grand word.
But behind its façade … stood a mass of individ-
uals, a network of lobbies, a mountain of hopes …
Empires were not made by faceless committees
16
making grand calculations ... they had to be
made by men (and women) whose actions were
shaped by motives and morals no less confused
and demanding than those that govern us now …
The result was an empire of hybrid components,
conflicting traditions, and unsettled bound-
aries.”35 Herbelin makes a similar comment about
the architecture of French Indochina: “these
structures cannot be reduced to an instrument
of power … it is essential to note that while the
different actors, including owners, architects, and
inhabitants, were in some way constrained by
politics, they also retained an independent ability
to manoeuvre.”36
It is important to be clear at the outset that
the monuments I have chosen are exceptional.
They are unusually large and ornate, predomin-
antly public, and have a more markedly symbolic
function than other public buildings or private
villas in the colonies. Most of the latter reflect a
pared-down, functional style such as the bland
Louis XV classicism of late eighteenth- and
nineteenth-century Pondicherry or the so-called
“travaux publics” style (named after the colonial
Direction des Travaux publics and also popularly
known as “style comprador”) that was ubiquitous
across Indochina, a generic but eclectic blend
of neo-renaissance and neoclassical features
using manufactured materials.37 Made of brick
or reinforced concrete instead of stone, “travaux
publics” structures sometimes feature true or false
half-timbering (in Vientiane and Luang Prabang
using real wood, elsewhere mostly concrete), and
they typically use mass-produced decorative ele-
ments such as Alpine-style roof brackets (in con-
crete or wood), friezes of coloured tiles or bricks
or relief panels, terracotta or false terracotta roofs,
and metal or concrete roof finials, sometimes
shaped like lotuses or nagas (figs. 1.9, 7.2). Focused
studies of “travaux publics” architecture, as well as
vernacular architectures such as nineteenth-
1.9 “Travaux publics” style villa on rue Setthathirath,
Vientiane (Laos), first quarter twentieth century.
and twentieth-century Tamil houses in Pondi-
cherry, twentieth-century shophouses in Hội
An (Vietnam) and Battambang (Cambodia)
(figs. 9.25–6), or domestic architecture in Luang
Prabang (fig. 9.24), are much needed and will
considerably deepen our understanding of the
architecture of the French colonies – but they are
not the subject of this book.
The case studies in this book include
seventeenth-century Fort Dauphin (Madagas-
car), France’s first but short-lived Indian Ocean
colony, and the early Indian factories (comptoirs)
at Surat, and Pondicherry (chapter 2); the Franco-
Siamese architecture of late seventeenth- and
early eighteenth-century Ayutthaya, Lopburi,
Thonburi, and Samut Prakan (now Thailand),
generated by encounters with French mission-
aries and envoys (chapter 3); Pondicherry at its
apogee in the 1730s–50s and during its more
modest reconstruction after 1763 (chapter 4);
missionary buildings mostly in seventeenth- and
eighteenth-century Đại Việt and the Cochin- introduction
chinese citadels of Gia Định (Saigon) and Diên
Khánh, a collaboration between French engineers
and king Nguyễn Ánh in the 1790s (all in chap-
ter 5); the Belle Époque opera houses of Saigon
and Hanoi at the turn of the twentieth century
17
 when each city vied to become the “Paris of the
East” (chapter 6); and the introduction of asso-
ciationist architecture by colonial architects in
Indochina’s three most important museums: the
Musée Albert-Sarraut in Phnom Penh in 1917
(chapter 7), the Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse
in Saigon (1929), and the Musée Louis-Finot in
Hanoi (1925–32; both in chapter 8). All three
museum projects were built under the auspices of
the École Française d’Extrême-Orient (efeo ),
an institution that plays a leading role in the last
third of this book. Chapter 9 moves to the hybrid
architectures of Asians living in the colonies,
investigating seven buildings from the eighteenth
to twentieth centuries that were commissioned
in response to French (and in one case British)
colonial architecture, either turning association-
ism on its head to critique or challenge colonial
authority or simply adopting aspects of neoclassi-
cism, baroque, or art deco as a sign of modernity,
in some cases without even acknowledging them
as European styles.
These case studies are arranged in chapters that
are both chronological and thematic, not merely
charting the passing of time, changes in govern-
ment, and shifts in colonial policy, but also iden-
tifying how the nature of French colonialism and
its buildings differed in specific eras and locations
and evolved over time. This thematic approach
and the selected buildings aim to reveal that far
from being a uniform means of imposing control,
architecture generated by French colonialism in
the architecture of empire
both colonial or para-colonial settings (by which I
mean Siam and pre-French Indochina) varied pro-
foundly. Although striking similarities existed be-
tween buildings in certain eras (notably between
mid-eighteenth-century Pondicherry and fin-de-
siècle Saigon and Hanoi) there were also signifi-
cant departures from the architecture-as-control
paradigm. In fact, it would be a mistake to use
an umbrella term like “colonial architecture” to
18
define the buildings in this book, which is why it
is called The Architecture of Empire and not some-
thing like French Imperial Architecture. One of the
reasons – it cannot be sufficiently stressed – is that
buildings’ patrons differed widely. They included
the French state (variously a monarchy, an empire,
and a republic); the cio and its predecessor;
various rival Catholic missionaries with different
degrees of loyalty to France; individuals for whom
self-aggrandizement was more important than
service to their nation and who occasionally went
rogue; colonial municipalities that were as much
in competition with each other (and with the col-
onial Bâtiments civils, a subsection of the Travaux
publics) as they were with non-French entities;
and learned societies who used scholarship as a
tool for empire building. The public architecture
of French colonialism in Asia was vastly more
heterogeneous than its equivalent in the West-
ern Hemisphere.
The buildings in each chapter have been chosen
to highlight a theme. Chapters 2 and 3 focus on
the incompetence and failure of France’s early
efforts at colonization or diplomacy (diplomacy
as a thinly veiled attempt at conquest) compared
with their Dutch or British predecessors. They
are also concerned with the contradictions and
disagreements that led to disaster: between
the lofty aims and lowly realities of the cio (a
contradiction in itself as a joint-stock company
under monarchical control); between merchants
and missionaries with diametrically opposed
goals; between Huguenots and Catholics who
hated – and frequently killed – each other; be-
tween loyalists and renegades; and between Louis
XIV’s genuine admiration for the court culture
of King Narai of Siam and his plot to capture his
kingdom. Chapter 4 is about hubris: the gargan-
tuan effort and cost of financing buildings meant
to reflect the gloire du roi and the superiority of
French architecture in an unstable colony that
was little more than a glorified comptoir (factory).
Among their intended audiences were the British,
to whom a grand neoclassical building would
have sent a clear message. However, the chap-
ter also shows how the colony’s governors were
obliged to emulate Mughal court ceremonial (and
possibly to paint their fort red in imitation of
the red forts at Delhi and Agra) to try to impress
Indian potentates with a kind of visual display
that they understood and emulated. The buildings
in chapter 5 are among the least French-looking in
this book, and this indigenization makes them
particularly fascinating as case studies of hybrid-
ity. However, their heterogeneity and distinctness
from the architecture in the rest of this book is
also meant to make another point: to demon-
strate the tenuousness of France’s later claim that
French activities in this period were sufficiently
developed to justify the nineteenth-century con-
quest of Indochina. In fact, the buildings reveal a
deep acquiescence to indigenous culture among
the French missionaries and builders (in one case
a missionary and his engineers were more loyal
to an Asian ruler than they were to France) and
should put paid to any notion that France had any
authority over the region or a coherent plan for
colonizing Southeast Asia in this period.
With chapter 6 we move to the modern empire
and to French Indochina. As the title suggests,
the theme of this chapter is semblance, by which
I mean an obsessive desire to replicate the build-
ings of the metropole, right down to their glass
ceilings and mural paintings. The (scaled-down)
copies of buildings like the Paris Hôtel de Ville
or the Grand and Petit Palais (not to mention
the Cathedral of Notre-Dame) were generated
by the same boosterism that created the Palais du
Gouvernement in Pondicherry: a stubborn belief
that the latest French architecture will impress the
indigenes – not to mention the British, Dutch,
and Spanish. Ironically, cities like Saigon merely
amused the British, who wrote generally scathing
descriptions of these replicas in miniature. How-
ever, these buildings also reflected a motivation
that was not a factor in mid-eighteenth-century
Pondicherry: nostalgia. Many of the colonists in
Indochina suffered from acute homesickness, and
even if they spent a long time in the colony, they
wanted cities where they could walk down a mini-
ature Champs-Élysées, attend Massenet’s Thaïs at
the Opera House, or enjoy a pastis on the balcony
of the Hôtel Métropolitain. An important differ-
ence between the buildings examined in chapter 4
and those in chapters 6 to 8 is that the latter were
not commissioned by the Ministry of the Marine
or the cio (which no longer existed) but pri-
marily by the municipalities, the local Bâtiments
civils, or in the case of the museums in chapters 7
and 8, learned societies (in co-operation with
municipal or regional governments). The modern
empire may have shared some of the ideals of
the early modern one, but patronage operated
very differently.
The last three chapters are about buildings that
combine French (or at least European) styles with
those of various Asian cultures, a process some
scholars (such as myself ) call “hybridity,” a term
I will discuss below. Chapters 7 and 8 deal with
hybridity that is imposed from above, related to
the government policy of “association.” They also
consider, particularly chapter 7, the rapine and
cultural theft that characterized French activ-
ities in (particularly) Cambodia, and how the
French seized Angkor Wat from the Siamese and
then championed its style and those of Vietnam
as French patrimony, creating Franco-Khmer
or Franco-Vietnamese buildings like the three introduction
museums to send the message that France was an
indigenous power. Associationist architecture also
reflected a French attitude about the “Other” that
was first tested out in the Maghreb: that present-
day indigenous cultures were corrupt and that
19
 buildings must emulate models from the distant
past to elevate indigenous minds. A major player
in these chapters is the efeo , an archaeological
foundation that enthusiastically embraced this
kind of architecture and projected a patronizing
attitude toward contemporary Cambodians and
Vietnamese. The final chapter looks at the oppos-
ite side of the coin: various kinds of architectural
blending created by and for indigenous people,
some taking their cue from associationism, and
others merging styles and plans as it pleased
them – and the dramatically different motiva-
tions that drove them to do so. Few encounters
between Europeans and non-Europeans in the
global history of colonialism boasted such a fas-
cinating array of hybridities.
France’s Eastern and Western
Hemisphere Empires
One of the greatest surprises when writing this
book was the disparity between building pro-
cedures and architectural training in the Asian
colonies and protectorates compared with those
of the Atlantic world. By the late seventeenth cen-
tury official architecture of the Atlantic empire
was almost exclusively designed by royal engineers
under the Ministry of the Marine and executed
by white civilian contractors (often using slave
labour), while other large-scale structures (includ-
ing private mansions and nearly all the churches)
were designed solely by civilian architects or
the architecture of empire
members of religious orders (also frequently built
by enslaved Africans or free people of colour). En-
gineer architects were less prominent in India and
(especially) Indochina, and several of them (as in
seventeenth-century Siam and eighteenth-century
Cochinchina) were “engineers” in name alone,
likely having received little or no formal training
in military colleges such as the École Royale du
Génie de Mézières in the Ardennes (founded
20
1748) and its predecessors. In the Americas
white and free Black or mixed-race architects
and builders trained in a much looser version
of the European guild system, but one in which
apprenticeships and architectural workshops like
those of medieval France persisted into the early
nineteenth century. In early modern India and
Southeast Asia no such tradition seems to have
existed among French builders, although the
Tamil, Siamese, Cambodian, and early modern
Viet architects and builders who contributed to
the buildings in this book trained in traditional
ways, for instance through apprenticeships in
palace ateliers and Buddhist monastic schools (see
chapters 5 and 7).
In the modern Eastern Hemisphere colonies
several of the European architects and at least one
Asian architect trained at civilian architecture
and engineering schools in Paris. The most exalted
trained at the École des Beaux-Arts (which taught
architecture from 1819 to 1968), the descendent of
Jean-Baptiste Colbert’s Académie Royale d’Archi-
tecture (1671), one of them, Hébrard, a laureate of
the prestigious Prix de Rome (like Dumont before
him).38 Others trained at the so-called “Grandes
Écoles” of Paris, such as the École Polytechnique
(founded 1794) or École Nationale Supérieure des
Arts et Métiers (founded 1780), both favoured
by military engineers; the École des Ponts-et-
Chaussées (founded 1747), the main school for
civilian engineers; and the École Centrale des Arts
et Manufactures (founded 1820), another civilian
engineering and science school with a large con-
tingent of foreign students.39 They were joined, in
1898, by the École Spéciale des Travaux Publics,
which, in addition to European students, trained
hundreds of non-Europeans and made a major
impact on French colonies and other parts of the
non-European world in the 1920s and ’30s.40 In
Indochina Vietnamese architects usually received
professional training on the job at the Bâtiments
civils, but after the First World War they could
earn a diploma at the École des travaux publics
in Hanoi (founded 1918) or the Hanoi École des
Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine (ebai , founded 1924),
the latter resulting in a reinvigorated Vietnamese
architectural movement fuelled by nationalist
sentiments in the 1930s and ’40s.41 French archi-
tects also had different motivations for working in
Indochina: some simply sought adventure, while
others, escaping mediocre careers or social barriers
at home, hoped that overseas projects would bring
them prestige upon their return to France. As the
architects of France’s Atlantic realms well knew,
it was much easier to reinvent yourself in the col-
onies than it was in Paris. In some cases, the archi-
tect and even the sculptors, painters, and interior
decorators of Asian projects never left France,
shipping their plans, paintings, sculptures, and
fittings to Indochina to be realized by executing
architects on the spot. This kind of partnership
between local and metropolitan architects and
builders almost never happened in the Western
Hemisphere, at least before 1830.42
However, the biggest difference in Asia
was the absence of enslaved builders. In the
Americas (particularly, but not exclusively, the
Circum-Caribbean and Louisiana) state build-
ings made extensive use of uncredited skilled and
unskilled labour from enslaved Africans, who
trained in their own workshops. By contrast, al-
though most of the monuments in this book were
built both by European and non-European build-
ers, and although the Indian, Vietnamese, and
Cambodian ones were sidelined and denied credit
for their work (and paid less than their European
counterparts; see, in particular, chapter 7) none of
them were enslaved. This is not to say that slavery
did not exist in the French colonies in the Eastern
Hemisphere – enslaved people laboured on the
plantations on Île de France and Île Bourbon,
including people captured from villages outside
Pondicherry and other French Indian comptoirs,
and enslaved domestics worked in Pondicherry
(France abolished slavery in 1848).43 Furthermore,
the use of “coolies” and other indentured labour
in Vietnamese plantations, mines, and railway
projects was slavery in all but name. However,
there is no evidence that enslaved people built any
of the structures in this book.
Perhaps the greatest difference from French
architecture in the Americas has to do with the
degree to which buildings adapted to indigenous
structures, materials, decoration, iconography,
and plans – namely, their hybridity. One of the
salient features of the official and large-scale
buildings and urban projects of French America
was their stubborn adherence to French metro-
politan models, whether palaces, chateaux, town-
houses, or churches, unlike in Iberian America,
where often profound architectural hybridization
was common and where many of the European
models were not Spanish or Portuguese but Ital-
ian or Flemish. The British and Dutch American
colonies also built houses and churches in a style
reminiscent of Britain or the Netherlands, but
they were more modest and there was no attempt
to create replicas of London or Amsterdam:
indeed, many people in the Thirteen Colonies
were there precisely because they had fled the
strictures of church and state at home. The French
possessions were unique in the degree to which
they tried to recreate the architecture and urban-
ism of the métropole – complete with promen-
ades, parks, formal gardens, and fountains. Some
of the architecture in this book reflects that same
desire – the two palaces with which I began this
chapter and in Belle-Époque Saigon, Hanoi, and introduction
Haiphong – but most of it does not.
This tendency toward hybridity, the focus
of the last five chapters in this book, was the
result of three situations that did not obtain
in the Americas. The first, highlighted in
21

1.10 School principal’s residence, Luang Prabang
(Laos), 1922.
chapters 3 and 5, was the construction of build-
ings in countries that did not belong to France:
seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Siam and
Đại Việt. Whether built by French architects or
22
by indigenous architects for French patrons (or
indigenous patrons attracted to French style)
these buildings were true Asian-European blends,
whether the Chapel of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
at Lopburi (1687) (figs. 3.11–12) or the Citadel at
Diên Khánh (1793) (figs. 5.12–14), which
combine Siamese and Sino-Vietnamese palace
architecture respectively with that of the French
baroque. The second, highlighted in chapters 7
and 8, was the invention of an architecture of
“association,” hybridization imposed from above
as colonial policy. Such was Hébrard’s Lycée
Petrus Ky in Saigon (1925–28) with its pagoda-
like entryway (fig. 8.2) or the school principal’s
residence in Luang Prabang (1922), designed
to resemble a Lao Buddhist monastic building,
complete with naga (serpent) banisters and a
richly carved temple pediment (fig. 1.10). Here
France was taking its cue from earlier experiments
in the British Raj and contemporary ones in the
Dutch East Indies (figs. 7.9–10). The third was the
reassertion of Asian architectural styles by Asians
onto those of the colonizer: buildings such as
the Ananda Ranga Pillai House in Pondicherry
(1738) (figs. 9.2–6) or the Cathedral at Phát
Diệm, Tonkin (1876–92) (figs. 9.7–10), combin-
ing French forms or styles with indigenous ones in
radically different ways, not out of admiration for
France but from a desire to proclaim the legitim-
acy of their own personalities or culture – even,
as in the second example, when the building is a
Christian church. These buildings are the subject
of the last chapter in this book.
Another institution that I did not discuss in
the last book – for the simple reason that it had
not been conceived before 1830 – is the inter-
national exhibition, which had a huge impact
on the buildings in the last four chapters of this
one. These events began with London’s 1851
Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All
Nations at the Crystal Palace, and they were held
regularly in Europe and the United States until
the Second World War. A combined trade fair,
theme park, department store, museum, and secu-
lar pilgrimage site, the exposition allowed the host
and participating countries to demonstrate their
progress and prosperity in purportedly friendly
rivalry, with a focus on manufactured goods,
technological advances, natural resources, and
colonial possessions in an atmosphere of patriot-
ism. Walter Benjamin famously wrote that “world
exhibitions are the sites of pilgrimages to the com-
modity fetish … They open up a phantasmagoria
that people enter to be amused.”44 Not surpris-
ingly, they have been the subject since the 1980s
of extensive scholarship that has concentrated on
their association with the rise of mass consumer-
ism and their relationship to colonialism and the
cultural appropriation (and commodification) of
subject peoples.45 The main vehicle for these exer-
cises in self-promotion was the pavilion, an archi-
tectural structure that was usually temporary but
could be reused from fair to fair, some of them
living on as permanent structures, as with the
Grand and Petit Palais in Paris (fig. 6.11). These
pavilions either showcased the latest metropolitan
architectural trends and technological advances
or they recreated buildings in historical, regional,
or “exotic” style, the latter primarily deriving from
the colonies or non-European nations in which
Europe had economic interests. France’s colonial
possessions were represented by replicas of histor-
ical monuments such as Angkor Wat (figs. 7.6–7)
or hybrid structures that combined the latest
styles with indigenous forms (figs. 7.8, 7.16). Often
the colonial and other non-European pavilions
were located in separate areas of the fair to allow
visitors to enjoy a “tour of the world in one day,”
as the 1931 Colonial Exposition in Vincennes
put it.46 More notoriously, they were populated
with what scholars call “human zoos,” indigenous
peoples from the colonies who “inhabited” the
pavilions and performed dances and rituals or
pretended to go about their daily life.47
International expositions are intimately related
to colonial architecture in Indochina from its
earliest years, enjoying a symbiotic relationship
with the buildings of Saigon, Hanoi, Phnom
Penh, Luang Prabang, and elsewhere. Most of
the architects and contractors responsible for the
nineteenth- and twentieth-century buildings
in this book – Europeans and non-Europeans
alike – designed or constructed pavilions in the
major French fairs in Paris and Marseille, in-
cluding the 1900 Paris Universal Exposition, the
1906 and 1922 Marseille colonial expositions,
the 1931 Colonial Exposition, and the 1937 Expos-
ition internationale des arts et techniques dans
la vie moderne in Paris. Some colonial buildings
directly copied exposition pavilions, such as the
Saigon Post Office (1891), an adaptation of the
Palais de l’Industrie at the 1955 Paris Exposition
universelle (figs. 6.6–7), or the Théâtre de Saigon,
which quotes the central part of the facade of
the Petit Palais (figs. 6.2, 6.11). At least one, the
Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse in Saigon, was
a repurposed exposition pavilion for a fair that
never took place (in this case in Indochina)
(figs. 8.3–4). The pavilions also served as a testing
ground for forms of hybridity that would be used
in the colonies, whether by French architects
devising an architecture of association to broad-
cast French legitimacy or by colonized peoples
trying out métissages that they felt were more
appropriate for their customs and climate and
that could be used to challenge French domin-
ance. Expositions were also held in Hanoi and
Saigon, most notably the 1902 Exposition de introduction
Hanoi, of which the Grand Palais, a near replica
of its Paris namesake, remained afterward as one of
the first museums in the colony, the Musée
Maurice-Long, destroyed in an aerial bombard-
ment during the Second World War (fig. 1.11).
23
 One unusual feature of French colonialism
common to the Eastern and Western hemi-
spheres that I will explore in this book is its use
of grand opera and classical theatre as an ex-
pression of national identity – a form of Gallic
self-representation that already distinguished
some of France’s more prosperous eighteenth-
century Caribbean colonies (see chapter 6)
(fig. 1.12).48 From the mid-nineteenth century
until the First World War outsized opera houses
were built in places like Algeria and Indochina
(they were usually called “théâtres” to distinguish
them from Charles Garnier’s Paris Opéra) which
had no equivalent in the Dutch or British col-
onies. Built to boost French prestige, cure home-
sickness and idleness, and impress the colonized
peoples, they largely failed on all three counts: the
excessive costliness of these structures made the
French colonies the laughingstock of their Euro-
pean rivals; grand opera was of little interest to
the workaday colon, who preferred vaudeville and
opéra bouffe over Charles Gounod or Camille
Saint-Saëns; and the Vietnamese and Chinese
residents of Saigon, Hanoi, and Haiphong barely
noticed these temples of culture as they made
their way to the perennially popular Chinese
operas and Vietnamese puppet theatres. In the
early modern period, the French also practised
what I call “opera diplomacy.” As we will see in
chapter 3, Louis XIV and Jean-Baptiste Colbert
(1619–1683) went to great lengths in the 1680s
to expose Siamese diplomats and the Siamese
1.11 (oppoSiTe Top ) Grand Palais, Exposition de Hanoi,
1902. Photograph by Joachim Antonio, 16 × 21 cm. The
building was destroyed during the Second World War.
Université Côte d’Azur, Bibliothèque.
1.12 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) The Salle des Spectacles
Theatre (or Comédie) in Cap-François (Cap-Haitien),
Saint-Domingue (now Haiti). Built 1764. From a 1790
watercolour by Chevalier de Largues, 26.67 × 42.54 cm.
Private collection.
royal court to French opera: ambassadors were
introduced to leading composers like Jean-Bap-
tiste Lully (1632–1687) and taken to premieres,
and Lully’s melodies were played for the Siamese
King Narai. The culmination of the embassies
was the 1686 royal reception in the Hall of Mir-
rors – the first embassy hosted in that space – in
which musicians from the Grandes Écuries played
Siamese-inspired music with trumpets and drums
composed by musicians who had been sent to
Siam (fig. 2.18).49 Nevertheless, as we will see,
while King Narai was enthusiastic about French
mirrors and other luxury goods, French music
seems to have made no impression on him.
Post-Colonialism and Intercultural Blending:
“Hybridity” and “Métissage”
Many of the buildings in this book combine Euro-
pean and non-European forms, motifs, and styles
in myriad and complex ways. For a century, begin-
ning in Latin America, scholars of European col-
onial art and architecture have struggled to find
an adequate term for such intercultural blending,
including “mestizaje/métissage” (literally, “mixed-
race”) and, more recently, “hybridity.” As none
of these words has satisfied everyone – some of
them for very good reasons – a partisan, often
rancorous debate has ensued about their valid-
ity. The dispute over “hybridity” began outside
art and architectural history – in fields such as
sociology, literary criticism, anthropology, and
cultural studies – and it has tended to operate at
such an abstract, decontextualized level that many
scholars have simply ignored it and use the term
as a neutral interpretive descriptor. Although introduction
this is not the place to enter into a prolonged
examination of the dispute over hybridity theory,
I will give a brief synopsis of how it has played
out within post-colonial scholarship in general
followed by a more focused look at how all three
25
 terms have been applied in the history of colonial
Latin American and French art and architecture.
I will conclude with a brief statement about the
ways I will use the terms “hybridity” and “mé-
tissage” in this book.
Hybridity theory began with critical theorist
Homi Bhabha’s Location of Culture (1994).50 It
quickly generated as many detractors as support-
ers. However, the resulting debate is more com-
plicated than it first seems, as it is not so much
about the term “hybridity” as it is about hybridity
theory – indeed many of Bhabha’s detractors use
the former unapologetically in the very books in
which they condemn the latter. Bhabha maintains
that cultural hybridity allows the colonized to
break free of the binary relationship of colonist/
colonized and centre/periphery through a “third
space” that generates “colonial anxiety” and
“terrorizes authority” by appropriating, mim-
icking, mocking, and subverting the hegemonic
essentialist ideology of Empire: “an uncertainty
that estranges the familiar symbol of … ‘national’
authority and emerges from its colonial appro-
priation as the sign of its difference.”51 However
Bhabha has been widely criticized by scholars
such as Jonathan Friedman, Ajjaz Ahmad, and
Arif Dirlik for taking an elitist approach that is
detached from historical realities, for focusing on
too narrow a time period (on the nineteenth and
twentieth centuries), for creating his own hege-
monies and artificial binaries, and for ignoring
questions of class or race.52
the architecture of empire
The terms of the debate have been discussed
most helpfully by sociologist Jan Nederveen
Pieterse and literary critic Amar Acheraïou.53
Although they fall into opposite camps (Pieterse
supports Bhabhan hybridity theory whereas
Acheraïou does not) they both promote the term
“hybridity” and have similar ideas about how
to reform the way we use it, calling for greater
contextualization and for a more diachronic
26
approach, and urging scholars to use “hybrid-
ity” to interrogate contemporary globalism,
Pieterse’s “global mélange.”54 Pieterse appeals for
more specificity: “Hybridity is entirely context-
ual, relational. What is strikingly hybrid in one
setting may not even be noticeable in another.”55
Acheraïou agrees, using “métissage” and “hy-
bridity” interchangeably: “This contextualized,
historicized perspective on métissage … should
enlighten us about the multifaceted character of
hybridity as a historical fact, a discursive practice,
and as a political as well as an ideological con-
struction.”56 Pieterse also maintains that hybridity
is too widespread for the term to be discarded:
“the thrust and appeal of everyday and experien-
tial hybridity is unstoppable and outflanks the
criticisms. The point of most discussions now
is not to argue for or against hybridity but to
explore finer points and meanings of hybridity,”
adding later that hybridity “has been taking place
all along but has been concealed by religious, na-
tional, imperial, and civilizational chauvinisms.”57
Acheraïou agrees that “[h]ybridity or métissage in
its various shades (biological, cultural, religious,
political, technological) has been a feature of
all societies, from the Sumerians and Egyptians
through to the Greeks and Romans down to
modern times.”58 He also believes that it is critical
“to resituate the power dynamics and multi-
rooted nature of hybridity as both a practice and a
discourse overlooked in postcolonial studies” and,
echoing Pieterse, that “notwithstanding my vari-
ous reservations about hybridity’s potential for
subversion and emancipation, I consider hybrid-
ity, as a practice, too fundamental a feature of our
civilizations to be undermined or devalued.”59
Pieterse’s principal reason for supporting
Bhabhan hybridity theory is that it is a necessary
challenge to essentialism: “[h]ybridity unsettles
the introverted concept of culture that under-
lies romantic nationalism, racism, ethnicism …
civilizational chauvinism, and cultural essential-
ism … [it is] meaningful as a counterweight to
introverted notions of culture.”60 It also is im-
portant because it “problematizes” the “fetishism
of boundaries … Hybridity is to culture what de-
construction is to discourse: transcending binary
categories … Recognizing the in-between and the
interstices means going beyond dualism, binary
thinking, Aristotelian logic.”61 As an analytical
tool, hybridity theory can create “a new awareness
of and new take on dynamics of group formation
and social inequality. This critical awareness is fur-
thered by acknowledging rather than by suppress-
ing hybridity.”62 Pieterse dismisses Friedman’s,
Ahmad’s, and Dirlik’s charges of Bhabhan elitism
as ad hominem attacks: “casting aspersion on the
motives of the advocates of an idea, rather than
debating the idea.”63
Nevertheless, Pieterse wants to refine the
Bhabhan discourse. He admits that hybridity
theory can itself be essentialist because it insists
on cultural difference, “the very process of hybrid-
ization shows the difference to be relative and,
with a slight shift of perspective, the relationship
can also be described in terms of an affirmation of
similarity,” and that one needs instead to recog-
nize the fluidity of cultural mixture.64 He asks for
a less monolithic (or binary) approach to hybrid-
ity that examines the intricacies within any single
episode of hybridity (the “terms of mixture”): “we
can construct a continuum of hybridities: on one
end, an assimilationist hybridity that leans over
towards the center, adopts the canon and mimics
hegemony and, at the other end, a destabilizing
hybridity that blurs the canon, reverses the cur-
rent, subverts the center. Hybridities, then, may be
differentiated according to the components in the
mélange.”65 Among other things, relationships of
power, race, and class are at stake.
Friedman had warned that hybridity is only
a valid concept if it is recognized by those who
create it: “[h]ybridity only exists as a social phe-
nomenon when it is identified as such by those in-
volved in social interaction … were people to not
so identify, the fact of cultural mixture is without
social significance … Hybridity is in the eyes of
the beholder, or more precisely in the practice
of the beholder.”66 Pieterse counters Friedman,
first by noting that since archival sources are over-
whelmingly written by colonizers, it is difficult,
especially in earlier periods, to find out whether
the colonized thought of their cultures as hybrid,
and that we cannot equate a lack of sources with a
lack of awareness. He also makes the point that in
the contemporary world, where we have access to
a wide range of indigenous voices, self-identifying
as hybrid is common among the peoples of the
global South. But his main objection to Fried-
man’s idea is that it is methodologically unsound:
“Only the eye of the beholder counts? Going
native as epistemological principle? Because most
people in the Middle Ages thought the earth
was flat, it was flat? … Vox populi, vox dei – since
when? This is unacceptable in principle and un-
tenable in practice.”67
Acheraïou condemns Bhabhan hybridity
theory for being too divorced from actuality
and “riddled with opaque jargon randomly and
indiscriminately applied to all types of situations
and issues” (elsewhere he refers to “characteristic
fuzziness and hegemonic culturalist and lin-
guistic abstractions”); he also repeatedly asserts
that it ignores “race politics,” class, and “global
neocolonialism.”68 He asks: “why is a complex,
multifarious, and elusive phenomenon such as
hybridity flattened out into an idealized, reduc-
tive monolith?”69 Although his study reaches back introduction
to antiquity, Acheraïou’s main concern is how a
contextualized and historicized theory of hybrid-
ity, which acknowledges class and race struggle,
can be a “genuinely counter-hegemonic force” to
fight neoliberal global capitalism today: “a critical,
27
 contextualized, and balanced view on hybridity
and the third space; a view that shies away from
both modern colonial castigation of métissage
and postmodern celebration of hybridity or
in-betweenness … [and] embrace[s] a materialist
conceptualization of hybridity … [that] is in-
tended to show how far the discourse of hybridity
has always been, and still is, closely connected to
social prestige as well as to hegemonic structures
of power with which it maintains complex, sym-
biotic relationships.”70
Acheraïou calls Bhabha’s third space utopian:
far from being a balanced site of resistance or
“neutral ideological site of exemplary congruity
between cultures,” it is “profoundly conditioned
by cultural, ideological, and political cartograph-
ies in which power operates in the guise of a uni-
versal ethics of cultural exchange and solidarity”;
the third space “merely reshapes the terms of the
binary same-Other and, in so doing, it masks the
will-to-power and hegemonic impulse inherent in
cultural translations.”71 Rather than being some
sort of safe space, the third space can be used
for nefarious purposes: “hybridity discourse has
been manipulated across history by hegemonic,
coercive, political, ideological, and economic
forces presiding over the practice of métissage …
Nor can I … sanction the assumption that the
sphere of in-betweenness in which hybridity
presumably operates is completely free of binary
thinking and essentialism.”72 Elsewhere he writes:
“no cultural representations of difference, even
the architecture of empire
the most dialogical or inclusive, can be completely
independent of the economy of power, prejudice,
and essentialism,” and that hybridity “allocate[s]
equal discursive space for reactionary and progres-
sive politics.”73
The term “hybridity” (as opposed to hybrid-
ity theory) has also been condemned, this time
for being indelibly racialized, most notably in a
1995 book by literary critic Robert Young, who
28
maintains that there is no way of “mov[ing] from
biologism and scientism to the safety of cultural-
ism.”74 No one denies that in late nineteenth- and
early twentieth-century Europe “hybridity” was
used in racist pseudo-science to describe and dis-
parage human miscegenation.75 However, unlike
“mestizo” in Spanish, “hybridity” in common
English parlance today has lost its racial associ-
ations and refers instead to botanical, agricul-
tural, and linguistic blending, which is precisely
why post-colonial scholarship has adopted it to
discuss culture. Even Young concedes that the past
meaning of this term has been “forgotten.”76 Avtar
Brah and Annie E. Coombs support “hybridity”
as a cultural marker precisely because “the ge-
nealogy of the term is, of course, more accurately
associated with the development of the natural
sciences, and in particular botany and zoology.”77
Acheraïou chastises Young’s castigation of the
word for being too “reductively synchronic,
set in a time-span that does not extend beyond
the nineteenth century,” and I agree.78 Only
a narrowly focused academic would consider
“hybrid” to be racist today: ask anyone else and
they would think of hybrid cattle, crops, music –
or, indeed, vehicles. For better or worse the term
has been rehabilitated, and while it is important
to acknowledge its disreputable erstwhile mean-
ing, that meaning is no longer part of our collect-
ive consciousness. Roger Benjamin puts it simply:
the term once had “a derogatory sense no longer
current in today’s debates on globalized art.”79
One kind of hybridity discussed by Acheraïou
is of great importance for the present study:
hybridity that is imposed upon the colonized by
the colonizer as a means of control. He calls it
a “willed, strategic imperial hybridism, one that
rests on a two-tiered structure: it is based on the
rejection of some putatively dubious mixing …
as well as on the integration into the imperial
same of those native components considered
useful to the colonial project.”80 Acheraïou uses
the contemporary example of how neo-liberal
capitalism can “monetize hybrid youth culture
and other hybrid cultural forms and fit them
comfortably into ‘urban consumer capitalism.’”81
There are many historical precedents, such as
the hybridity imposed on the sixteenth-century
Nahua in New Spain by Spanish missionaries who
adapted features from Aztec structures to make
Christianity seem familiar, and the associationism
promoted by France in twentieth-century Indo-
china that we will see in this book.82 Marwan M.
Kraidy gives an example of strategic hybridization
in post-revolutionary Mexico: “mestizaje was an
attempt to mitigate tensions between the indigen-
ous populations and the descendants of Spanish
colonists by positing the new nations as hybrids
of both worlds,” and an “institutionalized cultural
mixture [was] a sure way to effect the slow decay
of precolonial cultures and integrate them in the
dominant society, which welcomed their non-
threatening arts, crafts, and selected rituals, while
imposing on them the Spanish and Portuguese
language, the Catholic faith, and colonial political
and social organization.”83
Although Acheraïou criticizes Ahmad’s and
Dirlik’s ad hominem attacks on Bhabha, he
agrees that the elite status of hybridity theory’s
practitioners is a problem, that many of them
are “migrant postcolonial intellectuals” (Dirlik’s
words) who enjoy privileged positions at elite
US and European universities but who had “to
represent themselves as victims of colonialism …
to be acknowledged as authentically indigenous
and thus a living proof of postcoloniality.”84 As a
result of his disconnection from the real condi-
tions of millions of people in the former colonies,
Bhabha’s hybridity theory, in Acheraïou’s opinion,
“treats culture, identity, and social contingencies
as semiotic occurrences scrupulously abstracted
from the material conditions from which they
emerged” – one of the main reasons class inequal-
ity and race politics are left out of the discussion.85
Ziauddin Sardar is rather more pointed, declaring
that “postmodernity is nothing more than the
continuation of Western cultural imperialism by
other means” and that “Postmodernism appears,
in short, as a self-centred, proliferating conscious-
ness that hegemonically projects as universal
Western notions of culture, identity, and human-
ity, while ostensibly celebrating cultural multipli-
city and anti-essentialism.”86
“Mestizaje,” “Hybridity,” and “Métissage” in the
History of Art and Architecture
No other field of art and architectural history has
been subjected to as long-lasting a debate about
what to call cultural mixture than that of colonial
Latin America, beginning with Argentine scholar
Ángel Guido in the 1920s, and it should be the
foundation for any terminological discussion in
the French ambit.87 In describing the architectural
sculpture of south Andean baroque architecture,
Guido first came up with the awkward term
“fusión hispano-americana-aborígen” (Hispano-
American-aboriginal fusion) in 1925 before set-
tling on “estilo mestizo” (“mestizo style”) in 1940,
a term which became enormously popular into
the 1980s and is still used today, for instance by
Serge Gruzinski, who sees it as an unproblematic
equivalent to “mélange.”88 Around the same time
Mexican scholar José Villa Moreno coined a term
specifically for New Spain, tequitqui, referring
again to carved decoration that blends pre-
Hispanic and Hispanic elements, borrowing the
Nahuatl term for “vassal.”89 Neither of these labels introduction
is satisfactory, and they have rightly been criti-
cized: in the case of tequitqui, the inequality of
the mixture is enshrined in the very name. As for
“mestizo,” its primary meaning in Spanish (unlike
“hybrid” in English) is explicitly racialized: it
29
 denotes a person of mixed-race background. I
am not saying that scholars who use the term to
describe cultural mixtures are racists. My trouble
with “mestizo style” is simply that it is confusing:
it implies either that it is exclusively the product
of two races – reinforcing the binary conceptual-
ization that has been rightly condemned above –
or, more literally, that it is the product solely of
mixed-race people. As Pablo Macera bluntly puts
it, “mestizo culture was not made by mestizos.”90
This is where “hybridity” comes in. As a more
neutral alternative to “mestizaje” it is commonly
applied to colonial Latin American art (primarily
in English-language scholarship), including in
my own work and that of Maya Stanfield-Mazzi
(2021, 2013), Barbara Mundy (2020), Ananda
Cohen Suarez (2016), and Eleanor Wake (2010)
to name a few.91 However “hybridity” has been
criticized by Latin Americanists. A 2003 article by
Carolyn Dean and Dana Liebsohn categorically
dismissed it as intolerant and discriminatory.92
There is much in this article that I agree with, par-
ticularly that “hybridity” and its sister terms have
been misused: like Bhabha’s opponents Dean and
Liebsohn rightly disapprove of the way scholars
(going back to Guido) have made “mestizaje” a
reductive, normative, binary concept, “homogen-
iz[ing] things European and set[ting] them in
opposition to similarly homogenized non-
European conventions.”93 They also rightly chide
scholars for emphasizing pre-Hispanic elements
in hybrid forms over those of contemporary
the architecture of empire
Andean societies, “freez[ing] indigenous people
in the past,” a criticism I make myself in my 2010
book, which concentrates on the contributions
of early modern Andean culture to Peruvian
architectural hybridities.94 Dean and Liebsohn
also justly criticize scholars who use “hybridity”
exclusively in situations where indigenous people
adopt European forms and on visually recogniz-
able hybridity (rather than more “embedded”
30
forms such as “manufacture, audience, meaning
and use”).95
However I disagree with the main thrust of
Dean’s and Liebsohn’s argument, which follows
Young in insisting that the term cannot be purged
of its racist past: “Hybridity … is generated out of
intolerance,” they write: “[t]hat we need a term
such as ‘hybrid’ for certain things and practices
betrays the exercise of discrimination – the cre-
ation of what belongs and what doesn’t belong,
usually with the implicit devaluation of the
latter.”96 They repeat this statement later: “we con-
tend that recognizing hybridity in colonial objects
today is inherently an exercise of discrimination –
the creation of what fits some cultural norm and
what does not fit,” and elsewhere they condemn
those who “separate out the misfit, name it, and
so dispossess indigenes of the ability to adapt,
coopt, and fit European things to non-European
(or partially European) ways of creating cul-
ture.”97 The authors have set up a straw man: a
twenty-first-century scholar who still thinks like a
Victorian – terrified by misfits, cultural impurity,
and with what does and does not belong. Scholars
today use “hybridity” precisely to challenge ideas
of purity and to explore departures from those
“norms,” and the analysis of indigenous or mixed-
race agency within hybridity is exactly the point.
The authors’ view is, to quote Acheraïou’s criti-
cism of Young, “reductively synchronic.”
Dean and Liebsohn also echo Friedman’s claim
that hybridity existed only when it was identified
as such by its creators: “cultural mixing, even if
recognized as such, apparently did not prompt
comment from indigenous people.”98 The “appar-
ently” is significant as they do not give the reader
any proof. Their example is Doña Isabel Uypa
Cuca, an elite Andean of the mid-seventeenth
century who did not remark upon her mixed mar-
riage or that her household items included objects
from around the world.99 However they never
quote her: all the reader is given (in an endnote)
are the shelfmarks of two notarized wills with
inventories of her possessions (not the sort of
document that generally includes much reflective
commentary). If Doña Isabel indeed had nothing
to say about her possessions, the authors never
show us. In the end, the most telling inconsis-
tency about an article the main point of which is
to taint the term “hybridity” is that it actually uses
“hybridity” unapologetically four times.100
The literature on French colonialism, par-
ticularly French-language scholarship, most
commonly applies the term “métissage” to hybrid-
ization, or, in the specific case of twentieth-
century French architecture in the Maghreb
and Indochina, the “architecture of association”
(which I call “associationism” for reasons I will
explain in chapter 7). Associationism is a select-
ive, artificial blend of modernism (art deco) and
indigenous styles that grew out of a new French
policy of rapprochement with the culture of the
colonized, beginning in the 1910s and 1920s, in
order better to control colonists by making the
French régime seem more indigenous. As “asso-
ciation” is a very specific historical and political
term with a narrow application, it has never
figured in the terminological debates (schol-
ars characterize it more generically as a form
of “métissage”).
“Hybridity” has been used to discuss French
colonial architecture, but primarily in English-
language studies of the Universal Exposition,
such as Patricia Morton’s Hybrid Modernities
(2000), a study of the 1931 Colonial Exposition
in Paris, the title of which is strikingly close to
Penelope Harvey’s Hybrids of Modernity (1996),
an anthropological study of the Seville Universal
Exhibition.101 Morton’s focus is not on hybrid
architecture in French colonies but instead on
how hybridity was strategically implemented in
the design of the Exposition’s pavilions: “It is my
proposition that the hybrid is not just the prod-
uct of postcolonial migrations and diasporas, but
is integral to colonial contact and is, in fact, the
result of colonialism’s institutions and systems …
The hybrid pavilions of the Exposition, neither
French nor native to the colonies, reflect specific
shifts in French colonial policy and science in
the early twentieth century.”102 The hybridity she
discusses relates to associationism and the present
book will consider such pavilions at length in
chapters 7 and 8. Their designers used hybridity to
represent French superiority over their colonized
peoples through a dichotomy between exterior
and interior. The exterior of, for instance, the So-
malia or Cameroon and Togo pavilions (and the
various Indochinese ones discussed in this book)
aimed to be “authentic” renditions of indigenous
architecture to represent the colonized as primi-
tive and frozen in time. By contrast, the interiors,
which contained the exhibitions of products and
industries of the colonies, were executed in con-
temporary style to demonstrate French progress
and justify the nation’s mission civilisatrice.103
“Métissage” has never acquired the bad reputa-
tion of its Spanish counterpart, possibly because
its application in French today is as much about
animals and plants as it is about human inter-
breeding, and it even serves as a generic term for
a mixture – a bit like “hybridity” in English. In
fact a very helpful 2010 conference, resulting in
a 2015 book by Silva Capanema et al., brought
together some forty scholars from fields as varied
as geography and Latin American modernism to
determine how different disciplines used “mé-
tissage” and whether the term should be discarded
or nuanced.104 The conference was inspired by introduction
the increasingly widespread neutral use of “mé-
tissage” globally, whether in the language of
politics and the media or in the social sciences,
and the organizers wanted to investigate how “to
make it an operational concept in human and
31
 social sciences,” despite its racial associations.105
As with Pieterse and Acheraïou’s comments about
“hybridity,” the volume advocates greater con-
textualization: instances of “métissage” depend
upon a certain time, peoples, balances of power,
and the nature of the exchange: “the fruit of
these ‘mélanges’ is never fixed.”106 The editors
played with the idea of replacing “métissage” with
“hybridity,” which they note is more prevalent in
English-language studies, but (perhaps because
of the Bhabhan baggage) they felt that it (like
“acculturation,” “creolization,” etc.) was “either
implicitly thought of as positive” or was too
one-sided, masking the complexity of individual
situations.107 They conclude that while no word is
perfect, “métissage” has precisely the “advantages
of its shortcomings: because it is old and because
it has been so thoroughly criticized, the term for-
bids – or should forbid – overconfident use,” and
also that its “catch-all aspect is also its strength”
because it embraces heterogeneous situations
and can facilitate discussions across periods and
disciplines: “this vagueness is precisely a frontier
space,” a space for discussion.108
Herbelin, one of the authors of this volume,
provides a particularly subtle reflection on archi-
tectural “métissages” (the plural helps her avoid a
monolithic conceptualization) in a 2016 book on
French Vietnam.109 She uses both “métissage” and
“hybridity” (hybridation) throughout the book,
although predominantly the former, and, like
the editors of the Capanema volume, she con-
the architecture of empire
tends that the main problem is not these terms’
racialized past, but the fact “that their application
varies according to the authors and the fields
concerned.”110 She values the term precisely for
“its generic character” and urges greater specifi-
city, using “métissage” to examine the “colonial
encounter in the architectural field empirically,
without presupposing its meaning or modes of
expression … to consider all the processes at work
32
in cultural contact.”111 “A too narrow definition
of métissage,” she adds, would mean “having the
answer to our problem before asking the ques-
tion … the polysemy of the terms of the encoun-
ter poses an epistemological problem that can
only be resolved by studying concrete processes
in specific situations.”112 Herbelin remarks that
colonists at the time could not even agree about
what to call it (although they rarely used the
term “métis”). Terms ranged from “in the style of
the land” and “in the local style,” or adapted “to
our climate” (note the possessive), to “Modern
Khmer style,” “Contemporary Annamite,” or, less
often, “Franco-Indochinese style” or “Franco-
Native” (the latter denoting the architecture of
the colonized).113 Herbelin is also interested less
in the traditional tracing of origins than in the
dynamics of métissage on the ground, particularly
in the human actors and the interactions between
material culture and society. Various social groups
were involved in métissage in Indochina, “in an
evolving and relational way, depending upon the
elements that were at stake” and different actors,
while “constrained by politics … retained an in-
dependent ability to manoeuvre.”114 There was no
dividing line between a Vietnamese, Cambodian,
or Lao “‘colonial’ imagination,” but “multiple,
entangled imaginaries that followed different tra-
jectories, both divergent and convergent.”115 We
will see these processes in action in chapter 9.
I have studied artistic and architectural blend-
ing for thirty-five years. I have looked at hybridity
in which the colonizers held most of the power
(colonial southern Peru); in which the colonized,
for a variety of reasons, had greater agency within
the colonial system (Guaraní Paraguay); and
in which the colonizers were completely at the
mercy of neighbouring non-European powers
(the French in Senegal or the British slave castles
of the West African Gold Coast).116 I have also
looked at hybridity outside a direct colonial
relationship, for instance the Qianlong emper-
or’s enthusiasm for European “exotica” in the
European-style buildings (Xiyanglou) in the
Yuanmingyuan garden outside Beijing (1759–83),
or in the taste in the Safavid Persian court for
European painting.117 Finally, I have examined
hybridity that was a product of trade: Fujianese
ivory sculptors making Chinese-style or hybrid
renditions of Christian saints for European
markets, Timurid and Safavid ceramicists who
incorporated and transformed Chinese style in
their wares as cheaper alternatives to the original
porcelains, or Swahili elites who mortared Chi-
nese ceramics into their tombs and mosques to
celebrate their international mercantile reach (the
last two examples do not involve Europeans).118
Although I have not always employed the word
“hybrid” to describe these exchanges, I have done
so more consistently recently. I am convinced
that “hybridity” is a valuable interpretive tool for
understanding cultural blending. Like Capanema
and Herbelin, I employ the term throughout this
book because it is conveniently elastic and can en-
compass a wide range of political, class, and ethnic
interactions – Acheraïou’s “complex, multifarious,
and elusive phenomenon.” As this book is in
English – and perhaps because my work in Latin
America has made me wary of a word so similar to
“mestizo” – I use “métissage” less readily, although
I have no objection to its use, particularly in
French literature.
I take heed of the urgings of Pieterse,
Acheraïou, Capanema, and Herbelin, and use
these terms empirically and contextually – based
on the primary source record and examinations
of the buildings – and not overconfidently. I
acknowledge that Empire is not simply a binary of
colonizer/colonized but involves many actors not
represented by those labels, and that hybridity can
be visible or invisible (in fact, this book includes
two prominent examples of the latter). What
fascinates me is precisely what these mixtures say
about human interaction in a given place and
time. This being academia, my use of these words
will not please everyone. But this book fits into
a growing literature in which “hybrid” has been
rehabilitated, a literature that has chosen to leave
behind the abstract, ad hominem battles of the
1990s and early 2000s in favour of focused, con-
textualized empirical observation that negotiates
the possibilities and problematics of the term with
great care and specificity.
The Origins of France’s Empire in Asia
As in the Atlantic world, the French were late-
comers to Asian colonialism. Unlike rivals such
as Britain or Portugal, France was traditionally
more concerned with expansion within Europe
than outside it – it is significant that the term
“empire” within France refers to the two contin-
ental Napoleonic empires and not, as in Britain,
to their overseas empire. France was a prosperous,
primarily agricultural nation and its people and
rulers were, for the most part, unenthusiastic
about overseas adventures – as colonialism’s
promoters from the seventeenth to twentieth
centuries would frequently lament. Other con-
temporary critics bewailed French adventurers’
violent nature – although that was hardly a char-
acteristic unique to the French. An anonymous
seventeenth-century manuscript account, prob-
ably written by Abbé Barthélemy Carré (b. 1636),
the Crown’s envoy to India in 1668–71, consid-
ers violence to be the main obstacle to French
expansion in Asia: “Oh fate of our nation! No
sooner did we French come close to making some introduction
progress than the usual curse of the French nature
began to appear: I mean, discord, quarrel, dis-
obedience, and violence against one other … Oh
woe! Oh violent nature of the French! Oh strange
nation, you who cannot toil nor establish your
33
 splendour and your glory in foreign lands!”119 In
the early modern and modern eras alike, French
colonialism had as many enemies within the
French government as among foreign rivals or
Asian peoples. The main motivation at first was a
fierce economic rivalry with the Dutch Republic
rather than a pressing need for Asian trade goods
or – even less – a desire to expand French terri-
tories outre-mer.120 Although French ventures
used chartered companies at first, from the 1660s
they came increasingly under direct Crown rule,
stifling their freedom to do business. Philippe
Haudrère remarks that this unwieldy hybrid was
“mediocre and far removed” from the ventures
of their Dutch and English competition, and
Glenn Ames concludes that for the most part “the
French were simply less successful in the Indian
Ocean trade than their European rivals.”121
The earliest European empires in Asia, the
Portuguese (Goa, 1510) and Spanish (Philippines,
1565), had the backing of the papacy and were
driven not merely by a desire for profit but, more
significantly, by a militant anti-Islamic crusader
spirit linked to the reconquest of the Iberian con-
tinent from Muslim rule with expulsion of the last
Muslim stronghold, Nasrid Granada, in 1492. The
Portuguese promoted a particularly vicious means
of conquest – Roger Crowley calls it a “berserker
fighting style” – an almost suicidal quest for hero-
ism fuelled by a culture of knightly chivalry.122
Britain and the Dutch Republic, which operated
through chartered companies rather than as royal
the architecture of empire
enterprises – the East India Company (eic ,
founded 1600), and the Vereenigde Oostindische
Compagnie (voc , founded 1602) – were inter-
ested neither in spreading the gospel nor (very
much) in national glory but in stealing Portugal’s
trading posts, and they were better than the Iber-
ian powers at bribing Asian rulers and playing the
diplomatic game.123 But they were hardly peace-
ful negotiators: the voc pursued a specifically
34
“warlike policy” that was “coordinated, well-
financed, and forceful,” lending their ships to the
Dutch Republic in times of need in return for
state support for aggression in Asia, particularly
against the Portuguese.124 England (Great Britain
after the 1707 Treaty of Union) had the backing
of the Crown but the monarch always kept the
eic at arm’s length – letting them pay for their
mistakes and sending them a bill if the Royal
Navy had to be called in to help.125
France’s entrée into Asian trade was slow and
hesitant. Before the early sixteenth century the
French had only a “vague and distorted” know-
ledge of the continent, although products from
the Spice Islands (Moluccas) had made it into
Parisian cuisine as early as the fourteenth.126
In 1517, soon after the Portuguese made direct
contact with India (1510) and the Moluccas (1513)
by rounding the Cape of Good Hope, the busi-
nessmen of Rouen petitioned King François I
(r. 1515–47) to challenge Portugal’s monopoly.127
François supported several initiatives by the
Dieppe shipowner Jean Ango (1480–1551). The
first, formed of three ships under the Floren-
tine brother navigators Giovanni and Girolamo
Verrazano and financed by Italian bankers in
Lyon, departed Honfleur for the Indian Ocean
in June 1526 via the less closely guarded Straits
of Magellan, but a storm prevented two ships
from rounding Cape Horn and they returned.128
The third ship rode the prevailing westerly winds
to Sumatra with the help of “a very fine and
very well made map.”129 But they had little luck
bargaining for spices and the islanders ambushed
and killed some of the sailors and the pilot. The
ship retreated toward France via the Maldives but
was wrecked off the coast of Madagascar and the
sailors barely made it to Mozambique alive. The
Portuguese swiftly shipped them home.
In 1527 a fourth ship, the Marie-de-Bon-
Secours, ironically under the guidance of a
Portuguese pilot, departed Honfleur for the same
destination and reached Diu on the northwest
coast of India in 1529, whereupon it was seized by
the Sultan of Gujarat. The incarcerated crew were
reduced to begging the Portuguese government in
Goa for their freedom.130 Undeterred, Ango tried
again in 1529 with two ships, the Sacré and Pensée,
which left Dieppe under the command of the
brothers Jean and Raoul Parmentier and with the
guidance of another Portuguese pilot, naming
islands after France along the way.131 Starved and
scorbutic by the time they rounded the Cape
of Good Hope, they made an emergency stop
at Madagascar on 26 July 1529 to purchase live
animals and food with rosaries and bonnets.132
Two days later however the islanders speared
three sailors to death and the ship fled. This short
but violent visit marked the beginning of France’s
long and unhappy relationship with the Malagasy
people: Madagascar soon became the first place
in the Indian Ocean claimed by France, and it
used that claim to justify making it a protectorate
three and a half centuries later in 1895. The rest
of the Parmentier voyage was equally hapless: the
ships reached the south of Sumatra but found no
spices there, and both brothers perished at sea on
their return to France.133 The expedition may have
been a disaster but it lived on in literature and in
the French national narrative: a celebrated poet,
Jean Parmentier wrote a meditation during the
voyage about God’s glory as reflected in travel, the
seas, and natural phenomena, which encouraged
further explorations.134 Published posthumously,
it was also the first work to associate royal glory
(gloire du roi) with overseas adventures, a specif-
ically French trope that Louis XIV and Colbert
would seize upon 134 years later.135
But, with the death of both King François
and Ango, interest waned in Asian travel and
Henri IV turned his attention to the Americas,
beaver pelts and cod producing more tangible
wealth than a few sacks of low-grade pepper.
Throughout the early modern period the Amer-
ican colonies had the advantage of proximity:
it took much less time and expense to get there
than to Asia and promised quicker returns on
investments. France also began to make serious
efforts to colonize North America, founding the
earliest settlements between 1603 and 1608 and
increasing commercial activity through char-
tered companies (1608–63) of merchants such
as Cardinal Richelieu’s Compagnie des Cent-
Associés (founded 1627).136 But after the Dutch
penetrated the Indian Ocean in 1594 and attacked
Portuguese strongholds – and especially with the
foundation of the English and Dutch East India
Companies – the French Crown and merchants
once again eyed out Asia.137 They were further en-
couraged by the first round-the-world voyage by a
Frenchman, Pierre-Olivier Malherbe (1569–1616),
who returned in 1609 after twenty-seven years at
sea with tales of wonders and riches.138
Fellow Breton François Pyrard (1578–1623)
made the first outward voyage of the new century
in one of two ships sailing from Saint-Malo in
1601 belonging to the newly formed Compagnie
des Mers Orientales and led by Dutch pilots.
Hoping to reach the Moluccas, he lost forty crew
to disease while trying to build a fort in Mada-
gascar, was shipwrecked in the Maldives, was
held prisoner by a governor in Bengal, and was
indentured to the Portuguese for two years before
returning in 1610.139 Like Jean Parmentier before
him, he celebrated his fruitless voyage with a vain-
glorious text: this time a bestselling book (1619)
exhorting his countrymen to break the Spanish
and Portuguese monopoly, “to seek the route to introduction
the Indies, to show it to the French people; in
short to draw from the source.”140 Interestingly he
also gets to the heart of why France was such a late
starter in colonial expansion: “The abundance of
all sorts of goods which France produces, & the
35
 great number of graces with which divine good-
ness so liberally enriches the land, may have been
the reason why the French have neglected the sea
for so long.”141 As noted above, this lack of en-
thusiasm for colonialism among ordinary French
people – France’s “traditional preference for
dynastic gains on the continent” – would plague
its overseas empire throughout its history.142
The second ship did better, reaching Sumatra
and bringing home two million livres worth of
goods.143 Henri IV invited its surgeon, François
Martin de Vitré (1575–1631), to court to inform
him about the possibilities of Asian commerce
and in 1604 the king granted a fifteen-year charter
to a “Société … pour le Voyage des Indes Ori-
entales” financed by the merchants of Dieppe,
Rouen, and Saint-Malo to trade in the East Indies,
although thanks to a combination of infighting
and politics the first ship did not depart until
1613.144 In an echo of Pyrard’s comment the king’s
minister Maximilien de Béthune, duc de Sully
(1559–1641) remarked that Asian adventures ran
“contrary to the nature and mind of the French.”
Nevertheless, the voyage was a success, and the
Company was reorganized in 1615 in Rouen as the
“Compagnie des Moluques [Moluccas].”145 The
next year, with the backing of Flemish merchants
it sent three ships to the Indian Ocean, landing
in Pondicherry, but they did not stay long even
though a local ruler invited them to build a fac-
tory there. They returned to France with a cargo
of pepper, indigo, diamonds, and other goods –
the architecture of empire
and a letter saying that the Dutch would no
longer permit French ships to enter the ports of
the Indonesian archipelago. Undiscouraged, three
more left Saint-Malo and reached Sumatra in
1619; the Dutch promptly seized two of them and
the third escaped, arriving in Le Havre in 1622.
At the Treaty of Compiègne (1624) Sully’s
successor Richelieu (1585–1642) finally obtained
a concession from the Dutch not to harass French
36
ships in the East Indies, and after 1630 a steady
stream of vessels from a new “Société dieppoise”
sailed from northern ports to the Indian Ocean,
making temporary bases in Madagascar and
reconnaissance trips to the Indian coast, the
Persian Gulf, and the Spice Islands.146 In 1642 the
“Compagnie française d’Orient” (or “de Madagas-
car”) was formed with nine associates, including
Cardinal Jules Mazarin (1602–1661) and finance
minister Nicolas Fouquet (1615–1680), and it was
granted a twenty-year monopoly on visiting “the
Island of Madagascar and other adjacent islands
to found commerce and industry there.” 147 It sent
five fleets over the next seven years, settling at first
near Sainte-Luce Bay (Manafiafy), a place where
the Dutch had recently purchased fruit, rice, and
boiled milk from a king who spoke Portuguese.
In contrast to earlier enterprises they also
sought to settle French colonists in Madagascar
and Île Mascareigne (renamed Île Bourbon);
however only 300 made the journey: to put this
in context the French had already settled about
2,500 colonists in North America and 7,000
colonists and enslaved Africans in the Caribbean
by this time.148 Company agent Jacques Pronis
(d. 1655), a Protestant from La Rochelle, was put
in charge of the Sainte-Luce colony, which was
also the first to include missionaries, Lazarist
priests with grand plans to convert the islanders
but who had their hands full with the mostly Hu-
guenot settlers (as an incentive to French settlers
the king guaranteed them freedom of religion).149
Two hundred additional colonists followed as
French fleets rounded the Cape of Good Hope
at the rate of about one a year, bringing home
spices, leather, aloe, sandalwood, and rubber. But
only about forty people stayed in Madagascar and
the settlement was short-lived, tropical disease
reducing the population to fourteen.150 In 1643
Pronis fled 40 kilometres south to Taolagnaro,
which he christened Fort Dauphin in honour
of the man who became Louis XIV that very
year and supervised the construction of a new
fort and settlement. I will take up the disas-
trous history and fate of that fort – meant to be
France’s equivalent of Dutch Cape Town – in the
next chapter.
The Compagnie des Indes Orientales (cio )
Fort Dauphin was the first project of France’s
answer to England’s eic and the Dutch Repub-
lic’s voc : the Compagnie des Indes Orientales
(cio ), founded by Colbert in 1664. Created by
royal edict and headquartered on rue Saint-
Martin in Paris, the Company directly repre-
sented the nation in a way its rivals did not: its
mission was to extend “the power of the King”
beyond the Cape of Good Hope, to acquire and
manage territories, and to negotiate agreements
with local rulers. But it also had a commercial
purpose, aiming to reduce the kingdom’s reliance
on foreign middlemen in obtaining spices, pepper,
cotton fabrics, and silks from Asia, and to keep
the English and the Dutch from gaining all the
profits.151 It was therefore a joint-stock company
under government control, modelled directly on
the voc but run by the state. Colbert originally
sought the participation of Antwerp traders
with knowledge of the Asia trade, but the latter
wisely declined, “apprehensive that the manage-
ment would be taken away from the interested
merchants and monopolized by the king.”152 The
new Company was run by a board of known as
directeurs généraux (in imitation of the voc ’s
Heeren XVII, or “Seventeen Gentlemen,” but
only twelve in number at first), and it was oper-
ated in India by agents. Although the project had
Louis XIV’s backing, he “remained a king of war
and land” and was content to leave such maritime
projects to his minister.153 Dirk van der Cruysse
commented on the failure of French expeditions
to the East Indies in the seventeenth century:
“Poorly led and poorly organized, unfamiliar
with the local cultures and little inclined to
understand them, they considered the flexibility
of the Dutch and the English as perhaps suit-
able for a race of heretics, but incompatible with
French grandeur.”154
The main problem with the cio was its hybrid
nature. Like its Atlantic counterpart, the Com-
pagnie des Indes Occidentales (founded in the
same year and in charge not only of American
trade and exploration but also of the African slave
trade), it was founded not by merchant sharehold-
ers (as in London or Amsterdam) but by the gov-
ernment, which, however, underplayed the state’s
role so as not to scare off investors. It was thus a
share capitalist company in name alone: it was
shunned by mercantile circles and Colbert had
total control over shareholders’ meetings, using
a management style that was more like that of a
government bureau than a commercial venture.155
The directeurs généraux were named by the king,
who also ordered mayors and magistrates of the
principal cities of France to obtain subscrip-
tions.156 Colbert raised funds “by fair means and
foul,” in Paris, the major provincial cities, and
even in The Hague and Antwerp, matching the
king’s three million livres with two more from
the court, two from the financial sector, and
1.2 million from the sovereign courts, 1 million
from Lyon, 550,000 from Rouen, 400,000 from
Bordeaux, 200,000 from Nantes, 150,000 from
Tours, 100,000 from Saint-Malo, and, propor-
tionately, from almost all the cities of France.157
The idea was to build a body representative of the
country, again on the model of the Heeren XVII, introduction
who represented the major cities of the Dutch
Republic: Amsterdam, Middelburg, Rotterdam,
Delft, Hoorn, Enkhuizen, and Zeeland.
The French merchant class never generated
sufficient capital, and the cio ended up relying
37
 on the nobility and the monarchy: although it
was “camouflaged as issued shares, it was a kind
of obligatory loan, destined to provide funds to
a royal enterprise.”158 Yet even state patronage
was uneven. As Philippe Haudrère explains, it is
impossible to raise a large amount of capital “in
a kingdom divided between numerous fiscal and
para-fiscal regimes, with internal customs forming
barriers between foreign commercial markets” –
whereas the Netherlands and England each had a
single national market at the end of the sixteenth
century.159 Paris simply did not have the economic
muscle of the City of London or the Amsterdam
Exchange.160 The cio ’s first subscription raised
a mere 8,179,885 livres, just over half of Colbert’s
goal of 15 million, and merchants were a “feeble
minority” among the subscribers: “one sees here
the difference between this royal enterprise
and the Dutch or English companies, created
spontaneously by associations of merchants, ad-
ministered by elected committees, and independ-
ent of the government.”161
Another impediment to the cio ’s success –
which resulted from French ignorance of Asian
trade – was Colbert’s insistence that France trade
only French manufactured goods for Asian
products, because the minister was determined
not to allow precious metals out of the coun-
try. Yet in India specie were essential in making
transactions and French products such as woollen
blankets were useless in a tropical climate: this
was no news to France’s Asian comptoirs, but
the architecture of empire
they were unable to communicate these realities
to Paris quickly enough. Soon the cio gained a
reputation across India for being unreliable and
short of money.162 The Company was also so
poorly supplied with transportation that it relied
on British ships – even at a time of war.163 Marie
Ménard-Jacob concludes that “Colbert’s Com-
pagnie was an undeniable financial and economic
38
failure … the Company was, well before the end of
its monopoly, totally ruined.”164
A further conflict of interest was caused by
the missionaries who inevitably accompan-
ied the cio on their journeys and settled in
their factories, even those run by Protestants, as
in Jacques Pronis’s comptoirs at Sainte-Luce
and Fort-Dauphin. As the next three chapters
attest, missionaries’ goals – to win the souls of
non-Christians – ran contrary to the interests
of the merchants and placed the two groups at
loggerheads. Even in Third Republic Indochina,
long after the cio ’s demise in 1790, French mis-
sionaries constantly quarrelled with the secularist
state, even though the missionaries’ presence in
Indochina had been France’s main excuse for in-
vading the region in the first place (see chapter 5).
By contrast the Dutch and English/British were
all business. Although Company chaplains lived
among them and modest churches were built to
satisfy the European community (figs. 1.13–14),
pastors merely served as chaplains to the Euro-
peans: “men who carried out the duties of an
eighteenth-century parson to British congrega-
tions without excessive energy or zeal … The East
India Company had no desire to anglicize India or
convert it to Christianity, and it was determined
to avoid alarming Hindus and Muslims by giving
them the impression that it did.”165 In fact there
were no missionaries in British India before 1813
when Parliament forced the eic to accept them.
Upon Colbert’s death in 1683, the marquis de
Seignelay (1651–1690) restructured the Com-
pany with an infusion of 700,000 livres, and in
1.13 (oppoSiTe Top ) St Mary’s (Fort) Church, Fort
St George, Madras, 1680, exterior of nave.
1.14 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Colombo (Sri Lanka),
Wolvendaal Dutch Christian Reform Church, 1749.
 1687 he raised the number of directors-general
to twenty, each with a subscription of 60,000
livres. Nevertheless, this attempt to raise funds by
making more positions was inefficient – not to
mention that merchants and financiers did not
get along. His successor Louis II Phélypeaux de
Pontchartrain (1643–1727) was more interested
in the Americas than with Asia and placed the
cio in the hands of his son Jérôme (1674–1747),
by which time it was “a debt-ridden company.”166
By the turn of the eighteenth century the direc-
tors showed so little enthusiasm that barely half
of them attended the four weekly meetings, even
after an attendance bonus was offered beginning
in 1702.167 In 1715 the Company was renamed the
Compagnie des Indes de Saint-Malo when the
rich trading families of the Breton port became
majority shareholders.168 In 1719 France’s Scottish-
born charlatan banker John Law gained control
of the cio as part of a super-company called the
“Compagnie perpétuelle des Indes,” incorporat-
ing the Compagnie du Sénégal, the Compagnie
de Chine, the Compagnie du Mississippi, and the
Compagnie de la Louisiane.169 Law’s Company
was aimed primarily at supplying enslaved Af-
ricans to the plantations of North America and
the Circum-Caribbean – the role of its Asian
wing was to provide textiles for African rulers as
payment for slaves. A pared-down cio regained
its independence in 1720 and kept its name until
1769 (after its fortunes were devastated by the
Seven Years War), was briefly revived in 1770 as
the architecture of empire
the Compagnie des Indes orientales et de la Chine
and, from 1785, as the Nouvelle Compagnie des
Indes, and met its final demise during the French
Revolution.170 The next chapter looks at the early
40
years of the Company, its mistakes and contra-
dictions, but also the ability of its more talented
agents to found the first outposts of France’s
empire in India.
French colonialism in Asia was hampered not
merely by a lack or misuse of funds or by wide-
spread indifference or hostility to overseas
expansion from within France, but by funda-
mental, systemic contradictions within both
the ancien régime cio and the nineteenth- and
twentieth-century French governments: between
promoters and enemies of colonialism at home;
between a state interested in promoting its “glory”
and merchants trying to make a profit; between
both of those groups and Catholic missionaries,
who engaged with and antagonized indigenous
populations in a way that was counterproductive
to French diplomacy or trade; and between the
promotion of prestige architectural projects – an
extension of the desire for gloire related to a pecu-
liarly French desire to advertise itself as a place of
high culture – and the more practical needs of the
people in the colonies, colonists and colonized
alike. France’s colonies in Asia never stood on a
sure footing: whether in India or Indochina (or in
Siam, where their colonial project was stillborn)
they were founded on the flimsiest of pretences,
dependent upon unstable relationships with
neighbouring states, and constantly threatened
internally by dissent and violence. France’s two
colonial Asian empires may have been separated
by nearly a hundred years, but among the com-
monalities they shared over the centuries, this fra-
gility and tendency toward failure were arguably
the most salient.
2
origins
Fort Dauphin, Surat, Pondicherry ca 1672

The next two chapters focus on the seventeenth century and on

France’s first attempts to found colonies and factories in the Indian
Ocean and Southeast Asia: a catastrophic bid to create a Gallic
Cape Town at Fort Dauphin in Madagascar (1643–74); a trading
factory in Surat (founded 1668) that was never more than mod-
estly remunerative; the short-lived first comptoir at Pondicherry
(1674–93); and the spectacularly high-profile but ultimately disas-
trous venture to convert, win over, and conquer the Kingdom of
Siam between 1662 and 1688. The latter escapade forever changed
Louis XIV’s court ceremonial at Versailles, and, in Siam, it resulted
in a rich and long-lasting legacy of Franco-Siamese architecture,
which will form the subject of chapter 3.
The first half of this chapter will consider the architecture of
Fort Dauphin, France’s first settlement in the Indian Ocean, of
which we can gain a detailed picture thanks to a contemporary
drawing and several descriptions; it will end with a brief consider-
ation of the little we know about the architecture of the comptoirs
in Surat, Pondicherry, and Chandernagore (founded 1690). Then,
as background to the analysis of Franco-Siamese architecture in
chapter 3, the second half of this chapter will consider the compli-
cated history of the Franco-Siamese exchange, with an emphasis
on the six embassies and the activities of the two main missionary
groups, the Jesuits and the Missions-Étrangères de Paris (mep ).
This interaction between two great powers – the first between
 France and an East Asian nation – is an episode of
extraordinary complexity, driven by outsized per-
sonalities with entangled loyalties, and its history
has been so coloured by glittering events (opulent
court ceremonies, exorbitantly expensive gift
exchanges) and by tragedy (shipwrecks, betrayals,
insults, executions, and torture) that it reads like
fiction. Although there is an immense literature
on these events – indeed no other part of this
book can count on such a volume of primary
and secondary literature – so much attention has
been paid to the temperaments and actions of
the dramatis personae and to the swashbuckling
adventure stories that punctuate the encounter
that the details of what really happened, and par-
ticularly the chronology of the events, are frustrat-
ingly hard to follow. I have therefore taken great
care to piece together the sequence of episodes
in as objective a manner possible so that I can get
the stories out of the way and use chapter 3 to focus
on the architecture, which is more fascinating
than has ever been acknowledged and deserves
a chapter of its own. The buildings in chapter 3
include, in my opinion, some of the most extra-
ordinary examples of architectural hybridity of
any early modern European/non-European cul-
tural exchange, ranking with the Andean-Spanish
baroque churches of seventeenth-century Peru
and the Qianlong emperor’s Xiyanglou pavilions
at Yuanmingyuan.
In this period of awkward first contacts,
France’s neophyte chartered companies – the
the architecture of empire
Compagnie française d’Orient (cfo ) and (from
1664) the Compagnie des Indes (cio ) – strug-
gled to gain traction, never approaching the
profitability of the more seasoned English East
India Company (eic ) and Dutch Vereenigde
Oostindische Compagnie (voc ). The cio was
badly organized and underfunded, the navigators
and merchants were inexperienced, and France
had neither the ships nor the manpower to carve
42
out a successful trading empire in Asia. They were
also oblivious to the trade networks and alliances
that had existed in the Indian Ocean and Siam for
centuries before the arrival of Western Europeans
and the delicate diplomacy that was required to
operate within them: trade in these ports “de-
pended on trust, familiarity, and reputation,” and
French agents in the seventeenth century had
a difficult time gaining any of them.1 They also
suffered directly from Louis XIV’s bellicosity in
Europe: whenever France was at war the activ-
ities of the cio suffered in Asia, as the trading
posts were cut off from Europe by the superior
navies of their adversaries.2 And far from being
a fifth column in the service of French coloni-
alism, French missionaries fought so virulently
with each other that they were more hindrance
than help and gave Frenchmen a bad reputation
across Asia, most calamitously in Siam. As M.N.
Pearson puts it, “[t]he French seem never to have
quite got it right.”3 These two chapters are about
contradictions and conflicts: between merchants
and missionaries, would-be colonizers and in-
digenous powers, Catholics and Protestants, and
the wildly utopian expectations of the French
court and the paltry and futile consequences of
those expectations.
The architecture of French foundations in the
Indian Ocean and Southeast Asia in the seven-
teenth century directly reflects the haphazard, un-
planned trajectory of France’s colonial enterprise
in the region under Louis XIV and the degree of
interest the king showed in it. French agents (the
Crown, cio , and missionaries) did not pursue
the kind of homogeneous architectural program
that developed in France beginning in the 1660s, a
style meant to represent visually both what Louis
referred to as “la gloire du roi,” the kingdom’s
self-proclaimed status as the capital of avant-garde
architecture, and France’s belief in the universality
of its taste.4 The classical baroque “grand goût”
2.1 Louis Le Vau and others, south facade of the Louvre,
Paris, begun 1668.
of Louis Le Vau (1612–1670), Claude Perrault
(1613–1688), and Jules Hardouin-Mansart
(1646–1708), along with interiors by Charles Le
Brun (1619–1690) and vast perspective gardens
by André Le Nôtre (1613–1700), projected the
king’s image as both a divinely guided ruler
and a valiant warrior, and the monumental
fortress-cities of Sébastien Le Prestre de Vauban
(1633–1707), forming France’s celebrated ceinture
de fer (“iron belt”), quite literally secured Louis’s
aggressive expansion of French borders (figs. 1.4,
2.1). Architecture was standardized across France
to proclaim unity, stability, and legitimacy in a
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
kingdom that had just emerged from the Fronde
civil war (1648–53). Jean-Baptiste Colbert, super-
intendent of the King’s Buildings from 1664 and
head of the Academy of Architecture from 1671,
was the main proponent of French architectural
style, but the king also supervised royal building
projects personally – indeed maniacally – out of
his belief that monumental architecture creates,
in his words, “a highly advantageous impression
of splendour, power, wealth, and grandeur.”5
A fusion of classical rationalism with baroque
material opulence, the “grand goût” is character-
ized by rectilinear geometry and a preference for
balance and elegance over dynamism and whimsy.
43
 Its trademark was a kind of uniform facade, based
ultimately on Louis Le Vau’s south facade of the
Louvre (begun 1668) (fig. 2.1), with plain or
rusticated ground floors with arched windows
or blind arcades, first and second storeys united
by giant-order pilasters and high rectangular
windows and a flat balustrade or mansard roof
with dormers.
Louis XIV, like Napoleon I after him, was
a continental empire builder, ruthlessly invad-
ing Dutch and Germanic territories to expand
his realm and securing alliances through royal
marriages.6 He was less concerned with overseas
expansion, although he recognized the import-
ance of settling and exploiting the Western
Hemisphere colonies. By contrast, his interests
in the Asian exploits of the chartered companies,
although genuine, were mercantile and diplo-
matic. The monarch’s attitudes toward his empires
are directly reflected in their architecture. France’s
Western Hemisphere colonies were already
starting to replicate French metropolitan forms,
including late Renaissance- and baroque-style
government buildings and plantation houses,
classicizing churches, and Vaubanian bastioned
stone citadels (the 1696 citadel at Cayenne was
actually designed by Vauban), as well as grid-
plan urbanistic schemes with “places royales”
(Parisian-inspired city squares built in honour of
the king).7 Although these were not all govern-
ment commissions they do demonstrate a higher
degree of engagement with the Western colonies
the architecture of empire
as investors, wealthy settlers, and religious orders
contributed significantly to the built environ-
ment. Some early commissions were quite spec-
tacular, like the opulent three-storey Château de
la Montagne on Saint-Christophe (Saint Kitts,
1639–40), begun by builders sent from France,
in the style of a country seat by François Man-
sart (1598–1666).8 Architecture in the Western
colonies became more standardized over the
44
course of the seventeenth century as royal engin-
eer architects increasingly dominated the colonial
built environment.
By contrast, the buildings examined in these
two chapters were not designed or built by royal
engineers but by amateurs (whether Company
men or missionaries) and small-time French
craftsmen – or, in the case of India or Siam, by
skilled Indian or Siamese architects and masons.
Except for the boisterous little Jesuit church of
Notre-Dame (or La-bienheureuse-Vierge-Marie)
in Chandernagore (figs. 2.13–14) and the cio
headquarters there with its eleven-bay Doric
arcade and baroque belfry festooned with finials
(fig. 2.23), most were too rudimentary to project
much of an image of the French presence beyond
a few flagpoles and small ornamental gates. They
run the gamut from basic palisaded forts of the
sort that was pioneered in the early years of Amer-
ican colonization, structures made with pieces
of wrecked ships, borrowed buildings (from the
Danish and Mughals), rapidly and poorly built
earthwork forts – one was aptly named Fort
Barlong, or “Lopsided Rectangle” (1689) – and,
in Siam and perhaps India, hybrid structures. This
latter was the most radical departure from French
architecture in the Americas after the era of first
contact. Only in Louis XV’s Pondicherry and in
Belle Époque Indochina does the “grand goût”
approach to architecture appear – and reappear –
in the Eastern Hemisphere.
Fort Dauphin’s Turbulent History
Fort Dauphin in Madagascar (1643–74), the first
long-term French colony in the Indian Ocean
and a settlement the cfo and cio had hoped to
populate with French colonists, plant with cash
crops, and use as a springboard for Asian trade,
was such an unmitigated disaster that it is surpris-
ing that it did not convince the cio to give up on
Asia trade altogether (fig. 2.2). The colony’s cat-
astrophic failure was not merely the result of the
contradictions noted above but also of reckless
insensitivity and violence toward the indigenous
Malagasy, who wielded the real power and could
expel the French at will – precisely the violence
Abbé Carré considered to be a fundamental part
of the French character. The Abbé went so far as
to call Fort Dauphin “the cause of the ruin of the
French projects in the Orient.”9 It was a place of
famine and violence and ended in a bloodbath.
Built on a rocky promontory on the southeast
corner of the island, Fort Dauphin’s initial draw
was its location as a stopover on the way to India
and Southeast Asia to obtain fresh food with
cheap barter goods, including, according to a con-
temporary source: “painted Callicoes, and Linen
Cloaths, Cornelians, Bracelets, and Necklaces of
Silver, Copper, and Tin; Iron is of great esteem
among them, because they have none in the
whole Island; But above all the rest, Aqua vitae,
which they call Chi-caf, and signifies as much as
burning Wine; these they truck for Wine, Beef,
Fruits, Honey, (of which they have great store,)
and sometimes for Gold.”10 But the first French
settlers under the auspices of the cfo had vastly
different ideas about what they were doing there:
some sought imperial grandeur, Christian con-
version, and adventure; others looked for easy sex
and escape into the interior; while yet others tried
to get rich enslaving islanders and selling them to
the Dutch on Mauritius. This latter enterprise
unsurprisingly earned them the hostility of in-
digenous rulers (raoandriana, or kings) who had
tolerated the French precisely as a defence against
Dutch slavers.11 Another utopian scheme was to
found tobacco plantations on the Martinique
model using Malagasy slaves, as ninety colonists
sent in 1644 were tasked with doing, but it never
got off the ground.12 French colonists had little
knowledge of the political environment of the
surrounding kingdoms: considering all islanders
to be basically the same, they were blind to the
diversity of Madagascar’s indigenous population
and the enmities that existed between groups.
Fort Dauphin was in the territory of the An-
tanosy, a fragmented group with multiple raoan-
driana claiming dominance, who in turn were
opposed to the neighbouring Antemoro people.13
Although the French learned to manipulate
these rivalries for their own benefit, on the whole
they evinced an astonishing ignorance of island
culture – Philippe Bonnichon calls the relation-
ship a “drama of misunderstanding” – that led to
Malagasy hostility and the paradox that French
settlers were starving in an island of victualling
and were forced to plant crops adjacent the fort
on a piece of land so large that it dwarfed the
village.14 First governor Jacques Pronis, a Hugue-
not who enslaved Malagasy people to sell to the
Dutch despite being married to a well-connected
local woman named Andrianramarivelle and
having forged alliances with indigenous kings,
ran the colony like a personal fief between 1643
and 1648.15 His men were forced to labour in the
fields – Pronis referred to them as his “slaves” to
his Malagasy in-laws – and they were furious that
their leader did not employ the local “blacks” to
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
do the work. They were even more incensed that
he lavished food upon his island family while
habitants starved.16 Unsurprisingly, many of them
revolted, including twelve mutineers who were
exiled to Île Bourbon (Réunion) in 1646.17 Arthur
Malotet puts it politely: “Pronis does not seem …
to have brought together the qualities necessary
for a director and a colony founder.”18 By the time
he was replaced in 1648 only twenty-eight French
people were living on the coast, the rest inland
with their island wives. He returned to France
in 1650.
Pronis’s successor, cfo general-director
Étienne de Flacourt (1607–1660), arrived in 1648
45
2.2 Étienne de Flacourt, Fort-
Dauphin Drawn on the Spot by
Sieur de Flacourt, 1650–59. Ink on
paper, 20 × 29 cm. Bibliothèque
Nationale de France (BNf ),
Département cartes et plans. The
drawing depicts the fort, housing
for the colons, the house and
garden of Sieur de Flacourt, and
the cemetery and chapel. The fort
is entirely of palisades except for
the wall facing the sea. The crops
being grown to feed the colonists
dwarf the small settlement
and fort.
 with eighty colonists and the Lazarist priests
Charles Nacquard and Nicolas Gondrée (both of
whom died shortly after their arrival), and he was
no more effective in spite of his lofty ambitions
and a serious interest in the island’s geography,
naturalia, and ethnography – in fact he wrote
a book about it in 1658 for which he is under-
standably better regarded than for his record as a
governor.19 A poet and man of (Catholic) faith,
Flacourt was concerned about the lax state of reli-
gion in the settlement: in the preface to his book,
dedicated to the soon-to-be deposed finance min-
ister Nicolas Fouquet, he exhorted the latter to
send more “Ecclesiastics, Priests, and Preachers to
convert her Peoples, & teach them the Mysteries
of the true Religion.”20 However his fervour was
precisely the problem: his priests’ “untimely zeal
for the forcible conversion of the natives” served
only to further antagonize the islanders, who were
hostile to the alien religion.21
The Compagnie française d’Orient promised
regular support and provisions, but as France
was then embroiled in the Fronde they were not
forthcoming. After seven years, only about 50
out of 180 colonists were still alive and they were
starving.22 Flacourt became so desperate that he
attempted to escape to Île Bourbon in a boat.23
When two ships finally did arrive in 1654, sent by
Richelieu’s cousin the maréchal de La Meilleraye
(1632–1713), it was to relieve Flacourt of his office
and – incredibly – to reinstate Pronis. Flacourt
departed for France on 12 February 1655, shortly
the architecture of empire
before a rifle shot hit the guardhouse roof and
ignited a three-day fire that consumed the fort.24
Pronis died in May of that year, while directing
Fort Dauphin’s reconstruction. In 1660 Flacourt
was ordered back to Madagascar as governor on
a ship with further colonists and six Recollect
priests, but all hands perished when the ship was
attacked by Barbary pirates off Lisbon in 1660.25
Luc de Champmargou was appointed the new
governor in his stead in 1656.26
48
The foundation of the cio in 1664 did noth-
ing to improve the situation in Madagascar, even
though Colbert envisioned building a “French
Batavia” at Fort Dauphin to rival the Dutch
colonial headquarters in Java (quite an upgrade
from a French Cape Town), and the articles
of the charter specifically made the conversion of
the islanders to Catholicism a priority.27 But
Madagascar was hardly an ideal base for colonial
or mercantile expansion in Asia as it took two
months to get from there to India and four to
reach East Asia.28 In 1665 four company ships
departing Brest for Fort Dauphin carried the new
governor Pierre de Beausse (d. 1665) and his suc-
cessor M. de Montaubon, 212 crew members, and
279 merchants, clerks, and colonists, four more
Lazarist missionaries, builders, craftsmen, and gar-
deners, and, for the first time, thirty-two women
and some children. In order to further expand
the population, sexual unions between French-
men and Malagasy women were encouraged by
a decree that the offspring of a European and
non-European union, providing they were Cath-
olic, would automatically gain French citizen-
ship.29 Although received with a Te Deum, a firing
of cannons, and an inspection of musketeers, the
colonists were “rapidly exterminated” by disease
and in-fighting: eleven priests alone died, includ-
ing one axed by a local king.30 In 1666 a squadron
of ten ships left La Rochelle for Madagascar under
François de Lopis, marquis de Mondevergue, with
the grand title of “lieutenant général du Roi dans
l’île Dauphine” (Île Dauphine was Madagascar’s
new name), with 1,688 crew, officers, and soldiers,
and 1,055 merchants and settlers, many of them
debtors recruited by broadsides on the streets
of French cities that promised to cancel their
arrears.31 Owing to an emergency which required
them to berth at Pernambuco (Brazil), they took
a year to get to Fort Dauphin, by which time the
famished passengers had consumed all the food
meant to relieve the colonists.
 The cio failed at Fort Dauphin for the same
reason as the cfo : the French did not know what
to do with the colony. If the fort were meant
simply as a stopover on the way to India or a
comptoir for trade, it made no sense to recruit
settlers or get involved in disruptive missionary
work – it would have been far more practical to
leave the religion of the raoandriana alone and
stick to business as the Dutch would have done.32
A colony also required massive financial backing
to allow habitants to grow enough food to feed
themselves – never mind plant cash crops. Col-
bert insisted on making Fort Dauphin a colony
while company merchants wanted to focus on the
India trade and use Madagascar only as a vict-
ualling stop. The French also made no sustained
effort to appease the Antanosy, treating them as
objects of ridicule and disgust. Gabriel Dellon’s
attitude in 1685 sums it up: “[T]he inhabitants of
this Island are for the generality Black, Treacher-
ous, Savage and Cruel … they Anoint their Bodies
with a certain stinking Grease, which together
with their Natural Ugliness, renders them the
nastiest People in the Universe.”33 Even Pronis
had more respect for them than that.
Admitting defeat, the cio ceded Madagascar
to the royal domain in 1669 and abolished the
island’s supreme council: Louis XIV was furious
about the fortune squandered on the useless
colony, writing in 1669: “the company is com-
promised in the opinion of the whole of my king-
dom.”34 Carré dismissed the whole Madagascar
enterprise as being “founded on chimerical tales
which merit punishment rather than praise.”35 But
the cio held onto their monopoly on the East
Indies trade, and that is where they now directed
their attention. In fact part of the 1665–66 fleet,
under renegade voc old-Asia-hand François
Caron (1600–1673), had already sailed onward
to the Mughal city of Surat in northwest India,
where the cio established its first base in 1668 (a
“loge” for dwelling and a “comptoir” for trading),
and cio agent François Martin (1634–1706),
who reached Surat in 1669, was sent that year to
the Coromandel Coast of southeast India, where
he founded another comptoir at Pondicherry in
1674.36 The remainder of the fleet departed Mada-
gascar in 1671: “His Majesty’s Fleet, after having
remained nine months at Fort Dauphin without
having accomplished anything of note, resolved in
the end to depart for the East Indies; and they set
sail on the end of the month of July 1671.”37 The
colony at Fort Dauphin limped along for another
three years until a 1674 massacre killed more than
half of the survivors and sent the remaining sixty-
three fleeing for Surat and Île Bourbon, where
(in the latter) they would contribute to a stable
European population of a colony that remains
French to this day.38
The Architecture of Fort Dauphin
Fort Dauphin may have failed as a colony, but
since the settlement included the first relatively
long-lasting French buildings in the Indian Ocean
it deserves our attention (fig. 2.2). The most
surprising thing about the settlement, given all the
energy and money invested in it and the happy
picture its promoters painted of it in Paris and
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
Versailles, is what a poor specimen it really was. In
a pattern seen throughout France’s first overseas
empire, whether in Cayenne (1652–53) (fig. 2.3),
Île de Gorée (Senegal, 1677), Ouidah (Benin,
1672), Nouvelle-Orléans (1721), or at Kourou
(Guiana, 1764) (fig. 2.4) – a devastatingly short-
lived colony in which seven thousand were felled
in a few months by infectious disease and scurvy –
the French government and investors were fooled
into thinking that they had founded a thriving
settlement with a promising future. Reports
reached Versailles and Paris of miniature metrop-
olises in the bush, with civic buildings, regular
streets, and ample housing, when in fact the
colonies were minuscule, unhealthy, and bleak.
49
 They were hurriedly constructed by people with
little or no building experience – ship’s carpenters
at best – few were sufficiently fortified, and
contemporary descriptions make them sound, as
I wrote about Cayenne, “more like a ship or even
a child’s make-believe fortress than a town.”39 Fort
Dauphin was not built by trained royal engineer
architects – far from it. Its first iteration was the
work of sailors and people whose main qualifica-
tion was that they shared their governor’s Prot-
estantism.40 At the time of the 1655 fire the fort’s
stores included only the most rudimentary tools:
forging utensils, carpentry tools, lock-making
equipment, caulking, and casts for making nails.41
In fact it was only with the arrival of the cio
in 1667 that the company became more serious
about skilled builders: its foundation document
(1664) declared that “all French craftsmen and
tradesmen who would like to go and live in the
Island of Madagascar and in the Indies … will be
provided with the means to earn their living in a
quite decent way, as well as reasonable wages and
salaries; and that, if there are any of them who will
stay there for eight years, His Majesty is quite will-
ing to allow them to act as foremen in their crafts
in whatever towns of the realm of France where
they would like to settle, with no exception what-
soever and without paying anything.”42 Colbert
made a similar offer to settlers in French North
America, where builders and craftsmen were also
offered a fast track to “master” status as a mo-
tivation to settle: in the hierarchical and highly
the architecture of empire
competitive world of the French guild system,
where most craftsmen never advanced past the
rank of journeyman, this was an appealing offer,
and many took the Crown up on it.43 Although
far fewer came to Madagascar than to Quebec,
the first cio ships carried twenty-eight masons
and stonecutters, twelve carpenters, and seventeen
joiners.44 As the fort had already been rebuilt after
the 1655 fire, these men were occupied mostly
50
with the village and in improving the administra-
tive buildings.
The only surviving illustration of Fort Dau-
phin, Flacourt’s pre-1655 drawing, shows a roughly
rectangular compound with three bastions on
the land side and two facing the bay, perched
on the end of the peninsula (fig. 2.2). Only the sea
wall and its two bastions were of solid materials,
built of brick atop a four- or five-foot-high stone
foundation that rested on a stone outcropping.45
The other three sides were vertical log palisades
with sharpened ends, a cost-cutting measure
and very similar to those the French had used in
their Atlantic fortresses and citadels from around
1600. Although varieties of palisades existed in
Europe and among the Antanosy, Fort Dauphin’s
stockade may have been inspired by Amerindian
prototypes colonists encountered among the
Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) and Montagnais
(Innu) in Canada. Many of the men who built
Fort Dauphin came from the same Atlantic ports
that serviced the American colonies, and it is
likely that some of them had been to both places
(figs. 2.3–4).46
Flacourt wrote that the fort “consisted of the
Chapel, the Governor’s House, consisting of a
hall, bedroom, office & a main building next to it,
a stone kitchen, two stone pavilions which served
as prisons, five Warehouses, a guardhouse, a
blacksmith shop & another small forge, a slaugh-
terhouse & sixteen private houses, built mostly of
wood & quite comfortable for the country.”47 The
Governor’s House was of stone as was the vaulted
cellar under the chapel for storing brandy, wine,
2.3 (oppoSiTe Top ) Cayenne (“Bourg Louis”), town and
fort, 1652–53, from a map of 1677. Ink and watercolour on
paper, 49.5 × 34 cm. ANom .
2.4 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Louis-Pierre Desmon, Place
Royale, Kourou, Guyane, 1764. Ink and watercolour on
paper, 59 × 41 cm (detail). ANom .
 and other goods. Flacourt’s map shows that the
buildings had high-pitched, gable-end roofs and
that the chapel was on the southeast corner of
the parade ground. The parade ground, accessed
by a ceremonial gate to the west, measured 20 by
25 toises (127 by 160 feet) with a 50-foot-high
“large flagstaff ” in the centre and a 30-foot-
high secondary flagstaff on high ground with
the weathervane and white royal flag. Flacourt’s
drawing shows that most of the settlers lived
outside the fort, where fifty-two private homes
with kitchen gardens were grouped mostly in
sixes within their own stockades. There was also
a walled cemetery and guardhouse and the giant
“Garden of Sieur de Flacourt” incorporating his
country retreat. The garden was many times the
size of the fort and spread like a carpet down the
peninsula and beyond the frame of the drawing.
Foreign visitors were not impressed with the
rebuilt fort. Dutch merchant Frederick Verburg
remarked in 1657 that it was “poorly defended
by paltry palisades.”48 In 1661 Flemish travellers
Jacques de Bollan (1619–1684) and Michael Jordis
were nevertheless surprised by the building’s
size – “it covers a vast area; its flanks are large
and on the side facing the sea it has two little
bastions” – but dismissed the palisade as being
“formed of old posts which you could easily push
over by hand to get in.”49 They also had a low
opinion of the settlement south of the fort and
its inhabitants: “outside the fort, there are other
houses overlooking the sea and inhabited by
the architecture of empire
some French and a Malagasy who until now have
remained faithful … the French who occupy this
fort number about 25; they are, for the most part,
useless sailors, incapable of making the slightest
effort, people with neither faith nor law who have
no respect whatever for the governor and who do
not obey him.”50
Company chronicler Urbain Souchu de
Rennefort (ca 1630–ca 1690) gave a more detailed
52
description of the 1655 fort in 1668: “Fort Dau-
phin has been designed as a square by its founder;
it has two half-high bastions of rubble, which
command the north side … the enclosure of the
rest was nothing but posts the width of your arm
when we occupied it, & the symmetry is con-
strained to 150 paces long & 120 wide: the main
gate looks West, & looks out toward a little field
(prairie) & an agreeable landscape: the other,
opposite, looks East and & to the sea.”51 But he
was “astonished to see this famous Fort Dauphin,
held by the French for near-on twenty-five years,
in such poor condition that there were scarcely
any huts to shelter the directors. There appeared
to be only two little bastions of rubble, ruined
on the side of the sea, and some palisades, which
lacked symmetry.”52 He was more optimistic
about the settlement to the south, confirming
that there were about fifty houses to the north of
the governor’s garden and that “each house was
accompanied by a garden as pleasant as it was
useful.”53 His words and those of his contempor-
aries were paraphrased a century later by Abbé
Antoine-François Prévost (1697–1763): “great
was their astonishment to see this famous Fort,
which their Nation had established twenty-five
years ago, in such poor condition that it barely
offered a few huts to lodge the principal officers.
It had nothing on the ocean side but two little
ruined bastions, & some sporadic palisades, with
nine pieces of iron cannon, without lookouts and
without any height … the troops camped in a little
plain, where the Officers built huts & shacks. This
place was properly the seat of the Government,
for the interior of the Fort was inhabited by Mer-
chants, Commissaries, and Heads of Colony.”54
Bollan and Jordis note that although some
buildings surrounding the parade ground were of
stone the roofs were formed of thatching or even
cow skins and that some buildings were made
with materials salvaged from shipwrecks:
 The powder magazine is located inside the
fort, on the bay side; it is stone and rises to a
height of nine to ten feet above the ground;
it is thatched and, in the few places where
there was no more thatching, they had
covered it with the skin of a cow to protect
the building against rain … The warehouse
for merchandise is, like the powder maga-
zine, of brick [sic], with a ceiling and roof
of thatching … The governor’s house is
built with the debris from the ship Duchess,
which was wrecked in the bay of Tholanhara
[Taolankarana]. It rises above the others,
which are twelve in number, and which are
built lightly and are in danger of collapse.
The gate of this fort, surmounted by the
arms of the king of France, was mended
with the sterns of wrecked ships. The cattle
enclosure is next to it, which one of the
Frenchmen guards at night so that the
blacks who are their enemies do not come
to take them away. A musket shot away is
a large warehouse built with old boards, in
which are deposited the cow skins belonging
to the governor.55
Rennefort confirms that the powder magazine
and kitchen were of stone, but that the rest were
half-timbered and thatched and built in a manner
he describes in some detail:
The Governor’s House, which the Blacks
call Donac, like the houses of their grandees,
was an elevated wooden building, [there was
also] a warehouse & a kitchen of stone,
twelve square houses and a guardhouse, the
empty spaces between the posts which sup-
port them filled with eight-foot-long rushes.
All these dwellings were covered with leaves
[that were] two & a half feet long, half a
foot wide, and as thick as an écu d’argent,
fastened onto poles which formed the plan.
Straight long sticks crossed the inside of
the huts, pressed onto other sticks, two feet
apart by two feet, to which they were bound
with a grass as thin and as strong as a silk
thread, and they made very clean floors. At
the end, the Governor had laid a foundation
and something more, for a house which he
claimed to be making as his retreat (azile).56
Although the governor’s house was made from a
shipwreck it did not necessarily lack architectural
finesse. French ships were equipped with stern
facades, quarter galleries, and beakheads derived
directly from royal architecture, particularly
under Louis XIV and Colbert when mammoth
battleships like Royal Louis (1668), L’Ambitieux
(1691) (fig. 2.5), and Le Terrible (1692) were
designed or supervised by the likes of Charles
Le Brun, sculptor Pierre Puget (1620–1694),
and designer Jean Bérain (1640–1711).57 In fact
Colbert specifically wanted ship design to reflect
the work of France’s greatest architects, and his
own treatise, the Atlas de Colbert, became the
shipbuilder’s bible. It is quite possible that the
facade of the governor’s house was a transplanted
stern, complete with pilasters, entablatures, and
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
bas relief carving, and that builders were able to
salvage wainscotting, mouldings, and windows
from the captain’s cabin. The arms over the gate
were almost certainly taken from the Duchess.
Fort Dauphin had two chapels, a spacious older
one in the fort (fig. 2.2) and a newer one in the
village to the east. The earliest description is by
the Lazarist Father Toussaint Bourdaise ( January
1656), who describes some renovations and how
he placed a clock in the fort church to astonish
the indigenous people as a prompt for proselyt-
ization, a trick the Jesuits had already tried in the
1640s in Huronia (Nouvelle-France).58 In fact
his description sounds very much like reports
53
from the Jesuits of Georgian Bay (now Ontario).
Toussaint writes: “We ourselves … have length-
ened [the chapel], placing a balustrade around
it except for the choir, and a portico (portique)
in front of it, so that passers-by, for it ends on a
great road, at least come to see the ceremonies …
and as one should profit by a visit, I decorate it as
nicely as I can; I adorn it with saplings (tiges) and
pictures … and seeing that they were very curious
to see my clock, I place it in a prominent place
in our chapel. It always gives me an opportunity
to tell them about our mysteries.”59 Elsewhere he
notes that the chapel was so “plain” that it ap-
pealed to visiting Catholic Dutchmen.60 In 1664
he wrote that only the chapel in the fort had a
tabernacle and that the company had provided
church ornaments such as ecclesiastical garments,
altar cloths, roods, chalices, censers, a ciborium,
more tabernacles, and also altarpieces, as well as
“all sorts of furniture for the use of the priests.”61
The church was quite immense if we are to believe
Rennefort: “in the fort there was a high wooden
Chapel, capable of containing five hundred
people, it was served by a Secular Priest [i.e., not
a member of a religious order],” and he added
that in the middle of the village “the house of the
Missionaries, a Chapel & a Seminary [i.e., school]
for the young Blacks captured in war or indeed
voluntarily enrolled by the parents.”62 The house
had a library with a “fine collection of books,”
according to Father Navarrette, and housed three
other missionaries and two lay brothers who
cared for the little garden nearby. The mission-
aries claimed to have baptized over a thousand
people – but admitted that no more than fifty
lived as Christians.63
cio governor Mondevergue oversaw new
fortifications and buildings, including the new
2.5 (oppoSiTe ) Jean Bérain, The Rear of the Vessel
L’Ambitieux, 1691. Ink on paper, 55.5 × 41 cm. Service
historique de la défense (ShD ), Paris.
Sovereign Council chamber, and Caron directed
construction of a new warehouse during his six
months on the island.64 An anonymous letter
dated 20 February 1667 noted that immediately
upon landing “all the passengers worked to build
themselves huts in the style of the country to
give themselves shelter because there were not
enough for all the people … the colonists began
working according to their métier but principally
in clearing land and making a road to unload mer-
chandise, cutting stone, making brick and lime,
turning the earth to build with, and many other
things.”65 The only other stone building was the
hospital – a building that saw a lot of use. Prob-
ably located outside the fort to avoid spreading
infectious diseases, it served all Europeans on the
island as was bleakly described by Dellon: “most
Foreigners are subject to most dangerous Dis-
eases; those that are Sick are carried to Fort Dau-
phine [sic], where there is a Hospital Erected for
that purpose; but the Fevers which reign here are
so Malignant and Contagious, that a great many
of them Die daily, notwithstanding which, the
Hospital is generally fill’d up with sick persons.”66
Like the palisade fort itself, the buildings at
Fort Dauphin had much in common with the
early architecture of the French in the Americas
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
and little to do with the indigenous architecture
of southeast Madagascar – as some of the re-
ports would have it – except in materials.67 Basic
rectangular cabins with pitched thatched roofs,
they recall a kind of house built in early Canada,
the Caribbean, and Guiana that was made of
posts planted directly in the ground (pieux en
terre or poteaux en terre), as in the communal
houses and other buildings constructed in 1764
in the Guiana colony of Kourou (fig. 2.4). A type
of poteaux en terre house in seventeenth-century
Newfoundland, called a piquet hut, used moss to
fill the spaces between the studs much as rushes
were used in the Fort Dauphin houses.68 Accord-
ing to a late seventeenth-century description
55
 of one in Plaisance, “they are built of fir poles,
joined together, between which they insert moss
to seal the space.”69 As was the case in Madagas-
car, an abundance of palm leaves, tall grass, and
lianas made such construction practical in the
Circum-Caribbean: as the Dominican missionary
Jean-Baptiste Du Tertre (1610–1687) commented
about dwellings in Guadeloupe in 1667, “The
poorest dwellings are covered with cane, reed,
Latan palm or palm leaves.”70
Deserted in 1674, Fort Dauphin remained
a popular stopover for ships passing to or from
the Mascarenes, primarily as a curiosity. Many
French were embarrassed by this reminder of
their first failed enterprise: the Abbé Carré
remarked in 1671 that “during the little time that
I spent at Fort Dauphin [I recognized] that it is
not without reason that the first Europeans who
have visited never wanted to leave traces of their
homes.”71 It also served as a landmark for passing
ships. One English commentator wrote in 1703
that: “the French Fort is easy to recognize by its
white colour,” by which he presumably meant the
whitewashed sea wall.72 However, just as the Gou-
vernement in Pondicherry (figs. 1.1–2) and French
exploits in Đại Việt fuelled nationalist sentiments
in the late nineteenth century, the memory of
the long-ruined fort was revived by the Third
Republic during their conquest of Madagascar in
1895, when a rebuilt stone fort, rechristened “Fort
Flacourt,” rose on Fort Dauphin’s foundations,
where it still stands.
the architecture of empire
Fort Dauphin may have been large, but it was
no reflection of the metropole. Although some
French building techniques appeared with the
arrival of the cio ’s civilian craftsmen and repur-
posed shipwrecks may have given some structures
a Gallic air, the colony was essentially a trans-
planted version of somewhere like contemporary
Trois-Rivières in Nouvelle-France (founded 1634),
a settlement that spent most of its early existence
56
defending itself against the Mohawks and was
surrounded by palisades copied from those of
their adversaries. French colonial agents may
not have had a unified approach to architecture
in the Eastern Hemisphere in the seventeenth
century, but Fort Dauphin’s use of these pan-
colonial structural techniques and forms meant
that it participated in a global French solution to
building pioneer settlements, allowing for cheap
and rapid construction using local materials and
requiring little skill. Fort Dauphin was the last
instance of this style in France’s Indian Ocean
settlements; in the last decades of the century
architecture adapted primarily to Asian forms or
to those of rival European powers, not out of any
preordained plan to do so but because there was
no alternative.
A Tale of Two Comptoirs: Surat
and Pondicherry
The cio ’s first headquarters in Asia, the relatively
short-lived factory in the Mughal city of Surat in
northwest India (1668–1720), was on foreign soil
in an empire that forbade foreigners from build-
ing fortifications, and it was never more than a
“choice by default,” although because of the port’s
importance as a trading centre it was an obvious
first choice (fig. 2.6).73 By contrast, Pondicherry,
on the Coromandel Coast to the southeast and
granted to the French in 1672, was a settlement
and fort under French administration, which –
excepting brief seizures by the Dutch (1693–99)
and British (1761–65; 1778–82; 1793–1814) – was
to remain under French administration until 1962.
The founder of the Surat factory, Brussels-born
director-general François Caron, had three
decades of experience in the east Indies working
for the voc in Japan, Batavia, and Ceylon and
was even made director-general of the Dutch
Company (until 1651).74 The voc was the most
important European player in the Indian Ocean
trade, largely because of its extensive net-works
in the Spice Islands and East Asia, and as we have
seen in chapter 1 the cio was founded in direct
emulation of it. Nevertheless, Caron was a Japan
expert and his unfamiliarity with India seriously
hampered the cio ’s efforts there. He compen-
sated for his ignorance by making increasingly
exorbitant bribes to the governor, shāh-
bandar (port master), and minor Mughal
officials.75 This prodigality, combined with his
vainglorious leadership style, enmities with his
French compatriots because of his Protestant
faith – the curse of Fort Dauphin – and his
ruinous attempt to found a colony in Ceylon, led
to his recall in 1672. He died en route to Marseille
in 1673. Nevertheless, the French base at Surat
survived, and a variety of regional Muslim and
Hindu potentates allowed the cio to found a
network of comptoirs along the Indian coast over
the next sixty-five years, many of them short-
lived: in Balasore (1684) and Chandernagore
(1690) in the Bay of Bengal (figs. 2.13–14, 2.23);
Rajapur (1669) Masulipatam (1669), Tellicherry
(1669), Calicut (1701), and Mahé (1721) on the
southwest (Malabar) coast; and Pondicherry
(1672), Yanaon (1731), and Karikal (1738) on
the southeast (Coromandel) coast.76 Most were
in the southern tip of the subcontinent, also
known as the Carnatic, and today comprising the
states of Karnataka, Tamil Nadu, and southern
Andhra Pradesh.
Contrary to popular belief, the European
presence in seventeenth-century India was much
less significant than it was in the late eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries: in particular, Euro-
peans were far from being masters of the sea.
The Portuguese, English, and Dutch were fairly
marginal players within a complex network of
Indian Ocean trade in which Asian and African
entities had been operating for centuries – in
fact, European export trade in piece goods in the
1650–1700 period was only a tenth of the total
production.77 Mainland powers and their agents
had full control over the manufacture and ex-
traction of goods, to which European merchants
could gain access only through middlemen such
as brokers and customs officials and by means
of careful diplomacy with local governors or, in
the case of the Mughals, the imperial court.78
Some Indian traders, like Abdul Ghafur Bohra,
possessed a merchant fleet as large as that of the
eic as well as several offices abroad.79 Old trade
networks with their multiple contact points and
“intersections of different merchants, nobles and
governmental systems” continued much as they
had done before, products remained the same,
and most of the Indian trade was still focused on
small port markets on both coasts.80 The multipli-
city and diversity of the various Indian ports also
meant that European traders had to negotiate on
significantly different terms according to where
they were located and to which official they were
beholden for access to goods, often (as in the
case of the eic ) choosing to work with a single
local merchant.81 Even entities as violent as the
sixteenth-century Portuguese could not rely upon
sheer belligerence to gain access to trade: they had
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
to fit into long-established trade networks and
among powerful merchant communities or lose
their market sustainability.
Furthermore, the seventeenth century was
hardly a time of waning indigenous power in
India, except in parts of the south where political
entities fragmented in the wake of the collapse
of the Hindu Vijayanagara Empire (1336–1646),
particularly by the 1670s. The Mughals, who ruled
the northern part of the subcontinent, were at
their height and were aggressively expanding their
borders southward; the Bijapur and Golconda sul-
tanates had a firm grip on the west and east coasts
of the Deccan plateau; and former Vijayanagara
57
2.6 Plan of the City of Surat and the
French Garden, Drawn Up in 1758
under the Inspection of Sieur Anquetil
Briancourt, then Head of the French
Nation in Surat, 1758. Ink and watercolour
on paper, 65 × 47 cm. ANom . The French
comptoir is labelled “M,” the Capuchin
church and monastery “N.” “L” is the
Portuguese factory. The “French Garden”
is on the far left of the city.
 lands were controlled by three principal Nayaka
kingdoms: Madurai, Gingee (which fell under the
control of Bijapur and then the nascent Maratha
Kingdom), and Tanjore (Thanjavur), all of which
however slowly disintegrated between 1670 and
1750.82 On the Coromandel coast, the site of
British Madras and French Pondicherry (among
other European fortified factories) the found-
ing of European bases in the late seventeenth
and especially eighteenth centuries occurred “at
approximately the same pace as the decline of the
Indian states,” and merchants were content to
collaborate with Europeans because the polit-
ical instability on the mainland limited their
operations.83
The Gujarat port of Surat was the most pros-
perous and cosmopolitan in India, the greatest
market in the Indian Ocean – and quite possibly
the world – and Mughal emperors occasionally
met personally with European delegations there,
as Emperor Akbar (r. 1556–1605) had done with
the Portuguese in 1573 (fig. 2.6).84 It sat at the
juncture of an inter-oceanic trade network that
extended from Europe to Japan and of coastal and
interior trade links within the Indian subcontin-
ent.85 Cotton cloth (known as “piece goods”)
was the dominant product, along with indigo,
saltpetre, and Malabar pepper, and Gujarat was
home to India’s most important mercantile com-
munities, particularly Hindus and Jains, who were
also a vital source of credit for European mer-
chants through what were called “respondentia
the architecture of empire
loans.”86 Foreign traders from many parts of the
world lived in Surat: the English eic and Dutch
voc had already built factories there and the city
played host to communities of Armenians, Jews,
Persians, Ottoman Turks, and Arabs, all of whom
were closely monitored and taxed by Mughal
governors, and “were often at the receiving end
of a variety of extortionate measures.”87 Even the
60
French already had a presence in Surat, but not
a mercantile one: French Capuchin friars set up a
residence and chapel in 1639 in the vain hope of
converting a town boasting at least five major
religions but dedicated to Mammon.88 However
things were not peaceful among these various
groups: European agents squabbled and stole
from one another and the governors frequently
resorted to “humiliation, pillage, or forced
bribes, and blockades,” to add to their personal
fortunes – to the extent that the Mughal court
occasionally felt obliged to remove them.89
Emperor Aurangzeb (1658–1707) granted
the cio permission to build their comptoir in
1668. A rented wooden building (“loge”), which
French traders patriotically called “one of the
most beautiful houses in Surat,” the cio comp-
toir stood in the northeastern sector of the inner
walled city adjacent the Capuchin church (the
Capuchins had already created Surat’s “French
sector”), and it had offices for the director and
the council members, apartments, warehouses, a
kitchen, a stable, a place to store palanquins, and
likely a well and dovecote (fig. 2.6).90 In 1682 the
Company paid to have their own chapel erected,
in which they celebrated a Te Deum in honour
of Louis XIV’s victory against the Dutch at the
Siege of Mons in 1691.91 The chapel would have
been built by local architects and therefore in
a Mughal hybrid style, as was the case with the
earliest surviving Jesuit chapel in Agra, the Padres
Santos Chapel of 1611, which combines a Roman
baroque-style dome with an octagonal Mughal
plan with traditional jalis (grilles) for windows
(fig. 2.7).92 The cio also occupied a 10.2 hectare
garden on the river outside the outer ramparts
to the southwest (“Le Jardin Français”) that the
emperor had granted them as a place for leisure,
and by the late eighteenth century it included a
number of buildings of brick and wood such as a
“Maison du Consul” (Consul’s house), a “Maison
du Chancelier” (Chancellor’s house), a hospital,
and a “salle octagonal” for events, as well as formal
French-style symmetrical gardens with flowerbeds
and crops, possibly an acclimatization garden for
plants from other tropical regions, and a grand
allée and gate. 93 I have written elsewhere about
the importance given to formal gardens in French
settlements in the Atlantic world as a manifesta-
tion of Gallic culture and order – particularly in
places where the French lacked actual influence –
and we will see another French garden in Pondi-
cherry in chapter 4 (fig. 4.23).94 In addition to
these two properties, the cio had an anchorage at
Suvali Beach and a cemetery near Katargam Gate,
the northern gate to the outer ramparts (fig. 2.6).
Nevertheless, Surat was not the cio headquar-
ters for very long as the comptoir failed to make
a profit: not only did extravagant gifts to Mughal
officials deplete their resources, but as French
company men were less familiar with regional
customs than were the English, Dutch, or Portu-
guese, they frequently overpaid for goods, much 2.7 Padres Santos Chapel, Agra, 1611.
to the amusement of their competitors. They
also did not engage in lucrative “company trade,” in layout – as the Jawaharlal Nehru Garden, a
regional trade between Asian ports as opposed welcome green space in a congested city with
to between Asia and Europe, until John Law’s few parks.

forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672

takeover of the cio in 1719.95 In an echo of the
Abbé Carré, Aurangzeb was also rightly con-
cerned with what he considered to be a “Warlike
and Imperious Nation.”96 The Surat comptoir was
further downgraded in 1701 and the loge was offi-
cially abandoned nineteen years later, but French
trading lingered on there through most of the
century – a time when political instability in the
hinterlands reduced Surat’s prosperity – until
the British finally seized their property in 1778.97
Although the garden was officially restored to
France in 1783 the French never reoccupied the
site. It survives remarkably intact today – at least
François Martin was the first successful colony
builder in the French Asian empire. More diplo-
matic than Caron, he transformed Pondicherry
into what would become France’s largest early
modern colony in Asia and at times the only
place in India were French ships were welcome
(fig. 2.8).98 Originally a fishing and weaving vil-
lage, Puducherry had also been a prosperous port
decades before the French arrived, enjoying direct
trade with Southeast Asia.99 The town had been
ceded in 1672 to Benoît Bellanger de Lespinay,
Martin’s predecessor as director, by Sher Khan
Lodi, governor of Valikondapuram and deputy

61
2.8 Nicolas de Fer, Map of
Pondicherry on the Coromandel Coast
Occupied by the Royal Company of the
East Indies. Paris, 1704. Engraving,
29 × 40 cm. BNf . This map shows
Fort Barlong and the gridiron plan
introduced by the Dutch in 1693–94.
 of the khan of Gingee (in turn answerable to the
sultan of Bijapur), in return for French financial
and military support against the Dutch and
their allies, the sultan of Golconda (fig. 2.9).100
The Indian village of Puducherry was unusual
among Tamil towns in that it was built on the
shore rather than inland, which suited the French
for their seaborne trade.101 In 1674 the cio set
up their factory in an abandoned brick and stone
building erected by the Danes in the first half of
the century, a spacious if dilapidated structure
with two courtyards, a loggia, and a tower. This
structure likely resembled the Dansborg fort
at Danish Tranquebar (1620), unique among
seventeenth-century European forts in Asia to
have survived intact from its time of construc-
tion, which also has a lookout tower, balustraded
viewing platforms, and a courtyard (fig. 2.10).102
Sher Khan however was defeated in 1677 by the
Hindu Maratha leader Shivaji (1627/30–1680),
placing the Pondicherry comptoir in immediate
danger.103 Through sensitive diplomacy Martin,
director since 1675 except for a stint at Surat
as director-general between 1681 and 1686, ob-
tained the permission of Harji Mahadik (d. 1689),
the new Maratha ruler of Gingee, to construct the
first fort there in 1688. It was a rudimentary,
lozenge-shaped structure of brick and lime north-
west of the Danish building surrounded by an
earthen embankment (1689) with the unpromis-
ing name, as noted earlier, of Fort Lopsided
Rectangle.104 The French now enjoyed the same
the architecture of empire
administrative, judicial, and customs rights in
Pondicherry as did the English at Madras. How-
ever Robert Challes (1690) dismissed the fort as
being “very irregular, with three shabby round
towers, and protected only on the park side,
where there is a normal bastion.”105 It certainly
proved no impediment to the Dutch in 1693, and
its flimsiness hastened the French construction
of the gargantuan Fort Louis (1702–33) after the
64
colony was returned to France in 1697 and the
French reoccupied it in 1699 (figs 4.1–2).106
During the seventeenth century the French
part of the town was little more than a loge and
comptoir, with company officials living north of
the fort in small brick houses. It did not even have
a proper harbour, as ships had to anchor offshore
and transport goods to the settlement via flat-
bottomed boats called chelingues.
Throughout Pondicherry’s history the French
population was far outnumbered by Indians,
both Hindus and Muslims: in Martin’s time there
were about 200 Europeans compared with over
10,000 Tamils, whom the French called “blacks,”
with the French living in and around the fort
in what would later be called “white town” and
the indigenous people residing in the vast western
suburbs in “black town,” the original settlement,
where there were at least five Hindu temples.107
European and Malabar Catholics built churches,
including the Capuchins’ Saint-Lazare (1684),
southeast of the fort and commissioned by Mala-
bar Christian and chief Indian CIO agent Lazare
de Mota (Tanappa Mudali) to serve Tamil Chris-
tians (active until 1739), and the chapel of Saint-
Louis inside the fort (1674), where the Capuchins
served as the company’s chaplains.108 Saint-Lazare
was a “a vaulted church, small, but well built,
surrounded by a nice piece of land enclosed in a
good wall.”109 In 1689 the Jesuits and missionaries
2.9 (oppoSiTe Top ) A French gate in Gingee Fort,
ca 1750. Gingee Fort was begun in AD 1190 and enlarged
by the Chola dynasty in the thirteenth century. Most of it
dates from the sixteenth century when it was part of the
Vijayanagara Empire. In 1677 it was seized by the Maratha
king Shivaji; in 1690, it was captured by Mughal forces.
The French took over in 1750 and built new gates and
sentry boxes; it was ceded to the British in 1762.
2.10 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Fort Dansborg, Tranquebar,
1620. This is the oldest European fort in India that retains
its original appearance.
 of the Missions-Étrangères de Paris (mep ) estab-
lished themselves in the city after their expulsion
from Siam (see chapter 3), although the mep did
not build a permanent church and seminary until
after Dutch occupation. The Jesuits constructed
their church of Notre-Dame-de-la-Conception
(or Saint-Paul) to the west in the Tamil zone
in 1691–92, about which Martin wrote “there
is none in the Indies more competent or better
constructed.”110 The architect was a Jesuit coadju-
tor named Brother André.111 The Jesuit church
and Capuchin fort chapel were destroyed during
the Dutch occupation, although Saint-Lazare was
still used by the Tamil community during those
years. The Capuchins built a new church, now
dedicated to Notre-Dame-des-Anges and serving
the European and Tamil community, in 1707, and
then in a new location in 1739 (figs. 2.11–12). The
the architecture of empire
66
mep seminary and church of the Présentation-de-
la-Sainte-Vierge, built on land donated in 1699 by
Tamil Christian Maria Dias in the grand bazaar,
was begun in 1723, and the new Jesuit church
was erected north of their earlier one in 1728
(the Jesuits also built a church in Ariyankuppam
in 1714.112
We have no idea what these churches looked
like, but the first Jesuit church was unlikely to
have resembled its fanciful baroque counterpart at
Chandernagore, completed in 1698 with gener-
ous financial assistance from the cio governor
André-François Boureau-Deslandes (in office
1691–1701), who wanted it for his family mau-
soleum.113 Three paintings survive (ca 1696),
executed by or for the Jesuit Guy Tachard
(1651–1712), one a general view, the second a
facade elevation, and the third a sectional view
2.11 (oppoSiTe ) Former Capuchin church of Notre-
Dame-des-Anges, Pondicherry, built in 1739 to replace the
1683 church of Saint-Lazare, mostly rebuilt 1770.
2.12 (ABove ) Former Capuchin church of Notre-Dame-
des-Anges, Pondicherry, interior.
2.13 (overLeAf , LefT ) It Is the Facade of the Church of the
Jesuits of Bengal on the Ganges Built of Brick with All the
Ornaments We See. From Anonymous, Usages de Siam,
ca 1696. Watercolour and ink on paper, 40 × 29 cm. BNf .
This drawing, made by or for Guy Tachard, shows the
facade of the Jesuit church of Notre-Dame (completed
1698) in Chandernagore.
2.14 (overLeAf , righT ) It Is the Plan and Interior of the
Church. From Usages de Siam. Watercolour and ink on
paper, 40 × 29 cm. BNf . This drawing, made by or for Guy
Tachard, shows the plan and interior elevation of the
Jesuit church of Notre-Dame in Chandernagore.
(figs. 2.13–14).114 Tachard describes the building
as “a small church, but very pretty, a dome in the
middle & three altars within,” that was “built of
Brick with all the ornaments we see.”115 What is
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
remarkable is that the little church was so heav-
ily decorated – with pot à feu finials, miniature
turrets, and acanthus motifs – and especially that
it had a dome, the only one in the French colonial
empire in either hemisphere. The building is a
reduction of Jacques Le Mercier’s Church of the
Sorbonne (begun 1634), based on an elevation of
the street facade on page 93 of the “Grand Marot,”
Jean Marot’s Architecture française (Paris, 1670)
(fig. 2.15). For all its compactness it retains the
paired giant-order pilasters, the vase finials, the
pilasters and massive arched window in the dome,
and the lantern, and it even imitates the slant of
Le Mercier’s roof. The portico introduces a model
67

2.15 The Church of the Sorbonne Built by the Magnificence
and Piety of the Grand and Incomparable Armand Cardinal
duc de Richelieu. From Jean Marot, Architecture française,
Paris, 1670, also known as the Grand Marot. BNf .
from another popular architectural treatise of the
the architecture of empire
day, the first portal design, marked “A,” in Pierre
Le Muet’s Augmentations de nouveaux bastimens
faits en France (Paris, 1663). Illustrations from
both books were used as models for buildings in
Siam (see chapter 3). There is no way of know-
ing whether it was built by French or Indian
masons. This building is the one outlier in this
chapter: built by a private donor for the purposes
of self-aggrandizement and exhibiting a pride in
70
French contemporary architectural style that was
more typical of the following century.
Most likely the Pondicherry churches were
much simpler, like Notre-Dame-des-Anges, which
is largely the original 1739 structure but heavily
restored in 1770 after the bombardment (it is now
an orphanage) (figs. 2.11–12). The church (now
the schoolroom) is plain with a nave and side
aisles divided by bulky arcades and a flat roof on
wooden beams. It has large rectangular windows
on the side walls and a tripartite, generically
classical facade articulated by plain pilasters and
crowned with a triangular pediment. Behind
the building is a tall square tower, also allegedly
from the eighteenth century. Basilican plans
were standard for missionary churches world-
wide because they were easy to build (particu-
larly when they had a flat roof like this one) and
they could hold large congregations with a view
of the altar. In fact, in its simple but practical
classicism Notre-Dame-des-Anges resembles the
eighteenth-century church of L’Immaculée-
Conception-de-la-Sainte-Vierge in Bangkok,
built by the mep on land originally granted by
King Narai and known as “wat noi,” or small
temple, which however has a broken-pitched roof
(fig. 2.16).116 There is nothing particularly French
about either church, except perhaps for the desire
for classical refinement in the facades.
By 1690 Pondicherry’s population had swelled
to 60,000 people, many of them refugees from
the wars in the Gingee region that pitted forces
loyal to the Mughals against the encroaching
Maratha forces. As local rulers fought for suprem-
acy, they played the European powers off against
each other. France’s situation remained precarious
and the colony was perilously close to the warring
nations of South India, from Golconda in the
north to Tanjore and Madurai to the south and
southwest, which had to be placated through care-
ful diplomacy: “an intricate network of dangerous
2.16 L’Immaculée-Conception-de-la-Sainte-Vierge,
Bangkok, 1790. The first church was built in 1674–75 on
land granted by King Narai. The present church is known
as “wat noi,” or small church, to distinguish it from the
nearby Church of the Conception (1834). This is Bangkok’s
oldest surviving church.
alliances developed around the European settle-
ments, which themselves became drawn into local
Indian politics.”117 Shifting alliances spelled the
end of France’s first phase at Pondicherry: in 1693
the city was sold to the Dutch by Harji Mahadik’s
successor, Shivaji’s son Raja Ram (1670–1700),
who since 1689 effectively controlled the Tamil
region from Gingee (he was in turn overthrown
by the Mughals in 1698 and replaced by Gus-
safar Khan, himself ousted by Sarup Singh in
1700) (fig. 2.9).118 In August 1693 a flotilla of
forty Dutch ships from Ceylon and Batavia took
possession of Pondicherry and sent Martin and
his family to Batavia, although they allowed
him to proceed to Chandernagore the following
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
year. During their occupation of Pondicherry
the Dutch reorganized the urban design of the
city, creating in 1693–94 an ambitious gridiron
plan of the western (Tamil) district in hopes of
attracting Indian merchants and artisans – a kind
of utopian weaving town – which the French
expanded in the eighteenth century and survives
to this day (fig. 2.8).119 Thus the urban planning
of present-day Pondicherry has much more to do
with the Dutch than with the French: it was in
fact the Dutch who created the division between
the Tamil quarter and French quarter, which the
French would later separate by a canal as a cordon
sanitaire.120 Only the French quarter along the
71
 littoral retained the slightly uneven streetscape of
the pre-1693 settlement. The subsequent history
of Pondicherry and its architecture will form the
subject of chapter 4.
The French in Siam (1662–1688)
The acquisition of Pondicherry may have been the
most significant early development in France’s
nascent Asian empire, but it was overshadowed
2.17 Solemn Audience Given by the King of Siam to
the Chevalier de Chaumont, Paris, 1685, engraving
published by Jean-Baptiste Nolin, 38.5 × 24.8 cm. Musée
Carnavalet, Paris.
the architecture of empire
72
by a higher-profile colonial adventure that was
meant to turn one of Southeast Asia’s most
powerful nations and richest trading entrepôts
into a Catholic satellite of France protected by
French forts – a project doomed from the start
but which Romain Bertrand still calls “a missed
opportunity.”121 The eight-year diplomatic
exchange between Louis XIV and King (Phra)
Narai of Siam (Ramathibodi III, r. 1656–88)
involved six cripplingly expensive embassies. The
first, sent from Siam to France in 1680, sank off
Madagascar in 1681 with a loss of all hands, untold
riches in gifts for Louis XIV, and two prize ele-
phants. In the second (1684–85), Siamese envoys
(khunnang) bearing further gifts were hosted
lavishly in Paris and Versailles, the first diplomats
from eastern Asia to meet a French king. In 1685
the envoys returned on French ships with the
first French embassy to Siam, an astonishingly
expensive public relations stunt featuring the
finest products of the French manufactories and
culminating in the French ambassador’s delivery
of a royal letter to King Narai in his audience
hall in Ayutthaya, the Siamese capital (fig 2.17).
The French ships returned with the first official
Siamese embassy to France (1686), in which three
ambassadors led by Ok-phra Wisut Sunthorn
(better known as Kosa Pan) were fêted across
northern France and received by Louis XIV in
the Hall of Mirrors, an event commemorated in
music, medals, sculptures, engravings (including
six large almanac prints), paintings, and a relief
by the likes of Charles Le Brun, Sébastien Le
Clerc, the elder (1637–1714), Nicolas de Larmes-
sin II (1638–1694), and Antoine Coysevox
(1640–1720) (fig. 2.18).122
The fifth embassy, a thinly veiled attempt by
France to seize Siam’s main fortresses and impose
French control on the kingdom, arrived with
troops and trunkloads of materiel in 1687 and
proceeded to occupy the forts of Bangkok and

2.18 Charles Le Brun. Louis 14 Giving Audience to the
Ambassadors of Siam, 1686. École nationale supérieure
des Beaux-Arts, Paris. Black chalk and India ink wash,
53.6 × 80.7 cm. Art Resource, New York.
Mergui (now Myeik, Myanmar) (figs. 3.16–17).
Nevertheless, when Narai was overthrown
in 1688 in a palace coup, the French were de-
finitively expelled from the country (although
missionaries were later allowed to return). Para-
doxically, a sixth embassy had already departed
that year for Paris and Rome comprising three
Siamese diplomats led by Ok-khun Chamnan
with letters for Louis XIV and Pope Innocent XI
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
(r. 1676–89), and they had an audience with the
pope in 1688 and with the king in 1689, ratifying
a commercial and military treaty with a regime
that no longer existed. The most interesting thing
to come out of this last embassy was a series of
striking portraits of the envoys and three Tonkin-
ese catechumens by Carlo Maratta (1625–1713). In
the end Siam was the only Southeast Asian nation
never to be conquered by a European power.
Although King Narai had genuinely been inter-
ested in a potential alliance with France, these
embassies, orchestrated by French missionaries,
officials, and their allies at the Siamese court, had
always meant more for France than they did for
73
 2.19 Attributed to Johannes Vinckboons, Judea
[Ayutthaya], ca 1662–63. Oil on canvas, 97 × 140 cm.
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
the architecture of empire
Siam. Indeed, only the demolition of Pondicherry
in 1762 (see chapter 3) captured the imaginations
of ordinary French people to a comparable degree
(fig. 4.24–5).
Siam was important to Europe not for its own
products, of which Europeans were primarily in-
terested in tin and pepper, but for its central loca-
tion within a trade network extending westward
to the Ottoman Empire and Persia, southward
74
to the Indonesian archipelago, and eastward to
China and Japan: of particular interest were the
products of Japan and China, including porcel-
ains, lacquers, and Japanese silver.123 Japanese
and Persian merchants had played a critical role
in Siamese commercial life since the sixteenth
century, and had established their own neigh-
bourhoods in Ayutthaya (fig. 2.19) by the early
seventeenth, as had Indian and Chinese traders.
Siam’s importance grew in the second quarter
of the seventeenth century after China became
embroiled in the 1618–1683 civil war that marked
the Ming–Qing Interregnum, and after Japan
expelled all Westerners from its empire in 1635
except the Dutch, who were closely guarded on
the artificial island of Deshima (Dejima), south of
Nagasaki. Yet Siam enjoyed a healthy trade with
Japanese and Chinese merchants, particularly
after it achieved its own peace after nearly two
centuries of regional war in 1605.124 Ayutthaya
was a safe location for trade – particularly for
Asians – as it was inland and accessible by the
Chao Phraya River and two canals, meaning that
merchants could avoid pirates and Dutch harass-
ment in the Straits of Malacca, and they were also
safe from interference from European ocean-
going vessels, which had difficulty navigating
the river. Nevertheless, European merchants and
missionaries did establish themselves early on in
Ayutthaya, first the Portuguese in 1549, followed
by the Dutch in 1608 and English in 1612 (see
chapter 3). By the 1620s Ayutthaya was one of the
most cosmopolitan cities on earth, not just cultur-
ally, as reflected in everything from royal costume
to architecture, but also politically, as Japanese,
Persian, and European groups jostled for influ-
ence. This period also witnessed the remarkable
rise in 1683 of the Greek adventurer and unofficial
first minister Constantine Phaulkon (ca 1647–
1688) who threw in his lot with the French.
France’s interaction with King Narai’s court
was convoluted and driven by a cast of charismatic
personalities whose antics have overshadowed the
actual significance of the encounter: many histor-
ies of this episode revel in meandering anecdotal
material, making this already complicated history
even more difficult to follow.125 The dramatis per-
sonae included Louis XIV and King Narai; Pope
Innocent XI; Louis’s Jesuit confessor François
de la Chaise (1624–1709); the Abbé François-
Timoléon de Choisy (1644–1724), the libertine
intimate of Louis’s brother who was co-adjutant
ambassador on the first French embassy; Simon
de La Loubère (1642–1729), the ruthless leader
of the second French embassy who later (1691)
wrote a celebrated book on Siam; the outwardly
fawning yet steely observant Kosa Pan; the
guileful mep translator and interpreter Bénigne
Vachet (1641–1720); various French engineers of
dubious background working as military spies;
and three ambitious and untrustworthy men
working behind the scenes: Phaulkon, the French
Jesuit Guy Tachard, and mep bishop François
Pallu (1626–1684). Small wonder that this event
has captured the imaginations of literary and
scholarly figures from the seventeenth century to
the present day: indeed, no other moment in early
modern French colonial history has received so
much attention.
Catholic missionaries were key to the Siam
debacle. Unlike France’s forays into Madagascar
and India, which were attended by a handful of
lacklustre and mostly ineffectual Lazarists, Capu-
chins, or Jesuits, Catholic missionaries dominated
French political interests in Siam, as they would
do in eighteenth-century China and during
France’s slow encroachment upon Đại Việt in the
seventeenth to nineteenth centuries (see chap-
ter 5). The two leading religious orders, the Jesuits
and the mep , fought viciously for primacy in
Siam and scrambled to win the ear of the French
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
and Siamese kings. Nevertheless, both orders
suffered from internal dissent. The first Jesuits
to reach Siam (1606; mission founded 1655) fell
under the authority of the Portuguese Padroado
(Patronage), a fifteenth-century papal dispensa-
tion by which Portugal administered church and
missionary activity in Africa, Brazil, and Asia
(except for the Spanish Philippines), with its
Asian headquarters in Goa and Macau (for the
history of these and other missionaries in Siam
see chapter 3).126 Their most important privilege
was the right to elect bishops. Portuguese Jesuits
were therefore deeply suspicious of the French
Jesuits who arrived with the 1685 embassy and
75
 whose first loyalty was to the Gallican church and
the French imperial project – and they had no
misconceptions about the latter’s political agenda.
Although there was no such mixture of na-
tionalist loyalties among the mep , many priests,
including Bishop Louis Laneau (1637–1696), were
critical of the scheming of their confreres, which
distracted the mep from proselytization and from
their main goal of preparing an Asian priesthood.
The mep , an association of diocesan priests
founded in 1659 by Dom Bernard de Sainte-
Thérèse (1597–1669) and based on the rue du Bac
in Paris since 1663, was established precisely to
override Portugal’s authority and give France the
right to appoint bishops, train clergy, and control
missionary activity in areas of strategic interest
not under direct Portuguese military control.127
Although their ultimate goal was Đại Việt and
China, Siam became their first headquarters by
default when hostility from Chinese, Tonkinese,
and Cochinchinese officials made it impossible
to establish themselves farther east. Ironically, the
mep owes its existence to a Jesuit: Avignon-born
Alexandre de Rhodes (1591–1660), most famous
for developing quốc ngữ, the Latin alphabet of
modern Vietnamese (although he did not invent
it). After working in Tonkin and Cochinchina for
two decades Rhodes gained Pope Alexander VII’s
permission to allow French secular priests to
travel to Asia as apostolic vicars (pseudo-bishops),
bypassing the Padroado.
The pope achieved this sleight of hand by
the architecture of empire
granting them extinct bishoprics in the Ottoman
Empire, in partibus infidelium (in the land of
the unbelievers) so that they could establish de
facto bishoprics in places claimed by the Padro-
ado (or the Spanish equivalent in the Western
Hemisphere and Philippines, the Patronato). In
fact, the earliest of these pseudo-bishoprics was
in France’s Western Hemisphere colonies, in
Quebec City, which was an apostolic vicariate
from 1658 until it was raised to a true bishopric
76
(the only one in France’s Atlantic empire) in 1674
(fig. 3.3).128 Its first incumbent, François-Xavier de
Montmorency-Laval (1623–1708) was officially
bishop of Petrea, near Ottoman Thessalonica,
before being named bishop of Quebec. Pierre
Lambert de La Motte (1624–79), the first mep
missionary to travel to Siam, was titled bishop
of Beirut and vicar apostolic of Cochinchina
whereas François Pallu, the third to leave, was
called bishop of Heliopolis (in Egypt) and
vicar apostolic of Tonkin, Laos, and southwest
China.129 The second to depart, Ignace Cotolendi
(1630–1662), was made bishop of Metellop-
olis (now Yeşiloba, Turkey) and vicar apostolic
of Nanjing, but he died en route at Masu-
lipatam (India).
The mep apostolic vicars also employed
subterfuge in travelling to Siam (1660–62): each
separately took the long and perilous overland
route via Persia and India as no Portuguese ship
would carry them; nor could they, as Catholic
missionaries, gain passage on English or Dutch
vessels.130 Lambert and Cotolendi were each
accompanied by a pair of priests but Pallu had a
larger retinue of nine missionaries, of whom only
three survived, including Laneau, who would
replace Cotolendi as bishop of Metellopolis and
vicar apostolic of Nanjing. Another survivor was
the celebrated Flemish painter Michael Sweerts
(1618–1664), who painted a portrait of Pallu in
1662 (now lost) and whom the mep intended
to paint altarpieces for them in Siam; however
they parted ways in Persia and Sweerts proceeded
to Goa, where he soon died.131 Scholars have
identified only one painting from the time of his
travels through Persia, a small double portrait of
two men in generically Persian costume, one of
whom holds a note in Italian with a pious message
“Sig:r mio videte la strada di salute per la mano di
Sweerts” (My Lord, see the way to salvation by the
hand of Sweerts).132 Scholars have not been able
to identify the two men, whose complexions and
hair colour are northern European, although they
are unlikely to be members of the mep .
The mep missionaries reached Siam between
1662 and 1664 and, recognizing the advantages of
its central location and religious tolerance, chose
it to be their temporary base while they deter-
mined how to reach their “bishoprics” farther
east. Nevertheless, in 1666 they decided to found
their main seminary and cathedral in Ayutthaya.
This institution lasted against all odds – except
during the mep exile in Pondicherry in 1688–95
when it was boarded up – until the Burmese
invasion of 1767, when the mep moved first to Hà
Tiên on the Cochinchina-Cambodian border and
then again to Pondicherry (1770–74) (figs. 5.6–7)
before relocating to Đại Việt with Pierre Pigneaux
de Béhaine (see chapters 3 and 5).133 In 1665 King
Narai allowed the mep to proselytize in Siam
except in the royal palaces, and the mep further
solidified their position in Siam by elevating
Laneau to vicar apostolic of Siam in 1674.134
However they had a spectacularly poor record
of conversions among the Siamese and worked
mostly among the Cochinchinese Christian
refugee community.135 Throughout this period
(from 1666) mep missionaries also worked in
Tonkin, Cochinchina, and Cambodia, as I will
explore in chapter 5, but their missions there were
unstable, perilous, and peripatetic given the pol-
itical and religious climate, especially in Tonkin
and Cochinchina.136
The struggle between the religious orders
damaged Christianity’s reputation at the Siamese
court. The Jesuits rejected the mep and tried to
have them arrested, refusing to accept the papal
letters brought at Lambert’s request in 1663 that
ordered the Jesuits to submit to their authority.
That same year the archbishop of Goa forbade
compliance with the mep and even ordered the
Jesuits to prevent them from missionary work,
accusing them (not without reason) of being a
branch of the cio with patriotic and mercantile
interests that outweighed their religious object-
ives.137 A series of papal orders followed including
one from Pope Clement IX in 1673 ordering the
Jesuits to recognize the mep ’s episcopal author-
ity.138 For their part the mep tried to have the Jes-
uits expelled from Siam, which was impossible as
it was a sovereign Buddhist state, and they began
a campaign of slander against them. The Jesuits
retaliated by singing death threats loudly from a
riverboat outside Lambert’s bedroom; the bishop
was reduced to hiring Cochinchinese body-
guards.139 The problem was, as Stefan Halikowski
Smith remarks, that “the battle lines between the
two competing orders were not clearly drawn out
and separated.”140 Even the French Jesuits were
at odds with the mep. Nevertheless, the mep
had the upper hand in the early phases of Siam’s
diplomacy with France; it was the mep who
painted a picture of Siam as a place of mercantile
riches ruled by a king on the verge of conversion
to Christianity. Bhawan Ruangslip writes: “[t]he
members of the Missions Étrangères not only
offered themselves as intermediaries between
the French East India Company, the French
Crown, and the Siamese court but also between
King Narai and the material and spiritual world
of Europe.”141
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
The man who facilitated all but the first of the
French-Siamese embassies was the mysterious
Phaulkon, a Greek opportunist born on the
Aegean island of Cephalonia in the Republic of
Venice, who grew up in England, served a lowly
position on the ships of the eic, and probably
reached Siam in 1678 on one of their ships as an
interpreter.142 During his years with the eic he
developed a prodigious linguistic ability, and
once in Siam he mastered vernacular and court
Siamese in two years.143 Phaulkon switched
alliances and rapidly insinuated himself into the
royal court: first through profitable contraband
deals, then working for the Phra Khlang (treasury
minister) Kosathibodi, and finally, in 1683, as
77
 King Narai’s favourite and de facto first minister
(French officials referred to him as the “premier
ministre du roi” and as “Monsieur Constance”).144
To maintain the independence and flexibility of
his position at court he never accepted the offi-
cial rank of Phra Khlang, although the French
referred to him as “Barcalon,” their corruption
of the term (his official title was Chao Phraya
Wichayen, roughly the superintendent of foreign
trade). Phaulkon was a generous patron both of
the mep and the Jesuits and allowed the Jesuits
to convert him to Catholicism in 1682 to marry
a Japanese-Portuguese woman named Maria
Guyomar de Pinha.145 Phaulkon’s sudden alle-
giance to the French cause was opportunistic:
a man who had never set foot in France curried
favour with Europe’s most powerful kingdom to
advance his own cause at court. Tachard became
his greatest propagandist, lauding Phaulkon’s
beneficence toward the French Jesuits and France
in his letters and publications, and the Jesuits sup-
planted the mep as chief intermediaries between
the Siamese and French monarchies. Neverthe-
less, as Dirk van der Cruysse aptly remarks about
Phaulkon: “French Jesuits … wanted to make use
of him, without realizing he intended to make
use of them.”146 If many saw him as a saint many
others knew him to be a charlatan: one Dutch
source (1692) summed up the most common
opinion of him as “a crafty, cunning character,
a liar and deceiver, artful and always capable of
landing on his feet, with a slick, enchanting and
the architecture of empire
ever-ready tongue.”147
The Six Franco-Siamese Embassies, 1680–1688
The Franco-Siamese embassies were the brain-
child of both the Missions Étrangères de Paris and
the Compagnie des Indes Orientales. They had
their origin in a public audience of 1673, when
Pallu and Lambert presented King Narai with
78
letters from Pope Clement IX and Louis XIV
as a “quasi-ambassador,” cajoling the king to
counter the growing power of the Dutch by doing
business with France.148 In 1680 Laneau then
convinced cio director-general François Baron
(d. 1683) to send the merchant André-François
Boureau-Deslandes (future son-in-law of François
Martin and de facto founder of the Chander-
nagore comptoir) to Siam to greet the king on
the Company’s behalf and organize the logistics
of a Siamese embassy to France.149 The Vautour,
which picked up merchandise and gifts en route
in Pondicherry and Tenasserim (Tanintharyi, now
Myanmar), was the first cio ship to enter the
Chao Phraya River, sailing past Bangkok fort to
Ayutthaya, and that year the cio founded their
first factory in the capital.150 The resulting Siam-
ese embassy, led by Phraya Phiphat Kosa and with
mep missionary Claude Gayme as interpreter,
embarked in December 1680 on the Soleil d’Ori-
ent with letters to King Louis and the pope on
gold sheets, fifty cases of presents, and the two ele-
phants, and after a long stay in Bantam weighed
anchor in August and sailed to their deaths.151
Hearing nothing more from the doomed
embassy Phaulkon encouraged the king to send
another one, this time staffed by envoys rather
than ambassadors in case Phraya Phiphat Kosa’s
embassy had made it to France.152 This 1684–85
mission was the first officially to introduce
Louis XIV to the fiction, which the mep had pro-
moted since 1667, that Narai was ready to convert
to Catholicism and order his people to do the
same, making Siam not merely a trading partner
but a religious ally and potential client state.153 As
Ruangslip remarks, the mep :
failed completely to see that the Siamese
King identified with Buddhism on cul-
tural and constitutional grounds as closely
as the French Crown did with Roman
 Catholicism. From a misunderstanding
born of their own religious conviction and
fond hopes, the French priests also mistook
Narai’s openness to foreign culture as a sign
of spiritual longing. This misperception was
responsible for the subsequent French polit-
ical and military policies towards Siam.154
In fact the impossibility of Narai’s conversion
to Christianity went further, as the Siamese
monarchy was also founded on an earlier Hindu
tradition of rulership (Hinduism preceded Bud-
dhism in what is today Thailand) whereby the
king was divine: “[r]evered as a reincarnated deity
of chakravartin (universal emperor) … the king
of Siam was far more than the fount of justice: he
was the fountainhead of society itself … his own
person regarded as both sacred and unapproach-
able by his subjects on account of his identity
with the godhead; and his divinity expressed in
his roles as defender of the Buddhist faith.”155 To
put it bluntly, if Narai were to abandon Theravada
Buddhism he would no longer be owed the obedi-
ence of his subjects.
Nevertheless, Narai’s supposed willingness to
convert became the primary incentive behind
Louis XIV’s two embassies, and the news was de-
livered by mep missionaries Vachet and Antoine
Pascot (ca 1646–1689), the embassy’s translators.
In fact Narai’s interests had nothing to do with
religion: he wanted French products and to learn
about French technologies: he placed a large order
for mirrors to adorn his audience hall at Ayutt-
haya (fig. 2.20) and sent four Siamese youths to
observe French engineering and craftsmanship,
specifically hydraulics, architecture, and metal-
working.156 As Siam had no ocean-going ships
this mission travelled on an English vessel and was
first received by Louis XIV’s cousin Charles II
(r. 1660–85) in London in September 1684. Al-
though it was the first Siamese mission to France,
it did not stir up the enthusiasm that would greet
the 1686 embassy, since the envoys Khun Phichai
Walit and Khun Phichit Maitri expressed little
interest in French culture despite being taken to
the Île de France’s most celebrated monuments
and sitting through the opera Roland (1685) by
Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632–1687) and Philippe
Quinault (1635–1688) – an orientalist fantasy
that included a representation of Cathay (China)
which the French thought would appeal to the
envoys as well as new Asian characters specially
introduced for this occasion – but the two men
were “ill at ease” during the performance.157
The most significant thing about this mission
was that it inspired the first French embassy to
Siam in 1685.158 The mep gained a powerful ally
in Choisy, who fortuitously was taking a retreat
at the mep seminary on rue du Bac after a brush
with death had convinced him to abandon his
libertinage and take minor orders.159 Choisy and
Vachet bombarded the king with tales about
Narai’s desire to convert: the campaign was well-
timed as Louis happened to be reinventing him-
self as the defender of Catholicism on the eve of
revoking the Edict of Nantes (1685), his grand-
father’s guarantee of freedom of religion for Prot-
estants. Meanwhile La Chaise became involved
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
with a scheme to have six Jesuit astronomer-
mathematicians from the Jesuit college of Louis-
le-Grand accompany the embassy and continue
onward to China.160 Louis’s confessor was keen
for French Jesuits to share the glory currently
enjoyed by the Portuguese Padroado in the
Middle Kingdom: Jesuit astronomers Adam
Schall von Bell (1591–1666) and Ferdinand Verbi-
est (1623–1688) – as it happens a German and
Fleming, but under Goa’s authority – had helped
reorganize the Beijing observatory. But La Chaise
also wanted the Jesuits to undermine the mep ’s
influence on the Siamese embassies.161 Writing
ninety-one years later, the ex-Jesuit superior in
79

the architecture of empire
2.20 Franz Ertinger, View of the Back of the Audience
Hall of the Palace of Siam [Ayutthaya], from Simon de La
Loubère, Du Royaume de Siam, Paris, 1691, vol. 1. Etching
and engraving, 16 × 18 cm. BNf .
Pondicherry, Abbé Vernet, had no misconcep-
tions of the purpose of sending the mathem-
aticians to Siam: “Louis XIV sent the King of
Siam a celebrated embassy: on his orders four [sic]
Jesuits accompanied the ambassador: they were
80
given the title of mathematicians, but the princi-
pal object of the embassy was the conversion of
the King and of the kingdom of Siam.”162
Under the leadership of Jean de Fontaney
(1643–1710) the six Jesuits were hurriedly in-
ducted into the Académie Royale des Sciences
and grandly named “King’s Mathematicians in
the Indies and China.”163 Fontaney reached China
in 1687 with four others, including Joachim
Bouvet (1656–1730) and Jean-Francois Gerbillon
(1654–1707), but they made the most of their
brief stay in Siam by demonstrating their ability
to predict a lunar eclipse in the king’s presence
(see chapter 3).164 By contrast their companion
Guy Tachard stayed in Siam and would return to
France with the second Siamese embassy. Tachard
was more interested in personal glory than with
proselytization – or mathematics. By orchestrat-
ing France’s spiritual and military conquest of the
kingdom, “Tachard was to … play a significant
and wholly deleterious role in Franco-Siamese af-
fairs.”165 In addition to his work behind the scenes
as Phaulkon’s co-conspirator, he was the project’s
chief promoter, publishing two Voyages to Siam in
2.21 Music. Savonnerie Manufactory, Paris, ca 1685–97.
Wool, 482.6 × 904.2 cm. Metropolitan Museum of Art,
New York. This is a version of a rug sent to King Narai by
Louis XIV.
1686 and 1689 that extolled King Narai’s gener-
osity toward Christianity and praised Phaulkon.
The embassy also included three mep mission-
aries (including Vachet), Chaumont’s personal
almoner the Abbé de Jully, the ship’s chaplain M.
Le Dot, as well as Abbé François de Langlade du
Chaila, an unaffiliated priest Michael Smithies
calls a “tourist.”166
The 1685 French embassy, under Chaumont’s
leadership with Choisy as embassy coadjutor
(coadjuteur d’ambassade) in charge of Narai’s con-
version, may have had religious and strategic aims,
but it was also a full-blown promotion of French
manufacturing. The 300,000 écus worth of gifts
sent with the embassy would have bankrupted
a smaller kingdom: it included scientific instru-
ments and clocks (including one that supposedly
struck the hours “à la manière de Siam”), an order
of framed mirrors worth 18,000 livres, silverware,
81

2.22 Androuet du Cerceau, Silversmith designs for mirror
cases given as gifts to the Siamese ambassadors to the
French court, from Ornements d’orfèvrerie propres pour
flenquer et émailler: Cinq desseins de boestes de miroirs
faits pour les Ambassadeurs de Siam (Paris, ca 1687).
Institut nationale d’histoire de l’art (iNhA ), Paris.
chandeliers, gold brocade embroideries and other
textiles, including French couture, pistols and
muskets, medals and coins, an equestrian portrait
of the king, and two diamond-studded enamel
plaques (one of the royal family on horseback and
the architecture of empire
the other with a view of Notre-Dame from the
Pont-Royal), marquetry writing desks, tables and
pedestal tables, rock crystal and gold bowls, and –
most significantly for the history of architecture
in Siam – two monumental Savonnerie carpets
worth 4,000 livres, of which a contemporary copy
survives (figs 2.21–22).167
Chaumont’s embassy was France’s first to an
east Asian nation, and although Chaumont was
82
extremely arrogant in his audience with Narai –
refusing to make the ritual protestation and
triple salutation (krāp and wai), insisting on an
armchair and on wearing his sword, and obliging
Narai to bend down to accept Louis XIV’s letter
which was proffered on a plate attached to a rod
(figs 2.17) – Narai maintained exceptional toler-
ance toward his strange visitors. The king even
provided them with well-appointed purpose-built
lodgings in Ayutthaya and Lopburi, in the latter
city right next to Phaulkon’s house (figs. 3.8–9).168
Phaulkon and Tachard also campaigned – against
the better instincts of the ambassadors – for
France to be given Bangkok as a base, allegedly
to protect Siam against the Dutch but effectively
giving France control of the kingdom and en-
suring Phaulkon’s protection in case of a palace
coup. Narai allowed an engineer named La Mare
to fortify Bangkok in readiness for the arrival of
the next French embassy.169 The king also granted
France some trade concessions, including a French
monopoly on the tin trade in Phuket, a town
that had been governed by mep missionary René
Charbonneau since 1682, and promised to protect
Siamese converts to Catholicism.170
Even though it was clear from the start that the
embassy’s primary goal – King Narai’s supposed
conversion to Catholicism – was not to be real-
ized, Chaumont portrayed Narai as a kind of ideal
Bourbon monarch and natural ally, a strategy the
French would later apply to the Chinese Qian-
long Emperor (r. 1735–96).171 Chaumont even
claimed that missionaries had profoundly altered
the Siamese idea of kingship. Instead of shroud-
ing himself in secrecy and ruling from behind
closed doors Narai became visible and gregarious,
showing himself to his people and to strangers,
allegedly in emulation of Louis XIV, for whom it
was a foundation of his ideology that his subjects
should be able to view the person of the mon-
arch.172 This claim was nonsense but, as a ploy to
maintain Louis’s interest in Siam when faced with
the 1685 embassy’s other failures, it was the best
they could do. Another aspect of the Narai-as-
Bourbon-monarch trope was the way Europeans
declared Narai’s second palace at Lopburi, north
of Ayutthaya, as his Versailles.173 Beginning in the
early 1670s Narai took the unusual step of residing
for long periods at Lopburi and conducting court
business there. Few European commentators at
the time (or even today) refer to Lopburi without
drawing this parallel with Louis XIV’s chateau.
Although the embassy was “little more than a
triumphal promenade in the kingdom of Siam,”
its failures did not diminish Narai’s enthusiasm
for sending a new official embassy in 1685–87,
that of ratchathut (first ambassador) Kosa Pan,
which was shepherded this time by both the
mep and the Jesuits in the persons of Vachet and
Tachard.174 The embassy included two lesser am-
bassadors, eight khunnang (titled nobility), some
lower-ranking aristocrats (khunmun), a dozen
youths sent to learn about French arts and crafts,
and numerous servants.175 Much has been written
about this embassy, particularly its impact on the
arts and on French culture in general – it created a
kind of Siam-mania like the fads for Turkish
and Persian styles inspired by seventeenth- and
eighteenth-century embassies from those na-
tions.176 The travels of the Siamese ambassadors
were minutely reported in the court gazette, the
Mercure galant (which published four special
issues on the embassy) and also – uniquely –
recorded in a fragmentary Siamese diary kept
by Kosa Pan (nearly all early modern Siamese
archival sources were destroyed in the Burmese
sack of Ayutthaya in 1767).177 Louis again ensured
that the ambassadors were shown France’s finest
products, architecture, music, engineering, and
culture, and they attended plays by Molière, Cor-
neille, and Racine, Lully’s operas Armide and Acis
et Galatée (accompanied by the composer), visited
the manufactories of Saint-Gobain and Gobelins
(accompanied by Le Brun), were shown the Main-
tenon aqueduct works (ironically, the project
went so over budget that it was never completed),
and even toured the forts of the ceinture de fer in
a demonstration of France’s military might.178
The audience in the newly completed Hall of
Mirrors (1678–84) on 1 September 1686, “the
most spectacular reception the Sun King ever
granted to an embassy during his long reign,” was
meant to send two messages: one, that Louis XIV
was treating Narai as an equal; and two, that
France was Europe’s leading manufacturer of
mirrors and other luxury items.179 In this eyewit-
ness drawing by Le Brun, possibly a preliminary
study for a tapestry or wall painting, we see the
ambassadors and their retinue, who have entered
the hall from the northern end via the king’s
apartments (on the left), wearing their conical
lompok hats and making the krāp and wai in front
of the king in the company of their interpreter,
the mep missionary Artus de Lionne (1655–1713).
Louis sits on a silver-plated wooden throne on
a raised platform flanked by silver candelabra,
vases, and torches, which his courtiers (1,500 were
present at the event) ostentatiously admire – it
is noteworthy that none of the Siamese gifts are
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
depicted here, although they appear in engraved
representations of the embassy.180 The platform,
on the south end of the gallery near the queen’s
apartments, was specially built for the occasion
so that the king would sit at precisely the same
height as did King Narai in his own audience
chamber. Thus the monarchs were presented as
equals, a kind of reciprocity very different from
France’s attitude toward non-European cultures
in the mid-nineteenth century, with its “clear
hierarchical distinction between a ‘civilized’ West
and an inferior East” (fig. 2.18).181 The king’s
appropriation of Siamese culture extended to
music: he commanded palace musicians from
83
 the Grandes Écuries to study the Siamese in-
struments, including trumpets and conch shells,
which had been brought to France, probably by
a Siamese band that accompanied the embassy.
Louis knew from his sources that the Siamese
king was accompanied by festive wind and per-
cussion music whenever he travelled and ordered
his musicians to emulate this tradition when the
ambassadors entered the Hall of Mirrors. The
resulting Franco-Siamese processional music
played that day survives in the two Siamese airs
in Michel-Richard Delalande’s ninth Symphonie
pour les soupers du Roy (1686–87).182 Even though
this Siamese-style music was far from being au-
thentic, it again demonstrated that the young king
was interested in emulating the regal culture of his
Asian counterpart.
To add to the visual splendour Louis and his
close family members, who are standing around
the throne, debuted what must have been the
most expensive French haute couture in hist-
ory, including a heavy justaucorps (knee-length
coat) of silk and gold thread encrusted (in the
king’s case) with several million livres worth of
diamonds. The sparkle of silver, gold, and jewels,
enhanced by natural light, was not just designed
to glorify the monarch but was also a deliberate
ploy to maximize the reflective capacity of the
room’s mirrors. In fact it was quite unusual for
Louis to have chosen that location as foreign
embassies were usually received in the Salon
d’Apollon in the king’s apartments.183 Scholars
the architecture of empire
have demonstrated that Louis XIV significantly
altered his court ceremonial during this event,
as he appropriated what he believed to be Asian
expressions of divine rulership and material
splendour into royal spectacles to present himself
“not as a European prince … but as an omnipotent
Asian despot,” and that these changes had a lasting
effect on his public persona.184 Louis’s propaganda
machine used Narai’s divine status and France’s
84
perception of Asian magnificence to reinforce his
own claim to divine rulership – a Buddhist king
authenticating a Catholic one the year after the
latter crushed French Protestantism through the
revocation of the Edict of Nantes.
Despite the bombast, Louis showed more
respect for the Siamese than had Chaumont:
he stood up, bowed, and doffed his hat when
receiving King Narai’s golden letter and he had
ordered Chaumont to record the niceties of
Siamese protocol during his stay in Siam precisely
so that Louis could receive the ambassadors at
Versailles in a culturally appropriate manner.185
It was also important to Louis’s self-image as a
visible monarch to appear in person rather than
hidden, as was Narai during his receptions.186
Nevertheless cultural sensitivity did not extend
to the court’s appreciation of King Narai’s gifts,
which disappointed officials because of a dearth
of gold objects: they were mostly Chinese and
Japanese porcelains and lacquer furniture, as
well as Persian carpets and a few Siamese items,
notably two cast-iron cannons embellished with
silver foil.187 However, Louis did not stint in his
return gifts, which were worth 175,531 livres and
included seven more Savonnerie carpets, Gobelins
tapestries, 4,264 mirrors, two organs and two
harpsichords, mathematical and astronomical
instruments, jewellery and couture, a wine cellar
(cave à vin), and a small equestrian portrait by
Pierre Mignard (1612–1695) as a personal gift
from La Chaise.188 As for the Jesuits, they sup-
plied King Narai with twelve of his own Jesuit
astronomers to compensate for those who had left
for China; they would be put in charge of the two
observatories the king was planning to construct
in Ayutthaya and Lopburi (fig. 3.15).189
On 1 March 1687 the returning embassy,
led by La Loubère and Claude Céberet du
Boullay (1647–1702), one of the twelve dir-
ectors of the cio , left Brest with 1,361 people
and six ships (the 1685 embassy had two), in-
cluding 636 troops commanded by Marshall
Desfargues (d. 1690), military engineers, and
plans for fortifications (figs 3.16–17), guns,
munitions, and artillery.190 There was no doubt-
ing the true intention of this fleet, which had
secret orders to seize Bangkok and Mergui
if the towns were not handed over willingly, even
though Narai had offered them Songkhla instead:
to “give all the posts requested in the name of
the king, to establish Frenchmen to govern in the
strongholds belonging to the king of Siam, and
to permit complete freedom of trade for His
Majesty’s subjects.”191 La Loubère was com-
manded to remain in Siam as a spy, to learn all he
could about the military and political situation,
all the while mounting a charm offensive of opera
diplomacy by having his violinist play airs by
Lully for King Narai (by coincidence this embassy
was accompanied by André Cardinal Destouches,
1672–1749, who later became France’s most cele-
brated opera-ballet composer, although he had
not yet begun his musical training).192 But Narai
was already dying, which did not augur well for
the embassy or for Phaulkon.
When the ships landed at the Bar of Siam in
the autumn the troops disembarked and La Lou-
bère and Céberet – “envoys extraordinary” this
time rather than ambassadors – continued on to
Ayutthaya, where they were received in an audi-
ence in November and succeeded in obtaining a
commercial treaty from the king.193 Phaulkon was
terrified that the militant attitude of the French
would ruin the alliance and put his life in jeop-
ardy – the number of troops was much greater
than he had recommended – and La Loubère left
Siam “on worst of terms” with the Greek.194 The
French intended to intimidate Narai into open-
ing his three most important ports to France:
Ayutthaya, Bangkok, and Mergui. Céberet wasted
no time departing for Mergui to supervise the
securing of that town and was joined in February
1688 by Du Briant and his troops.195
In the midst of all this turmoil the final
embassy from King Narai’s Siam left in January
1688 with Tachard as the king’s ambassador, La
Loubère, the three Siamese envoys (of whom Ok-
khun Chamnan Chaichong spoke Portuguese),
three Tonkinese converts, five Siamese schoolboys
to attend the College of Louis-le-Grand, three
elephants and a rhinoceros (the animals all died
en route), and royal letters for Louis XIV and
Pope Innocent XI.196 Narai placed orders for
4,000 more mirrors for his palace at Lopburi.
Tachard chaperoned the envoys to audiences with
Innocent XI and Louis XIV in late 1688 and early
1689, but Louis was by now occupied with the
outbreak of the War of the League of Augsburg
(1688–97). They were too late anyway: Narai
died the same month that the embassy arrived in
Brest ( July), two months after his successor, Phra
Phetracha (r. 1688–1703), had overthrown him
in a palace coup in Lopburi and one month after
Phaulkon’s gruesome execution.197 When they re-
turned to Asia in 1690 the embassy could not pro-
ceed beyond India, and the two surviving Siamese
envoys disembarked in Balasore in West Bengal to
make their own way back to Ayutthaya.198
forT DAuphiN, SurAT, poNDicherry cA 1672
Besieged by Siamese troops led by Kosa Pan,
erstwhile ambassador and now the minister of
foreign affairs, the French abandoned Bangkok
in November and the fleet retreated to Pondi-
cherry. Although they attempted to retake
Siam again in 1690 and even landed troops at
Phuket, the French fleet abandoned the Siamese
campaign to join the war in Europe – a war in
which Louis XIV’s star would begin to wane.199
Phetracha released the mep missionaries from
prison in April 1691 and they continued to work
in Siam for the next seventy-six years, but purely
in a pastoral role without diplomatic status.
Tachard made one last-ditch attempt to sway the
85
2.23 It Is the Plan of the Lodge or Comptoir
of the French Messieurs in Bengal on the
Ganges. This Place Is Called Chandernagor,
the Complex is Magnificent, There is a Main
Building with Two Wings, and a Terrace
between Two Large Magazines. From Usages
de Siam. Watercolour and ink on paper, 40 ×
29 cm. BNf . This drawing, made by or for
Guy Tachard, shows the cio headquarters
in Chandernagore, begun in 1690. In the
upper right corner is the chapel of Saint-
Louis with its bell tower and dovecote.
 new regime, received in what Smithies calls “a
purely formal audience” by Phetracha in 1699, but
achieved nothing and returned to France, then
Pondicherry and later Chandernagore, where he
died in 1712 (fig. 2.23).200 Thus ended France’s
costly and ignominious eight-year adventure in
Siam: France would have to wait 150 years before
re-establishing diplomatic relations with the king-
dom, which by then was ruled by a new dynasty
and from a new capital.
The French missionaries and embassies may have
failed in their goals of converting the Siamese
people to Catholicism, creating a meaningful rela-
tionship between two nations on opposite sides of
the globe, or initiating a French conquest of Siam.
But they did generate some of the world’s most
fascinating and sophisticated architectural hybrid-
ities: sacred and secular buildings for French and
Siamese patrons alike but built mainly by Siamese
architects and which combined not only French
and Siamese forms and motifs, but also elements
the architecture of empire
88
derived from Persian architecture and Chinese
and Japanese porcelain revetments. These build-
ings reflected both the cosmopolitan culture of
Ayutthaya and Lopburi and the different, some-
times conflicting aspirations and loyalties of their
patrons. They included a palatine chapel, possibly
the largest cathedral and seminary in Southeast
Asia outside the Philippines, palace buildings in
which either French or Siamese elements dom-
inated, and spectacular ornamental pediments
incorporated into Buddhist temple structures,
and they date from the arrival of the first mep
missionaries in the 1660s until the 1760s, the very
eve of the Burmese invasion, eighty years after the
era of embassies was over. Although most of these
structures are in ruins and some have disappeared,
the lost ones have been described meticulously
enough to allow a detailed reconstruction, which
I will attempt here for the first time. These extra-
ordinary buildings – among the few surviving
testaments to the Franco-Siamese cultural ex-
change – are the subject of the following chapter.
3
diplomacy
Ayutthaya ca 1688

Although a tragedy of misunderstandings and confusion, the

Franco-Siamese exchange generated different varieties of pro-
foundly hybrid structures in Siam between the 1660s, with the
arrival of the first French missionaries, and the Burmese sack
of Ayutthaya in 1767. It included the largest and most opulent
structures commissioned by or for French agents in Asia in the
seventeenth century. In France’s global colonial enterprise at the
time this stylistic and structural hybridity was highly unusual, and
it went against France’s campaign to advertise itself as the epicentre
of contemporary architecture and universal good taste – a move-
ment, as we have seen, that was at the very heart of the missionary
and diplomatic activities in Siam. The reason for this departure
from the norm is very simple: most of these buildings were not
constructed by Frenchmen but by Siamese architects and engin-
eers, primarily those attached to the royal court. They were also
built in sovereign territory that did not belong to France and in
which the French could only reside on Siamese terms. Further-
more, except for works commissioned by missionaries – and even
they had to submit to a Siamese court that had different design
priorities – the patrons of these buildings were not French. Only
the structures planned for the Bangkok citadel reflect the baroque
classicism of Colbert and Vauban, but they were never built. I have
included Siam in this book because the Franco-Siamese exchange
was an important component of France’s imperial project – French
 missionaries and Louis XIV hoped to convert the
kingdom to Catholicism and the French govern-
ment and military officials tried to conquer it –
but it is better described as para-colonial (like the
episodes discussed in chapter 5), since the French
never achieved suzerainty over Siam. It is perhaps
the most striking example in this book of how the
architecture of French imperialism could not
simply be imposed from above but was the result
3.1 Shīsh-mahāl in the Shah Burj at the Lahore Fort,
Pakistan, 1631–32.
the architecture of empire
90
of delicate, often contentious negotiations and
accommodations on the ground.
What makes the buildings in this chapter so
fascinating is the variety and complexity of their
stylistic and structural mixtures, and here is where
the flexibility of the term “hybridity” – or in
this case “hybridities” – is so useful, and why we
need to use it on a case-by-case basis rather than
in the abstract. In fact, the Siamese have a long
history of harmoniously incorporating forms
and styles from other cultures into their archi-
tecture, a reflection of the kingdom’s location at
a cultural crossroads and its openness to foreign
cultures. Siamese temple and palace architecture,
profoundly indebted to classical Khmer, Mon,
and Ceylonese forms even before the foundation
of Ayutthaya in the fourteenth century, incor-
porated Japanese and Safavid Persian structures
into its admixture in the seventeenth century as
trade and diplomacy with those nations thrived.1
Indeed France was far from being the only nation
involved diplomatically with Siam, which sent
five missions to Japan between 1616 and 1629 and
three to Isfahan in 1669, 1681–82, and 1684; the
return embassy from Persia arrived in 1685, the
same year as the first French mission.2 Persian
architectural features were particularly promin-
ent, including chīnī-khāna (literally “porcelain-
hall”) style ogival wall niches (originally meant
to display ceramics but by now likely orna-
mental), ogival windows, and especially a kind of
decor that scholars have long mistaken as a sign
of French influence: mirror revetments inside
royal audience halls in Ayutthaya and Lopburi
(fig. 2.20).3 Although King Narai ordered thou-
sands of mirrors from France (see chapter 2; he
also purchased 400 from the Dutch), the manner
in which they covered the entire wall is con-
sistent with the Persian and Mughal shīsh-mahal
(“glass hall”) and have nothing to do with the
Hall of Mirrors at Versailles as is so often claimed
(fig. 3.1).4 As Meredith Martin has noted, mirrors
were remarkably multivalent in their associations:
recalling the tradition of “mirrors for princes”
(manuals for good rulership) in both Islamic and
European cultures, Buddhist expressions of en-
lightenment, and even world capitalism through
their role in the Franco-Siamese exchange.5
The buildings’ hybridities reflect the different
terms of patronage and contrasting functions of
Franco-Siamese buildings. First, French mis-
sionaries commissioned (or had commissioned
for them) several churches, a seminary, a college,
and two observatories with varying degrees of
interference from King Narai and Constantine
Phaulkon. It is clear, as I will argue below, that
the missionaries wanted something that looked
French, but what they got were buildings that
combined French classicism with Siamese fea-
tures. Second, Phaulkon commissioned buildings
for the French ambassadors in a classical French
style that was meant to make them feel welcome:
ironically, they are more French-looking than
those commissioned by French missionaries.
However, even they, because they were built
by Siamese court architects, reveal subtle and
inventive variations on European classical forms,
particularly pediments and pilasters. And indeed,
the same patron also commissioned a chapel that,
while partly based on a French engraving, made
such extensive use of Siamese motifs such as lotus
arches and capitals and Persian ogival niches
that its French sources are difficult to discern.
Third, a group of Buddhist temples and a palace
pavilion erected between the 1680s and 1760s
combine European classical motifs derived from
French tapestries and other diplomatic gifts with
Siamese figural imagery and patterns, as well as
Japanese and Chinese porcelains. No Europeans
were involved with this last variant, which reflects
a curiosity for Western forms and a keen eye
for how they can be combined with indigenous
patterns and East Asian ceramics, and also per-
haps a desire to project an impression of worldly
sophistication. Except for the temples, all that is
left of these buildings are a few charred ruins in
Lopburi. However enough descriptions survive
that it is possible to reconstruct the appearance
of the destroyed structures, including the most
fascinating one of all, the church and seminary
of Saint-Joseph in Ayutthaya (ca 1682–ca 1714).
What makes the buildings in this chapter so in-
teresting is their sophistication: the juxtapositions
and transformations of forms they entail were
done with skill, finesse, and even levity. They are
a testament to the creativity and originality of the
architects of early modern Siam and their capacity
for experimentation, harmonious assimilation,
and what can only be called visual delight.
Early French Missionaries in Siam
Unlike the buildings in chapters 2 and 4, none
of the Franco-Siamese monuments were built for
the cio , who maintained a low profile compared
with French missionaries and diplomats, although
they built a small comptoir there in 1680 and cio
merchant André-François Boureau-Deslandes
was instrumental in organizing the first, ill-fated,
Siamese embassy to France that same year on the
cio ship Soleil d’Orient. French missionaries
were the main protagonists of the Franco-Siamese
exchange, and although they were in the country
almost two decades earlier than the cio or the
ambassadors, they were relative latecomers to
Siam, arriving long after the Portuguese mission-
aries and the Dutch and English traders had set
up shop in Ayutthaya in “camps” – the Portuguese AyuTThAyA cA 1688
in the early sixteenth century and the Protestant
companies in the early seventeenth – alongside
their Persian, non-Christian Japanese, and Chi-
nese counterparts, as well as Christian refugees
from Japan and Cochinchina (figs. 2.16, 3.2).6
91
 3.2 Siam or Iudia. Capital of the Kingdom of Siam, Drawn
on the Spot by Mr Courtaulin, Apostolic Missionary of
China, 1686. Engraving (detail), 41 × 56 cm. BNf . This
detail shows the foreign camps south of the city. The mep
church is labelled “I” on the left; the “M” is the Dominican
church of São Pedro; the “N” is the Jesuit church of São
Paulo; the “P” is the Dutch house and garden.
Simon de La Loubère commented that “It was …
the architecture of empire
the freedom of commerce which had formerly at-
tracted a great multitude of foreigners of different
nations to Siam; who established themselves there
with the liberty to live according to their customs,
and to publicly exercise their various faiths there.
Each nation occupies a different quarter.”7 mep
missionary Nicolas Gervaise noted that before
their arrival rival Christian missionaries had al-
ready “built several churches” in their camps.8
92
The first missionaries to arrive were Portuguese
Dominicans (1555, 1593), Franciscans (1582), and
Jesuits (1606, ca 1626–30, 1655), the Dominicans
definitively settled in 1639 and the Jesuits in 1655,
both in the Portuguese camp (established 1549)
on the west bank of the Chao Phraya river across
from those of the Japanese and Dutch (fig. 3.2).9
As we have seen, the first French Jesuits arrived
only in 1685 with the Chevalier de Chaumont’s
embassy.10 The Portuguese Jesuits possessed,
according to a typically vague Guy Tachard, “a
very pretty house with a church” (built 1606 or
1609; rebuilt 1655–56) and the Dominicans had
“a very beautiful church” (begun 1555 or 1567)
north of the Jesuit church.11 According to Pierre
Lambert de La Motte these were the only two
“public” churches in the city before the arrival
of the mep .12 The Dominican church of São
Domingos (also known as São Pedro after one of
its side chapels) has been excavated and partially
reconstructed; substantial brick foundations in a
distinctly Siamese style survive.13 There was also
a small Spanish Franciscan community with a
brick chapel dedicated to the Virgin (1581 or 1583)
one kilometre north of the Dominican complex,
and from 1667 a few Augustinian priests operated
out of one of São Domingos’s chapels.14 The Fran-
ciscans and Augustinians kept to themselves and
were not active proselytizers.
The Jesuit church of São Paulo and their
residence and College of São Salvador were
underwritten in 1655 by the Siamese convert
Isabel Rajiota. Construction was directed by the
Sicilian superior and engineer Tommaso Val-
guarnera (1609–1677), whom King Narai hired
in 1663 as “Engineer to the King” to rebuild the
defences and canals (khlong) of the capital as well
as forts at Nonthaburi and elsewhere, and who
also constructed a stone public fountain covered
with tiles.15 The largest of the Ayutthaya churches
at the time, it was destroyed by a fire in 1658 and
rebuilt in 1661 along with the adjacent college in
1671. The new church, the first recorded example
of architectural métissage, was made of stone
imported from Macau and was painted in bright
colours and gold to compete with Ayutthaya’s
gilded temples: Jesuit Giovanni Filippo de Marini
(1608–1682) wrote that “thanks to the local
customs of colourfully painting and gilding, the
façade’s architecture is so graceful that even the
Gentiles are enchanted by it.”16 Nevertheless the
college was modest and was staffed by only four
priests and one brother in its opening year; it
probably never had more than about sixty stu-
dents at once.17 Unlike the French, the Jesuits of
the Portuguese Padroado had a long history of
encouraging hybrid architectural forms, most
notably in Japan, where Jesuit visitor Alessandro
Valignano (1539–1606) instructed missionaries
in 1581 to commission buildings in the Japanese
style from Japanese architects so as to make the
Jesuits fit more seamlessly into Japanese society
(see chapter 5), but also in colonies such as Goa,
Daman, Diu, and Macau.18
The first mep church (1662–63) was as un-
impressive as those of the Dominicans and
Franciscans. Also initially built in the Portuguese
camp and dedicated to Saint Joseph, Lambert de-
scribed it in 1663 as “a cheaply built little chapel”
and in 1664 simply as “small” (1664), and that
it was based on “a plan (dessin) which had been
made” and “built by these good people [i.e., the
Cochinchinese Christians] themselves and with …
diligence.”19 But its humble dimensions did not
prevent the seminarians from mounting baroque
ephemeral events there, notably the Forty Hours
Devotion during Lent in which the Eucharist
“was exposed day and night with just as much
freedom as in a Christian country.”20 The Jesuits
and Dominicans also hosted such activities: two
decades later Guy Tachard relates that the Jesuit
church was the setting for the obsequies of Queen
Maria Francisca of Portugal (d. 1683) and King
Alfonso VI (d. 1683) and the celebration of the
coronation of King Pedro II took place in the
Dominican chapel of São Pedro, with its patron
Constantine Phaulkon in attendance, culminating
in an elaborate fireworks presentation commem-
orating the deathbed conversion of the English
king Charles II (d. 1685) to Catholicism – the
same king who had received the 1684–85 em-
bassy – and the crowning of James II in April of
the same year.21
Notwithstanding Valguarnera’s pretentions
to architectural skill, all three of these churches AyuTThAyA cA 1688
would have been very basic, built in the typical
manner of the camps with whitewashed brick
and tile roofs – or even bamboo covered with
palm leaves – by local contractors: more like a
godown than a place of worship.22 The rest of the
93
 buildings in the Portuguese camp were wooden
structures on stilts.23 The 1661 reconstruction of
São Paulo was the only one to use stone, and that
was only because the Jesuits were able to import
it from Macau. The Dominican church would
have been typical: a rectangular brick hall with
pilasters on the exterior, it measured 50 metres
by 40 metres.24 The sources do not identify the
builders, who were not all Siamese as most of the
Christians were Cochinchinese. The name of one
French craftsman survives: among the prisoners
incarcerated in the aftermath of the 1688 Court
Revolution was a “joiner to the Jesuits” (ménuis-
ier des Jésuites) named Lapie, possibly a temporal
coadjutor or more likely a lay worker or donné,
one who by civil contract and solemn vow gave
his labour as a gift to God, an essentially medieval
institution used elsewhere, notably in Nouvelle-
France.25 These men were meant to settle and
raise Catholic families. Louis Laneau hints that
the seminarians also employed such workers in
a passage (quoted at greater length below) in
which he asks his superiors to send a painter to
adorn the new cathedral, and that “after he had
finished this work … if he would like he could get
married like the others.”26 Lapie may have con-
tributed to the interior woodwork of the Jesuit
House and Observatory at Lopburi, which will be
discussed below.
The Cathedral and Seminary of Saint-Joseph
the architecture of empire
The mep ’s new wooden church and seminary
(begun 1666) – both dedicated to Saint Joseph
and located far to the west on the south bank of
the river (fig. 3.2, “I”) – were replaced with much
larger brick and mortar structures beginning in
the 1670s under royal patronage and the close
supervision of the king and Phaulkon. Indeed,
before 1685, when Phaulkon switched allegiance
to the newly arrived French Jesuits, he was quite
94
generous toward the mep .27 The buildings’
dimensions also reflected Saint-Joseph’s eleva-
tion to a cathedral and its new role as the mep ’s
headquarters in Asia with the establishment of
the Vicariate Apostolic of Siam under Laneau
(1674).28 The most imposing structure of all the
European camps, the Cathedral of Saint-Joseph
was one of only four French episcopal sees outside
France (as noted in chapter 2, the only one in the
empire itself was the Bishopric of Quebec; the
other two, in Đại Việt and China, had no perma-
nent bases).29 The mep realized that a seminary
in peaceful and cosmopolitan Siam would be
an ideal base to train missionaries for and from
China, Tonkin, Cochinchina, and elsewhere, par-
ticularly in language study, and to serve as a com-
munications centre with Europe.30 It was the first
French seminary in Asia and as important a base
for the mep – both spiritually and politically –
as the College of São Paulo in Goa (ca 1542) was
for the Portuguese Jesuits.
In a 1666 letter to François Pallu, Lambert
related that the king has promised “to send us
the materials to build our church” and that he
had given the mep the quarter occupied by the
Cochinchinese refugees: “the place is beautiful,
we have accommodated ourselves in two wooden
rooms roofed with tiles to try to protect our
books and church furnishings.”31 In 1666 they
replaced these temporary quarters with a “fairly
large building” with a brick ground floor and
a first floor of wood which included a spacious
chapel and rooms for the missionaries and dormi-
tories.32 The next year Lambert added that the
main building had six rooms and a hall for
the clerics and “a large chapel.”33 They named the
settlement Camp Saint-Joseph. At this stage,
the buildings were little more than rudimentary
camp dwellings.
Nearly a decade passed before the new struc-
ture promised by the king was begun. In 1674, the
year Laneau became bishop, Narai encouraged
him to begin working on a “really beautiful” new
church “that he wants to build” and ordered
the bishop to “prepare a plan [plan] of the most
beautiful [buildings?], without regard for its po-
tential cost” for his approval.34 Lambert claimed
that it was to be “a magnificent church, one day
the first cathedral in his realm.”35 The royal court
and the seminarians were so closely involved with
the project that it is difficult to tell which party
was more responsible for the church’s extraordin-
ary design – even the basic chronology and au-
thorship remain unclear. A 1673 reference to the
“plan” suggests a collaboration: the king approved
a pencil drawing [tracé en crayon] made by the
fathers but his changes reflected “the way he [i.e.,
the king] wanted to do it.”36 Yet in 1682 Pierre-
Joseph Duchesne remarks that “at the beginning
of December the King ordered a mandarin to
build the church for the French bishops, accord-
ing to the model that had been given to him [selon
le modèle qu’on luy en avait donné],” implying that
the mep were the authors.37 In a letter to Colbert
(1682) Pallu claims that the mep retained con-
trol over the design and that Phaulkon offered
to pay for the church regardless of size, “and in
whatever manner I would like it: it must be three
naves, eighteen or twenty toises in length, and of a
proportionate width and height with two win-
dows [croisées] and two towers at the sides of the
façade [ frontispiece]. The King received the plan
[plan] and ordered that it be followed.”38 Yet two
1684 sources say the opposite: that the church
was built “according to the model [modèle] which
[the king] himself had sent [Bishop Pallu]” and
following “the plan [plan] which [the king] pro-
vided himself,” although the second source never
visited Siam so he is less reliable.39 Nevertheless, in
a letter of 1682, Boureau-Deslandes unequivocally
attributed the plan to the missionaries: “the king
sent [Phaulkon] to ask for the drawing [dessin]
of the church. It was presented to him, and this
prince ordered that it be built according to this
model [modèle], which is beautiful, great and
magnificent.”40 All the evidence points toward
a fluid collaboration: the missionaries had no
architects among them and at best drafted what
we might call a “back of the napkin” plan and
elevations (a basically French-looking church)
while Siamese court architects did the rest, using
traditional structural and stylistic features. The
plan went back and forth between the king and
the missionaries, each making corrections and
annotations, as would happen almost eighty years
later when Jesuit artists and the Qianlong Em-
peror and his court architects designed the Sino-
baroque Xiyanglou pavilions at the Yuanming
Yuan summer palace (1747–83) in China.41
In 1682 Duchesne described the projected cath-
edral for the first time in a letter to the directors
of the mep in Paris that was detailed enough
that he must have had drawings of the plan,
elevation, and interior at hand: “The church has
three naves and two big square towers in front;
its length, with the sacristy, which is the same
height and built like the church, is 22 fathoms
[40 metres]; it is built in a cross shape and the
crossing is four fathoms wide [just over 7 metres]
and 12½ long [about 23 metres], the body of the
building is 10 fathoms [18 metres] wide and
the height of the walls is six and a half fathoms
[12 metres]. It has brick piers [piliers] in the
church, octagonal, two fathoms [3.7 metres] apart
from each other, which separate the naves, which
are half a fathom [90 centimetres] in diameter.
All around the roof there is a balustrade and
lead eavestroughs … the inside is nicely panelled AyuTThAyA cA 1688
[lambrissé] and well gilded, as are the piers.”42
The cathedral was quite large – comparable to
a parish church in a French market town – and
it was essentially European in style, with clas-
sical balustrades. Nevertheless, this description
95
 already reveals elements adopted from a Buddhist
temple (wat). Such are the octagonal piers with
gilded decoration, which are found, for example,
in the assembly hall in the nearby Wat Na Phra
Men (1503), and the gilded panels, which fre-
quently adorn Buddhist ordination or assembly
halls.43 The latter often include panelled “star
ceilings” (dao phedan), featuring five to nine
gilded stars formed of stylized lotus patterns
on a blue or red background, which represent
the cosmic order imposed by Buddhist law
(dhamma). A star ceiling would be fitting in a
cathedral as many medieval church ceilings in
Europe were painted with golden stars – most
famously, Sainte-Chapelle in Paris (1242–48). It
is possible that Phaulkon encouraged the mep
to introduce Siamese forms into the church (as
he did in his own chapel) to make the building
fit better into its cultural environment: in the
1680s he advised the Jesuits to dress like Buddhist
monks for that very reason, and although they
refused the mep did not, donning Buddhist-style
robes briefly between ca 1677 and 1686.44
Conversely, Siamese elements may have been
introduced simply because professional Siamese
architects and builders worked on the church:
the workers would have laboured on conscrip-
tion rolls performing their obligatory six-month
corvée labour rotation, the same system used to
build the king’s palaces and other public works
projects.45 However there is no evidence in any of
the letters written by mep missionaries that the
the architecture of empire
group was interested in a hybrid structure: they
wanted it to look like a French cathedral.
Construction finally began on 15 March 1683.
Pallu laid the cathedral’s first stone in full episco-
pal habit on 15 April in the presence of a court
construction supervisor who returned incessantly
to keep an eye on the building site and demon-
strate the king’s personal interest in the project.46
The bishops were adamant that the interior
96
decoration, which was to include biblical figural
scenes to assist in preaching, should adhere to
European standards. On 15 January 1684 Laneau
wrote to the mep directors in Paris asking for
paintings and art supplies to decorate the interior:
As our church built by the king advances
day by day, it occurred to me that if you
could send us, I do not dare say a painter,
but a good dauber [barbouilleur] to paint
all the mysteries of religion inside it would
be a great advantage to our mission, because
it would be better than ten preachers; and
[the church] will be large enough to contain
all the stories from both the Old and New
Testaments … But it is said that the paint-
brushes [pinceaux] here are worthless; there
are enough colours; but, either the painters
of these countries do not know how to use
them, or they are hardly any good. There is
a quantity of cinnabar [and] red lead, rather
expensive Verdigris, not very handsome blue,
a lot of Cambodian yellow, and indigo [and]
ceruse, also expensive: this, it seems to me, is
about all there is. The ones we lack should be
procured, provided they do not cost much;
for as long as it has a little brilliancy, and
the colours are lively, it is more satisfactory
than the beautiful pictures of Michelangelo
and Poussin. Thus, parenthetically, if it were
possible for the pictures [images] you send to
be done in colours [enluminées], they would
be much more esteemed than any of the
most beautiful prints [tailles-douces, literally
“intaglios”]. […] It would be fitting to gild
the leather pieces [cuirs], as they do in Italy,
and our missionaries would also very much
like to have some windows for the choir.47
Laneau no doubt regretted the loss of Michael
Sweerts, his companion on his overland journey
and a very good painter indeed. For his part
Phaulkon supplied the seminarians with all of
the interior furnishings “without overlooking a
single thing,” but his munificence did not extend
to altarpieces, which never seem to have mater-
ialized.48 Pallu wrote in December 1682 that
the high altar would be dedicated to the Holy
Trinity with an altarpiece of the Trinity and Holy
Family; a “second large altar” (presumably in a
transept) was to be dedicated to the Virgin Mary
with Saints Francis and Dominic; the third altar
(across from it) was to be dedicated to Saints
Charles and Francis of Sales; a fourth, smaller,
altar was assigned to Saints Ignatius of Loyola and
Francis Xavier; and the baptistery altarpiece of
St John the Baptist would have a painting of the
Baptism of Christ.49 The second altar sounds like
a tribute to the Franciscans and Dominicans, and
the fourth altar, although smaller, an unexpected
concession to the Jesuits. But in the end the altars
were dedicated to Saint Joseph (the high altar),
Our Lady of the Rosary, and Saint Peter, and,
thanks to the deprivations of the post-Revolution
period, none of them had altarpieces.50
Laneau’s 1684 letter demonstrates once again
that the bishop was not interested in promoting
artistic hybridity but maintained a chauvinistic
belief in the superiority of European arts – his
heroes were Poussin and Michelangelo, the clas-
sical tradition – and that only European paint-
ings and pigments would impress the Siamese
and other Asians in Ayutthaya (in chapter 6 we
will see a similar decision, regarding the Saigon
Théâtre municipal, 1898–1900, to hire only
French architects and designers). Such attitudes
were common among missionaries and colonial
officials in early modern Asia. A century earlier
Jesuits under the Portuguese Padroado brought
European prints, illustrated books, and a few ori-
ginal paintings to the courts of Mughal emperors
Akbar and Jahangir in hopes of impressing them
with the pre-eminence of Western art.51 Simi-
larly, Jesuit missionary Matteo Ricci, founder of
the China mission in 1583 and a scholar deeply
versed in the Chinese literary classics, despised
Chinese literati painting and begged his superiors
in Rome for Italian paintings (he asked specific-
ally for capolavori, or “masterpieces”) which he
believed would astonish the Chinese literati and
emperor.52 Nearly a century later, in 1766, French
finance minister Henri Bertin (1720–1792) sent
a set of Beauvais rococo-Chinoiserie tapestries
designed by Francois Boucher (1703–1770),
the so-called “Tenture chinoise” (1740), to the
Qianlong emperor in Beijing in 1766 in hopes
of demonstrating the superiority of the French
tapestry manufactories.53
The most complete description of the cathedral
and seminary of Saint-Joseph appears in a memoir
by mep missionary Paul Aumont (1692–1773),
who was in Siam between 1721 and 1724, long
after the court revolution and during the reign
of King Thaisa (r. 1709–33). Although most of
the building would have looked as it had before
1688, other parts, notably the steeples, were added
during a 1724 restoration. The description has
never been translated except for a few short and
partly inaccurate excerpts in a paraphrase, and it
deserves to be quoted in full:
The seminary of Siam is built in the middle
of a large terrace raised about six feet above
the level of the river, and only about thirty
feet from its shore. The gate to the enclosure
is in the middle of the front of this terrace
which faces the river. Along the left side,
upon entering, is the church, which is very AyuTThAyA cA 1688
big, and which has a quite beautiful portal
[portail] overlooking the river, supported
[soutenu] by four brick pilasters [or piers:
“pilastres”].54 On each side of the portal
there is a square tower crowned by a quite
97
 lofty steeple [pointe] surmounted by a ball
[boule]. The church is all of whitewashed
brick, solidly built, with two aisles flanking
the choir door [i.e., nave entrance]; two
transepts form a cross; the aisles curve
around the choir and the sanctuary; behind
the high altar is the sacristy, which is very
large, forming a large square, two-storey
building, not counting the sacristy, which is
on the ground floor of the church [i.e., the
building has three storeys with the sacristy
at the bottom], so that it forms a large
square tower [which is] behind the church
and just as tall. The church is very well lit by
large windows, the frames of which enclose
canvas sheets, windows being unknown in
this country; the roof is shaped like those
of the idol temples of the country; inside
it does not rise upward [montée] but has
a [flat] ceiling of boards. Above the main
entrance there is a very large loft, in which
there is a fine organ, which the secretary of
Monseigneur played quite well. It is reached
by the tower on the right upon entering, and
in which are also the bell and a big parish
clock which works well; the other tower
is empty. The high altar is located in the
vault [cintre] at the end of the sanctuary.
On the Gospel [left] side is Monseigneur’s
throne, with a gilt wooden armchair that
was earlier presented by the King of Siam,
for the bishop to sit at church; a standard
the architecture of empire
balustrade separates the sanctuary from
the choir, where the clerics sit as in all the
churches in France: at the foot of the choir,
in the place of honour, there is an armchair
and a prie-Dieu for the bishop when he
does not officiate. In the left aisle, opposite
the door on the side of the choir, a church
door leads to the seminary; it is from there
that Monseigneur and all the clerics enter.
98
It is about thirty feet from this door to the
seminary building.55
The church and seminary were separate buildings,
the latter behind the church and sacristy tower.
About the seminary Aumont continues:
The seminary is a large rectangular building,
with two storeys and a ground floor, solidly
built of bricks and whitewash. At the end
closest to the church there is a tower as
high as the seminary, which contains the
staircase; the top forms a dovecote, always
well supplied with pigeons. On each floor
is a dormitory that goes from one end of
the building to the other. The ground floor
is divided into four parts by the corridor
which goes from one end to the other and
crosses the passage that runs through the
middle of the house, from the front door to
the back door. One of these four parts is the
refectory, the other is the dispensary and the
warehouse, the part to the right upon en-
tering contains a hall with a room at the end
for the prosecutor; it is there that he must
listen to the affairs of Christians and judge
them; but when matters are of importance,
the parties are brought up to the first floor,
where in the middle of the building is a great
hall, in which Monseigneur listens to cases
and receives his visits. The fourth part below
is occupied by a staircase which only rises
to the first floor, and behind this staircase
there are three different storerooms for pro-
visions. On the first floor, aside from that
great hall which takes up the whole middle
of the building, there are two large rooms
for Monseigneur and four rooms for the
European missionaries. On the second floor
there are twelve rooms, of which two form
the library; the others are for the Indian
 [sic] missionaries and even the Europeans
when there are many of them. The four main
walls of this building are very solid; but the
others, being of wood and brick, are not as
much because the white ants eat this wood,
and will one day cause a great expense; they
have begun to sink, without making the
main walls of the house unsteady; all the
floorboards are mere planks, which makes it
uncomfortable because of the noise which
you hear above you … [the seminary is]
placed in the middle of this great elevated
terrace, as I have said, about six large feet
above the river level. The wall surrounding
this terrace surpasses the latter only as a
support foundation [bord d’appui] on which
are planted poles two and three inches
apart from each other to a height of three
to four feet, which surround the enclosure
and prevent thieves from entering at night.
From the end of the seminary to the enclos-
ure on the right side, is a fairly wide space
planted with a row of mango trees that look
good; in front of and behind the seminary,
are plots surrounded by small palisades con-
taining flowers, salads and greenery. Behind
the sacristy is a small cemetery where only
children who die after baptism are buried; in
this cemetery there are several trees.56
Phaulkon enthused in a 1682 letter to Pope
Innocent XI, in which he noted that the king had
spent 800,000 pieces of eight on the cathedral,
that it would be so vast that “when it is finished,
I know not where the Christians will be found
to use it.”57 Phaulkon also claimed, as relayed by
Bénigne Vachet in 1685, that King Narai intended
that his beneficence would be recorded for pos-
terity in golden letters over the church’s facade, in
the entablature or pediment, with the words “This
is the reward that one such, a king of Siam, gave
to another such [Louis XIV] and to his succes-
sors.”58 The complex was so impressive that it won
the praise even of the mep ’s enemies. Tachard
wrote that “this house is the most beautiful in
the City & in the Countryside around Siam [i.e.,
Ayutthaya].” More interestingly, he specifically
comments on the seminary’s French style: “It
consists of a large double building [corps de logis
double] with two storeys built “à la Françoise,”
where twenty people can comfortably be accom-
modated. He describes the rooms as “large and
high, some giving onto the garden and the others
onto the Church which the King of Siam had
built earlier.” 59 Although the church was still
incomplete in 1686, he praised its orderly design
[dessin régulier] and declared that “it would
pass for beautiful, even in the Cities of Europe.”
Charles-François Dollu, a Jesuit scientist who
arrived with the second French embassy, wrote in
1687 about the “beautiful and magnificent sem-
inaries which are being built here by the goodness
of a very great King [i.e., Narai] who esteems
us beyond what we can imagine as well as his
illustrious minister [i.e., Phaulkon] who cares for
us.”60 Even company men shared in the enthusi-
asm: Bourreau-Deslandes noted in November
1683 that “the favours that this prince makes to
Messeigneurs the French Bishops of the Holy See
in these countries are very special, he built them a
large Church near the beautiful seminary which
he built for them a few years back.”61 This remark
suggests that most of the building was finished in
a mere nine months. Even the Protestant traveller
Engelbert Kaempfer (1651–1716) praised it as “a
fine Church” but, since he was writing in 1690
during its temporary closure, he also notes that it AyuTThAyA cA 1688
was “now lock’d up.”62
As it happens the church was not finished until
after the court revolution – in time for Christmas
1695 and – ironically, given that he had banned
proselytization – thanks to “a considerable
99
 amount of money” provided by Narai’s succes-
sor Phra Phetracha (r. 1688–1703); this detail is
usually left out of histories of the Franco-Siamese
exchange and demonstrates that Phetracha was a
more tolerant ruler than he is given credit for.63
Nevertheless the church still lacked altarpieces
and the tile roof suffered from the rains almost
immediately. The Monday before Pentecost the
very next year (1696) half of it collapsed and
had to be repaired with thatching; the other half
followed suit in October 1713 and was still “in
tatters” in 1718 when part of the east doorway col-
lapsed; and the church still “leaked everywhere”
in 1721.64 The building described by Aubert had
been restored in 1724 by Monsignor Jean de
Lolière-Puycontat (1685–1755). In a letter dated
1724 Bishop Louis Champion de Cicé (in office
1700–27) wrote: “The new form and decoration
which it has been given have been extremely
pleasing to the Siamese and to all the foreign
nations who are in this kingdom, and the King
[Pumintharacha] has not complained, as one had
reason to fear, of two steeples [donjons] that were
made to complete the two towers, which makes
the whole church very agreeable.”65 The last we
hear of the church before its 1767 destruction is
a 1741 report that the roof was leaking once more
and that water had damaged the floor.
The seminary, like the sacristy tower behind the
church, was a three-storey building with its own
staircase, tower, and dovecote. It was completed
in 1680, long before the church.66 Seminaries
the architecture of empire
were particularly critical to the mep ’s objectives
because, unlike the regular orders, their remit
was to train a secular, parochial clergy, and they
needed permanent buildings devoted to advanced
study in theology and final formation for the
priesthood.67 However in Ayutthaya the centre
served a variety of functions: it was a seminary, a
school of moral theology for aspiring clerics and
upper-level students, a school for Siamese pupils
sent by the king, a school for Christian children,
100
and a lodging for catechumens, all the while
serving as the parish office.68 It combined public
and private zones: the ground floor housed the
court of the Christian community but the build-
ing also contained a refectory, dispensary, and
dormitories – it is typical of the racism even of
the missionaries that white seminarians enjoyed
better lodgings on the first floor along with the
bishop while “Indian” missionaries (a catch-all
term for non-Europeans) lived on the top floor,
sharing their quarters with Europeans only when
they ran out of room. Tachard called the building
a “double corps de logis,” which means a building
containing two rooms or two suites of rooms
along its width; in this case it was actually divided
into four.69 During the 1688 court revolution
most of its furniture was looted.
The mep also ran a Latin preparatory school
for Asian youth founded in 1680 at Mahapram
(the name for the Cochinchinese quarter in
the Saint-Joseph camp), which was relocated in
1686 on Phaulkon’s initiative to a new building
and chapel on the main island.70 It was a feeder
institution for the seminary and was mostly made
up of Cochinchinese boys. It bore a Latin inscrip-
tion over the entrance portal in “large characters”
identifying it as the “Collegium Constantin-
ianum” – proof again that Phaulkon did not
stop supporting the mep after he had become
Tachard’s co-conspirator.71 Unlike the seminary
though, this building was built of wood or even
bamboo.72 Confusingly, early sources often refer
to the “college” and “seminary” interchangeably
when there were really two institutions: the
college for boys (or minor seminary) and the
seminary proper (major seminary).73 As Adrien
Launay remarks: “for a long time the mission-
aries of Siam have given many meanings to the
term seminary: it is sometimes the bishopric,
the rectory, the church, the college, in a word
the whole of their first complex at Juthia [sic]:
sometimes the bishopric and the rectory which
were a single dwelling; sometimes the general
college.”74 The Collegium Constantinianum
was destroyed on royal orders after the court
revolution, and although the institution moved
back to Mahapram in 1714 the new building
was completed only in 1740 and was a modest
structure, although one would never guess so
reading reports by the likes of mep missionary
Louis-Armand Champion de Cicé (1648–1727),
who wrote in 1723 that it was as fine as anything
built by “the most capable architects of France” in
a style that was “partie européenne, partie indi-
enne.”75 Less than thirty years after its completion
it, too, was torched by the Burmese.

Saint-Joseph Cathedral and Franco-Siamese

Architecture

The Cathedral of Saint-Joseph was an outstanding

building: a French ground plan with an elevation
combining a Siamese temple roof with French
belltowers and possibly a Graeco-Roman portico.
On a rudimentary level the cathedral emulates
French gothic cathedrals with their paired towers,
high steeples, Latin cross plan with a nave and
side aisles, organ loft above the entrance, and
round apse and ambulatory. It may even have
been meant to evoke the cathedral of Notre-
Dame in Paris, which had all of the features save
the steeples and would have been a natural model
for France’s first cathedral in Asia – as it was for
the only other cathedral in the French colonial
empire, the exactly contemporary Notre-Dame
de Québec (1684–97) (fig. 3.3), and, much later,
Notre-Dame in Saigon (1877–80) (fig. 9.14).
AyuTThAyA cA 1688

3.3 (Top ) Claude Baillif, first project for the facade of

the Cathedral of Notre-Dame, Quebec City, ink on paper,
1683. Musée de la Civilisation, Archives du Séminaire
du Québec.

3.4 (BoTTom ) Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas in Faubourg

Saint-Jacques, Paris, 1675–84.
101
 However in this period medieval forms were
usually hidden behind a veil of classicism.76
Seventeenth-century ambulatories, for instance,
were formed of smooth columns, classical pilas-
ters, and entablatures, as in the contemporary
church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas in Fau-
bourg Saint-Jacques (1675–84) (fig. 3.4).77 French
architectural books, which must have circulated
at court or at the seminary library, were likely also
used for the church of Saint-Joseph. For example,
one readily available model for a twin-tow-
ered church was Jacques Lemercier’s facade for
the church in Cardinal Richelieu’s utopian town
of Richelieu (begun 1631), which has a pair of
stalwart towers with high steeples shaped like
obelisks (although they are at the back of the
church the engraving collapses the perspective so
they seem further forward).78 This engraving ap-
pears in the “Petit Marot” (1659), one of the most
popular and widely circulated illustrated archi-
tectural manuals of its day (it does not appear
in the “Grand Marot,” used, as we have seen, by
the Jesuits at Chandernagore) (figs. 2.13–15).79
Paired towers were likely a proclamation of the
building’s cathedral status, as was the case in
the Quebec cathedral, which was meant to have
flanking towers with high belfries (although only
the right one was ever built) (fig. 3.3).80 Indeed
Claude Baillif ’s project for Notre-Dame may well
be the kind of church the mep was aiming for
in Ayutthaya.
However, that was not the church they got: the
the architecture of empire
Cathedral of Saint-Joseph was deeply indebted
to contemporary Buddhist temple architecture,
as we have already seen in the interior. Although
intact Ayutthaya-period buildings are rare, the
ordination hall (ubosot) at Wat Luang in Ang
Thong, southwest of Lopburi (first quarter
eighteenth century), gives a good idea of some
of the features that might have been present in
the cathedral (figs. 3.5–6). In a Siamese Buddhist
temple compound the ubosot or bot is where the
102
monks take their vows, and it usually has an altar
with one or more Buddha images. It is usually
rectangular, east-facing, and capable of accom-
modating large groups.81 It is therefore ideal for
transformation into a church. Typical of the Ayut-
thaya period is the building’s side profile: a gently
curving roofline dips in the middle and rises to
meet the pediments at each end and is echoed
in the cornice at the base of the roof and in the
bowed, raised plinth that resembles the profile
of a boat. So are the large windows on the sides,
recalling Aumont’s remark that Saint-Joseph was
“well-lit.” The facade of each end of the ubosot
is crowned by a high, curvilinear, lotus-shaped
pediment bookending a high-pitched tile roof
that slopes outward at the base where it meets the
cornice. This is likely the type of roof Aumont
was referring to when he said that the cathedral’s
roof, which however had a flat ceiling on the
inside, was “shaped like those of the idol temples
of the country.” In 1687 Claude Céberet simply
wrote that the church was “made in the form of a
pagoda (en forme de pagode).”82 Another feature
of the Wat Luang ubosot that may have been
present at Saint-Joseph is the porch, which sits on
four piers (sao) and extends the full width of the
facade. If Saint-Joseph’s portico was not classical
(i.e., if Aumont means “pier” instead of “pilaster”)
this is most likely what it looked like.
The cathedral’s spires may also have indigen-
ous origins. Since Aumont and Champion de
Cicé both emphasize their height – to the extent
that the latter was worried that they would
offend the monarch – they may derive from the
upper parts of one of three temple and palace
structures found all over Ayutthaya: the prang,
chedi, or mondop, all of them symbolizing the
3.5 (oppoSiTe Top ) Wat Luang, ubosot, Ang Thong
(Thailand), first quarter eighteenth century, side view.
3.6 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Wat Luang, ubosot, Ang Thong
(Thailand), facade.
tiered heavenly abodes of Mount Meru (fig. 3.7).
Originating in Khmer architecture, a prang is
a richly carved and elongated corncob-shaped
Buddhist memorial tower.83 A chedi is a stupa,
or an enclosed, elongated bell-shaped tower for
Buddha relics, which in Thailand is surmounted
by a narrow spire of circular tiers. A mondop is
a square or cruciform pavilion used for temple
and palace buildings alike with a pyramidal roof
crowned by multiple tiers with saw-tooth edges
and miniature gables diminishing in size and
ending in an often dramatically high and narrow
needle-like spire. Of the three the mondop is
the most likely candidate for the cathedral spires
as it has a square base and was not specifically
religious – a Buddhist structure on a Christian
church would not only have seemed inappropriate
to the missionaries but, more importantly, the
Siamese would have considered it sacrilegious.
If the cathedral’s steeples took the form of a
mondop – not to mention if they were gilded as
was customary – the church would have looked
something like the late nineteenth- and early
twentieth-century buildings we will look at in
chapters 7 to 9 (e.g., figs. 7.3, 9.30): indigenous
roofs and spires taken from temple and palace
architecture on top of hybrid European-
Asian structures.
The Ambassadors’ Residence/Palace of
Phaulkon, Lopburi
The most important surviving Franco-Siamese
buildings from the Ayutthaya period are the
3.7 (oppoSiTe ) A prang, mondop, and chedi spire in the
Ayutthaya style at the Wat Phra Kaew in Bangkok. The
Prasat Phra Dhepbidorn or Royal Pavilion (left) is from
1856; the Phra Mondop (centre) is a library and dates
from 1789; and the Phra Siratana Chedi or Golden Stupa
(right) is from 1855.
eastern and central sectors of the Ban Luang Rap
Ratcha Tut (“House Where the King Receives
the Ambassadors of Foreign Kings”), popularly
known as Ban Wichayen, or Phaulkon’s Palace,
in Lopburi.84 Probably first built as a residence
for Chaumont’s embassy in 1685 on King Narai’s
orders, they were also used as a reception hall
for La Loubère and Céberet two years later
(figs. 3.8–9). Michel Jacq-Hergoualc’h calls them
“the only vestiges of any importance that attest
to the influence of European taste on the archi-
tecture of Siam in the seventeenth century,” but
curiously no contemporary descriptions survive.85
Not that they would necessarily have been very
enlightening: in 1683 an mep report referred to
its sister structure in Ayutthaya as having been
built “in the French manner” [à la manière de
France], which could refer to anything from archi-
tectural style or distribution of rooms to decor
and furnishings.86 The same year Boureau-
Deslandes wrote about the same building that it
had “all the requisites [ustancilles] in the manner
of Europe [à la manière d’Europe] necessary to
furnish it.”87 All that the Abbé de Choisy tells
us about the Lopburi complex is (in 1685) that
it was furnished “in the usual manner” [meublée
à l’ordinaire] – whether usual for Siam or for
France we will never know – and that it had “a
perfectly beautiful salon with a large portrait of
the king [i.e., Louis XIV],” while Tachard wrote
(in 1687) that it was “superbly furnished [superbe-
ment meublée] and had very commodious apart-
ments, quite comfortable and very appropriate
for over thirty officers,” although in this case he
may have been referring to the western sector.88
Since Phaulkon knew he had to impress people AyuTThAyA cA 1688
who knew Versailles and Paris personally it is not
surprising that the building evokes French grand
siècle residential architecture, the eastern palace
taking the form of a U-shaped, two-storey corps
de logis surrounding a courtyard and accessed by
105
 3.8 Ban Chao Wichayen, Lopburi (Thailand), central
sector and forecourt with chapel at the back and left wing
of the ambassadors’ residence on the right, 1685.
a curvilinear staircase (fig. 3.8). Anuvit Charoen-
suphakul comments that it was built “to please
the Europeans.”89
the architecture of empire
However, there is little consensus about the
original function of the complex or even about
which building was the ambassadors’ residence.
E.W. Hutchinson believes that the eastern sector
and chapel, with their regular layout and thicker
walls, were built expressly for the 1685 embassy
and that after its departure Phaulkon occupied
them and added the western section, which
he calls “hasty” and “of flimsy construction.”90
106
Jacq-Hergoualc’h concurs that the chapel and
eastern building were the first to be built, be-
tween 1684 and 1685, but maintains that they
were intended as Phaulkon’s house even if the
ambassadors were the first to occupy them.91
Lamare’s 1687 manuscript plan of Lopburi
is explicit that the property is the “house of
Monsieur de Phaulkon with an opulent (riche)
chapel,” and that it was in that house that he
hosted Chaumont and his embassy officials. John
Listopad disagrees with Hutchinson and ignores
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, conjecturing that the western
sector was built first, perhaps as a house for a
Persian merchant who then fell out of favour, and
that it was later handed over to the embassies.92
He concludes that the eastern sector palace and
chapel were built later (without suggesting a date),
the eastern palace partly as a “monk’s quarters”
and “monk’s reception hall” (by which I assume
he means the Jesuit mathematicians and not Bud-
dhist monks) and “secular offices,” and that they
were all built “under the supervision of European
architects.”93 The eastern palace’s technical and
stylistic discrepancies with European architectural
3.9 (LefT ) Ban Chao Wichayen. Doorway into the east
wing of the ambassadors’ residence, 1685.
3.10 (righT ) Elevation of the Facade Facing the Court of
the Main Building […]. From Pierre Le Muet, Manière de
bien bastir pour toutes sortes de personnes (Paris, 1681;
first edition 1623). Getty Research Institute.
practice, which Jacq-Hergoualc’h discusses in
some detail and which I will summarize below,
indicate, on the contrary, that it was constructed
by Siamese builders. Listopad’s claim that Euro-
peans built the chapel – which is profoundly
un-European – is even less convincing. The com-
plex was built in two phases, the first completed
in 1685 and the second begun that same year and
finished sometime before the 1687 embassy: as
Tachard notes in his Second Voyage: “[Phaulkon]
had prepared for [the ambassadors] a very beauti-
ful house, which he had begun two years ago right
next to (tout auprès de) the one he had already
built for the previous mission in which the
ambassador was lodged.”94 In his journal Céberet
also confirms that Phaulkon had moved into the
AyuTThAyA cA 1688
107
 earlier part of the palace by 1687, “[his] mansion recognizably European features but significant
was adjacent to that destined to receive us.”95 Siamese and Persian elements (figs. 3.11–12).98
All three sectors are accessed from the street Chaumont wrote that it was “built after the
on the south through individual arched entrances, Moorish [sic] fashion.”99 Most noteworthy is the
the central one surmounted by a triangular pe- blind lotus arch that appears over the windows
diment and the flanking ones with arched and doorways on the north and south facades
pediments. In the case of the eastern gate, visitors (only the northern ones survive), as well as high
then crossed an outer courtyard flanked by pilasters crowned with lotus capitals, some of
sunken water tanks before reaching the staircase which also once adorned the pilasters on the main
to the palace. Hutchinson surmises that the main
wing of the eastern palace, now in ruins, was a 3.11 Ban Chao Wichayen, Chapel of Notre-Dame-de-
“great Hall of Ceremony.”96 French classicism is Lorette. 1687. Western (main) facade.
most obviously reflected in the buildings’ many 3.12 (oppoSiTe ) Ban Chao Wichayen, Chapel of Notre-
doorways and windows, especially in the eastern Dame-de-Lorette. 1687. North entrance with blind
palace, where they are arranged in two storeys lotus arch.
divided by a string course, a scheme probably
adopted from the Petit Marot and Le Muet, the
latter of which included several idealized town-
house facades with classically dressed windows
(figs. 3.9–10). But the details, especially the
doorways, are sufficiently unorthodox to make
the participation of European architects unlikely.
They are crowned by two entablatures rather
than one, the lower one invaded by the arch,
which is segmented rather than round. The twin
entablature is supported by Doric pilasters, two
stocky layered ones whose capitals appear at the
springing of the arch but then extend upward, on
the outsides only, to meet the uppermost cornice,
and a slender one attached to them that – inter-
rupted nine-tenths of the way up by a fragmentary
string course – does reach the entablature, like a
the architecture of empire

truncated giant order (fig. 3.9).97 The pediment

perched atop this outsized substructure seems like
an afterthought. The motif of the slender pilas-
ter superimposed on wide layered ones appears
throughout the complex, including at the en-
trance portals.
By contrast, the chapel (1685), dedicated to
Notre-Dame-de-Lorette and consecrated in 1687
with a spectacular fireworks ceremony, has few

108
(west) facade. As Listopad notes, the building
has five interior bays with windows on each side
like a wihan (assembly hall, also spelled viharn)
and square brick foundations between the
stairs and chapel belonging to a Buddhist-style
ho rakhang belltower.100 By contrast I have traced
the main (west) facade – lotus capitals aside – to
an engraved model: the Petit Marot’s illustration
of the facade of the Chapel of Saint-Joseph or
the Visitation (ca 1650) in Moulins (Auvergne)
(fig. 3.13). The architect of the Loreto chapel has
extracted the central part of the Auvergne church
with its paired pilasters, rectangular doorway,
circular staircase, and – unusual for Lopburi
architecture – the prominent oculus window
over the door. However, instead of ending with
a triangular pediment, the pilasters extend to
the top, where an arched Persian window may
be an adaptation of the lantern in the engraving.
Hutchinson calls the Loreto chapel “probably the
only Christian Church in the world decorated
in Buddhist style,” but he neglects Saint-Joseph
Cathedral in Ayutthaya.101
Although an empty shell today, the interior
was an even more radical hybrid, designed by
Phaulkon and painted by an unnamed Japanese
Christian artist.102 Tachard admired its opulence
and size, but criticized its irregularity and asym-
metry because Phaulkon “built it according to his
fantasy” and allegedly did not employ a profes-
sional architect (however the building is too AyuTThAyA cA 1688
sophisticated to be the work of amateurs; palace
architects must have been involved):
But it is difficult to find fault with it.
Marble – so precious, so little known, and so
109

3.13 The Facade of the Chapel of Monsieur de
Montmorency Made at Molins [sic] in Bourbonnois. From
Jean Marot, Recueil des plans, profils, et eleuations … par
the architecture of empire
les meilleurs architectes du royaume (Paris, 1659), also
known as the Petit Marot. Getty Research Institute.
esteemed in the Indies – is not spared. On
whatever side we cast our eyes, from the top
of this chapel to its foundation, we can see
nothing but gold and paint. The paintings
in which the principal Mysteries of the Old
and New Testaments are represented in
110
sequence are not exquisite, but the colours
are surprising; and the painter, who is of
the Japanese nation, has shown that if the
fine arts were as well esteemed and culti-
vated in the Indies as they are in Europe,
the Indian and Chinese Painters might not
be outdone by the more skilful European
Masters. The tabernacle on which they are
working quickly will be very large and all
of solid silver … the roof of this chapel is
triple, in the manner of the temples [triple
à la manière des Pagodes], and it is covered
with Calin, which is a kind of white metal,
between tin and lead, and much lighter than
either. A Balustrade the height of a railing
surrounds the building and separates it from
the two Houses which Mr. Constance had
built at Louvo [Lopburi] because the Siam-
ese take this precaution, and try to mark
their veneration for sacred places, separat-
ing them from all the other Edifices which
serve the needs of men. In front of the gate
facing the street there is a quite large court-
yard in the shape of an Amphitheatre, which
one ascends by twelve or fifteen steps, in the
middle of which stands a giant stone Cross,
which will be gilded, placed on a large
pedestal, whose ornaments & structure are
of an Architectural style very different from
ours [une Architecture bien differente de le
nostre]. All around this court runs a kind of
gallery three feet high, where there are small
recesses spaced apart, to place lamps, which
are kept lit from the first Vespers of the great
Festivals until the next day.103
By “triple” Tachard presumably means the spec-
tacular “telescopic” type, with three superimposed
sloping wooden roofs, that derives from Khmer
culture and was used on the most important
Siamese temple and palace buildings (fig. 3.14).104
Kaempher referred to them as “many bended
roofs.”105 The recesses in the courtyard were
likely chīnī-khāna wall-niches like the ones in the
Lopburi royal palace, and the low wall surround-
ing the church recalls the kamphaeng kaeo or
“jewel wall” placed around wats to protect sacred
ground.106 The Japanese painter, possibly from
3.14 Wat Phra Kaew, Grand Palace, Bangkok, Phra
Ubosot with its triple roof, completed 1783.
the Jesuit-run Seminary of Painters, first active in
Nagasaki from ca 1590 to 1614 but by that time
based in Macau, would have been trained to copy
European models but, as extant works by mem-
bers of that workshop demonstrate, they blended
Western perspective, shading, and subject matter
with brilliant Japanese colours (hence Tachard’s
reference to “surprising” colours) and the calli-
graphic line common to Chinese and Japanese
painting.107 It is also noteworthy that the painter
AyuTThAyA cA 1688
111
 executed narrative biblical scenes of the sort
Laneau wanted for the cathedral as an aid to
preaching: although a standard Christian trad-
ition, narratives were also deeply engrained in
Siamese Buddhist mural painting, where episodes
from the Ramakien (the Siamese version of the
Ramayana), the life of the historical Buddha and
other themes were used by the monks to explain
doctrine to laypeople in the temples and were
also a meditative tool.108 Phaulkon’s ambassadors’
residence and Loreto chapel show that radically
different hybridities can be commissioned by the
same patron, possibly the same architects, and
at roughly the same time – demonstrating once
again the importance of contextualization when
using the term.
The question remains as to why Phaulkon
designed such a profoundly hybrid church, in
which Ayutthaya courtly style was so dominant,
next to his more outwardly French ambassa-
dors’ residence (now his home) with its classical
entablatures and pediments and its portrait of
Louis XIV. Was it meant to be a symbol of the
commensurability of French and Siamese cul-
ture – a celebration of his role as the linchpin of
the Franco-Siamese exchange? Was it an attempt
to make the building seem less alien to Siamese
people for the purposes of conversion? Or did he
simply give the builders leeway to build as they
wanted, aside from the French facade model that
presumably he supplied? The sources provide
no clues, but by reading the building I have no
the architecture of empire
doubt that Notre-Dame-de-Lorette was one of
Phaulkon’s greatest works of self-propaganda – a
symbol of what he saw as his political victory and
projecting a vision of royal splendour appropriate
to his position at court. He was far too savvy to let
his architects have the run of the place (Tachard,
for what it is worth, attributes its design to him)
and he had no personal interest in converting
people to Christianity – his own conversion after
112
all was one of convenience. In fact, Phaulkon
was meticulous in his use of and manipulation of
style, altering it to suit the function and politics
of whatever building he commissioned, just as
seamlessly as he switched between languages,
faiths, and dress. Let us also remember the not
insignificant motivation that his life quite literally
depended upon maintaining the delicate balance
between France and Siam.
The Jesuit House and Observatory at Lopburi
and Smaller Religious Establishments
Although the Loreto Chapel was the most
impressive, there were other court-sponsored
projects for churches and Catholic residences in
Lopburi, which had a population of 190 Chris-
tians by the 1680s.109 Although it was never built,
King Narai was keen to commission a church
there for the mep : Boureau-Deslandes noted in
1683 that, “after a few days [the king] ordered a
model [modèle] for another church, which he
wanted to build them at Louvo.”110 The Jesuits
had better luck, mostly because of the Jesuit
astronomers who came with the second French
embassy. In 1686 they announced that they were
building their own “house & observatory” in
the city which, together with a college chartered
by the king, would be “ready to receive” new
recruits from France at the end of the following
year. Drawing a parallel between royal patronage
in France and Siam, Tachard wrote: “come …
my Fathers, and leave a Royal College of France
to come here to another Royal College to teach
your sciences.”111 By this time the Jesuits were
regularly using observatories to impress Asian
rulers with the perceived superiority of Western
science: most famously in Beijing (1673) and also
in Tonkin and Cochinchina.112 The Jesuits would
stage circus-like contests between their scientists
and those of the court to predict the arrival of a
lunar eclipse. When they were particularly lucky
the monarch, whether the Kangxi Emperor of
China or the chúa of Cochinchina Nguyễn Phúc
Chu (r. 1691–1725), would respond by inviting
Jesuit astronomers to reside at court. In Siam
French Jesuits made enough of an impression
on King Narai in 1685 that he built them ob-
servatories in Lopburi and Ayutthaya. The mep
were rightly suspicious of this kind of showman-
ship, which they considered to be “a burden and
hindrance rather than a real help” to mission-
ary work.113
Tachard boasted that the king gave the Jes-
uits 100 slaves – they were not slaves but corvée
labourers – to build their establishment at Lop-
buri as well as a new house in Ayutthaya and land
for Jesuit residences in Ayutthaya and Mergui “in
the most beautiful place in these two cities.”114 In
1686 he claimed that the Jesuits already possessed
in Lopburi “an observatory, house and church
as fine as at Siam [i.e., Ayutthaya].”115 The next
year Jesuit Jean-Baptiste Maldonado wrote to
Louis XIV’s Jesuit confessor François de la Chaise
that “we fathers ourselves have drawn” the plan
for the buildings at Lopburi with Phaulkon’s
blessing; however Maldonado criticized them for
being too small and uncomfortable. Maldonado
preferred simply to repurpose Buddhist monaster-
ies, which he naively believed would help entice
Buddhists to convert (he was also naive to believe
that the Siamese authorities would so desecrate
a temple).116 Before departing with the final
Siamese embassy in 1688 Tachard noted that the
observatory/college was “quite advanced” [“assez
avancé ”] and “a lovely structure” that would
one day be “the most beautiful house & the best
known in the Indies”– although its brick walls
were still only eight feet high and the church had
yet to be started. The Jesuits were still seeking “a
good Architect” in France to draw the plans.117
It seems therefore that most French Jesuits still
wanted something that looked French and not
a converted temple or Buddhist-inflected struc-
ture. Maldonado’s unusual attitude is consistent
with his Iberian background and affiliations – of
Spanish parentage and born in the Spanish Neth-
erlands, he answered to the Portuguese Jesuits
of Goa and Macao when in Asia. As noted, the
Portuguese Jesuits had long accommodated to
indigenous forms in their foundations in Asia,
and Maldonado may have been sympathetic with
their approach.118
An anonymous watercolour from Tachard’s
cahier shows how the residence and observatory
were meant to look when completed (fig. 3.15),
although only the foundations of the Latin-
cross church are shown, separated from the
residence by an open lawn.119 The caption notes
that “there was a large building on two storeys
with two wings and a big octagonal tower of 60
feet in diameter and three floors, all with lead-
coloured terraces.”120 The rectangular complex
was arranged around a courtyard, with three
wings and a stone (?) wall and gate at the far end.
The side wings and main building have regularly
spaced rectangular windows as at the Ban Chao
Wichayen (fig. 3.8), and although Céberet
referred to it as being built “in the Doric order”
in 1687 there is no hint of any of the classical
architectural features of the earlier building.121
The observatory is reminiscent of those attached
to Jesuit religious institutions in Europe such as
the Clementinum in Prague (1722) and Collegio
Romano (1797). The college and church allegedly
survived the court revolution; Tachard notes that
it was “re-established” (rétabli) in 1696 when the
church was finally “completed.” Nevertheless, the AyuTThAyA cA 1688
painting is suspect because it precisely follows the
plan and exaggerated angle of a “Greek Temple”
illustrated in the “Grand Marot,” the book used
as the model for the Chandernagore church
(fig. 2.15).122
113
 3.15 House Which the King of Siam Has Ordered Built for
the Jesuit Mathematicians of the King. From Usages de
Siam. Watercolour and ink on paper, 40 × 29 cm. BNf . The
unfinished Latin-cross church is shown on the left.
The missionary establishments in Ayutthaya
and Lopburi were possible only because of a brief
moment of royal favour driven by diplomacy
and not because of any Siamese enthusiasm for
the architecture of empire
Christianity. In fact the irony was that the Jesuits
and mep were both much more successful as
proselytizers in places of persecution and war-
fare; in Siam, the much vaunted cathedral and
colleges served a small Christian population who
were mostly non-Siamese, many of them to be
deployed elsewhere as catechists.123 Jacques de
Bourges estimated during his visit in 1662–63
that there were 2,000 Christians, mostly refugees,
114
in the entire kingdom; by contrast missionaries
had converted 300,000 Christians in China by
1700.124 The Jesuits and mep built several small
churches elsewhere in Siam (the mep ran six
parishes), but they were quite basic like those we
will see in Tonkin or Cochinchina (see chapter 5).
In fact their simplicity may have helped their
image: as Bernard Wirth points out, humility had
its propagandistic advantages as a reminder of the
simple poverty of the new Christians.125 Typical
was the little chapel built in 1667 in the Lao
quarter of Ayutthaya built “à la façon du pays,” a
shed of wood or bamboo.126 No one bothered to
describe the mep churches of L’Immaculée-Con-
ception-de-la-Sainte-Vierge in Bangkok (built
1674–75) or the Église des Trois-Rois-Mages and
another chapel in Phitsanulok – both made of
planks (planches) – or their churches in Sangeoc,
Jaane, Macaam, Bengarin (1671), Jonsalam (1671),
and Tenasserim (1674), all destroyed in the court
revolution.127 The Bangkok church was rebuilt
in 1790 (fig. 2.16), and a larger version was built
next to it in 1836 in neo-Romanesque style. All
that Choisy could say about the fifteen or sixteen
churches in the realm in 1685 is that they were
“larger or smaller … according to the quantity
of new Christians.”128 In the 1720s and ’30s the
mep maintained a “poor” little church at Mergui
dedicated to the L’Immaculée-Conception, which
occupied a commanding position over the port
and even had a tower with a cupola but was built
of “planches,” stone being forbidden by the court,
who reasonably feared the French would use
their churches as fortresses.129 For the most part
these buildings were literally nothing to write
home about.
French-Designed Fortifications and
Conflicting Loyalties
Another kind of architectural collaboration, this
time between Siamese and European patrons and
European designers, were the fortifications
and canals designed by French engineers in the
1680s, projects commissioned simultaneously
by the Siamese court and the French military and
therefore reflecting conflicting loyalties. Archi-
tects include a “self-taught” engineer named La
Mare who accompanied the 1685 embassy with
“six workers for the king of Siam” and who left
autograph plans of forts for Ayutthaya, Lopburi,
Bangkok, Mergui, and elsewhere; the irascible
Lille architect Jean Vollant des Verquains (1658–
1729), who came with the second embassy in
1687 and later published Histoire de la révolution
de Siam, arrivée en l’année 1688 (1691); a certain
Sieur de Brissay who worked on the French comp-
toir in Mergui; and Sieur de Langres, who also
arrived in 1687 and about whom little is known
(a further engineer, Sieur Plantier, died en
route or soon after arrival).130 These are likely
the “artists” mentioned by Kaempfer in 1690 as
having been sought in France.131 Some completed
Valguarnera’s work for King Narai at Lopburi
palace as Gervaise remarks: “[In the first court]
is a large tank, which supplies the whole place
with water. It is the work of a Frenchman and an
Italian, who were more fortunate and more skilled
in hydraulics than the numerous other foreigners
who have worked there with the ablest Siamese
engineers for ten entire years without having
been able to bring to work to a conclusion.”132 A
higher-ranking official serving the Siamese king in
this capacity was Claude de Forbin (1656–1733), a
French naval officer who “modernised the fortifi-
cations at Bangkok and mounted the best Euro-
pean artillery on them.”133
La Mare was the first Frenchman hired by
King Narai, in 1685, to improve his kingdom’s
fortifications.134 Judging by surviving plans, all
dating from 1687, most of his work was very basic,
involving the repair or replacement of ramparts,
and the construction of dams and modest bas-
tions.135 There are a few exceptions as in an urban
development project for Mergui with a grid of
streets, Place d’Armes, commander’s mansion,
and church.136 The most ambitious project, for
Lopburi, would have involved superimposing a
massive circular ramparts with twelve bastions
and seven demi-lunes directly on top of the
existing city, which would have meant destroying
much of the western sector, including temples
(which would never have been permitted) and
half the royal palace – a kind of obliviousness to
the existing urban fabric that was more character- AyuTThAyA cA 1688
istic of French projects in the Americas.137 Mostly,
La Mare was too overwhelmed to move beyond
stopgap measures and he was further pressured by
his disinclination to build anything without the
approval of Louis XIV.
115
 As it was the intended French base of oper-
ations, Bangkok fort was critical, and it is the only
project in Siam planned according to Vaubanian
principles. La Mare’s 1687 scheme included a pair
of brick fortifications straddling the Chao Phraya
river, on the east side a square citadel or cavalier (a
small raised fort within a larger fort) surrounded
by an uneven hexagonal curtain wall and five
massive bastions on the land side, and on the
west (Thonburi) a walled city, this time a regular
hexagon with six evenly spaced bastions and a
pair of demi-lunes on the north and south.138 The
latter includes a spacious central Place d’Armes
surrounded by a “maison de ville,” lodgings for
officials and officers, and a church, and the rest
of the citadel is given over to barracks, store-
rooms, powder magazines, and artisanal ateliers
modelled on those at Brest. The enlisted men
of the “two nations” (French and Siamese) were
to be kept separate in their own “quarters,” in
barracks on opposite sides of town, a precursor to
Pondicherry’s “black” and “white” towns and to
nineteenth-century French colonial cities with
their racial segregation.
Although still officially working for the king of
Siam, La Mare reveals France’s true intentions in
his plan for Bangkok. The western garrison town
was a French colony in miniature, complete with
a house for a governor and intendant, as if it were
in the Caribbean or Nouvelle-France rather than
a sovereign state belonging to a foreign monarch.
French colonies were first staffed with governors
the architecture of empire
and intendants under Colbert in the 1660s and
were modelled upon the governmental structure
of French provinces. The two officials represented
a balance of power. The governor, who usually
came from the old nobility (noblesse d’épée, or of
the sword) and who represented the Crown and
commanded the militia, was counteracted by the
intendant, a position drawn mostly from the lesser
nobility (noblesse de robe, or of the robe), who
116
was in charge of finances and civilian and com-
mercial affairs.139 This reciprocity was sometimes
expressed by the location of the governor’s and in-
tendant’s house on the same square, as in this case.
The ideology of conquest and French superiority
is also echoed in the closeness of La Mare’s plan to
Vauban’s fortified border cities in France’s ceinture
de fer, or iron belt, such as Neuf-Brisach in Alsace
(begun 1698), which has a square Place d’Armes
and a similarly off-centre church, or Lille (1667–
72), although most of Vauban’s garrison towns
were not completed until more than a decade
later.140 La Mare’s garrison town was never built:
in 1687 Vollant rejected it for its “considerable
faults” and drew up his own design.141
Vollant, who may actually have trained with
the Génie given the quality of his draughts-
manship, considered himself to be the only true
engineer in Siam and particularly despised La
Mare, whom he maintained “had no knowledge
of the science of an engineer in France.”142 Vollant
was so sure of his abilities that he encouraged the
Ministry of the Marine to share his project with
Vauban.143 He was also explicit about the colonial
role of the new garrison town, which would put
France “in possession of the most important post
of all the Indies.”144 The French were not merely
to stay but to settle: Vollant believed that French
families would “be delighted” to move to the
town and find “asylum” among those of their
own nation. Nevertheless Phaulkon, and not the
king of France, called the shots: as La Loubère
bluntly put it in 1687, the Greek’s aims were “all
contrary to the intentions of his Majesty [i.e.,
Louis XIV].”145 Particularly vexing was Phaulkon’s
insistence that no wat or house be demolished if it
happened to fall within the alignment of the fort.
However, in the end Versailles fired Vollant: the
final project for the eastern citadel was prepared
in France by an engineer named de Houillères,
a modest and economical bastioned square
structure measuring only 85 metres per side.146
Built in 1688, it was destroyed by King Phetracha
the same year – a short and ignominious fate for
a structure over which so many had argued for
so long.147
Several of Vollant’s projects survive for build-
ings inside the Bangkok fort.148 A series of un-
signed watercolours show the ground floor of the
3.16 Attributed to Jean Vollant des Verquains, project for
an arsenal in the fort at Bangkok. Ink and watercolour on
paper, 1687. ShD .
governor’s and other officials’ houses and a project
for a barracks, which bear French and Siamese
inscriptions describing their basic components
and which are based loosely on the kind of hôtels
particuliers published in treatises like Le Muet
(fig. 3.10).149 The governor’s house is a rectangular
corps de logis fronting a walled garden flanked
by wings containing nine rooms, one of them a
salon facing the entrance. More generic are two
designs for a powder magazine, which are identi-
cal to those designed across the French colonial
empire.150 In fact it is very close to a design by
AyuTThAyA cA 1688
117
 3.17 Attributed to Jean Vollant des Verquains, project for
a chapel in the fort at Bangkok. Ink and watercolour on
paper, 1687. ShD .
the architecture of empire
Vauban that was illustrated much later in Ber-
nard Forest de Bélidor’s La science des ingénieurs
(1729).151 The same goes for a two-storey, arcaded
arsenal, which reflected the lean classical style of
the architects working for Vauban, simple and
economical but sharing a keen sense of propor-
tion and uniformity with academic architects
in Paris and Versailles (fig. 3.16).152 In Vauban’s
118
projects few buildings used classical orders and
they tended to favour long horizontal facades
with high roofs, with quoining and plain arcades.
This structure is quite typical, with a broken-pitch
roof (toit à deux pentes), plain rectangular win-
dows on the first storey, an arcade on piers below,
and a lack of surface ornament. The plan consists
of two adjacent courtyards joined by a portal
with two exterior gates. The outer courtyard, of
one storey with an arcade on narrow piers, was
meant to accommodate the smiths, wheelwrights,
cannons, and munitions. The main courtyard,
with a double staircase flanking the entrance
from the outer courtyard, was for storage of spare
carts and ammunition barrels, and the first storey
included storage for firearms but may also have in-
cluded offices.
More interesting is a project for the fort chapel
(fig. 3.17).153 Its two-storey exterior facade with
Ionic and possibly Corinthian pilasters lacks a
door. Jacq-Hergoualc’h believes that the draughts-
man may simply have forgotten to include it, but
it seems more likely to be a false facade, perhaps
located somewhere where it had to serve a defen-
sive purpose and needed to be solid (the actual
entrance to the church was from the back to the
left of the apse). Similarly, the nave has architec-
tural decoration only on the inside: five bays of
Ionic pilasters supporting an entablature with five
arched windows and two doorways with triangu-
lar pediments for the entrance and sacristy. The
double roof is quite sophisticated: the lower vault
rests on coffered transverse arches decorated with
rosettes rising from each pilaster and the upper
roof is of wooden truss work. In its understated
classicism it recalls the Church of Saint-Louis
in Pondicherry (1722) (figs. 4.4–6). Perhaps the
most interesting thing about it, considering the
discussion above of the churches and chapels
in Ayutthaya and Lopburi, is that the Siamese
inscription calls it a “wihan.”154
Baroque and Rococo Forms in Ayutthaya-
Period Temple Architecture
A fascinating epilogue to the Franco-Siamese
exchange played out in stucco carving on the
pediments (naa ban) of a handful of Buddhist
ubosots and wihans and a palace structure in
Ayutthaya, Lopburi, Ang Thong, Thonburi,
Nonburi, and Samut Prakan, beginning under
King Narai but mostly during the seventy years
after his death, in a style Charoensuphakul calls
“L’École de Phra Narai.”155 The mostly triangular
pediments of Siamese gable ends are the most
highly decorated part of these buildings and
usually occupy an imposing position high above
the main entrance.156 The tightly wound ara-
besques of the Franco-Siamese stuccoes, which
Charoensuphakul characterizes as being “almost
entirely in the European style,” usually take the
form of acanthus scrolls like those of the Ara Pacis
in Rome (13 bc ) but are enlivened with natur-
alistic carvings of squirrels, monkeys, owls, and
other animals and incorporate brightly coloured
mosaics of (mostly) Chinese and Japanese por-
celain shards or unbroken dishes, cups, and even
teapots.157 In one case, at the Wat Luang at Ang
Thong, we see three trees with large, dahlia-like
flowers containing dishes, the peeling bark of the
tree rendered with striking realism (fig. 3.6). These
stuccoes are splendidly rich, particularly when
the morning or afternoon light casts shadows
over their surfaces. The use of stucco was also
new: previously, pediments were decorated with
stylized vegetal patterns in lacquered and gilded
wood.158 However I am more skeptical about the
degree of European influence present in many
of these pediments – particularly since scrolling
vines were already present in the pediments of
sixteenth-century Ayutthaya and many of the
scrolls combine acanthus with flame-like kranok
leaf motifs, an indigenous form that also came
into its own in the Ayutthaya period (fig. 3.18).159
Nevertheless there is no doubt that artists sought
a creative and at times playful combination of
indigenous and Western forms.
The first temple pediment to exhibit European-
style vegetal and figural images is the southern AyuTThAyA cA 1688
facade of a royal residence at the Wat Ta Wed
in southern Ayutthaya (before 1688), roughly
halfway between the Portuguese camp and
the Cathedral of Saint-Joseph in the southern
outskirts of the city (figs. 3.19–20). Scholars
119
 3.18 Wat Thammaram, Ayutthaya (Thailand), detail of
front pediment on the wihan, mid-sixteenth century.
3.19 (oppoSiTe Top ) Wat Ta Wed, Ayutthaya, wihan or
palace, south facade, detail of pediment, before 1688.
3.20 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Wat Ta Wed, Ayutthaya, wihan
or palace, south facade, detail of pediment showing a
volute ending in a finial in the form of a European in a
lace collar and periwig, before 1688.
the architecture of empire
disagree about its function: Jacq-Hergoualc’h
calls it a wihan but Listopad identifies it as a
tamnak (residence), which agrees with later
work (2015) by archaeologists from the Fine Arts
Department, who call it a palace and the pos-
sible residence of King Narai’s daughter Chaofah
120
Kromluangyothathip.160 Although Listopad calls
the facade “Dutch Baroque” and claims that it
was carved by Dutch sculptors, Jacq-Hergoualc’h
has convincingly traced the foliate scrolls on the
pediment to Savonnerie tapestries given by Louis
XIV to King Narai and which once adorned the
palace at Ayutthaya (fig. 2.18).161 They might also
have been inspired by silver gilt acanthus scrolls
on the backs of hand mirrors sent as part of the
first embassy: these patterns were published in
a small pamphlet by Paul Androuet du Cerceau
entitled Ornements d’orfèvrerie propres pour flen-
quer et émailler: Cinq desseins de boestes de miroirs
faits pour les Ambassadeurs de Siam (Paris, ca 1685)
(fig. 2.22).162 We know that Siamese mural paint-
ers and woodcarvers used pattern books with
 standardized motifs which they would punch
along the pattern and transfer to the surface to be
painted or carved with chalk or charcoal dust.163
It is likely that stucco workers had similar albums
of designs to which they added European prints,
interpretations of French decorative arts, and
3.21 Wat Yang Suthavat, Thonburi (Thailand), detail of
rear pediment on the ubosot, last quarter seventeenth
century.
the architecture of empire
122
even depictions of Westerners. The facade has
too many subtle Siamese features for European
sculptors to have worked on it.
Although highly damaged today the Wat Ta
Wed pediment was once filled with rich, high-
relief stucco scrolls, braided mouldings, and
classical balusters. The patterns were first drawn in
red pigment onto a skim coat of plaster and then
flat sheets of wet stucco were twisted and pressed
on top of them, in places incised with bamboo
styluses.164 Heavy caterpillar-like volutes still hug
the pediment’s profile and old photographs show
that it was surmounted by a carving of a deva
(tevada), a deity who occupies one of the six lower
Buddhist heavens, with European features.165 A
surviving finial (hang hong) on the upper left also
takes the form of a Westerner with a periwig and
a shirt with a lace collar (fig. 3.20), but there are
also a Siamese coiled serpent (perhaps a naga, or
snake deity) and kranok bird motifs in the scrolls.
Particularly interesting is the triple-lobed blind
arch in the middle – it once contained an image
of a divinity – that uses French Regency–style
trelliswork in the side panels and is depicted using
one-point perspective as if the sides were open
shutters. It resembles the engraved grotesques
made popular by Jean Berain père (1640–1711).166
Only the upper third of the facade is decorated
because the building once had a raised front
porch supported by piers, now missing.167
This Franco-Siamese style matured during
the reigns of Phetracha and Phra Chao Sua
(1688–1709). The pair of pediments on the
ubosot at Wat Yang Suthavat in Thonburi (last
quarter seventeenth century) feature a particu-
larly disciplined and symmetrical scroll pattern
incorporating blue and white porcelain dishes in
the middle of large blossoms, and it is the only
one in which the arabesques are (re)painted gold
like the ones on the Savonnerie carpet (figs. 2.21, 3.22 Frenchmen on horseback with attendants, from a
3.21).168 Nevertheless, the scrolls still maintain Ramakien (Ramayana) scene, lacquer with gilding, before
their Siamese appearance: instead of the thick 1688. Suan Pakkad Palace, Bangkok.

branches with clearly delineated acanthus leaves

the vines are covered with pointier kranok leaves Although a wide spectrum of colours were
with bevelled and incised edges. The crockery – in used there they particularly favoured blue and
some cases shards as well as complete vessels – in white colour schemes, reflecting a fashion for AyuTThAyA cA 1688

my opinion relates to the aesthetics of Persia
and Central Asia, where brightly coloured tiles
proliferated on the exteriors of mosques, pal-
aces, tombs, and other structures, particularly in
the Timurid (1370–1507) and Safavid periods.
Jingdezhen porcelain vessels from China. Persian
kilns soon produced their own blue and white
vessels as well as tiles or tile mosaics, formats not
exported from China.169 Chinese and Persian blue
and white vessels were also displayed on interior

123
 walls in Persia, in the very chīnī-khāna niches that
became fashionable in King Narai’s Siam. It is
possible that the incorporation of porcelains into
Thai pediments compensated for a lack of ceramic
3.23 Wat Thammaram, Ayutthaya, detail of front
pediment on the ubosot, first half eighteenth century.
the architecture of empire
124
tiles, since, unlike in Persia, there was no local tile
production, only tiny glass mosaic tesserae.
One feature of the Thonburi pediments is
unmistakably European: the deva in the centre
of each pediment. Dressed in a long periwig, a
cocked hat (the one on the front pediment is
broad-rimmed), a buttoned justaucorps with lace
cuffs and collars and ornamental lace and/or
regimental embroidery down the front, the deity
adopts the Anjali Mudra, the Buddhist “hands
cupped in offering” gesture used as a sign of rever-
ence.170 The reliefs recall depictions of Frenchmen
in Thai murals of the period, as in the famous
series of gilded lacquer panels at the Suan Pakkad
palace in Bangkok (third quarter eighteenth cen-
tury) that depict the life of the Buddha above and
the Ramakien below (fig. 3.22).171 To my mind the
reliefs’ costume is more specifically military, re-
calling the cut and decoration of French uniforms
of the era and perhaps taken from an engraving.
If so, the transformation of a Western soldier into
a Buddhist deity making a peaceful gesture of
reverence has a certain irony.
Even more complex stuccoes with tightly
woven, high-relief foliage, blossoms, and animals
adorn the pediments in the ubosot at the Wat
Thammaram to the west of Ayutthaya island (first
half of the eighteenth century), a rare survivor
of the Burmese sack as Burmese forces used it
as their base (fig. 3.23). But the sinewy leaves are
kranok motifs and not acanthus, and instead
of being arranged as a scrolling vine they are
organized along a diamond grid or trellis, with
a vertical stem in the middle. There is nothing
left of the Savonnerie decor here. The Chinese
or Chinese-style dishes are enclosed not only
in dahlia-like blossoms but also in ones shaped
like a phum, or floral and foliate arrangement
shaped like a lotus bud.172 Pheasants and mon-
keys enliven the scene, the former encrusted with
broken crockery. A menacing kala face chewing
3.24 Wat Klang Worawihan, Samut Prakan (Thailand),
ubosot, rear pediment, ca 1750s–60s.
on a dinner plate occupies the middle of the field.
Charoensuphakul maintains that this period wit-
nessed the most profound convergence of styles,
when “the two streams, European and traditional
Thai, reasserted their amalgamation.”173 It seems,
rather, that in this particular case the Siamese style
was simply reasserting itself over foreign imports.
Arguably the finest stucco pediments in this
style – and the highest concentration of them
in a single temple – are the six pediments at the
ubosot and wihan at the Wat Klang Worawihan
in Samut Prakan, south of Bangkok on the east
side of the Chao Phraya River (ca 1750s–60s)
(figs. 3.24–25). Although possibly the latest of
the series, the European source of their scrolls has
never been less ambiguous, with richly carved
and naturalistic French acanthus leaves and
blossoms in high relief and nary a kranok to be AyuTThAyA cA 1688
seen. The double-end pediments of the wihan
(it also has pediments over the side doors) are
even more opulent thanks to gilded details such
as the petals around the dishes. This is not to say
that all non-European elements have vanished:
125
 3.25 Wat Klang Worawihan, Samut Prakan, wihan, rear
pediment, ca 1750s–60s.
the architecture of empire
3.26 (oppoSiTe ) Jean Le Pautre, acanthus frieze
designs, ca 1680. Etching. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
the flowers enclosing the Chinese and Japanese
dinner plates have standard Chinese-style lotus
petals of a sort that was widespread throughout
Southeast Asia. What stands out in the scrolls
of these six pediments is the closeness of their
arrangement and individual motifs to French
126
models. In this case I believe that, rather than rely-
ing on a distant memory of Savonnerie carpets in
far-off Ayutthaya, artists had access to new visual
material: decorative prints. The Samut Prakan
stuccoes are so close to their models that they can
be identified quite precisely as a set of etchings
of the work of Jean Le Pautre (1618–1682) and/or
Androuet Du Cerceau, first published in Paris by
the Mariette publishing house and François de
Poilly (1622–1693) respectively (fig. 3.26). These
need not even have been provided by the French
as Dutch and English editions of these patterns
were published in the last decades of the seven-
teenth century and the artists could have obtained
them from the many traders of those nations
who travelled up the Chao Phraya – indeed some
scholars believe that the Dutch imported more
European luxury goods than did the French
during King Narai’s reign and they continued to
do so long after his death.174 Trademark motifs of
both artists include bouquets of foliage emerging
from other bouquets of foliage; fruit nestled in
leaves that leave the sides visible; a pomegranate
fruit (which the Siamese artists transformed into
little ceramic pots with stucco leaves); the way in
which rodents, birds, and other animals play in
the scrolls and nip at the fruit; and (on the wihan)
pairs of dragon heads whose maws open to gener-
ate further scrolls. Even the dragons are European
in style and not the Chinese dragons one would
expect in a Siamese temple.
Overall, it is the originality of the combination
of forms and the rich polychromy of the gilding
and ceramic vessels – as well as their liveliness and
occasional sense of humour – that make these
temple and palace pediments such striking works
of art. In the bright sunlight they dazzle our
eyes with their blinding white stucco and shim-
mering colours. Of all the legacies of France’s
Siamese adventure they are the freshest and
most unique – precisely because they were not
executed under royal orders or by missionary or
diplomatic groups hoping to force French style
and authority onto Siam, but spontaneously by
artists who evinced a genuine curiosity for the
AyuTThAyA cA 1688
127
 potential of blending styles from different cul-
tures and who did so with consummate skill. But
surely these pediments did not only reflect a love
for visual delight. Were they meant to project a
specific message?
To answer this question, it is instructive to
look at a strikingly similar aesthetic in the early
modern port towns of the Swahili Coast of East
Africa. Between the fifteenth and seventeenth
centuries mosques and tombs were decorated
with porcelain dishes (especially blue and white
wares) mortared into the exterior walls, as with
the spandrels of the mihrab of the Friday mosque
(1450–1550) in Gedi (Kenya) or the frieze on
the tomb at Mambrui (sixteenth century).175
Jingdezhen porcelains began to reach East Africa
via Muslim seafarers in the mid-fourteenth
century – I identified examples from as early as
the late Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368) during a field
survey of Swahili archaeological sites in Kenya
and Tanzania in 1989 – and likely also with the
Chinese “treasure ships” led by Ming admiral
Zheng He between 1417 and 1433 when he visited
ports from Somalia to Mozambique.176 In the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the ceramics
moved indoors: large assemblages of Chinese,
Japanese, and now European dishes were hung
inside elite Swahili homes, covering most of the
walls like tiles and also resembling the effect of
a chīnī-khāna. Like the crockery in the Siamese
pediments these collections may be an attempt to
recreate in dishes and bowls the tile revetments
the architecture of empire
of the Islamic centres with whom the Swahili
traded. Prita Meier has suggested that the Swahili
domestic assemblages were meant to demonstrate
the owners’ sophistication and cosmopolitanism
through “material plenitude” and that they were
used in earlier mosque and tomb decoration be-
cause of their durability and especially the almost
magical way they shone in the light of the sun.177
I think that it was precisely the materiality of
128
porcelain – the way the underglaze colours seem
to glow from within – that provided the impetus
for its display on Thai temple pediments, a mir-
aculous effect quite fitting in a religious setting –
and on a part of a temple in which the degree of
adornment traditionally corresponds to the status
of the building’s patrons.178 Their combination
with Western motifs may also represent local
pride in Siam’s cosmopolitanism much as it did
for the Swahili, a visual manifestation of Siam as
the crossroads of a global trade network reaching
from the Chao Phraya River, three kilometres
away, to Europe, Persia, and China.
However, it is also possible that little thought
was given to the foreign origins of the European
patterns or East Asian ceramics. Perhaps they
celebrate material plenitude for its own sake and
have been co-opted as an aspect of Siamese iden-
tity. I will return to this theme in chapter 9 when
we will examine some hybrid European-Asian
buildings in which the European elements are no
longer registered as European but became reflec-
tions of Asian, particularly Chinese or Sino-
Vietnamese, self-identity. Hybridity allowed
architects to create something new with these
borrowed forms that tells a story far removed
from their original context, a deep interiorization
of cultural fusion that Jacques Lafaye, writing
about colonial New Spain, calls “the birth certifi-
cate of a new culture.”179 And indeed, although
the scrolls disappear after the middle of the
eighteenth century, the tradition of crockery and
broken crockery mosaics, now including domes-
tically made tiles, Chinese pieces made especially
for Siamese architectural use, and glass tesserae,
remained an essential feature of Siamese temple
architecture for over a century, culminating in
the reign of Rama III (1824–1852), not only on
pediments but also on columns, plinths, door and
window frames, gates, chedis, and prangs.
4
grandeur
Pondicherry ca 1752

The architecture we have looked at in the last two chapters,

while produced by French colonizers or generated by a cultural
exchange with France, contrasted profoundly with most French
colonial architecture in the Western Hemisphere (at least beyond
the pioneer phase). The cio in the Indian Ocean and Southeast
Asia had not yet developed an explicit architectural policy and
neither had the missionaries, except for a desire that their build-
ings should look as French as possible. Yet, except for the Jesuit
church and comptoir at Chandernagore (figs. 2.13–14, 2.23), they
did not. It is only with Pondicherry on the eve of the Seven Years
War, when France increased its military and naval presence there,
that architectural design fell into line with that of the metro-
pole and France’s American colonies. Although Colbert was
long dead when these structures were built, the classical baroque
style of Louis XIV’s Grand Siècle – considered the golden era of
French architecture – was revived by royal engineer architects
in mid-eighteenth-century Pondicherry to project an image of
perceived French cultural superiority. It was also the first colonial
architecture in Asia, other than the unexecuted Bangkok fort
projects, to be designed by royal engineer architects who had the
training to bring a unified metropolitan style to the colony, even if
some of them had never been to France.
Pondicherry’s planners may have been partly motivated by an
increasingly vocal sentiment of nostalgia in France itself for the
 Grand Siècle generated by a lull in large-scale
architectural commissions under Louis XV and
a fear that French architecture was in decline, the
criticism focusing in particular on what commen-
tators saw as the “deplorable” state of the un-
finished Louvre, “its superb Façade dishonoured
by a multitude of ignoble and indecent Buildings
which prevent residents & the whole nation from
seeing it.”1 This quotation comes from Étienne
La Font de Saint-Yenne’s L’Ombre du Grand
Colbert (1741), an allegorical dialogue between
the Louvre, the City of Paris, and the ghost of
Colbert, the latter of whom the author calls “the
most zealous Minister that France has had for the
glory of her Country & of her King, & in whose
care this incomparable monument was erected.”2
The book even commends the cio and Colbert’s
efforts in India, with Colbert’s ghost proclaiming
“I have always considered [it] to be the Peru of
France.”3 It is not a stretch to see the Pondicherry
Gouvernement, with its similarities to Grand
Siècle architecture in general and the Louvre in
particular as an embodiment of France’s desire to
revive Colbert’s plans for the cio and a response
to the kinds of pleas being made in the metropole
at the time. Indeed, L’Ombre du Grand Colbert
was written in the very years that the palace was
being constructed.
Nevertheless, the cio knew that Colbertian
grandeur would not impress Indian potentates
on its own, and the French in Pondicherry were
obliged to combine it with the pomp of the
the architecture of empire
Mughals, specifically with Mughal court ceremon-
ial, a visible expression of sovereignty and legitim-
acy that all Indians understood. Potentates from
the Maharaja of Jodhpur to the Nizam of Hyder-
abad adopted Mughal court culture because it
proclaimed a connection with the highest author-
ity in the subcontinent, as did even the Mughals’
most powerful enemy, the Hindu Marathas, who
pretended to operate under the symbolic (indeed
130
ironic) authority of the Mughals, recognizing “the
semiotic relevance of Mughal sovereignty in gen-
erating political and military unity.”4 In fact the
Maratha general Mahadji Scindia (1730–1794),
upon defeating the Afghans and Jats at Delhi in
1771–72, reinstated the now powerless Mughal
emperor Shah Alam II (1728–1806) on the
throne (and again in 1784), for which Scindia was
made vakīl al-mut�alaq (Mughal regent), which
not only was a coveted honorific but also gave
him the rights to collect tribute.5 Mughal-style
tents and permanent architecture such as tombs
or palaces were also commissioned by rival
Indian groups, such as the Maharaja of Jodhpur
or Nawab of Awadh.6 Even European agents did
so, including Dutch mercenary John Hessing
(1739–1803), who worked for the Marathas and
is buried in Agra in a red sandstone replica of the
Taj Mahal.7 In the mid- to late eighteenth cen-
tury, adopting Mughal material culture was no
longer a sign of supplication to the emperor but
a convenient use of Mughal display to advertise
personal power.
The French governors and other company
officials may have eschewed Mughal architecture,
although they likely painted their fort red to
recall the red forts of Agra and Delhi as Pierre
Bourdat suggests.8 However they wholeheart-
edly embraced the dress, manners, and types of
spectacle and entertainments employed by the
Mughals and their subordinates. In fact, Dupleix,
like Dumas before him, owed his very legitimacy
to the Mughal emperor, at that time Muhammad
Shah (r. 1719–48). In 1742 the emperor bestowed
on Governor Dupleix the titles of Nawab (vice-
roy) and Mansabdār (military officer) in an
ostentatious ceremony in Chandernagore, with
the result that Dupleix enjoyed a dual – one
might even say hybrid – identity as a representa-
tive both of the king of France and of the Mughal
emperor. It suited both parties as it affirmed the
authority of the Mughals at a time when they
were in decline but also gave Dupleix the pres-
tige he needed to outrank his rivals. Muhammad
Shah had even granted Dumas permission in
1736 to mint rupees: as Dumas put it in a letter to
Louis XV, “it is one of the greatest advantages that
could ever be accorded to the Nation in India.”9
This acquiescence to Mughal court culture miti-
gated the French chauvinism of the architecture.
French openness to Mughal culture even appears
to have been reciprocated. Chanchal B. Dadlani
has convincingly suggested that the elevation and
plan of the Gouvernement led to an adaptation of
French manners of correlating plans and eleva-
tions in Mughal architectural workshops in the
third quarter of the eighteenth century.10
French governors were so concerned with get-
ting it right that they sought precise instructions
from their Indian agents about correct procedure,
dress, and accoutrements. Dupleix needed his
Mughal patronage to impress local rulers and
receive their homage, and “would not permit a
single sign or symbol which rightfully belonged
to his rank to be omitted or neglected.”11 In
the invaluable and voluminous Tamil diaries of
the governor’s powerful broker, Ananda Ranga
Pillai (1709–1761), there are repeated references
to the way the governors adopted Mughal signs
of rulership. When local potentates presented
gifts and robes of honour, the objects would
be placed in the governor’s palanquin and ac-
companied by musicians, drummers (on the
Mughal-style naubat), female nautch dancers,
standard bearers, mace holders (chūbdār), and
a salute of five to twenty-one guns.12 When the
governor travelled in his state palanquin, he was
fanned with peacock feathers and wore turban
ornaments and other marks of prestige. On
20 February 1742 Ananda wrote: “The Governor,
M. Dupleix, started this morning at half-past 4,
on a visit to Kâlâpêttai. This was his first outing
after his arrival from Chandernagore, and it
was of a striking character. The palanquin of the
Governor went first. It was followed by a body
of fifty soldiers, by … palanquins, and four or
five horses, and by Muttaiya Pillai and me, and
dancing women, tom-toms, horns, drums, pipes,
clarionets, and flags were in his train.”13 Ananda
records his detailed advice to Governor Georges
Duval de Leyrit (in office 1755–58) about correct
protocol for receiving a dress of honour at the
Madras Gate on 4 August 1755 from Salābat Jang,
the Nizam of Hyderabad (r. 1751–62):
A tent must be pitched outside the north
gate. All the sepoys and soldiers should be
drawn up in a line from [the governor’s]
house to the Madras gate. You should set
out in a palankin accompanied by the
naubat, the Fish standard, and the other
marks of honour, music, etc., followed by
the councillor and others in their vehicles,
and preceded by dancers, stage-people and
musicians, with peacock-feather fans,
chowries, and cloth spread on the ground.
In this splendid manner you should go to
the tent pitched outside the town-gate and
sit down … On his arrival at the tent with
the presents, you should rise and embrace
him and receive the dress of honour and
parwâna, a salute of 21 guns being fired from
the surrounding walls … Then the turra and
sarpêch should be tied on to the hat, the
pendant be hung from your neck, and the
cummerband tied round your waist.14
poNDicherry cA 1752
The objects all underscored the governor’s
Mughal-granted authority: the imperial fish
insignia (māhī-marātib) was one of the highest
honours and was carried before the palanquin;
the chauri flywhisk was an emblem of royalty
(made of yak hair, it is usually whisked back and
131
 forth on either side of a ruler by officials called
chamardār); a parwāna is an imperial order, the
cummerbund (kamarband, literally “waistband”)
was a sash worn at the waist with the ends hang-
ing in the front, and the turra and sarpīch are both
turban ornaments, the first worn on the side and
the second on the front (which also means that
the governor would have been wearing a turban).
This panoply transformed the French governor
into a Mughal viceroy: “[a]ccording to Mughal
sumptuary laws, these ornaments could only be
worn by royalty, blood relatives of a chief, and
honored individuals, the latter generally being
nobility or high officials. They acquired special
importance as symbols of hierarchical power.”15
Thus, if we look only at the plans and elevations
of the architecture in this chapter, we will get the
impression that France simply replicated metro-
politan structures on Indian soil as they would
later do in Saigon – and this was the impression
that the Crown and most cio authorities would
have had in France – but when we look at how the
buildings were used, we recognize a much more
complex reality. As Alessandra Russo writes about
the way the arts were transformed in early colonial
New Spain, “European expansion was in effect
constructed by a double dynamic: an imaginary
duplication of worlds and an awareness of a new
reality.”16 In a similar vein, Danna Agmon writes
about French India: “Where French officials
imagined a spectrum of similarity, made coherent
and cohesive by virtue of French governance, the
the architecture of empire
reality of Indian Ocean dissimilarities provided
an unwelcome reminder of the fragility of this
imperial imaginary.”17 In this particular case the
hybridity of these buildings is invisible unless we
have knowledge about the buildings’ context and
the ways the people behaved and dressed in and
around them – a caveat for interpreting colonial
buildings based on plans alone.
132
However, despite all the pomp and circum-
stance – French and Mughal – the cio ’s position
in Pondicherry was precarious, and the architec-
tural and ceremonial bombast evinced a palpable
sense of anxiety. In fact, the prosperity and secur-
ity of the cio ’s enterprise were threatened by the
same conflicts of interest that plagued French col-
onial and diplomatic efforts in Fort Dauphin and
Siam. It was the same story of internecine battles:
missionaries undermined the cio and its mer-
chants by antagonizing the indigenous commun-
ity; Jesuits (the mission was founded by Tachard
no less) fought against the mep and (in this
case) the Capuchins; traders in France competed
with traders in India; and Indian trading fam-
ilies fought one another within the community,
sometimes on religious grounds. It was imperative
that the colonial administration maintain good
relations with the Tamils and other Indians, with-
out whom there would be no trade, and Indian
intermediaries were vital to keeping the peace and
promoting prosperity through “cultural media-
tion” between the French and Indians.18 One kind
of Indian collaborator was the sepoy, or Indian
soldier in the service of the Company, introduced
by Governor Martin.19 However the highest-
ranking mediator was the so-called courtier or
chef des malabars, a rich and influential Indian
merchant and community leader selected by the
cio who was also known as a modeliar (“first”)
and dubash (“man of two languages”). The chef des
malabars served as the chief commercial broker
and leader of the Indian quarter, which was many
times more populous than the French one –
already in the 1690s there were already between
10,000 and 60,000 Indians compared with a few
hundred Frenchmen, and a quarter-century later,
when the population had grown dramatically,
there were still only about 2,000 Europeans in
the colony.20 As chief merchant for the cio , the
courtier had a formidable remit: he was in charge
of overseeing diplomacy with neighbouring states,
obtaining contracts with local textile manufactur-
ers, monitoring their production and inventory,
and supervising textile exports.21
Yet French administrators and Jesuit mission-
aries nearly ruined the colony at an early stage by
antagonizing a chef des malabars in what became
known as l’affaire Naniapa.22 Nayiniyappa (d.
1717), appointed courtier in 1708 by Governor
Guillaume-André Hébert (1653–1725), enjoyed
an excellent and prosperous relationship with the
governor before the latter was suddenly recalled
to Paris in 1713. Nayiniyappa also happened to
be a Hindu and the Jesuits fought to replace
him with a Christian chef des malabars (Hébert’s
predecessors as governor had only employed
Christian courtiers).23 Hébert wanted badly to
return to what was clearly a remunerative position
and allegedly made a deal with the Jesuits to oust
Nayiniyappa upon his return. After arriving in
1715 he had Nayiniyappa arrested on trumped-up
charges and the former courtier was publicly
flogged and imprisoned in Fort Louis, where he
died under suspicious circumstances. After rival
missionaries and an influential group of mer-
chants in Saint-Malo protested Hébert’s actions –
for very different reasons – Nayiniyappa was
exonerated, and his fortune returned to his rela-
tions. Nayaniyappa’s son Guruvappa was allowed
to replace him in 1722, but only after a highly
orchestrated visit to Paris, where he converted to
Christianity (with the duc d’Orléans as his god-
father) and was made Chevalier Charles-Philippe
Guruvappa.24 Thus the Jesuits briefly got their
wish – a Christian chef des malabars – before he
died of dropsy two years later.
However, more Hindus would follow, most
famously Ananda, Nayiniyappa’s nephew and
close confidant of Governor Dupleix, who was
appointed courtier in 1746. Although Ananda is
principally known to historians as the chief broker
of the Company, recent studies have emphasized
his authority within the Indian community and
the cult of personality he constructed around
himself through architecture and literary and art-
istic patronage, especially the Sanskrit biography
of himself he commissioned from the Brahmin
poet Śrinivasa, entitled Ānantaraṅgavijaya
Campū (1752).25 David Shulman gives us a sense
of the complexities of Ananda’s relationships: he
was “deeply enmeshed in the confused intrigues
of the French, British, Mughal-Hyderabadi,
Maratha, and various other local contestants.”26 It
was essential that Ananda possess the subtlest of
diplomatic skills to address so many interests. He
was also very rich: in addition to his diplomatic
and trading activities, he operated his own textile
factory in Lalipat.27 Ananda came from one of the
two leading dynasties of brokers in the city, the
other of which, the Mudali, were Christians and
supported by the Jesuits, who remained antag-
onistic to the Pillai and to Hinduism. They even
resorted to boorish vandalism, repeatedly dese-
crating the city’s temples: in 1746 the Jesuits hired
thugs to pour human excrement on the heads of
the gods of the Ishwaran and Vedapuri Ishwaran
Kōvils, the latter the main temple in Pondicherry
and adjacent to the Jesuit church of Notre-Dame-
de-la-Conception.28 We will return to Ananda,
his magnificent house – the only one to survive
the 1761 demolition of Pondicherry – and the
Sanskrit epic in chapter 9.
poNDicherry cA 1752
Fort Louis (1702–1733)
Although built on shaky foundations, Pondi-
cherry was nevertheless the jewel in France’s
Asian crown, together with Chandernagore the
only one they called a “colonie” (as opposed to
133
“comptoir”) and the only one with an architec-
tural program that rivalled – in fact exceeded –
those of its prosperous American colonies.29 Its
centrepiece, the spectacular Palais du Gouverne-
ment with which this book began (figs. 1.1–2;
4.14–17), was only the culmination of a city-wide
architectural campaign designed to make Pondi-
cherry, and particularly its waterfront, into a
showcase for Grand Siècle classicism. Although
depicted in isolation in Dumont’s and Fonbrun’s
drawings, the Palais du Gouvernement was in fact
part of a cluster of monumental buildings nestled
inside the fort, mostly exhibiting a uniform style.
No rival Indian colony, including neighbouring
Danish Tranquebar (fig. 2.10) or British Madras
(figs. 1.5, 1.13), shared this French concern with
ostentation – indeed they would have found it
superfluous. Their forts, government buildings,
and chapels were a hodgepodge of utilitarian and
retardataire medieval, Palladian, and Indian forms
and styles. If the Pondicherry Gouvernement was
the Louvre of the Carnatic, Fort Saint George in
Madras (begun 1695) was a transplanted country
house in Sussex.
After the Dutch returned Pondicherry to
France in 1699 at the end of the Nine Years’ War –
4.1 (oppoSiTe Top ) Map of Pondicherry, 1747 (detail).
the same war that thwarted France’s final attempt This map shows Fort Louis with the Church of Saint-Louis
to take Siam – the now sexagenarian governor (top), the Gouvernment under construction (right), and
François Martin prioritized the construction of a the Porte Royale (bottom). At the right of the fort is the
defensible fortification to replace the ineffectual Hôtel de la Compagnie and the governor’s garden. At
“Fort Lopsided Rectangle” (see chapter 2). The lower left is the Capuchin church. Ink and watercolour on
paper, 76 × 55 cm. BNf .
resulting pentagonal Fort Louis (1702–33), built
mostly under Governor Pierre-Benoît Dumas in 4.2 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) After an anonymous
the 1720s and modelled after Vauban’s Citadel watercolour entitled View of Pondicherry, ca 1750. Oil on

at Tournai (1674), was an imposing stronghold
comprising five inner bastions named after French
provinces, the royal family, and the Company
(figs. 4.1–2).30 Its towering Port Royale gate
(1705) faced the beach and harbour (fig. 4.3)
and it contained barracks, a covered market, and a
church (at the far end of the entrance for max-
imum effect), with the Gouvernement on the
poNDicherry cA 1752
canvas, twentieth century. Private collection. Photograph
by Shashwat Parhi, courtesy Raphaël Malangin.
4.3 (ABove ) Denis de Nyon, Elevation of the Royal Gate
(Porte Royale) of Fort Louis of Pondicherry, 1705. Signed
“Nyon, Pondicherry, 15 February 1709.” Ink and wash on
paper, 34 × 49.5 cm. ANom .
135
 right side.31 In the centre was a place lined with
trees and bisected by a colonnade of richly carved
spolia columns allegedly looted by Dupleix from
the fort of Gingee (fourteenth century) (fig. 2.9)
but which may also have been excavated on site
(they are now located along Pondicherry’s prom-
enade). The fort was designed by another person
about whom little is known – as with so many
engineers only his surname appears in the litera-
ture. An engineer with the Swiss Guards, Denis
de Nyon (ca 1670–1742) was born in Paris of a
family of artisans (his father was a bookbinder
and gilder and his second wife, Catherine Bain,
was the daughter of a jeweller).32 He rose quickly
through the ranks: in 1700 he was made chief
engineer in Pondicherry, “where he built a Citadel
and the fortifications of which the plans were
sent to France and found to be quite perfect”;
in 1714 he was made a chevalier of the Order of
Saint-Louis, the honour most coveted by royal
engineers; and in 1721 he was appointed governor
and commandant-in-chief of Île-de-France, where
he designed fortifications for Port Louis and Port
Bourbon.33 Nyon moved back to France in 1726
(he married Catherine in 1728) and is buried in
the Paris church of Saint-Roch.
Port Royale closely emulates the imposing gates
of Vauban’s citadels on France’s borders, the cein-
ture de fer (fig. 4.3).34 Vauban believed that as city
gates made the first impression on visitors they
needed to project royal grandeur: as he put it,
they would have a chance to “judge the magnifi-
the architecture of empire
cence of the King and of the excellence (bonté) of
the fortification through the beauty of its gates.”35
Gates at places like Lille or Longwy – some de-
signed by Simon Vollant (1622–1694) but under
Vauban’s close supervision – adopted a variety of
forms from civic and garden architecture and even
a church facade. De Nyon’s Port Royale could
have stood up to any of them. A tripartite struc-
ture recalling a Roman triumphal arch, its central
136
bay rose high above the lateral ones, each crowned
with a pediment adorned with carved decoration.
The two on the sides bore the arms of the Com-
pagnie and its device Florebo quocumque ferar
(“I will flourish wherever I go”) and that of the
governor and the central one with a blazing sun
representing Louis XIV as the Sun King accom-
panied by his motto Nec pluribus impar (“Not
unequal to many”).36 Below this, beneath a giant
clock, was the royal arms with the triple fleur-
de-lys. The central portal was two storeys high
and crowned with a cupola, while the two side
portals were surmounted by pedestals with fiery
cannonballs. As was traditional with city gates
it was heavily rusticated to project solidity, and it
was raised on a high plinth for visibility from the
sea. It is noticeably more elaborate than any of the
multitude of portals erected in the French Atlan-
tic Empire, even in such strategically important
locations as Louisbourg (1729) in Canada or Fort
Saint-Charles in Guadeloupe (ca 1780).37
The citadel church of Saint-Louis (1722),
served by two Capuchin priests, was also a
plain, classical structure like the churches in
Vauban’s citadels in eastern and northeastern
France – again, just what one would expect in a
garrison town (figs. 4.4–6).38 Like the contem-
porary church of Notre-Dame-et-Saint-Nicolas
at Briançon (1718–26) it had a tripartite facade
with a prominent central section framed by plain
pilasters and crowned by an unadorned round
4.4 (oppoSiTe Top ) Here attributed to Denis de Nyon,
Profile of the Elevation of the Facade, or Portal, of the
Church of Fort Louis of Pondicherry Made in the Year 1722.
Ink on paper, 69.5 × 52 cm. ANom .
4.5 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Here attributed to Denis de
Nyon, Profile of the Elevation and the Sectional View
of the Whole Interior Length of the Church of Fort Louis
of Pondicherry Built in the Year 1722. Ink on paper, 69 ×
52 cm. ANom .
 pediment, and it sported large medallions on the
side bays, although as with Port Royale it does not
exactly match any French structure. Saint-Louis
would have been the first building a visitor would
have seen when passing through Port Royale,
its east-facing facade dramatically catching the
4.6 Here attributed to Denis de Nyon, Plan of the Church
of Fort Louis of Pondicherry Built in the Year 1722. Ink on
paper, 68 × 52 cm. ANom .
the architecture of empire
138
morning light. The facade had a higher central
door and two lower lateral doors enclosed in high
blind arches, and it used Ionic pilasters, layered
ones at the ends and paired ones in the central
bay.39 The balustrade with urn finials along the
top gives the building a festive air lacking in
French citadel churches.
The classical orders continue on the interior,
which has some affinities with the Bangkok cita-
del church project (fig. 3.17). The sectional view

4.7 Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs, Paris. Tower fifteenth and
seventeenth century (upper section).
shows a four-bay nave separated by the same Ionic
pilasters and surmounted by a plain entablature.
As was also common in churches in Paris, the
pilasters connect with transverse arches in the
barrel vault above. High, arched windows adorn
either side. For all its classicism, the stout tower
in the southwest corner recalls late medieval
models such as that of Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs
(fifteenth and seventeenth century) in Paris, al-
though in classical garb (fig. 4.7). Saint-Louis was
a wide basilican church with a nave and side aisles
like the main Capuchin church (figs. 2.11–12),
but here with a separate apse, a bowed altar rail,
rectangular chambers (“chambres”) that may have
been chapels, a vestry, and a revolving staircase to
reach the belfry. During Dupleix’s tenure (1742–
54) an opulent clock tower was added to the top
of the facade that was taller than the flagstaff, and
its collapse in 1754 was widely seen as presaging
Dupleix’s own fall from grace that same year.40
Given its sophisticated use of the Vaubanian
idiom, I see no reason not to ascribe Saint-Louis
also to Nyon: after all, the church was completed
in 1722 and Nyon had left for Île-de-France only
the previous year when construction would cer-
tainly have been well underway.
The Hôtel de la Compagnie or Vieux
Gouvernement (ca 1733; after 1747)
The chief building in the colony before the
Palais du Gouvernement was erected was located
outside the citadel, to the north across a sandy
expanse of flat land and three streets in from the
beach. The Hôtel de la Compagnie and its famous
gardens – the building’s architecture is overlooked
in the secondary literature – were executed
ca 1733 to replace its cramped predecessor that
was (in 1731) “entirely ruined by the recent rains
and incapable of functioning.”41 It first appeared
on a 1733 map as a corps de logis, gardens, and
semicircular gate on the site of the former chief
engineer’s residence, and looked exactly the same
33 years later (fig. 4.1).42 Plans of three projects for
the building survive, by two different hands and
none of them dated, although one is identified
poNDicherry cA 1752
as the “1er Projet” (figs. 4.8–9; see also 4.11–12).43
They depict a main corps de logis and all but
one of them include two long wings flanking a
forecourt. As none of the maps depict the wings,
we can assume that the corps de logis was the only
part of these projects to be built by 1747. Only the
left wing was built, but after 1747, long after the
139
4.8 (oppoSiTe ) Plan of the Ground Floor of the Building
of Messieurs the Directors of Sales [Hôtel de la Compagnie
or “Old Government House”], before 1733. Ink and
watercolour on paper, 75.5 × 79 cm. ANom . This is the
first project. None of these three projects may ever have
been executed, at least in their entirety, as only the main
corps de logis appears on maps from 1733 to 1747, with
a garden in front rather than a courtyard. At some point
between 1747 and 1760 a left wing was built, possibly
following one of these schemes.
4.9 (ABove ) First Floor, 1st Project [Hôtel de la Compagnie
or Old Government House], before 1733. Ink and
watercolour on paper, 44 × 28 cm. ANom . This is the first
floor of the first project.
corps de logis and while the new Gouvernement
was being completed, as surviving foundations
discovered in 1765 during the building of the new
Gouvernement demonstrate (fig. 4.28; see below).
Furthermore, the maps depict a formal garden
with French-style parterres and broderies instead
of the “cour” described on the plans.
Whether or not any part of them was executed,
the plans are worth examining as they demon-
strate what the CIO had hoped to build there
poNDicherry cA 1752
and the kind of image they wanted to project to
customers and rivals. As befitted the cio head-
quarters and governor’s residence, the Hôtel de la
Compagnie was to be a self-consciously elegant
structure, reflecting the metropolitan classicism of
the other cio buildings in Pondicherry but this
time discarding the Vaubanian mode in favour of
141
the aristocratic architecture of Grand Siècle and
Regency France. As the governor’s house and the
setting for the elaborate Mughal-inspired cere-
monial discussed above it needed to look suitably
noble. But as it was also the main place of business
it needed to project prosperity to visiting mer-
chants, like a nineteenth-century bank: as A.W.
Lawrence remarked about the palatial slave castles
of the eighteenth-century Gold Coast (Ghana),
designed so that their expansive neoclassical
facades could be best seen by traders from the sea,
“a smart appearance attracted customers.”44
The three projects for the Hôtel de la Com-
pagnie do not seem to be by Gerbaud given their
stylistic discrepancies with his project for the
Palais du Gouvernement: perhaps they are by
Louis Didier (the godfather of Jean Le Bozecq’s
daughter in 1737) or Jean Henry [sic] De Larche
(in Pondicherry from 1719), the only other royal
engineers I have been able to identify by name in
Pondicherry around that time – or they may have
been executed in France.45 If part of any of these
projects was indeed built, the latter two are the
most likely to have been executed as they both
end in a pair of convex gates that consistently
appear on the maps (in the first project they are
concave) (figs. 4.11–12). The three projects are
generically similar but the latter two are more
sophisticated, in the style of Germain Boffrand
(1667–1754) with prominent octagonal rooms,
while the first, with its rectilinear rooms, reflected
the more common Regency style of hôtel par-
ticulier in Paris. All feature a main corps de logis
at the end of a long cour d’honneur flanked by
offices, warehouses, lodgings for the gardener, and
a theatre-like salesroom for the textile market,
with tiers of curving benches and a stage in the
4.10 (oppoSiTe ) Hôtel Desmarets in Paris (1704), by
Pierre Lassurance, from Mariette, L’Architecture françois.
Getty Research Institute.
front. Both the salesroom and block of offices
across from it are accessed directly from the street
instead of through the cour d’honneur, as the day-
to-day business of merchants was a quite different
matter from the high-level diplomacy that took
place in the main court.
In the first version this block includes the
offices of the bookkeeper and treasury, with their
own larder and kitchen at the back (fig. 4.8).
The spacious carriage house, on the left side
immediately adjacent the corps de logis, com-
prises an enclosed forecourt and six stalls, as well
as a small stables at the north end. Its pendant
across the courtyard houses the main kitchens
and has a matching forecourt. The first version
of the second project (fig. 4.11) has narrowed the
salesroom to accommodate an enclosed “gal-
lerie” to protect people from the monsoon rains.
The architect has also changed the office block
across from it, replacing a small square vestibule
followed by an open-well staircase with a long
corridor leading to a U-shaped staircase. There are
now four rooms per side instead of three and they
include two offices, a “petit cabinet,” a treasury,
two larders, and, at the back, a pair of kitchens
flanking a court. Although maintaining the
same footprint, the architect has also altered the
carriage house and main kitchens by moving the
enclosed courtyards to the back, with more room
for stables (accommodating twenty horses instead
of six). The second version of the second project
(fig. 4.12) has adjusted the office block again,
now with a “passage” running laterally across the
building’s width, followed by a U-shaped stair-
poNDicherry cA 1752
case with a curving banister. There are now three
rooms per side, which are more spacious than the
four in the other project, with two offices, the
“petit cabinet,” treasury, two kitchens, and a court
at the back. Like the first project, this version of
the second project keeps the forecourts of the
carriage house/stables and kitchens at the front
143
4.11 Building of Messieurs the Directors of Sales [Hôtel de la Compagnie or “Old Government House”], before 1733. Ink and
wash on paper, 59 × 70 cm. ANom . This is the first version of the second project.
4.12 Untitled second version of second project for the Hôtel de la Compagnie or “Old Government House,” before 1733.
Ink and wash on paper, 59 × 70 cm. ANom .
 4.13 Jean-Baptiste Bullet de Chamblain, Plan of the
Ground Floor [Château de Champs], ca 1703. Graphite,
the architecture of empire
pencil, and black ink on paper, pricked for transfer,
50 × 67.7 cm. National Museum, Stockholm. Photograph
by Cecilia Heisser/Nationalmuseum 2012.
but adds a stall and includes a stable for nineteen
horses in the middle. The tack room/greenhouse
has been removed to accommodate three of the
stalls at the north end of the left wing and a “salle
de commun” occupies the same position in the
146
right wing. This version also adds grandiose por-
tals to the side wings flanked by paired pilasters
and incorporating small cubicles that appear to be
latrines as they resemble the “lieux” on either end
of the main corps de logis.
The corps de logis most closely emulates
metropolitan models. Both projects reproduce
the tripartite, two-storey Parisian entre cour et
jardin townhouse with a central ressaut (an ad-
vancing wall section, also called an avant-corps) in
the court and garden facades. In the first project
(fig. 4.8) it forms a rectangular block with (on
the ground floor) twelve symmetrically arranged
rooms along an axis. The axis is a north-south
enfilade with a vestibule facing the cour d’honneur
and a “Sallon ou salle de Compagnie” facing the
garden at the rear (this garden was never planted;
instead, a small courtyard was constructed).
The floor is divided into the governor’s private
zone on the left (“le grand apartement”) and
a public one on the right. The former includes a
state bedroom (“grande chambre a coucher”),
an office with a day bed (“lit en niche”), latrine,
private antechamber, and wardrobe; this half of
the building also includes an open-well staircase
(“grand escalier”). The public zone includes a
dining room and a “grand entichambre [sic] ou
salle du Bufet” as well as a service staircase, a
room for preparing dessert (“office pour dresser
le Dessert”), and another for reheating the food
prepared in the great kitchens in the courtyard.
Clearly the top merchants and diplomats were
generously entertained. In its use of enfilades
(another one connects the rooms along the rear
of the building) and in its juxtaposition of private
and public rooms it adheres to the standard
distribution of rooms in French townhouses. The
étage (fig. 4.9) similarly balanced private with
public, with the central pair of rooms devoted to
the council chamber and archives and its “grande
antichambre” and the flanking rooms forming
three apartments for company directors with
wardrobes, offices, and private “English” (flush-
ing) lavatories (“comodités a l’Angloise”).
The second project, for which we have only
two versions of the ground floor, is more sophis-
ticated, with coved corners, octagons, and in one
case an oval vestibule. Like the first project both
versions of the second are centred on the vestibule
and salon arranged as an enfilade. The first version
(fig. 4.11) comprises two octagons: a smaller one
for the vestibule and a larger one for the salon,
arranged lengthwise. The octagon determines the
shape of the ressaut of the garden facade, which
ends in two canted windows and a doorway,
and its profile is echoed in the hexagonal stair-
case down to the garden. The effect of these two
end-to-end octagons, which increase in size as
the visitor proceeds through them, would have
been more dramatic than the simple repetition of
squares of the first project. As in the first project
a second enfilade aligns the rooms at the rear,
parallel to the facade. This project allows for more
room to circulate, with two service staircases
instead of one and an additional corridor in the
apartment on the left, which adjoins the vestibule
on a diagonal. One major difference is that there
are now two apartments on the ground floor,
the one with the corridor on the left and a more
spacious one on the right (the only differences are
in the size of the wardrobes). The dining room is
on the right side and the open-well staircase on
the left but there is no longer any grand ante-
chamber. Both apartments have private toilets
that project outside the building rather than being
inside it. This project is more interesting than the
first, but it is less practical as it has reduced
the size of the rooms. The second version of the
second project (fig. 4.12) improves the symmetry
of the building’s layout. The “corridor de degage-
ment” of the left apartment is now replicated on
the right and both corridors reach the vestibule
on a diagonal. The two service staircases are also
better balanced, each near the far end of the
corridors. The dining room has suffered the most
from this second corridor and is now smaller than
poNDicherry cA 1752
either of the bedrooms. The main stylistic depar-
ture in this version is an oval vestibule with two
niches at the end facing the court, and a slightly
more dramatic entrance to the staircase in which
the steps spill into the vestibule. The garden steps
are also more monumental, leading to a short
terrace before descending into the garden itself.
147
 Perhaps the architect was trying to make the
structure more appropriate for ceremonial events.
The architects relied on illustrated architec-
tural manuals of the sort that was standard in
any royal engineer’s toolkit.46 Not the lavishly
illustrated, multi-volume L’Architecture françois
of Jacques-François Blondel, which I have shown
elsewhere to be a critical model for French
architecture in the Atlantic Empire, because it
was not published until 1752–56, but instead
Jean Mariette’s less copious L’Architecture françois
(Paris, 1727), the most important illustrated guide
to the architecture of contemporary France of
its day.47 The first Pondicherry project has much
in common with townhouse designs such as
the Hôtel Desmarets in Paris (1704), by Pierre
Lassurance (1655–1724), one of Paris’s most
popular architects (fig. 4.10).48 Like the Pondi-
cherry project Lassurance creates harmony by
balancing the three largest rooms in the garden
enfilade, here a bedroom, salon, and “grand cab-
inet,” with those of the court side, a dining room,
vestibule, and open-well staircase. Both layouts
have five rooms on the garden side that diminish
in size from the salon outward, clearly demon-
strating their relative importance and creating
a sense of progression as one approaches the
salon. The principal staircase or “grand escalier”
of the Hôtel Desmarets is on the opposite side of
the vestibule from that of the Pondicherry pro-
ject, but like it the rooms on the court side end
in a series of smaller chambers including ward-
the architecture of empire
robes, service staircases, and latrines. The main
difference is that Lassurance uses columns for the
garden and court portals whereas the Pondicherry
project is content with the cheaper alternative
of pilasters.
Both versions of the second project (figs. 4.11–
12), in their use of curves, octagons, and an oval,
echo the bolder, more baroque style of Boffrand
or Bullet de Chamblain (1665–1726) – ultimately
148
the oval goes back to Louis Le Vau’s Château
Vaux-le-Vicomte (1657–61), a reference to the
early reign of Louis XIV. The lengthwise posi-
tioning of the vestibule and salon, the salon’s
octagonal shape, and the vestibule’s curving
walls and niches all relate to Boffrand’s work,
as with his Hôtel Amelot de Gournay (1712),
which however uses an oval courtyard, giving it
a concave court facade.49 However the closest
match is Jean-Baptiste Bullet de Chamblain’s
Château de Champs, southeast of Paris (1701–07)
(fig. 4.13).50 Champs centres on an elongated
oval salon: although oval it looks almost like an
octagon: a rectangle with rounded corners. As
at the Pondicherry project the salon is placed
lengthwise to form a curved projection into the
garden framed by hexagonal steps. The garden
enfilade is formed of five principal rooms: the
salon, a dining room, parade bedroom, “grand
cabinet” or assembly hall on the right end, and a
bedroom apartment on the left. Like the Pondi-
cherry designs the court enfilade is less balanced,
with a large main staircase on the left and a small
service one on the right, a wardrobe, bedroom,
office, antechamber, and a narrow corridor on the
right and an office and concierge’s lodge on the
left. Again, Bullet de Chamblain has incorpor-
ated columns, although only on the court facade,
which the Pondicherry design replaces with pilas-
ters. Although no elevations survive for the Hôtel
de la Compagnie, the facades likely would have
emulated those of the building’s models, perhaps
with rusticated quoins on the ends and, flanking
the portal, simply framed windows, a string course
dividing the storeys, and a triangular pediment on
the court side supported by pilasters, projecting
an elegant, restrained classicism. The Hôtel de la
Compagnie was certainly meant to look impos-
ing; however, the lack of columns suggests that
it did not have the generous budget of the Palais
du Gouvernement.
The Palais du Gouvernement (1738–1752)
The Palais du Gouvernement, inside Fort Louis,
was striking precisely because of the degree to
which it stood out against the less ostentatious
buildings around it. In fact, this palace performed
a similar function to that of the Hall of Mirrors in
Louis XIV’s reception of the Siamese embassy in
1686. There, the Sun King presented himself as the
equivalent of an Asian ruler through the lavish-
ness of his clothing, surroundings, and Siamese-
inflected ceremonial, but he did so in a setting
that showcased French styles and products. Like-
wise, the Palais du Gouvernement was built on a
scale appropriate for a Mughal Nawab and was the
setting for equally sumptuous Mughal-inspired
ceremonies, but it was quintessentially French in
appearance. The building embodied what Claude-
Thérèse de Chastenay de Lanty (1738–1799),
Joseph-François Dupleix’s widow, called the “Edi-
fice of French Grandeur in Asia.”51 As discussed in
chapter 1, its sixty-six stone columns (engaged and
in the round) in an 80-metre-long, thirteen-bay
facade was unparalleled in any of the French over-
seas colonies and it openly emulated metropolitan
royal architecture (figs. 1.1–2, 4.14–17).
Despite its popular association with Dupleix,
who oversaw its completion and was its most
famous incumbent, the “Palais de Dupleix” was
in fact begun by his less flamboyant predeces-
sor Dumas, the mastermind of Fort Louis (figs.
4.1–2). There is astonishingly little in the archival
record about the building or the people who
constructed it: in fact, other than Emmanuel-Ju-
lien Gerbaud and Le Bozecq, I have only been
able to determine the identity of the architects
and builders by first consulting the Pondicherry
parish registers and then cross-referencing them
with the Ministry of the Marine ancien régime
colonial personnel dossiers. The work crew must
have been enormous, and soldiers (French and
Indian Company sepoys) would have provided
the brute labour as was the case in the Americas,
except that here, as noted in chapter 1, there is no
evidence that enslaved labourers were involved.
They were accompanied by indentured workers or
“coulis” (coolies), and there are fleeting references
in the documentation to “les maîtres maçons de
la Compagnie,” but few other clues as to how the
building was constructed.52 It was likely that most
of the skilled builders were non-Christian Indians
as they would otherwise have left a trace in the
parish records. It is also likely that there was a
workshop to train masons and carpenters in Pon-
dicherry, but so far I have found no record of it.
As for the French builders I have discovered
nothing more about Jean Roze dit Du Frêne,
“maitre charpentier de la Compagnie,” or Jacques
Hernault, “menuisier,” than the brief references
cited in chapter 1, and there is also a record of a
Louis le Dure, a mixed-race “charpentier” from
Pondicherry, who witnessed a marriage in 1738.53
Bernard Du Passage was “ingénieur-en-chef ”
in Pondicherry between 1736 and 1754, and
contributed to the “ouvrage de fortification,”
but he seems to have spent most of his time in
battles – and also in gambling dens, running up
a debt of 12,000 francs in India and in Britain
after the siege.54 Ingénieur-en-chef Louis Paradis
de La Roche (ca 1701–1748) was also working in
Pondicherry at the time but there is no evidence
that he was involved with the Gouvernement,
although he knew Gerbaud.55 His main project
was the hospital (1738–42), built on the east side
of the Jardin de la Compagnie, as well as forts
poNDicherry cA 1752
in Mahé and Karikal (1737–44), and he was in
Karikal between 1744 and 1748, only returning
to Pondicherry that year to die in his own hospi-
tal.56 Another mystery is the degree of influence
“ingénieur du Roi” Jean-Joseph Abeille had on the
final design of the building, however construction
was too advanced by the time he arrived in 1742
149
 for him to have done much more than complete
Gerbaud’s building. Even though no elevations
by Gerbaud survive, the columns and avant-corps
of the main facade figure on Gerbaud’s plan, so it
must have adhered closely to his intentions.
The decision to build a monumental new
Gouvernement in the fort dates at least to 1733,
when a map of the city indicated the location of
the “Gouvernem.t projetté” in yellow pigment,
which means that it had not yet been begun,
but it already depicted a facade colonnade and
exterior and interior staircases, suggesting that
Gerbaud’s project had already been sketched out
(the architect had returned from Île-de-France the
previous year).57 Gerbaud’s plans (figs. 4.14–15)
are first mentioned in a letter of 24 January 1738
from the Superior Council to the Syndics and
General Directors of the Compagnie des Indes,
which notes that they had demolished the old
Gouvernement in the fort, that the foundations of
the new one were already being laid, and that they
were building it as quickly as possible:
By deliberation of 29 October [1737], we
have decided to demolish the Gouverne-
ment, which was about to collapse on all
sides and to rent the house of Mr Febvrier
for 240 Pagodas a year until the new Gou-
vernement, of which we present herewith
the plan to the Company, be built. We are
currently having the foundations laid and
will expedite the work because Mr Febvrier
the architecture of empire
is due back in 18 months and there is no
suitable apartment in the fort for the
Council Chamber and for the registry office
and secretariat.58
The plan of the Gouvernement and hospital were
sent to France on the cio ship Le Chaurelin in
January 1738, but no elevations were included in
the ship’s manifest, even though the Compagnie
150
had demanded them.59 Jean Le Bozecq is specific-
ally linked to the building in a letter by Dumont
dated 21 April 1738 as a “maître constructeur” in
charge of purchasing “a quantity of teak wood
both for the framing and joinery work of the new
hospital, which will consume a lot of it, and for
the Gouvernement and other works of the Com-
pany,” specifically 895 pieces of “wood, beams and
planks” costing 3,000 pagodas.60 On 17 October
1738 a letter from the Superior Council of Pondi-
cherry remarks that “work continues on the new
Gouvernement and the completion of the hospi-
tal begun in 1734.”61
The walls, trusswork, and presumably ceiling
of the building must have been completed over
the next two years but construction was halted
between 1740 and 1742 after monsoon rains
destroyed most of the houses of the city and the
builders needed to turn their attention to recon-
structing them.62 The Conseil Supérieur promised
the cio on 24 January 1742 that: “We will also
complete the Gouvernement started in the fort a
few years ago, the work of which had been inter-
rupted, because there was something more urgent
to do” and vowed that they would not undertake
any other work until it was completed.63 There
is no record of what happened to the building in
the following four years, but with the outbreak of
the First Carnatic War (1746–48) the cio likely
devoted all of its attention to the ramparts and
gates.64 Nevertheless the building must have been
substantially finished by that time as an anonym-
ous visitor could appreciate enough of it to say on
14 January 1746 that it “will be very beautiful if it
is finished.”65 A map dated 1747 already depicts
the entire ground floor plan painted red, which
means that the rez-de-chaussée at least had been
completed (fig. 4.1). On 31 January 1747 during
a lull in the fighting the Superior Council an-
nounced the arrival of seventy 29-foot-long logs
of wood from Mahé to repair ships and “complete
4.14 Emmanuel-Julien Gerbaud, Plan of the Ground
Floor of the Proposed Government House, 15 January
1738. Signed “Gerbaud.” Ink and wash on paper,
80 × 55 cm. ANom .
the Gouvernement.”66 There is then a three-year
hiatus when the building was mostly finished
but awaiting furnishings: in April 1750 Ananda
obtained permission to bring some visitors inside
“the Gouvernement that is being built in the
fort”; in July 1752 he was shown the sculptures
to go in the vestibule; on 22 August of that year
Ananda took more visitors to the building; and
on 20 December 1752 he was given a personal
tour of the completed structure by Dupleix, at
which point all of its décor was in place; never-
theless, Dupleix noted in a letter that the window
glass did not arrive until September 1753.67 The
last reference to the building’s construction is a
1772 missive by Abeille’s brother that, while not
mentioning the Gouvernement specifically, notes
the architect’s important role in building the old
city: “he applied himself from his childhood to
poNDicherry cA 1752
the study of civil & military architecture, in India
he was occupied with various projects & the care
[he put into them] was of great benefit to the
public buildings of the old city of Pondicherry, &
in their reconstruction.”68
Gerbaud’s design is sophisticated, original,
and academic, a remarkable feat for an engineer
151
 4.15 Emmanuel-Julien Gerbaud, Plan of the First
Storey, or bel étage, of the Proposed Government House,
15 January 1738. Signed “Gerbaud.” Ink and wash on
paper, 80 × 54.5 cm. ANom .
who trained in the colonies. On the ground floor
the architecture of empire
arcade Doric engaged columns are accompanied
by an entablature of triglyphs and metopes, here
with fleurs-de-lys and flowers in the metopes and
human mascarons over the arches. The Ionic upper
colonnade also adhered to classical tradition, with
an unbroken frieze adorned with an elegant floral
garland. Three pediments, two semicircular and
one triangular, crowned the colonnade at each
ressaut, richly carved with military trophées and
152
the arms of the Compagnie des Indes, France, and
Pondicherry. A giant attic rises above the centre of
the building like a raised cage de scène in an opera
house – it is also surmounted with balustrades
and vases – with windows to illuminate its central
hall, and two smaller skylights are located behind
the side pediments on top of the rear staircases.
A decorative iron railing runs nearly the entire
length of the building on the upper storey, from
the left ressaut to the terrace on the far right.
The Gouvernement’s solid rear facade (fig. 4.17),
which abutted the ramparts and therefore was not
as visible, is consequently plainer, with undressed
windows, and it is divided into three solid wings
bookending two-storey triple-arched loggias and
interior staircases. The loggias recede to accom-
modate two “cours de derrière” at the back of the
building – presumably for employees to get some
fresh air – and they compensate for the proximity
of the curtain wall.69 Prominent quoins adorn
the corners of the building, enhancing the visual
richness of its surfaces. A two-storey terrace with
arcades below and a colonnade above is located on
4.16 Gabriel-Pierre-Martin Dumont, Plan and Elevation of
the Gouvernement of Pondicherry, 1755. Signed “Dumont
1755.” Wash and ink on paper, 93.5 × 59.5 cm. ANom .
the east end, facing the sea, so that people could
watch ships approaching the city. The building’s
roof, floors, panelling, and framework were of
solid teak from the Burma shipment noted above,
and allegedly the building also used local wood,
which, however, was in short supply.70
The interior is an innovative solution to a
tropical climate. Its plan adheres to the standard
layout (distribution) of contemporary French
chateaux in which enfilades had mostly been
replaced by central corridors running parallel to
the facade. However in a radical departure from
poNDicherry cA 1752
153
 4.17 Here attributed to Gabriel-Pierre-Martin Dumont,
Sectional View and Rear Facade of the Gouvernement
of Pondicherry, ca 1755. Watercolour, wash, and ink on
paper, 96 × 61 cm. ANom .
that tradition the ends of the corridors on the
upper storey (bel étage) open onto balconies that
allow refreshing breezes to penetrate the furthest
reaches of the building.71 Much of Gerbaud’s
the architecture of empire
original project was preserved in the final layout
of this building, the majority of the changes
resulting from a desire to even out the placement
of windows and doors, but the open corridor, or
“galerie,” only appears on Dumont’s 1755 sectional
view, so it is impossible to say whether it was
Gerbaud’s idea (figs. 4.15, 4.17).72 Because the
upper corridor is open, the bel étage is arranged
154
along what are essentially parallel colonnades, one
on the facade with fifty-six columns and a parallel
one down the length of the building with eight
columns/engaged columns of its own, although
the latter is speculation as no final plan survives
of this storey, only a sectional view. Two flank the
balconies and the rest stand at the entry to the
staircase and salon (a matching pair of engaged
columns also appear at the far end of the salon).
The facade galleries, more spacious than the
central corridors because of the three ressauts
advancing from the main wall, allowed ample
room for the kind of ceremonial processions and
other events that punctuated the short life of
this building.
The palace was clearly designed specifically for
processions: it provided a progressive experience
meant to awe visitors, proceeding from low,
darker rooms into bright, open spaces, first with
the theatrical staircase, which would have come
as a surprise and allowed for expansive views
of its decor, and then the upper salon, an echo
of the staircase but with a higher ceiling, and
finally the balcony with its view of the square
below. Entering the palace through the centre of
the arcade, visitors first walked across the lower
gallery, which was lined with pilasters, panels,
and a classical entablature like an extension of the
exterior (figs. 1.2, 4.16–17). This was a common
conceit in French palaces and hôtels particuliers as
it was meant to serve as a transition between the
outside and inside.73 Although it lacked windows,
the vestibule was more ornate, each side wall
featuring three deep niches containing life-sized
allegorical statues and a fountain in the centre.
The statues, which Ananda described before their
installation, included figures of Justice, Commerce,
Truth, and Prudence, and there was another statue
in the main stairhall carrying a staff (perhaps Nep-
tune), which he does not identify.74 The fountains
had bulky frames supporting recumbent figures,
perhaps sea gods, and what looks like the stern of
a ship in the middle, while in the centre shell-
shaped basins received jets of water from a trio
of stone dolphins, a common symbol of royalty
that also graced public monuments in the French
Caribbean.75 The nautical theme and allegorical
figures over the fountain recall François-Antoine
Vassé’s luxurious mantelpiece at the Galerie Dorée
at the Hôtel de Toulouse in Paris (1718–19),
which scholars have recently shown to be in-
fluenced by the sculptural decoration of ships,
and the general arrangement of the statues and
statue niches recalls Pierre Bullet’s vestibule at the
Château D’Issy (completed 1709).76 Such decor-
ation would have been appropriate in a building
devoted to marine commerce, and it answered
architect Jacques-François Blondel’s call that a
vestibule should “convey the idea of the grandeur
of the rooms which follow it.”77
Moving forward, visitors moved from darkness
to light, quickly crossing the central corridor and
climbing the first flight of the grand staircase
(“grand escalier”), which spilled out into the
corridor to greet them. They would have been
astonished by the two-storey stairhall, designed as
a counterpart to the two-storey salon that they
would encounter after climbing the steps and
crossing the open corridor upstairs. The room is
both imposing and an extravagant waste of space:
based on palatial models such as Louis Le Vau’s
Escalier des Ambassadeurs at Versailles (built in
1680 and paradoxically demolished the same year
the Gouvernement was completed), it encloses a
divided staircase in which a central flight rises to
a half-landing and then bisects and continues to
ascend the perimeter of the hall on both sides in
six- or ten-step segments to three further landings
(fig. 4.18).78 The Escalier des Ambassadeurs was
an appropriate prototype given the building’s
ceremonial function as a place to welcome local
potentates and their agents. In Gerbaud’s first
project (fig. 4.14–15) the hall was an enclosed
oval, but it was transformed in the final design
(fig. 4.16) into a rectangular space lit by high
arched windows on three sides. The tropical sun
pouring into the room would have been dazzling
as it hit the rich, probably gilt or silvered, rococo
trophées on the panels flanking the windows and
in the entablatures. The upper part of the stairhall
echoes the facade with tall Ionic pilasters on the
poNDicherry cA 1752
sides and back and a pair of free-standing columns
flanking the entrance onto the open corridor.
The culmination was the salon, quickly
reached by crossing the well-lit corridor and
giving onto the colonnaded loggia at the far end.
In France the salon was traditionally the most
155
 heavily ornamented in the house, although in this
building it was rivalled by the stairhall (fig. 1.2).
However, whereas the stairhall was only one
storey high the salon had an attic high enough
to serve as a second storey, with a coved cupola
encircled by an iron or bronze railing with gen-
erously proportioned windows alternating with
giant cartouches. It was equipped with paired
doorways twice the visitors’ height flanking
costly silvered mirrors from France and richly
carved rococo console tables, probably gessoed
and gilt or silvered oak with marble tops.79 The
decoration on the walls was also silvered and the
windows had luxurious green velvet curtains. The
4.18 Interior View of the Grand Staircase [Louis Le
Vau’s Escalier des Ambassadeurs at Versailles (1680;
demolished 1752)], 1725. Engraving, 53.5 × 40.7 × 2.3 cm.
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.
the architecture of empire
156
arrangement of doors, overdoors, and wall panels
with their carved boiseries (wooden decoration)
is metropolitan and resembles that of the Hôtel
de Roquelaure in Paris by Nicolas Pineau (1733)
(fig. 4.19), to give just one example, although the
use of the orders (Corinthian pilasters in this
case) was unusual, reserved for royal interiors
such as the Galerie d’Enée in the Palais Royal by
Gilles-Marie Oppenord (1717) or the sumptu-
ously adorned interior of the Galerie Dorée at
the Hôtel de Toulouse.80 The progression from
Ionic in the stairhall to Corinthian in the salon
was meant to suggest a progression from (relative)
simplicity to opulence: the Corinthian order, in
Sir John Summerson’s immortal words, was typ-
ically “chosen because the architect wants to lay it
on thick.”81 They are also more closely associated
with imperial as opposed to republican Rome and
are therefore appropriate for the palace’s role as
4.19 Nicolas Pineau, Salon
Blanc, Hôtel de Roquelaure,
Paris, 1733. I am grateful
to the Ministère de la
Transition écologique et
solidaire for permission to
photograph this house.
headquarters of France’s possessions in the Indian
Ocean. The Palais du Gouvernement was engin-
eered to impress.
No European descriptions of the palace survive
but we are extremely fortunate to have two in-
digenous responses to the building that were nei-
ther meant for a European audience nor filtered
through a European intermediary (for instance a
scribe or translator) – such voices are extremely
rare in the history of early modern European
colonial architecture. The first witness is Ananda,
who described it in his private diary in Decem-
ber 1752: “Afterwards, taking me up to the first
story of the Gouvernement, [Dupleix] showed
the hall plated with silver, containing the great
mirror that has come from Europe and with the
windows hung with green velvet curtains fringed
with lace. ‘Is not this fine?’ he exclaimed. I replied,
‘Sir, the longer I behold the Gouvernement, the
greater is my wonder. Howbeit such a palace is
but worthy of you.’ Hearing my words with great
joy, he continued to speak about it.”82 Even the
governors could not stop staring at the decora-
tion: Leyrit, who succeeded Dupleix in 1755, was
famous for ignoring his visitors while revelling in
the opulence of his setting: as Ananda put it, he
kept “examining and admiring the manner of the
building, decorations and structure, for he had
no eyes for anything else.”83 The longest descrip-
tion of the palace interior, overlooked by the
scholarship, comes from Canto (Stabaka) VIII of
poNDicherry cA 1752
Śrinivasa’s Ānantaraṅgavijaya Campū. Although
written in a language full of metaphor and refer-
ences to ancient Sanskrit epic literature (such as
the Mahābhārata), it provides a glimpse inside the
building in an account that was inaccessible not
only to European colonists (including mission-
aries, who struggled even with Tamil), but also
157
 to the Tamil merchant community, who did not
understand Sanskrit (Ananda did not understand
it either, but as he was the poet’s patron he helped
provide its content as we will see in chapter 9).84
The passage, which describes Ananda’s arrival at
the palace, again demonstrates the importance of
Indian ceremonial to the daily life of the building:
Ānandaraṅga [Ananda] having entered that
palace that amused all in the three worlds in
beauty, descending from his vehicle [pal-
anquin] walked after wearing the sandals,
fitting well on his feet that were brought by
the servants getting closer to the Hūn.a King
[French governor] who was informed by
the door keepers about the arrival, hear-
ing which the king swiftly stood from his
throne, amidst the court that was decorated
by a large piece of cloth that was shining
with golden flowers embedded upon it, put-
ting the autumn moon to shame, wherein
large group [sic] of attractive tall golden
pillars were seen, as if trying to outshine
the celestial court Sudharma, it seemed to
be made on earth, wherein numerous seats
in various colours were arranged, which
(court) resembled the bed of the ocean, on
all sides of the court golden walls were seen
decorated with groups of precious stones
reflecting the forms of great men seated
therein on high raised thrones, and decor-
ated with spotless silk cloths, whose wealth
the architecture of empire
was self respect, seeing Ānandaraṅga they
stood from their seats with great respect
and the Hūn.a King was served by wise swift
ministers who were close to him, ascending
on a golden throne decorated with colourful
precious stones, who received the services
of men who stood near by with all humility
fanning him with cāmara (the tail of camarī
deer, a hairy animal) and palm leaves, with
158
great affection and respect Ānandaraṅga sat
on a high raised throne that defeated the
brilliance of sun rays being decorated with
numerous gems.85
Śrinivasa is particularly struck with the tex-
tiles – on the furniture, perhaps the curtains, and
apparently the walls, which suggests that the salon
had silk or velvet wall coverings – as well as the
floral motifs, the columns, and the raised golden
thrones studded with precious stones. In contrast
with Ananda’s description the decor is described
as gilt, not silvered. The discrepancy may simply
be a mistake, or the building may have had a
combination of silver and gold boiseries and fur-
nishings. Śrinivasa also claims that semi-precious
stones were embedded into the walls, although
perhaps the reference is to ornaments such as the
bejewelled enamel timepiece presented to the
palace by Madame de Pompadour.86 However the
text represents the way Ananda wanted the palace
to be remembered – and, more importantly, his
own exalted position within it. The scene immedi-
ately recalls Louis XIV’s reception of the Siamese
ambassadors (fig. 2.18), with its silver thrones and
court costumes festooned with jewels.
The most surprising thing about this building
is that it is not the governor’s residence, although
many scholars identify it as such.87 Unlike a
typical château or hôtel particulier in France – or
the Hôtel de la Compagnie – there are no ap-
partements, or clusters of private living quarters
with bedrooms, smaller reception rooms, ante-
chambers, wardrobes and en-suite lavatories.88
As noted above, the governors lived in the Hôtel
de la Compagnie (figs. 4.8–9, 4.11–12), which
Dupleix in particular spent a great deal of money
redecorating, and the Compagnie garden (about
which more below) was the setting of many a
festivity.89 The Gouvernement, by contrast, was
all business: a combination of a grand setting for
ceremonial events designed to impress Indian and
other European officials and a suite of offices and
storage areas for the needs of the Compagnie.90
There was a small bedroom to lodge official
guests (“une petite chambre pour loger quelque
ami”) on the west end of the first storey and a
room called the “chambre pour le gouverneur”
on the east end; however this was not a bedroom
but a grand receiving room. Most significantly,
there was no apartment for the governor’s wife
or family. The building may have emulated the
palaces of France, but it was unlike them in their
principal function as a residence, unless we count
the Louvre, which the kings had abandoned since
Louis XIV moved the court to Versailles.
The Gouvernement’s official rooms were lined
up between the facade gallery and the interior
gallery as well as at the two ends of the building,
forming a west and east wing with the vestibule
and salon in the middle. Their exact locations are
only recorded in Gerbaud’s 1738 plan, and some of
them may have changed or been moved around to
accommodate the open ends of the upper-storey
galerie. On the ground floor the vestibule was
flanked by the archives and bookkeepers’ offices
on the left and those of the storekeeper and cash-
ier on the right. The west end of the building con-
tained the notary’s offices and the east end held
those of the “écrivains noirs” (Indian secretaries),
the courtier (Ananda’s office), and the Malabar
merchants, while the back of the building on each
end accommodated storage for the palanquins
that, as we have seen, were so important to Com-
pany ceremonial (see fig. 1.2). But we also know
from Ananda’s diary that there was “a great dining
hall … on the ground floor, where a table was
placed” and where the Governor and his family
dined Sundays after attending church, which does
not appear in the 1738 plan.91 The Sunday lunch
was not an intimate family affair but a matter
of great pomp befitting this ceremonial space.
Ananda describes the procession to and from
church on 4 November 1754:
the European gentlemen and ladies came,
and all went to church. Before mass ended,
three volleys and three salutes of 21 guns
were fired. When the Governor left the
church, and approached the parade, the men
saluted him with their lances and colours,
the captain of the European troopers with
drawn sword, according to custom, and the
trumpeters, drummer and fifers playing until
he had entered the Gouvernement. He sat
down to table with all the Europeans on the
ground floor. A salute of 21 guns was fired
for the King’s health.92
Curiously, this procession appears exclusively to
have followed European ceremonial rules; pre-
sumably since the guests were Europeans they did
not require nautch women and fly whiskers.
The more spacious public rooms were on the
bel étage on either side of the salon (fig. 4.15),
including the council chamber, “salle de parade”
(a room for public functions), “salle d’armes” (for
military ceremonies), and the governor’s office,
a room nearly as large as the “salle d’armes.” On
this floor the rooms on the west end accommo-
dated the offices of the secretary (one of which
must have been sacrificed to make way for the
open corridor) and the guest bedroom, while the
east end contained the governor’s chamber and
office (the office must also have been relocated),
as well as the office of the governor’s secretary
poNDicherry cA 1752
and the dormitory for the domestic staff. Finally,
tucked into the corners of the “cours de derrière,”
are internal staircases providing access to the
rooftop terrace: the terrace was an important
place for relaxation and viewing the sea and city
and also for public events such as the watching
of fireworks.
159

Like the Hôtel de la Compagnie, the Palais
du Gouvernement is based on a close study of
engravings of French buildings, although it does
not replicate any model completely and in some
respects it is strikingly contemporary.93 The
unusual arrangement of porticoes with round
and triangular pediments at the Gouvernement
recalls Champlâtreux (fig. 1.3), but that building
has only (engaged) columns in the central pavil-
ion and is crowned by a massive mansard roof
the architecture of empire
and toit à l’impériale.94 Most French architecture
at this time shied away from columns and were
sparing even with pilasters. As noted above, the
Gouvernement’s colonnade most closely evokes
princely or royal commissions, particularly the
Louvre’s east facade (although there the columns
are paired) and the two palaces facing the Place
Louis XV by Ange-Jacques Gabriel (1757–66),
which are, however, later than the Gouvernement
160
4.20 Ange-Jacques Gabriel,
western palace in Place
Louis XV (now Place de la
Concorde), Paris, 1757–65.
(figs. 1.4, 4.20).95 In contrast with the Grand
Siècle exterior, the Gouvernement’s rococo
interiors are decidedly avant-garde, which is not
surprising since the mirrors and other furnishings
came directly from France. Instead of evoking a
golden age that was out of date, it instead ad-
vertised contemporary French styles and French
products for the benefit of visiting dignitaries
and merchants, an approach that Colbert would
certainly have condoned, even if the style was no
longer the one he championed.96
The final testament to this project’s importance
was the Ministry of the Marine’s decision to hire
an academician to make the presentation draw-
ings – something unprecedented in the colonies –
and likely with the aim of producing engravings,
another first. Scholars have assumed that Dumont
was another royal engineer posted in India; how-
ever, I have found no evidence for a Dumont in
Pondicherry at the time except for a CIO mer-
chant and a family of smugglers – or indeed any
royal engineer named Dumont in all of France’s
colonies.97 I attribute these drawings to Gabriel-
Pierre-Martin Dumont as he was in the right
place at the right time. He had just returned from
a trip to Italy with Pompadour’s brother Abel
Poisson – since 1751 the superintendent of the
4.21 Gabriel-Pierre-Martin Dumont, perspective view of
the mechanical works and construction of a theatre. Pen
and black ink, with grey wash, over graphite, on paper,
31 × 36.9 cm. Morgan Library, New York.
King’s Buildings – and, given his sister’s interest
in the project, Poisson most likely commissioned
Dumont to make the drawings. The sheets also
have distinct stylistic similarities with Dumont’s
known work. Particularly noteworthy is the way
Dumont draws the stairs edged with a dotted line
and how he tucks the lower steps tightly into the
main staircase.98 The treatment is identical in a
study for two staircases he executed while at the
Académie entitled [Deux desseins d’escaliers] l’un
pour un hôtel ordinaire et l’autre pour un palais
magnifique (1737). His lively staffage figures
in figure 1.2 are also very close to those in the
poNDicherry cA 1752
161
 preparatory drawings for his Parallèles des plans
des plus belles salles de spectacle d’Italie et de France
avec des détails de machines théâtrales (Paris, 1774)
(fig. 4.21), particularly in their animated poses
and attention to costume and hats.
A pupil of Jean Aubert (ca 1680–1741), Du-
mont won the Grand Prix de Rome in 1737, as we
have seen, spent 1742–46 in Italy, where he was
inducted into the Accademia di S Luca (in 1746),
and he returned to Italy in 1749–50 in the en-
tourage of Abel-François Poisson, who was being
groomed for his future role as superintendent of
the King’s Buildings, along with Jacques-Germain
Soufflot and Charles-Nicolas Cochin.99 After re-
turning to Paris Dumont took up a position at the
Royal Academy of Architecture, probably in 1755,
the very year of the Pondicherry drawing. He
would become famous later for his publications
on Italian and French architecture beginning in
the 1760s, one of which was dedicated to Poisson,
by then the duc de Marigny.100 By contrast Cham-
pia de Fonbrun was a royal engineer architect. He
was appointed to the cio on 24 October 1752
“pour la garde de ville et fort de Pondichéry” after
seven years in Piedmont. He was back in Paris by
May 1772, living at the house of a cabinetmaker
named Clavelle on rue Montorgueil, and shortly
afterward he relocated to Grand-Bourg (Guade-
loupe), where he married a mixed-race woman
named Elisabeth on 22 February 1773.101 The mar-
riage record claimed that Fonbrun was a “native
of Pondicherry”; however I have not found any
the architecture of empire
reference to him in the baptismal records and
the priest may simply have mistaken his previous
place of residence for his birthplace. In 1777 this
“ancien Ingénieur de Pondichéry” published
a table of the parallax of the sun and moon.102
Fonbrun would have made his set of drawings of
the Gouvernement in Pondicherry around 1752,
the year he arrived, and then sent them to Paris
to be copied in 1755 by Dumont, who added
162
features such as elegant rococo cartouches in the
manner of Pierre Ranson (1736–1786) and the
staffage figures.103
Engravings of the Gouvernement and the
Governor’s Garden
As it happens the building was engraved, as
was the governor’s garden to the north of the
fort – the only monuments in the early modern
French colonial empire to be so commemor-
ated – and the prints remained popular among
what we might call European “armchair travel-
lers” through the second half of the eighteenth
century (figs. 4.22–3). Nevertheless the history
of the engravings and even the authenticity of
the views remain obscure. The prints are entitled
View of Pondicherry in the East Indies and Perspec-
tive View of the Marvellous Bower in the Gardens
of the Governor of Pondicherry, City in the East
Indies on the Coromandel Coast, and they were
executed by at least three of the leading printing
houses in Paris including those of Jacques-Gabriel
Huquier (1730–1805), Jacques-François Daumont
(1740–1775), and Marguerite Caillou “La veuve”
Chéreau (fl. 1729–55).104 A third one in the series,
entitled View of the Storehouses of the Company of
the Indies in Pondicherry, of the Admiralty, and of
the Governor’s House, is misidentified as it clearly
shows some other port, possibly in British India
or even in Europe.105 The prints were included
in various series of coloured vues d’optique (per-
spective views) of buildings and cities around
the world and were meant to be viewed through
a zograscope (a device containing a magnifying
glass and sometimes a mirror) to create a three-
dimensional effect.106
It is unclear who first executed the view of
the Gouvernement, which gives a reasonably
accurate if generic view of its rear facade over-
looking the ramparts but takes some artistic
4.22 Gabriel Huquier fils after Jan van Ryne, View of
Pondicherry in the East Indies, Paris, ca 1763. Hand-
coloured engraving, Paris, 27 × 41 cm. Rijksmuseum,
Amsterdam.
licence by aligning it with the beach when it
was in fact roughly perpendicular to the sea. As
it happens, the earliest datable print is British,
by the Anglo-Dutch printmaker Jan van Ryne
(1712–1760), part of a series published by Robert
Sayer (London, 1754) of East Indies ports such as
Madras, Bombay, Calcutta, Batavia, the Cape of
Good Hope, and Saint Helena Island.107 In that
series, however, the print was misidentified as Fort
William in the Kingdom of Bengal belonging to
the East India Company of England, and the fort
flies the Union Jack and the ships are festooned
with the flags of the British eic .108 Since Van
Ryne never left Europe (he lived in the Nether-
lands and then in London between 1750 and his
death), he cannot have made the original drawing
of the building; the author was most likely a naval
draughtsman, probably British. The caption is
either an honest mistake or his image is a creative
pastiche of the Gouvernement and certain build-
poNDicherry cA 1752
ings from English ports, since there is a church
with a steeple in the background that looks like
St Anne’s Church (1709) in Calcutta (fig. 4.22).
The identification as Calcutta is accepted at
face value to this day by the British Library and
scholarly publications on the British Empire.109
To complicate matters, British maritime painter
163
 Francis Swaine (1730–1782) executed an oil paint-
ing of the scene as part of series he made of British
ports around the world which some have taken
to be the original; however he also never visited
Pondicherry and the series was produced at the
time of the Treaty of Paris (1763), later than the
Van Ryne picture – in fact Swaine’s is a reason-
ably faithful copy of Van Ryne’s in reverse.110 It is
interesting that the French presses knew all along
that the engraving depicted Pondicherry, and even
4.23 Jean-François Daumont, Perspective View of the
Marvellous Bower in the Gardens of the Governor of
Pondicherry, City in the East Indies on the Coromandel
Coast, third quarter eighteenth century. Hand-coloured
engraving, 26.8 cm × 41.2 cm. Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.
164
more fascinating that they left the Union Jacks
in the picture. As this was a conscious choice the
Gouvernement (and its conspicuous absence in
France’s rebuilt colony) seems by then already to
have become a nostalgic symbol of lost French
grandeur. The potency of this symbol would
have repercussions.
The garden (fig. 4.23) is more mysterious still
as it has nothing to do with the Van Ryne/Swaine
series. The actual garden of the governor was also
an object of French patriotism, almost as much as
the Gouvernement – dutiful references to Ver-
sailles were made at the time – but the gigantic
size suggested by the engraving is the product of
the exaggerated perspective required for a vue
d’optique and hardly an accurate representation, as
is generally believed.111 As I have explored in my
study of the French empire in the Atlantic, formal
gardens were an important manifestation of
supposed French superiority over other cultures,
European or non-European, and they made larger
and more expensive gardens than any other col-
onial power – often in the places where they had
the least influence such as in West Africa.112 They
also served as ideal places for ephemeral events, as
during the Dauphin’s birthday festivities in Pondi-
cherry in 1730, when the women of the colony
performed a pastorale and a grand illumination
was mounted using cloth lanterns distributed
throughout the gardens.113 However, contempor-
ary maps demonstrate that the governor’s garden
was a relatively modest affair adjacent to the
Hôtel de la Compagnie (fig. 4.1).114 In fact I be-
lieve that the vue d’optique image depicts a garden
in France, particularly given the arcaded building
with a mansard roof and chimneys in the back-
ground and the somewhat retardataire appearance
of the staffage figures, who look as if they were at-
tending a fancy-dress ball in the era of Louis XIV.
They are certainly not dressed for the tropics.
Ostentation and Destruction
Although the Gouvernement was really Governor
Dumas’s building and the gardens long predated
the arrival of French India’s most flamboyant
administrator, both were forever linked with
Dupleix in the French imagination. Dupleix was
notorious for enjoying the finer things in life:
when he was the mere director of the Chanderna-
gore trading post in the 1730s he was eager to keep
up with the latest amenities, asking his brother to
send him Jean de Julienne’s four-volume com-
plete works of Antoine Watteau (1726), a costly
collection of 600 engravings published five years
after the artist’s death, as well as other prints and
books, the latest issues of the Mercure de France,
crates of Champagne, Burgundy wine, Parfait
d’Amour liqueur, tobacco, and two new scientific
books on insects and machines.115 His adoption
of Mughal ceremonial demonstrates the import-
ance he placed on opulent display, something that
riled his British rivals, who condemned it as “ar-
rogant ostentation.”116 Even Thomas Babington
Macaulay (1800–1859), Queen Victoria’s secretary
at war and author of a eulogy to Dupleix’s enemy
Robert Clive (1725–1774), reluctantly had to
grant him respect as “the man who first saw that
it was possible to found a European empire on the
ruins of the Mogul monarchy … at a time when
the ablest servants of the English Company were
busied only about invoices and bills of lading.”117
An anonymous French manuscript history of the
fall of Pondicherry (1761) declared that Dupleix
“had the qualities of soul and spirit which can
put him in the rank of great men, a noble ambi-
tion, sentiments of honour, an extreme desire to
uphold the glory of the French name,” and that
he turned Pondicherry into “a flourishing city.”118
The chronicle specifically contrasts Dupleix
with the comte de Lally-Tollendal (1702–1766),
the defeated supreme commander of French
forces (later executed as a traitor), who hid in the
Gouvernement during the five-month Siege of
Pondicherry (1760–61), emptying its wine cellar
of fine champagne while his officers ate camel and
horse in the dining room and the rest of the army
and populace hunted dogs and rats on the streets:
“it is now known all over the universe how the
city of Pondicherry was reduced to rubble and
how it has become the refuge of wild animals.”119
poNDicherry cA 1752
The British well understood the symbolic
power of Pondicherry’s architecture. After the
siege, Madras governor George Pigot (1719–1777)
commanded troops to loot every French building
in Pondicherry (Tamil ones were spared) and
then systematically to blast them into oblivion.
However, Pigot’s rampage of destruction was
165
 4.24 John McLean, Ruins of the citadel in Pondicherry
after the attack by the British. Pen and ink and wash, 40 ×
56.5 cm. Inscribed on front in ink: “To the Honble George
Pigot Esqr. President of the Council & Governor of Fort St
George, this View of the Ruins of the Citadel in Pondichery
is respectfully presented by John McLean, Practitioner
Engr. Sept 8th 1762.” British Library.
a kind of begrudging admiration: the British
learned their lesson from Dupleix and the Pon-
the architecture of empire
dicherry Gouvernement. Between 1798 and
1805 Richard Colley, 1st Marquess Wellesley
(1760–1842), rebuilt Calcutta as what French
observers recognized to be a “secure power base
as a modernized form of despotism,” and its
monumental government structures, like those
of Pondicherry, were “partly motivated by the
desire to assert British power on an imperial
scale.”120 A member of the Madras engineers
166
named John McLean was commissioned to
memorialize Pondicherry’s destruction eighteen
months after the siege (8 September 1762) with
a drawing dedicated to Pigot and entitled View
of the Ruins of the Citadel in Pondichery with the
devastated shell of the Gouvernement taking
pride of place, its two hollowed-out side pavilions
teetering over the rubble and conspicuous piles
of Composite capitals and columns strewn across
the foreground as if French classicism itself had
been destroyed and not just a single citadel (fig.
4.24).121 A decade later printmaker Yves-Marie
Le Gouaz (1742–1816) published a French view
of the same ruins, drawn by Louis-Denis Fossier
(1744–1781) after the French had returned to
the city (in 1763) following the Treaty of Paris –
although it is probably more a capriccio than an
accurate rendition, given such anomalies as the
windows composed of small diamond-shaped
leaded glass and the lack of specific features,
other than the quoining, present in the original
building (fig. 4.25). It is interesting to compare
the two images: both are romanticized views like
one of the vedute or capricci of Roman ruins by
Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1720–1778) that were
so popular among British and French collectors
alike, complete with depictions of artists (a por-
trait of McLean), peasant staffage figures, and (in
Fossier’s version) two men who look like gentle-
men on the Grand Tour.122
Both engravings also participate in the mid-
century enthusiasm in France for the picturesque
and for “catastrophe as sublime subject,” in which
ruins of a once-glorious past serve as objects of
4.25 Yves-Marie Le Gouaz after Fossier, View of Part of the
Ruins of Pondicherry Where My Observatory Was Located.
Engraving. From Le Gentil, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde
(Paris, 1773). Getty Research Institute.
contemplation, some pleasurably sensual, others
melancholy, as well as for a fascination with
the world’s precariousness, fuelled by financial
collapse in France, the crumbling of state institu-
tions, and nostalgia for the Grand Siècle – most
notably expressed by La Font de Saint-Yenne,
noted above.123 However artists and critics also
saw a positive side to meditating on ruins: writers
from Denis Diderot to Roger de Piles celebrated
depictions of unfinished things like ruins for their
ability to prompt imaginative contemplation, to
“allow more liberty to our imagination” (Dide-
rot).124 The growth of ruinisme, or Piranesi-
inspired ruins of French buildings, is an outcome
of this enthusiasm. Baron de Montesquieu (1689–
1755) almost seems to have had Pondicherry in
mind when he famously remarked in 1748: “[w]e
are poor with the riches and commerce of the
whole world; and soon … we shall all be … re-
duced to the very same situation as the Tartars.”125
poNDicherry cA 1752
167
 The New Gouvernement (1765–68) and the
Hôtel Lagrenée de Mézières (1774)
The new Gouvernement was built on the foun-
dations of the more modest Hôtel de la Com-
pagnie, replanting its gardens and parterres and
rebuilding the corps de logis and much of the left
wing.126 The architect, Jean-Claude de Bourcet
(1733–1776), remarked that “all the buildings
constructed are on their old foundations, which
have been found to be very solid.”127 The re-
turning French may have chosen this site out of
respect for the memory of the demolished Palais
du Gouvernement or because they wanted to send
a less bellicose signal to Britain. Like the build-
ing it replaced – and as I have observed about
French colonial architecture globally after the
Seven Years War, particularly in the Antilles – the
new Gouvernement (1765–68) reflected a more
reticent classicism, eschewing the bombast of its
predecessor and projecting stylishness rather than
power (figs. 4.26; 4.29–30).128 Although modified
4.26 Jean-Claude de Bourcet, Facade of the
Gouvernement. Signed and dated 28 February 1768. Ink
and wash on paper, 54 × 34 cm. ANom .
the architecture of empire
168
in 1817–20 and several times between 1850 and
1905, much of the new Gouvernement survives
in today’s Raj Niwas (fig. 4.31). The building is
also significant for the later history of the colony
as its colonnaded balconies and porticoes and
balustrade parapet became signature features of
Pondicherry architecture for the next 150 years:
consequently, the French quarter admired by
tourists today looks like an eighteenth-century
town even though most buildings date from the
second half of the nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries. Nowhere in the French colonies did the
style of Louis XV prevail for so long.
Born in Grenoble in 1733, Jean-Claude de
Bourcet was a lieutenant-colonel in the infantry
and the engineer in chief of Pondicherry who had
come to India in 1757 just in time to witness the
colony’s collapse. He served in “all the campaigns,
and … all the sieges,” received a serious head
wound at Madras, was captured by the British,
and was shipped back to Europe with the rest of
the besieged.129 After returning to Pondicherry
Bourcet married a naval lieutenant’s daughter
named Thérèse-Jeanne Deveaux in 1773 in the
Capuchin church, and in 1775 they had a son
who died the next year.130 During his time in
4.27 Elevation of the facade of the house of Monsieur
le Prince de Rohan at Saint Ouën, from Jean Mariette,
Architecture françoise (Paris, 1727–38). Engraving. Ecole
des Beaux-Arts, Paris. © Beaux-Arts de Paris, Dist. rmN -
Grand Palais / Art Resource, Ny .
Pondicherry he was served by engineers Gilbert
de Ranger (d. after 1791) and Claude Dulac (d.
before 1788) and an architect named Cordé.131
Ranger was a fellow veteran of the Third Carnatic
War, and upon his return he worked first in Karai-
kal and Mahé, before entering Bourcet’s service in
1765. Dulac served first in Île de France, fought in
the siege of Madras (1746) in the First Carnatic
War, and with the end of hostilities he was sent to
Pondicherry in September 1769. It was Bourcet’s
country house in Virampatnam, south of the city,
that was purchased by the mep as their seminary
after they were expelled from Siam (see chapter 5)
(figs. 5.6–7).
In designing the new Gouvernement Bourcet
consulted the same books as did his predecessors
although now he could also have used Blondel’s
volumes or Boffrand’s Livre d’architecture (1745).
In fact the model was Boffrand’s maison de
plaisance for the Prince de Rohan at Saint-Ouen
(1714–17), a one-storey pleasure villa outside of
Paris of a sort that would especially proliferate
after the 1750s as a type called a “petite maison”
(fig. 4.27).132 Boffrand’s house was a simple, flat-
roofed rectangular structure raised on a terrace
and open on all four sides with nothing inside
but a veranda, salon, two small bedrooms, and
a pair of staircases, designed as a retreat but not
a residence. The court facade is tripartite with a
six-column Ionic colonnade in the centre flanked
by enclosed wings each with two plain segmental
arched windows. The central section of the roof
was adorned with a balustrade and urns. The
villa was a far cry from the palatial prototypes that
inspired Gerbaud’s Gouvernement.
The new Gouvernement began as a single-
storey structure, completed between 1765 and
1766 (figs. 4.26, 4.28–30). A second storey was
poNDicherry cA 1752
added in 1767–68, for which Bourcet simply
doubled his model, creating an elegant facade of
superimposed colonnades, the lower one cor-
rected to Doric (complete with triglyphs and
metopes) and the upper one Ionic as in Boffrand’s
model (fig. 4.26).133 Like its prototype, the new
Gouvernement has six columns and uses quoining
169
4.28 (oppoSiTe ) Jean-Claude de Bourcet, The Old
Gouvernement. October 1765. Ink and watercolour on
paper, 44 × 57.5 cm. ANom . Yellow sections are built;
red ones are the foundations of the old structure. At the
lower left are the treasury and offices [17] and upper right
a pandal, or pavilion [16].
4.29 (ABove ) Jean-Claude de Bourcet, Profile and
Elevation of the Facade of the Gouvernement. Signed and
dated 15 October 1766. Ink and watercolour on paper,
57.5 × 23 cm. ANom .
to frame the wings. The balustrade appears only
on the ground floor entablature and not on the
roof, and a stone balustrade at the base of the
lower-storey colonnade depicted in an earlier pro-
ject was replaced with a metal grille. The windows
on the side wings are like those at Saint-Ouen and
those in the vestibule maintain the high arched
profile of the model but without its glass doors.
The architecture was stylish but modest.
The plan of the new Gouvernement was also
more utilitarian: gone is the central axis of the
lengthwise vestibule and salon, and in its place is
a largely symmetrical warren of small rooms and a
corridor with a rectangular dining room at the
centre (figs. 4.28, 4.30). There are two vestibules,
the former garden facade now faces a “cour prin-
cipale,” and the rest of the rooms are given over to
staff quarters.134 Two short wings extend to the
north to accommodate the staircase and an addi-
tional lodging. Upstairs there is a “Salle ou salon,”
surrounded by small rooms, a narrow “verande,”
and a terrace at the back, the veranda preceded by
the colonnaded “terrasse” at the front. The pro-
gressive arrangement of rooms that was so crucial
to the older building’s design is gone (figs. 4.8–9,
4.11–12). As on the ground floor the wings con-
tain lodgings but also two “petit salons” flanking
the loggia. The interior, as revealed in front and
poNDicherry cA 1752
side sectional views, was plainly decorated with
wooden panelling instead of the silvered rococo
boiseries of its predecessor.
The outbuildings were rebuilt, including the
left wing of the cour d’honneur with its office
block on the south end, but in a more rudiment-
ary manner with a few offices for the treasury and
171
the architecture of empire
4.30 Jean-Claude de Bourcet, Plan of the Gouvernement.
October 1765. Ink and watercolour on paper, 58 × 46 cm.
ANom. The parts painted red are already built, those
painted yellow have yet to be built.
claims office lined up along the south and west
sides, some service rooms and the latrine on the
north side, and the rest taken up by an uneven,
open courtyard (compare figs 4.11, 4.28, 4.30).
The north end of the wing accommodated the
172
kitchens, and behind the house was a courtyard
and godown. Bourcet constructed a new build-
ing which he called a “Pandal” (a Hindu term
for a pavilion) to the left of the corps de logis
with a central salon, vestibule, and ring of rooms,
which served as a temporary structure “built in
haste” as a dwelling for Governor Jean Law de
Lauriston (in office 1765–77) that later served as
a textile market building (fig. 4.28).135 In 1821 a
pair of vegetable gardens were planted where the
stables and warehouses once stood and Bourcet’s
office block was demolished. Most importantly
the double loggia was altered, turning the lower
colonnade into an arcade and replacing the single
columns above with pairs; the long side wings
were added later in the century (fig. 4.31).
This chapter concludes with a remarkable
building that, although not built by the state
like the others, remains the most important
and complete eighteenth-century French house
in Pondicherry and would not look the way it
does without the examples of the old and new
Gouvernements with their classical colonnades,
flat roofs, balustrades, and wide verandas. A
rectangular, single-storey structure like Bof-
frand’s Saint-Ouen but with a more spacious
projecting portico in the Doric order, the Hôtel
Lagrenée de Mézières (1774) is positioned at
the far end of a courtyard accessed by a grand
Ionic portal crowned by vases of carved fruit,
flowers, and foliage (figs. 4.27, 4.32).136 In fact,
with its six columns, balustrade with urn finials,
and narrow wings, the house may well have been
directly based on the Boffrand print. However,
like the new Gouvernement, it faced a narrow
courtyard at the back (this part of the house has
since been modified) instead of a garden, and
the distribution of its rooms is much simplified,
with four chambers of unequal size forming
an enfilade at the front and then (originally) a
corridor and corner rooms at the back. As the
governor’s commandant-en-second, Lagrenée may
have specifically designed his house to evoke the
Gouvernement and underscore the prestige of his
office (figs. 4.26, 4.31).
Simon Lagrenée de Mézières (1730–1800) was
one of the town’s most prominent citizens and
also a councillor in the Conseil Supérieur; how-
ever he received his wealth from his expedient
marriage in December 1772 to Adélaide Le Fau-
cheur (b. 1726) from Mazulipatam, the daughter
of an under merchant in the cio and widow of
the highly decorated but elderly comte de Saussay,
who had left his wife to live the last nine years of
his life in France.137 Lagrenée was born in Saint-
Paul on Île Bourbon and died in Pondicherry,
where he is buried with his wife at the Capuchin
cemetery adjacent the church in which they were
married.138 The date of the construction of the
house, in brick and lime mortar, is preserved on a
gilded cartouche at the foot of the farthest to the
right of four relief carvings on the facade, with the
inscription “Pondichéry 1774” (since changed to
“Pondicherry 1774”), in the middle of a rep-
resentation of the city’s outer ramparts.
As at the new Gouvernement, an iron grille
acts as a balustrade at the foot of the colonnade
and five tall segmental arched doorways lead
into the formal part of the building. However
here they are surmounted by delicate rococo
relief stuccoes combining shellwork at the centre
with floral sprays at the sides. The most prom-
inent decorations are the four teardrop-shaped
allegorical relief stuccoes of trophées representing
Agriculture, Music, Theatre, and Geometry, which
are formed of symbolic objects woven into an
elaborate festoon of flowers hanging from a bow
(fig. 4.33). These stuccoes contrast with the plain
Gouvernement and reflect the latest Parisian
fashions. When this house was being built, the
presses of rue Saint-Jacques in Paris published
multiple sets of trophées representing themes like
the liberal arts or the four seasons that were more
light-hearted than earlier trophées. Artists such
as Pierre Ranson (1736–1786) and Jean-Baptiste
Pillement (1728–1808) reduced the number of
poNDicherry cA 1752
motifs and incorporated them into delicate,
lace-like bouquets tied with ribbons at the top.139
Although the sculptors of the Hôtel Lagrenée de
Mézières facade took liberties with their models,
particularly by reducing the number of sym-
bols, they can be traced to certain prints such as
Pillement’s Trophy with Agricultural Implements
from his Recueil des trophées chinoises (Paris,
173
4.31 (oppoSiTe Top ) Jean-Claude de Bourcet, Spinasse,
and others. The former Gouvernement, now Raj Niwas,
Pondicherry, 1765–68, restored 1820 and later.

4.32 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Hôtel Lagrenée de Mézières,

Pondicherry, 1774. Main facade and portico.

4.33 (LefT ) Hôtel Lagrenée de Mézières, Pondicherry,

1774. Detail of facade showing the relief Agriculture (after
Jean-Baptiste Pillement).

4.34 (ABove ) Jean-Baptiste Pillement, trophy with

agricultural implements from Recueil des trophées
chinoises (Paris, Johann Heinrich Hess, 1770). Engraving.
Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

1770) – published just four years before the house
was decorated – which has the watering can, rake,
and hoe of the Agriculture trophée, with the bow
at the top and delicate floral sprays (fig. 4.34).
Nevertheless, the building also includes
regional details, such as the underside of the
colonnade roof, which is made with wooden
beams and rafters in a method known as the
“Madras Terrace.” This technique demonstrates
that builders travelled between Madras and
Pondicherry and brought their own technol-
the architecture of empire
ogies with them, and that many of the people
responsible for the reconstruction of Pondicherry
were likely hired from a British colony, as would
happen almost a century later with the Palais du
Gouverneur-Général in Saigon (see chapter 1).140
The appearance of builders familiar with Madras
also raises an interesting point as buildings in
that city in the 1770s to 1790s were beginning
to reflect Britain’s own brand of neoclassicism,
176
4.35 Cemetery colonnade,
Armenian Church, Madras,
1772. A typical “Madras
Terrace.”
with similar classical colonnades in one or two
stories. Noteworthy are the cemetery colonnade
at the Armenian Church, built just before 1772
(fig. 4.35); the Madras Club, once a private garden
house (1780s), Doveton House (before 1798); and
Brodie Castle (1798).141 While the British exam-
ples lack the French balustrades with urns and the
rococo details, they demonstrate that neoclassi-
cism was just as fashionable in the British colonies
as it was in those belonging to France. I will
return to the role of neoclassicism in chapter 9,
looking at how this style became the preferred
style of European colonial powers across Asia but
also how it was appropriated by the colonized and
by independent Asian nations to counter Euro-
pean hegemony.
Two remarkable stone plaques (1745, 1862) on
the fountain of Pondicherry’s Place du Gouverne-
ment and a statue once in the same square (1870)
demonstrate that nostalgia for the ruined Fort
Louis, the Gouvernement, and Dupleix as an
architectural patron had a direct role in motiv-
ating Napoleon III’s government to authorize the
conquest of Saigon and build a second French
empire in Asia. The later plaque is meticulously
designed to resemble the first. Both use the same
stone, are the same size, and are written in identi-
cal Latin script. They also have a similar motif at
the top: a banderole bearing the first line of text
on top of a symbol. In the earlier plaque it is a
sunburst emerging from the all-seeing eye of God
and in the later one it is a pair of cornucopia and
three laurel leaves. The first, commissioned in 1745
to honour Dupleix and once affixed to the city’s
Marine Gate, reads:
Under the Protection of the All Powerful.
It is vain to attempt to besiege it [i.e., the
Citadel]. In response to the petition of the
inhabitants of Pondicherry in the year 1745,
for the security as well as for the improve-
ment [of the town], this citadel and its mari-
time ramparts were founded, constructed
and completed in the name and under
the reign of the King of France Louis XV,
and in the name of the Compagnie des
Indes, by the ever vigilant governor Joseph
François Dupleix.142
The second plaque, commissioned by the city
in 1862 to commemorate Napoleon III and the
construction of the fountain, reads:
For the utility and health of the people.
Enemies do not try to overthrow it [i.e., the
colony]. In response to the petition of the
inhabitants of Pondicherry in the year 1862,
in the middle of the spot where earlier
the mighty castle stood, built by Gov-
ernor Martin, in honour of Napoleon III,
Emperor of the French, in whose empire the
Indies are part, the ever vigilant governor
Alexandre Durand d’Ubraye gave salubrious
waters to the city for [its] well-being.143
Even the phrasing of the second plaque recalls
the first: whole sections of text and phrases
such as “ever vigilant” are taken verbatim from
its counterpart. Napoleon was presented as
Louis XV’s equivalent – although now an em-
peror rather than a king – and Governor Durand
(in office 1857–63) as the equal of Dupleix and
Martin. In contrast to the bellicose tone of the
first text, it stressed the peaceful nature of the
colony, how it no longer suffered from enemy at-
tacks, and how the new fountain would improve
the health of the city.
However, the 1862 plaque was no mere celebra-
tion of peace and urban renewal: its parallelism
with the earlier plaque hinted that France had
returned to Asia as an imperial power. It is no
coincidence that it was commissioned on the
centenary of the fall of Pondicherry, and it reson-
ates with the longing for the “mighty castle” that
had animated France since 1761 and now served
as a call for action. It was also not coincidental
that 1862 was the year the French completed their
capture of Saigon, the first conquest of their new
Asian empire. France’s new imperial expansion
would not take place in India, because in the
intervening years Britain had achieved supremacy
over the subcontinent, but Pondicherry would
remain an important maritime link between
France and Indochina. It is almost as if Napoleon
poNDicherry cA 1752
had taken to heart the call to vengeance made
in the 1761 manuscript history of Pondicherry’s
demise, mentioned earlier in this chapter, which
declared: “May it please divine providence that
the restoration of this nation in India should be
as favourable to it as its downfall has been fatal
and appalling.”144
177
 The statue, a monumental bronze portrait of
Dupleix standing on a stone plinth faced with
speckled blue marble and with a bronze dedica-
tory plaque, celebrates the colony’s most revered
governor. He wears a voluminous justaucorps, high
riding boots, and a luxurious periwig – curiously,
it is in the style of Louis XIV, not the shorter one
he actually wore, suggesting that the artist wanted
simultaneously to evoke the era of Colbert.
Dupleix holds a map of Pondicherry in his right
hand while his left hand rests on the hilt of his
sword. The sculpture was cast in Paris in 1869 by
Charles-Stanislas Matifat (1820–after 1875), who
had contributed several bronze works to the 1851
Crystal Palace Exposition in London, and the
plaque was made by local sculptor A.S. Vasan.145
The inscription, dated July 1870 (presumably
Bastille Day), reads: “In the reign of Napoleon III
Emperor of the French, Admiral Rigault de
Genouilly, being Minister of the Marine and of
the Colonies, has erected this statue at Pondi-
cherry in the memory of the Marquis Dupleix,”
with the signatures of Governor Bontemps, the
director of the interior, Lacoutre, and the director
of bridges and roads, Rouyer.146 The implicit, al-
though unsubtle, message projected by this statue
was that Rigault, who happened to be Saigon’s
conqueror and France’s greatest contemporary
military hero, had avenged the loss of the city so
closely associated with the man he set up as his
counterpart, Dupleix. The French were once again
a military power in Asia and the interregnum
the architecture of empire
was over.
The new empire was France’s way of com-
pensating for past humiliations by reoccupying
lands that it considered to be French by right or
moral obligation. The long presence of French
missionaries in Siam and Đại Việt, combined
with contemporary persecutions of European and
indigenous Christians in the latter, provided what
the French believed to be sufficient justification
178
to conquer what they would call Indochina. The
next chapter, devoted to French-related build-
ings in the region before the conquest (and to an
eighteenth-century institution in India built to
train missionaries for Siam and Đại Việt), looks
at what really happened architecturally during the
early years of missionary work and other French
activities in Viet lands during the century-long
interregnum between the old and new empires,
from the fall of Pondicherry in 1761 to the fall
of Saigon in 1862. With one exception, all the
monuments are either deeply transcultural or
completely Asian in style. The exception is the
mep’s new seminary at Virampatnam, south of
Pondicherry, founded after the missionaries were
expelled from their Seminary of Saint-Joseph
in Ayutthaya following the Burmese sack of
1767, which was built by local architects in the
prevailing style of the colony. As it happens, the
Virampatnam seminary, devoted exclusively
to Southeast Asian students and built with an
emphasis on surveillance and control, became a
shrine to the modern colonialist cause on a par
with the Gouvernement: in the late nineteenth
century a scheme was even proposed to trans-
port it block by block to a museum in Saigon
(to which all the building’s exterior decorations
had already been removed). As noted in chap-
ter 1, I have devoted a chapter to these buildings
because – aside from being fascinating works of
architecture – they reveal the precariousness
of the nexus between France’s old and new em-
pires that was exaggerated by Napoleon’s propa-
gandists to justify their actions. French actors
had little control over their design, there was no
stylistic unity between them, and the ephemer-
ality of most of the buildings exposes the failure
of their efforts – it is a story like that of chapter 3,
but less familiar, and it unfolded over a much
larger territory.
5
interregnum
Diên Khánh ca 1793

The architecture of empire reflects that empire’s strengths and

weaknesses, its aspirations and strategies, and the ways it changes
over time and across distances. In Madagascar it revealed con-
flict and disarray, in Siam misunderstanding and betrayal, and
in Pondicherry arrogance and nostalgia. However, no buildings
are more reflective of the fragility of France’s Asian project than
those associated with French missionaries in ancient Cochinchina
and Tonkin, the lands that made up modern-day Vietnam, which
would form part of the entity France would call “Indochina.” They
serve as material evidence that France’s later claim on the region
was unsubstantiated: the assertion that early French activities were
sufficiently unified in their pursuit of national interests to serve
as a precedent for conquest. The architecture is of great interest,
but not because it was built in a monolithic metropolitan style
meant to champion Gallic culture as in mid-eighteenth-century
Pondicherry. With one exception, it is profoundly hybrid or
entirely Asian in style, constructed primarily by Asian architects
and builders – even more than the Franco-Siamese architecture in
chapter 3. Although missionaries can legitimately be considered
agents of colonialism and in some cases the advance guard of
territorial expansion, they did not in this case pursue such expan-
sion exclusively on behalf of France. The missionaries in Đại Việt
came from different countries with conflicting agendas, most of
them under the Portuguese Padroado and Spanish Patronato,
 and the non-French missionaries came first.
The highest-profile French agent in what would
become Indochina, Pierre Pigneaux de Béhaine
(1741–1799) of the mep who contributed with
his French engineer architects to the largest
monuments in this chapter, in fact worked for the
Cochinchinese and not for France.
Jesuit Alexandre de Rhodes was the first
French precedent the modern empire would
press into service in their claim to legitimacy.
Rhodes was indeed the first Frenchman to reach
Cochinchina, in 1624, but he served under the
Portuguese Padroado. The Portuguese had been
in the region since the 1590s, when Augustinian
the architecture of empire
180
friars made their first inroads into Tonkin, and
Portuguese Jesuits established a base there in 1615
after being expelled from Japan by the Tokugawa
Shogunate. Cochinchina and Tonkin were a
consolation prize for the Portuguese Jesuits, for
whom the Japan mission had been their show-
piece and source of celebrity in Europe, and at
first they administered primarily to Japanese
Christian exiles.1 As we have seen in chapter 2,
Rhodes’s campaign for papal and French support
for missionary work in Cochinchina and Tonkin
resulted in the foundation of the mep and the
campaigns of Pierre Lambert de La Motte, Vicar
Apostolic of Cochinchina, and François Pallu,

5.1 (oppoSiTe ) Tomb of Pierre Pigneaux de Béhaine
(Lăng Cha Cả), Saigon, 1799. Demolished 1983. Photo-
graph by Émile Gsell, ca 1875–79. Albumen print on paper
mounted on cardboard, 17 × 23 cm. Université Côte
d’Azur, Bibliothèque.
5.2 (ABove ) Tomb of Pierre Pigneaux de Béhaine, interior
panel showing the bishop’s coat of arms. Photograph
by Frederick P. Fellers, 1970. Courtesy of Tim Doling. The
decoration combines Chinese and European forms.
Vicar Apostolic of Tonkin, Laos, and southwest
China – and, by default, the establishment of
their seminary in Ayutthaya in 1666, the mep ’s
own consolation prize. While the mep and the
Portuguese Jesuits and Portuguese and Spanish
mendicant orders achieved a significant number
of conversions among the peoples of Cochinchina
and Tonkin they were frequently persecuted and
expelled – and they made matters worse by fight-
ing among themselves as we saw in Siam and Pon-
dicherry. The Jesuit and mep mission bases rested
on extremely fragile foundations throughout the
seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and were
perpetually on the move. It was not a situation
that allowed for much of an architectural policy.
No missionary was more hailed by the coloni-
alist propaganda machine than was Pigneaux.2
Bishop in partibus infidelium of Adran (Syria)
from 1771 and founder of the mep ’s college for
Southeast Asian and Chinese students at Viram-
patnam (1770), he was above all celebrated as the
kingmaker to Nguyễn Ánh (1762–1820), Lord
of Cochinchina, who, as Emperor Gia Long
(r. 1802–20), united Vietnam under the Nguyễn
Dynasty. Louis XVI’s 1787 reception at Versailles
of Nguyễn Ánh’s son, the seven-year-old Prince
Nguyễn Phúc Cảnh (1780–1801), which was or-
chestrated by Pigneaux, was later cited as proof of
France’s long-term commitment to Vietnam. But
nothing came of the meeting, the primary goal
of which was to secure commercial and military
aid for Nguyễn Ánh’s cause, and Pigneaux was
left raising a ragtag army of French officers and
soldiers on his own.3 Pigneaux’s temple-like tomb
in Saigon, commissioned in 1799 by Nguyễn
Ánh and destroyed in 1983 to make way for a
roundabout, became a shrine for the colonialist
lobby during the Second Empire’s conquest of
Cochinchina (figs. 5.1–2). It was a traditional
Vietnamese tomb (lăng) enclosed by walls with
a formal entry and inscription stele (bia) at the
centre bookended by two arched screens sup-
ported on either end by Chinese temple lions,
one bearing reliefs of mythical Chinese animals
on either side while the other took the form of an
altarpiece with Pigneaux’s coat of arms flanked by
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
relief carvings of vases of incense and flowers and
surrounded by rococo floral and foliate scrolls.
In 1902 the municipality of Saigon (then under
the Third Republic) erected a bronze sculpture in
front of the cathedral of Notre Dame representing
Prince Cảnh with Pigneaux towering patroniz-
ingly above him and holding aloft Louis XVI’s
181

5.3 Édouard Lormier, statue of Monsignor Pigneaux de
Béhaine, former Place Pigneau de Béhaine (now Công
the architecture of empire
Trường Pari), Saigon, 1901. Removed 1949. Undated
Photograph, irfA .
unfulfilled Treaty of Versailles (fig. 5.3).4 Thus,
ironically, the activities of two early modern
Catholic missionaries became the main justifica-
tion for France’s right to build a modern secular
colony in Indochina founded on the principles
of an anti-clerical civilizing mission, or mission
civilisatrice. Different camps celebrated Pigneaux
for different reasons: for some he was a Christian
182
soldier (which was only partly true) while for
others he was a French patriot (which he was
not), an uneasy combination that was reflected in
the makeup and policies of French Indochina.
There is less architecture in this chapter than
in others, because while hundreds of churches
and chapels were likely built in Đại Việt in the
early modern period, none survive, and many
were simply refitted rooms in private homes. I will
look briefly at these humble structures, evidence
not only of a growing Christian community and
of aristocratic patronage but also of a strategy –
pursued out of necessity – of accommodating
to the architectural style of the region, one that
the Jesuits had made official policy in 1580 when
still based in Japan (see below).5 Constructed by
Vietnamese Christians or sympathetic regional
rulers and using Vietnamese builders and archi-
tects, these monuments made no attempt to
import European structural or decorative forms,
except for the arrangement of their altars and
sacred imagery. The chapter will then consider the
mep seminary in Virampatnam, built to prepare
missionaries for Southeast and East Asia. Unlike
its predecessor in Ayutthaya it was constructed in
the Louis XV style characteristic of Pondicherry
in the early years of its reconstruction, less a
conscious choice to project French identity than
an acquiescence to the style builders were using at
the time. Finally we will look at the architectural
products of Pigneaux’s alliance with Nguyễn Ánh,
the monumental Vauban-style fortresses designed
for him by engineers such as Olivier de Puy-
manel (1768–1799) in places like Saigon (1790)
and Diên Khánh (1793) and emulated at the
imperial capital of Huế (1805) and elsewhere, in
which French bastioned fortress architecture was
combined with Chinese imperial forms to project
a Confucianist image of power and authority
founded on modern European technology.
By ingratiating themselves with Nguyễn Ánh
through military architecture Pigneaux and his
army would seem to be returning to the strategy
the French had used unsuccessfully over a century
earlier with King Narai in Siam (see chapter 3).
It is true that in both cases – whether the king of
Siam or the lord of Cochinchina – the patron was
interested primarily or solely in the technical as-
pects of French architecture as a means of gaining
a military advantage over his enemies and had no
interest in Christianity. However, the main differ-
ence between the two episodes is that Pigneaux
was not in fact serving the cause of the French, as
were La Loubère and Céberet in Siam, but that of
Nguyễn Ánh, and the latter did not share Narai’s
interest in adopting Western stylistic features.6
Pigneaux’s loyalties had more in common with
those of Phaulkon. In fact, Gia Long’s succes-
sors and their mandarinate soon turned against
France and its missionaries, adopting a policy of
xenophobic Confucianism. They also sporadically
mounted vicious persecutions of Vietnamese
Catholics – a community that numbered 360,000
by 1888 and was actually well integrated into
Vietnamese society – because the Nguyễn em-
perors considered Catholics to be a fifth column
that was hostile to the state. Although they were
not justified in their concerns about Vietnamese
Catholics, they had every reason to suspect Euro-
pean missionaries. By the 1840s mep missionaries
were actively lobbying France to invade and save
the Catholic community.7
Early Missionary Activities in Đại Việt,
1615–1770
Early modern Vietnamese called the lands that
make up present-day Vietnam “Đại Việt” (“Great
Viet”) before 1802, and then “Đại Nam” (“Great
State of the South”). The Chinese name “An
Nam” (“Pacified South”), was most commonly
used by foreigners, including the French colonial
administration, who referred to the people as
“Annamese.”8 The territory was divided between
what foreigners called Tonkin (from Đông Kinh,
“The Eastern Capital,” present-day Hanoi) in the
north and Cochinchina (from Malay “Kuchi”)
in the south, two principalities (or kingdoms) at
war between 1627 and 1673. Tonkin, called Đàng
Ngoài by the Tonkinese, was ruled by the Trịnh
clans, and Cochinchina, called Đàng Trong by
the Cochinchinese, by the Nguyễn.9 The border
was the Gianh River in Quang Binh Province in
north-central Vietnam. Both regimes paid nom-
inal homage to the powerless emperor of the Lê
Dynasty (1428–1788), imprisoned in the Thăng
Long Citadel in present-day Hanoi. The people
of Đại Việt followed Confucian, Buddhist, and
Daoist beliefs leavened with indigenous spirit
veneration, particularly in the south, a “spirit-
ual landscape already teeming with competing
spirit potencies and supernatural brokers.”10
While this natural inclination toward syncretism
created opportunities for Catholic missionaries,
the latter also operated in a climate of extreme
instability: not just from the war between Trịnh
and Nguyễn but, in Cochinchina, because of the
precariousness of the Nguyễn’s own authority. The
dynasty was an interloper in much of the south,
where it was busy constructing a fragile colony of
its own. Missionaries also suffered from official
government attempts to regularize religion by the
ministry of rites (lễ bộ) in Tonkin or Buddhist
revival movements promoted by the Nguyễn in
Cochinchina, who were suspicious that mission-
aries were inciting insurrection.11
The Augustinian friars who came to Cochin-
china on Portuguese ships in the last decade
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
of the sixteenth century built only temporary
chapels, sometimes with a hospital or residence
attached, and “a gun-shot’s length distant from
the pagodas.”12 Two decades later the first Jesuits
came to Đại Việt to administer to exiled Japanese
Christians. Francesco Buzomi (1575–1639),
Diogo Carvalho (1578–1624), and two Japanese
lay brothers reached Cửa Hàn (Tourane, now
183
 Đà Nẵng) in northern Cochinchina and the
nearby trading port of Faifo (Hội An), home to
a prominent Japanese merchant community.13
Only later did they begin proselytizing among
the Vietnamese. Establishing a pattern that
would characterize Jesuit and mep missions in
Tonkin and Cochinchina alike, they convinced
a wealthy Vietnamese convert to commission a
chapel and residence in Faifo, which would be the
Jesuit headquarters, and invited the Padroado to
send twenty-five Jesuits between 1615 and 1627,
some of whom remained for only a few months
and others for years at a time. Francisco da Pina
(1585–1625), who arrived in 1617, trained young
Vietnamese catechists to help him as interpreters
and to assist with community relations, and he
soon mastered the language sufficiently to try to
spell the Vietnamese language using Latin letters
for the first time (the origins of today’s quốc ngữ),
writing a catechism and grammar.14 As in Japan
and Pondicherry, indigenous lay religious leaders
(in Japanese, dōjuku) were critical in maintaining
Christian communities in Đại Việt and for pre-
paring catechumens for baptism in the absence
of priests.15
As we have seen in Siam – and as they most
famously did in China – the early Jesuits tried
to astonish regional rulers with their ability to
predict lunar and solar eclipses, and they soon
used their astronomical knowledge to ingrati-
ate themselves with the Nguyễn lords (chúa) of
Cochinchina. At the other end of the spectrum,
the architecture of empire
on the local village level, missionaries battled
the supernatural world through exorcisms and
healing rituals: Nola Cooke credits their skill at
faith healing, combined with the missionaries’
own belief (within a Judeo-Christian context)
in demons and malign spirts, with Christianity’s
success at the grassroots level.16 The Jesuits were
allowed to open two new missions at Nước Mặn
(1618) and Thanh Chiêm (1623), both between
184
Faifo and Tourane. Nevertheless, things soon
soured when the Jesuits started to challenge Con-
fucianist practices and the Nguyễn expelled them
in 1629 and once again, after having allowed them
back, in 1639.
This was the Cochinchina visited by Rhodes,
who was there between 1624 and 1626 and then
four times between 1640 and 1645, facing “fierce”
opposition before being expelled following the
beheading of catechist Andrew of Phú Yên
(ca 1625–1644), the Vietnamese proto-martyr and
an inspiration for future French missionaries.17
For over two decades fewer than ten Jesuits visited
Cochinchina but the lay catechists, celibate men
from the community, spread Christianity in their
absence.18 Rhodes also helped found the first
mission to Tonkin, again with the original aim
of administering to Japanese exiles. In 1626 Jesuit
Giuliano Baldinotti (1591–1631) and a Japanese lay
brother were welcomed by Trịnh Tráng (r. 1623–
57), the lord of Tonkin, and Rhodes and Pero
Marques (ca 1576–1657), a Portuguese Jesuit who
had worked in Cochinchina, arrived the following
year at Thăng Long.19 Trịnh Tráng was keen to
gain access to Portuguese goods, notably fire-
arms to support his struggle with Cochinchina.
Moving quickly beyond the refugee community,
Rhodes evangelized at court and won converts
among the aristocracy, and by the end of the first
year the two Jesuits had converted over 1,200
Tonkinese, including Trịnh Tráng’s mother and
sister. Nevertheless, Portuguese trade never mater-
ialized, and the Jesuits (by now four in number)
were expelled in 1630. Jesuits continued to reach
Tonkin sporadically over the decades on Portu-
guese ships, each time amazed at the number of
conversions made by the catechists (there were
about 82,500 Christians there by 1640), but
persecutions became more systematic under Trịnh
Tac (r. 1657–85) and by 1663 there were no Jesuits
left. The Society of Jesus made exaggerated claims
that they had left behind 350,000 Christians,
300 churches, and 30 catechists.20
François Deydier (1634–1693), apostolic vicar
of Tonkin, founded the first mep mission in Đại
Việt at Thăng Long (south of Hanoi) in 1666, and
during his first visit there (1669–70) Lambert
de La Motte ordained seven of Deydier’s Tonk-
inese seminarians as priests before moving on to
Cochinchina (1671–72) in the name of François
Pallu, who, although apostolic vicar of Cochin-
china, never reached his destination (see chap-
ter 3).21 These were not the first Tonkinese priests,
as two had been ordained in Siam in 1668 and
returned the same year.22 In 1667 Deydier divided
Christians in Thăng Long among three churches,
each cared for by six “churchwardens,” possibly,
as Tara Alberts contends, to take authority away
from lay religious leaders in favour of indigenous
parish priests, and in 1670 the seven new priests
were each put in charge of a district.23 The mep
held synods and reformed religious practices, and
from the 1670s they even obtained help from
Spanish Dominicans to administer East Tonkin,
one of the two Tonkinese vicariates.24 By contrast
they struggled with Portuguese opposition to
mep jurisdiction – as in Siam – particularly upon
the return of the Jesuits in 1669, and they also
faced competition from other religious orders,
including the Discalced Augustinians. In Cochin-
china, where a battle with Spanish Franciscans
from the Philippines threatened to destroy Chris-
tianity’s reputation altogether, the mep also had
to contend with a vicious persecution of Viet-
namese Christians by the Nguyễn state between
1643 and the 1670s.25
By 1682 the mep ’s Tonkin mission consisted
of two apostolic vicars (Deydier and Jacques
de Bourges), three French missionaries, two
Dominicans, and eleven Tonkinese preachers.26
The Jesuits, who had been expelled in 1680,
were only permitted to return to Cochinchina
(1691) and Tonkin (1696) on the understanding
that they would not interfere with the mep ;
nevertheless, in Cochinchina they remained
hostile. But things did not go well for the mep
either: they were almost driven out of Cochin-
china in the early eighteenth century and by the
1740s they were restricted to a loosely populated
450-kilometre-long stretch of coastline north of
present-day Phan Rang-Tháp Chàm.27 Lord Võ
Vương (r. 1738–1765) finally expelled all mis-
sionaries from Cochinchina in 1750.28 The only
part of the Cochinchina vicariate where the mep
was able to maintain a toehold was in Prambey
Chhaom, on the Tonlé Sap Lake in Cambodia,
and in Hòn Đất, a village belonging to the free
port of Hà Tiên on the Cochinchina-Cambodian
border, where what was left of the Ayutthaya
seminary later fled after the Burmese invasion of
1767, settling in a ramshackle wooden building
with few facilities. The mep was welcomed by
the city’s Sino-Vietnamese ruler Mạc Thiên Tứ
(1700–1780), but vandals burned the seminary
to the ground in 1769, precipitating the move
to Pondicherry in 1770.29 In Tonkin the mep
enjoyed better luck for a while. With the expul-
sion of the Society of Jesus from Portuguese ter-
ritories in 1759 their traditional enemy was gone:
the plantations in Goa that funded their missions
were seized by the Portuguese state and any Jesuits
left in Đại Việt were ordered to submit to mep
authority.30 Nevertheless, as had their brethren
in Cochinchina fifteen years earlier, the mep had
to flee Tonkin in the mid-1770s with the onset of
the Tây Sơn rebellion (1771–1802), about which
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
more below.31
Early Missionary Architecture
The architecture of the early missionaries was
entirely indigenous in style and structure, primar-
ily because they did not have the influence, means,
185
 or architects to build churches and residences
in European styles. However, it also reflected
what had by then become official policy, at least
among the Jesuits of the former Japan mission.
Alessandro Valignano (1539–1606), the Jesuit
visitor (inspector) to the Indies, reformed the
Japan mission in a series of regulations in a 1581
handbook entitled Advertimentos e avisos acerca
dos costumes e catangues de Jappão, which sought
to ingratiate Christianity with the Japanese by
accommodating to their customs.32 Although the
recommendations mainly concerned behaviour
such as eating habits, diet, etiquette, and costume,
chapter 7 was devoted to architecture, laying out
5.4 Kanō Sōshū, Church of the Assumption, Kyoto (built
1576), late sixteenth century. Pigments and gold on paper,
50.6 × 21.9 cm. Kobe City Museum.
the architecture of empire
186
ten principles for the design of Jesuit churches,
colleges, and residences. Valignano decreed that
henceforth all Jesuit buildings in Japan should be
built in the Japanese style by Japanese architects,
and that the arrangement of their rooms and
furnishings accommodate to Japanese conven-
tions of rank and gender: “since their manner of
construction is so different from that which we
use in Europe […] we are unable to design them
well ourselves.”33 A few paintings survive of these
buildings, including the 1576 Church of the
Assumption at Kyoto, the imperial capital, which
resembles a Buddhist temple with hip gable roofs
with upturned corners, eave brackets, and a net-
work of courtyards entered by low gates (fig. 5.4).
Unlike the early mission churches in Siam, which
combined Eastern and Western styles and where
prints of European plans and elevations were still
employed (see chapter 3), in Japan accommoda-
tionist architecture was the rule and European
forms were suppressed except where they were
necessary for liturgy.
Not a single depiction survives of the early
missionary churches and chapels in Đại Việt, so
we must rely upon contemporary descriptions –
often not very detailed ones – by Jesuit and mep
priests. Places of worship came in two varieties:
freestanding churches, often quite spacious, and
shrines formed of devotional objects and pictures
located in the houses of Vietnamese Christian
community leaders as a substitute for animist
spirit houses and household altars and acquiring
the powers of those traditional shrines.34 Masses
were celebrated in these oratories on portable
altars. The earliest was “a most beautiful chapel”
in the palace of the queen consort, Minh Đức
vương Thái Phi (1568–1649), baptized as Mary
Magdalene, in Phú Xuân (Huế) in the 1620s.35
Rhodes mentions another shrine in the house of
a Christian named François in Quân Bình in the
early 1640s:
This good man had started to honour the
Blessed Virgin, even before he was a Chris-
tian; he found a beautiful image of Our
Lady of the Rosary in the hands of a few
Pagans, he accepted it with much affection,
and therefore he put it in a Chapel [per-
haps a spirit house] within the confines of
his house, where he honoured it day and
night […]. My God, I found many already
ready to receive Baptism, and assembled
them all in the house of Francis, which was
changed into a Church: but the Chapel
where he kept the image of his good Patro-
ness, was very well decorated, he had such
great respect for her, that he never dared to
set foot there beforehand.36
Similarly, a Tonkinese aristocrat named Paulo
“Senhor de Duagbuxa” built a church where
he performed baptisms and faith healings with
holy water, and a certain Doctor Thadeo built
a shrine in another Tonkinese village.37 Rhodes
discusses a venerable couple in the village of
Quảng Ngãi in Cochinchina, baptized as Paul
and Monique. About Paul he writes: “He was the
soul & the spirit of all this Church, every Sunday,
& the Holidays, he assembled the Christians in a
beautiful Chapel which he had in the enclosure of
his house, there he instructed them, preached, &
took care to assist them with all that was neces-
sary to maintain them in the faith which they had
received.”38 In the early 1680s the mep apostolic
vicar of Cochinchina, Guillaume Mahot (1630–
1684), visited a chapel in the house of a noble-
woman named Madame Lucie in the province of
Quảng Ngãi: “this good Christian … had a very
beautiful church at home and she trained eleven
girls who lived in a community called the Lovers
of the Cross.”39 The “Amantes de la Croix” was
one of the consororities, or female lay religious so-
dalities, that the mep founded upon their arrival
in Đại Việt.40 Aristocratic women were particu-
larly active patrons of house chapels and churches
as they were also for Buddhist temples.41
The first purpose-built Jesuit chapel was
commissioned by Buzomi in Tourane in 1615 and
he soon enlarged it to accommodate the growing
congregation, which now numbered 300 Chris-
tians.42 The church was still standing in 1747
when it was visited by cio agent and former mep
seminarian Pierre Poivre (1719–1786).43 Rhodes
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
mentions another church built in 1618 in Quy
Nhơn, and in 1620–22 he claims that mission-
aries “founded many churches.”44 The Christian
community was actively involved in the construc-
tion of these churches, building them at their own
expense, as in Thanh Hóa province, where men
187
 and women commissioned wooden churches, the
men using them to prepare people for baptism.45
In 1631 Jesuit Christoforo Borri (1583–1632)
describes a “very large church” at Điện Bàn (near
Tourane) that was built in a “very short time,”
including a residence for the priests, “all of which
was done with the assistance of a most noble
lady,” who was baptized as Joanna and “not only
undertook the foundation of the house and
church, but erected several altars and places of
prayer in her own house.”46 The Buddhist temple
wardens set fire to the building but it was quickly
rebuilt. These passing descriptions of often equally
ephemeral buildings – a “very beautiful and large
church” is a typical account – are all we know
about most of these structures.47
One description by Borri stands out for its
detail, and it portrays a structure built – as so
many of them were – in very short order (in fact
twice). The description of the large church and
residence commissioned for the Jesuits in 1631
by the governor of Pulucambi (the present-day
province of Bình Định), is fascinating because it
relates in detail how the building was erected by
palace builders under the governor’s command
over the course of a single day and also how the
palace architect worked, laying out the measure-
ments with something like a chalk line:
Then turning to us, he again desired we
would appoint the place for the church, that
he might give orders for its speedy fitting up.
the architecture of empire
We shew’d him a place that seem’d conven-
ient enough, and he approving of it, went
away to his palace. Before three days were
over, news was brought us, that the church
was coming […] which tho’ we knew was
to be made of timber, as had been agreed,
yet it could not chuse [choose] but be a
great pile, according to the space it must fill,
standing upon great pillars. On a sudden, in
188
the field, we spied above a thousand men,
all loaded with materials for this fabrick.
Every pillar was carried by thirty lusty
men; others carried the beams, others the
planks, others the capitals, others the bases;
some one thing, some another, and so all
of them went in order to our house, filling
all the court, which was very large, to our
unspeakable joy and satisfaction […] When
they had eaten, the architect came, and
taking out a line, view’d the ground, mark’d
out the distances, and calling those that
carried the pillars, fixed them in their places;
this done, he called for the other parts, one
after another, that every man might give
an account of what he brought, and go his
way: and thus all things proceeding very
regularly, and every man labouring his best,
all that great pile was set up in one day; yet
either through over-much haste, or the neg-
ligence of the architect, it proved somewhat
awry, and leaning to one side; which being
made known to the governor, he presently
commanded the architect, upon pain of
cutting off his legs, to call all the workman
he had need of, and mend it. The architect
obey’d and taking the church to pieces with
a number of workmen, rebuilt it in a very
short time very completely.48
A similar incident happened in 1627, when the
lord of Tonkin built a church for Rhodes and
Marques in Thăng Long, ordering his palace
builders and architect to construct it outside the
palace walls after he realized that the lodgings he
had provided the Jesuits in his palace were too in-
convenient for proselytization. Rhodes writes: “in
a few days we had a house erected by the King’s
command in the place that we had chosen, with
all the advantages that we could have desired.
The building was only of wood in the style of the
country, but functional, and of a structure similar
to that of the houses which are inhabited by the
Nobles. It was therefore at the end of November,
four months after our entry into the Royal City,
that we moved to our new home, part of which
was dedicated to serving as a Church.”49
Borri’s description makes it clear that the
Pulucambi church was a timber-framed trabeated
structure on rows of high, stout posts and likely a
massive roof supported by trusses (Borri’s “cap-
itals” are probably eave brackets) that differed
little from a typical Vietnamese village hall (đình),
particularly as the architect and builders were
able to build (and rebuild) it with such alacrity.
5.5 Village hall (đình) in Chu Quyến, late seventeenth
century. Photograph courtesy Le Huu Phuoc.
In traditional Vietnamese wooden buildings the
individual components of the frame, whether
columns, tie beams, or purlins, are executed in
advance by specialist artisans and assembled
under a master architect using mortice and tenon
joints, which can be done easily and quickly (as in
the description), and in fact they were designed to
be moved if the original location turned out to be
disadvantageous for reasons of geomancy.50 The
plan was drawn on the ground with plumb lines
according to a standard rectangular pattern with
an odd number of rectilinear compartments de-
lineated by the posts, and the structure was built
according to a ritualized procedure, just as Borri
records. Such halls were an appropriate choice for
a church as they were used for both administrative
and spiritual functions and were common in small
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
189
 towns or villages but – importantly – they were
not Buddhist sacred structures.51 It would have
been considered blasphemous to use Buddhist re-
ligious architecture for a Christian church. More
importantly, they were associated with imperial
authority: communities were granted the right to
build a đình by the emperor, who presented them
with a charter and a guardian spirit patron, both
of which were placed in the building. The Chu
Quyến Village Hall (late seventeenth century)
is a rare survivor from this period and has the
mammoth posts, bracketing, and sweeping hip
gable roof that is suggested by Borri’s description
(although the architecture of a đình has strong
affinities with Chinese architecture, its giant roof
is unique to Vietnam) (fig. 5.5). Thus, by using
a form associated with imperial privilege, these
two Jesuit churches communicated legitimacy
in much the same way as the cio ’s adoption of
Mughal ceremonial in Pondicherry.
Like the Cathedral of Saint-Joseph in Ayutt-
haya, these massive đình-churches were commis-
sioned by local potentates for French missionaries,
but unlike in Siam, where the mep and Jesuits
were actively involved in their design and Siamese
royal architects drew upon French engravings for
design ideas, these buildings were indistinguish-
able from traditional Sino-Vietnamese structures.
They were built according to time-honoured
traditions of craft specialization and regimented
construction by family ateliers at the village level,
not using plans or elevations as in Europe. As with
the architecture of empire
the Pondicherry Gouvernement, their hybridity
was invisible because it related to function rather
than appearance, but in this case the relationship
was reversed. The Gouvernement was outwardly
French but the Mughal-inspired court ceremonial
that animated its daily life was of Asian origin;
by contrast, the Pulucambi and Thăng Long
churches were outwardly Asian but the main cere-
mony they were built for was the Roman Catholic
190
liturgy. Perhaps Rhodes and his colleagues were
satisfied with the arrangement, following Valig-
nano’s lead of missionizing in indigenous-style
buildings familiar to the congregations, but there
is no evidence that they had any say about what
their churches looked like. What is certain, how-
ever, is that they were never part of a campaign to
spread Gallic culture.
Pierre Pigneaux de Béhaine and the Collège des
Saints Anges in Pondicherry, 1770–1774
After fleeing Hòn Đất in 1769, the mep moved
its Asian headquarters to Pondicherry, the closest
place where they could safely operate but also, as
a French territory, an entirely novel environment
for an organization accustomed to working in
foreign lands. Pigneaux had joined the seminary
at Hòn Đất in 1767 and served as director of the
Collège général, called Collège des Saints Anges,
under the leadership of Guillaume Piguel (1722–
1771), Apostolic Vicar of Cochinchina.52 In Pon-
dicherry, where he stayed for only four years and
succeeded Piguel as Apostolic Vicar of Cochin-
china (in 1771), Pigneaux continued to direct the
relocated college with its small cohort (thirty-
nine in 1771) of Chinese, Cochinchinese, Cambo-
dian, Siamese, and Malay students (figs. 5.6–7).53
Pondicherry at the time was in the midst of a
vigorous reconstruction campaign that brought
in legions of builders from places like Madras and
Tranquebar – “a veritable fever of reconstruction
of their city” – and, as we have seen in chapter 3,
the city soon boasted a new Gouvernement and
gracious mansions in the neoclassical style such as
the Hôtel Lagrenée de Mézières (fig. 4.32).54 The
mep chose this same style for their new college,
complete with classical orders and Greco-Roman
decorative motifs, at a time when they were finan-
cially strapped and could not afford the 40,000
livres it cost to build – even with the monetary
5.6 Collège des Saints Anges, Virampatnam, 1770–71,
interior of college from the dormitory.
assistance of Louis Mathon (1743–1778), the
procureur général des missions. The sovereign
council of the Compagnie des Indes Orientales
finalized the purchase and exempted the mission-
aries from all royalties and other charges until
1776, “as the Compagnie des Indes Orientales has
previously granted to the Jesuit and Capuchin
Reverend Fathers for the land it granted them
near this aforementioned city in the villages of
Oulgaret and Ariyankuppam, and as are also all
maniams [endowments] dependent on Chaud-
eries [chatrams, Hindu charitable hostels] and
[Hindu] temples.”55
The mep was anxious about keeping its
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
students away from the Europeans and Indians
and sought to create a retreat where they could
be trained specifically for work in Southeast Asia
and China and study East Asian languages. It was
for this reason that they chose an isolated loca-
tion for their college, four kilometres south of the
city and across the Ariyankuppam River, a place
191
 5.7 Collège des Saints Anges, Virampatnam,
main facade.
of once-rich agricultural land which even today
is remote and hard to get to.56 The small plot of
land included a country house and garden and
the architecture of empire
belonged to a Tamil named Arlanda from Karikal
(Karaikal) who had acquired it in turn from
Jean-Claude de Bourcet, former chief engineer of
the city and architect of the new Gouvernement
(1766–68) (fig. 4.26). The Sovereign Council of
Pondicherry described it as a “house and garden
of about nine canis, half of which is arid sand,”
which needed repairs and “renovations which the
said missionaries are obliged to make […] to make
192
them suitable for their needs.”57 The 1771 purchase
and sale agreement, which said that the property
was only seven and a half canis in size, made it
clear that the missionaries were building an en-
tirely new structure on the lot, “on which are the
beginnings of a godown building, [illegible] and
a dovecote.”58 The understanding was always that
the mep would be in Pondicherry only temporar-
ily until they could move back to Southeast Asia
and that the exemptions would apply only “as long
as the said college will remain in the said place of
Virampatnam,” after which the property would
be resold, “so that the public does not imagine
that the said Seminary wants to make acquisitions
in this colony which could be disadvantageous to
it.”59 Nevertheless the directors of the mep in
Paris wrote in 1771 that they hoped to see the
college “in a flourishing state.”60
The mep was obsessively concerned with
monitoring their charges and protecting them
from influences from other people in the colony.
This anxiety is reflected in the panopticon-like
plan that made the Virampatnam College more
like a prison than a seminary. Pigneaux wrote in
a letter of 23 January 1773 to the directors of the
mep in Paris: “[t]he spiritual dangers will in-
crease. The length of the voyages, the presence of
Europeans, the familiarity with all the heretics en-
dangers the faith of our children, who are forced
to put into port at Malacca among the Dutch, to
arrive in Madras with the English, and who
often hear about Protestants who live near here;
moreover, they cannot be edified by the French of
Pondicherry, who for the most part have neither
faith nor law; they will sometimes be tempted to
believe that we are also a sect of heretics our-
selves.”61 Paul de Saint-Barthélemy’s description
of the building, published in 1796, describes in
minute detail how it maximized the potential
for surveillance:
The Virampatnam Seminary was located in
the middle of a field planted with mango
and coconut palms. […] The building
is constructed in the form of European
cloisters, but much better distributed than
these, and better suited to the studies,
exercises and works carried out by these
oriental seminarians. At the centre of three
rooms occupied by the teachers, there was,
on the ground floor, a large room with small
cells distributed in two rows and adjacent
each other. These were formed by simple
planked partitions of three or four palms
[1 metre] approximately in height, so that
each small cell could contain a pupil, and
that these young people could all be seen by
the professor. He had a chair from which he
taught and could observe at the same time
what was happening in each cell. Students
studied and slept in the same place. A
wooden table, covered with a mat, served
as their bed; and at the feet as at the head,
there was a board which was raised and
lowered at will. This board served as a table
for study. There was no need to leave the
cell to write; it was enough to place yourself
at the foot of the bed; then they lowered
the board when they wanted to go out. The
other shelf, placed at the head of the bed,
was used for textbooks, ink, long clothes
for seminarians, and small toiletries. The
doors to the large room were located across
from each other. In this way, the air played
freely throughout the room, which one
could not leave without being seen by one
of the teachers placed in the side rooms.
The refectory was separate and reading took
place during meals. Outside were the tailors’,
carpenters’, shoemakers’, printers’, gardeners’
and bakers’ workshops where the students
worked, all required to learn a manual art.
The same students walked barefoot and
had to water all the trees in the orchard.
Four hours were spent each day studying
and one hour doing manual labour. The
rest of the time was spent in pious exercises,
meditations and ecclesiastical chanting. Two
days each week were set aside to speak the
mother tongue; all the rest of the time, it
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
had to be done in Latin.62
The complex once included a spacious rectangular
main corps de logis with three bedrooms and a
dormitory surrounding a veranda on the south
side accessed by a triple arch (figs. 5.6–7). The ver-
anda likely served as the refectory. The building’s
193
 5.8 Elevation of the House of Mr Marihaure, Servant of
the Palace of Justice (Maison de Marihaure), signed
by Cordé, Pondicherry (1 October 1777). Ink on paper,
60 × 30 cm. ANom .
tripartite facade is elegant and proportional, the
central open arcade balanced by enclosed flanking
wings with smaller arched doorways. The wings
are delineated by wide quoined pilasters, and
giant-order pilasters, possibly Corinthian given
the remnants of acanthus capitals that survive
from the church (see below), were superimposed
the architecture of empire
on the two supporting piers of the arcade. The
house was once crowned with a heavy entabla-
ture with a plain frieze and prominent dentils
which now only survives in the interior. Its basic
arrangement and arcade resemble that of the
Maison de Marihaure (1777–78) in Pondicherry
(fig. 5.8) and it also recalls more generically the
old and new Gouvernements with their flat roofs
and open verandas flanked by enclosed wings.
194
(figs. 1.1, 4.26).63 Most of the south and east walls
of this building, including the archway and several
windows and doorways, survive, as does the front
gate, although most of the original plaster is now
missing. The brickwork is of excellent quality with
thick walls and piers and raised door frames.
Only the foundations survive of the ateliers
mentioned in Saint-Barthélemy’s description
and of the chapel, to the southwest of the build-
ing, a single nave structure with a round apse,
small transepts, and an east and south entrance.
Although small, the chapel was richly decorated
with moulded terracotta classical motifs such as
pilasters, entablatures, friezes, capitals, volutes,
acanthus leaves, medallions, pearl rosaries, an
olive-and-rhombus band, rosettes and other
florets, and foliate bands that incorporated some
Indian plants.64 Other symbols were specifically
French, including a crest containing three fleurs-
de-lys and a fleur-de-lys band. Such mouldings
were used in various of the grander houses in
Pondicherry, notably the Hôtel Lagrenée de
Mézières (fig. 4.32). About one hundred of
these reliefs were sent to the Musée Blanchard-
de-la-Brosse in Saigon by archaeologist Gabriel
Jouveaux-Dubreuil (1885–1945) in 1939, demon-
strating how important this seminary and the
legends surrounding Pigneaux were to the col-
onial foundation myth in Indochina even in its
twilight years – it was he who proposed dismant-
ling the ruins and shipping the whole thing to be
reassembled in Saigon as a second shrine to the
missionary. The current whereabouts of the reliefs
is unknown, but engravings of some of them were
published by Louis Malleret in 1943.65
If Napoleon III had never invaded Indochina
this building would have been a mouldering his-
torical footnote. After Pigneaux left for Cochin-
china in 1774 Mathon kept the seminary running
and in 1777 he even tried to admit Malabar
students; however caste prejudice prevented them
from living with the Chinese and Southeast Asian
students and a separate Malabar college was built
in 1791 in Pondicherry (the mep had taken over
the Jesuit Malabar mission after the expulsion
of the Society from French territory in 1764).66
The seminary was briefly abandoned during the
Siege of Pondicherry in 1778, but it continued
to operate and was in fact visited twice again by
Pigneaux during his outward and return voyages
to Versailles with Prince Cảnh in 1785–86 and
1788–89. In June 1779 superior Magny painted
a sad picture of the institution in a letter to Jean
Davoust, apostolic vicar of West Tonkin:
I do not think we will get much benefit
from the college as long as it stays in Pon-
dicherry. The excessive heat of this country
is a great obstacle to study, as we experience
ourselves. Consequently, students must
spend considerable time in college to learn
what they need to know, and this long time
usually puts them in a state of weakness,
which makes them incapable of rendering
any service for a long time, and sometimes
forever. In addition […] the college will
necessarily disappear of its own accord. Of
the 18 [students] that we have, several would
probably leave this year if we found oppor-
tunities. Bishop Pottier asked for two more.
A third, who has almost finished his studies
and who is also weak, will be among them.
There are still at least 2 or 3 who are hope-
less, and who should have been dismissed
some time ago. […] The college cannot
therefore last long.67
The building was occupied by British troops
between 1793 and 1795, but was returned to the
mep, and in 1806 François-Claude Letondal,
the mep procurator general, instructed Magny
and another missionary named Hébert to repair
it “so as not to allow this property to deteriorate”
because some intended to re-establish the college,
although Letondal was not particularly enthusi-
astic.68 The buildings were taken over by the
Malabar college in 1852 as a country retreat, and it
was already in a semi-ruinous state in 1898 when
it was visited by Adrien Launay and illustrated in
his history of the French missions to India.69
Pigneaux left no clue about why he commis-
sioned the Virampatnam college in the style in
which it was built. Given his future behaviour at
the court of Nguyễn Ánh I doubt he was trying to
project French gloire through classicism and the
royal fleurs-de-lys like a latter-day Dupleix. Likely
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
he settled for the Louis XV style that was current
in Pondicherry at the time because that was the
style builders worked in. Perhaps some of it was
even adapted from Bourcet’s earlier house on
the project – after all, the former chief engineer
architect was one of the style’s greatest promot-
ers. Either way it is remarkable that Pigneaux
195
 approved such an expensive project when he
could ill afford it: indeed he complained in 1773
to his superiors that “we owe almost the entire
price of the house for which we pay interest at
eight percent” and worried that the debts would
harm the missionary effort.70 The seminary
certainly contrasted stylistically with the hybrid-
or indigenous-style buildings the mep had
used for their seminary in Ayutthaya and Hòn
Đất, or their many mission churches in Siam,
Cochinchina, and Tonkin. I think it is important
that we not read too much into the Frenchness
of this building. Propagandists of the Second
Empire and Third Republic were only too happy
to suggest that the spirit of Dupleix had rubbed
off on Pigneaux during his stays at Pondicherry
and that he championed French culture at the
court of Nguyễn Ánh.71 As we shall next see, his
use of French architecture in Cochinchina had
more to do with bolstering the reign of the young
king than it did with pursuing French inter-
ests overseas.
Pierre Pigneaux de Béhaine, Nguyễn Ánh, and
French Engineers in Đại Việt, 1775–1799
The fabled Vauban-style fortresses designed
by Pigneaux’s French engineers Victor Olivier de
Puymanel and Théodore Le Brun in late
eighteenth-century Đại Việt were another preced-
ent used by the Second Empire and Third Repub-
lic to justify French involvement in Vietnam, and
the architecture of empire
therefore must also be approached with caution.
While there is no doubt that Vauban-style
bastioned fortifications were constructed under
Nguyễn Ánh/Gia Long and his successors, and
while two of them, Gia Định (Saigon) (fig. 5.9)
and Diên Khánh (figs. 5.10, 5.12–14), were un-
deniably built with the collaboration of French
engineer architects in Pigneaux’s entourage (the
first by Olivier and Le Brun and the second by
196
Olivier alone), only a handful of contemporary
European sources refer to the engineers and they
are not mentioned in any early modern Vietnam-
ese literature.72 Even today, the historical plaque
on the east gate at Diên Khánh is silent about
Olivier, although it acknowledges that the citadel
employs the architectural innovations of Vauban.
Let us start with a brief summary of the con-
voluted and confusing historical background to
Pigneaux’s collaboration with Nguyễn Ánh. After
the uneasy peace between Tonkin and Cochin-
china that ended Đại Việt’s decades-long inter-
mittent civil war, the Tây Sơn Rebellion, named
after three brothers from a village of that name in
the region of Bình Định, broke out in 1771 and
lasted until the rebels were overthrown upon the
establishment of the Nguyễn imperial dynasty in
1802.73 From their base in Quy Nhơn these war-
lords unseated the Lê/Trịnh and Nguyễn rulers in
Tonkin and Cochinchina with massive armies –
some say they numbered more than 200,000 –
and controlled most of modern-day Vietnam,
although their hold on the region was never
completely secure, especially in Cochinchina.74
Unlike the previous regimes, who had merely
been interested in European firearms, the Tây Sơn
and their Cochinchinese adversaries for the first
time strove to learn about European technologies
in shipbuilding and fortification architecture and
made overtures to various European powers with
bases in Asia, not only French but also Portu-
guese, Dutch, English, and Spanish. One of the
reasons the Tây Sơn lost in the end was that the
Cochinchinese had much better luck in gaining
such expertise.
After a major Tây Sơn victory in 1773, the year
they took Quy Nhơn, the regime assassinated
every member of the Nguyễn family except for the
fifteen-year-old king Nguyễn Ánh. He fled in 1776
or 1777 into the marshlands of the Mekong Delta
and then near Hà Tiên, where he may first have
encountered Pigneaux, who had arrived in 1775
and whose attempts to missionize in Cochin-
china and Cambodia were also thwarted by the
advancing Tây Sơn armies.75 The two became
close allies, not because Pigneaux saw the young
king as a means for promoting French interests
in Indochina, as has so often been claimed, but,
as Frédéric Mantienne argues, because Pigneaux
was useful to Nguyễn Ánh (among his many
skills was making grenades) and had fallen under
the latter’s spell.76 Throughout their long relation-
ship Pigneaux served Nguyễn Ánh first, placing
his interests before those of France or even the
mep. The young king made several bold attempts
to push back the Tây Sơn forces, but every year
the latter’s armies and navies (assisted by Chinese
pirates) pushed him farther back across the delta.
With each defeat he escaped to islands in the
Gulf of Siam, as in 1783 when he and Pigneaux
relocated to Phú Quốc and were provisioned by
Christians from Hà Tiên. Desperate, Nguyễn
Ánh finally took refuge in 1784 at the Siamese
court in Bangkok.
Nguyễn Ánh turned to Pigneaux to obtain
military assistance from European powers,
including equipment and materiel and guidance
on the latest military tactics and fortification
architecture. Pigneaux embarked in 1785 on his
famous visit to Versailles on Nguyễn Ánh’s behalf
with Prince Cảnh, a more subdued event than the
receptions for the Siamese embassies of a cen-
tury earlier, primarily because the reception with
Louis XVI took place in 1787, when the ancien
régime was in its death throes.77 The meeting
resulted in the Treaty of Versailles of that year,
which offered military assistance to Nguyễn Ánh,
but also revealed that Louis XVI – in an echo
of his great-great-great-grandfather’s actions in
Siam – intended to conquer Tourane and Poulo
Condor island and demand free and exclusive
trading rights in Cochinchina.78 The treaty
also contained secret instructions that allowed
Thomas Conway (1735–ca 1800), the Irish-born
governor of Pondicherry, to revoke it if he saw
that the situation on the ground was not advanta-
geous for France, which is precisely what he did.79
Despite this setback Pigneaux obtained funding,
significant amounts of firearms and ammunition,
and ships from Île de France and Pondicherry
upon his return in 1788–89. Many of the ships
remained in Cochinchina where Nguyễn Ánh
chartered them and their crews, and also hired
the modest number of French officers whom
Pigneaux had convinced to enlist, including
Olivier and Le Brun.
Colonial-era propaganda placed the number
of Frenchmen in Nguyễn Ánh’s employ in the
hundreds, but Mantienne has shown that fewer
than 100 of them were in Cochinchina after 1792,
including only twelve officers, and that only about
five officers remained during the fiercest fighting
with the Tây Sơn between 1799 and 1802.80 Thus,
just as the promoters of colonization during the
Second Empire and Third Republic exaggerated
the importance of the failed Treaty of Versailles
(and they ignored a successful treaty Nguyễn
Ánh had signed with Portugal in 1786), so did
they overstate the contribution of French officers
and Pigneaux in helping Nguyễn Ánh found the
Nguyễn Dynasty: “it is […] impossible to say that
they personally altered the course of events.”81
However the fortifications, like the shipbuilding
expertise, were effective. The Gia Định and Diên
Khánh citadels allowed Nguyễn Anh to secure
two military bases: the first in the Mekong Delta,
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
from which he could send raids every year against
the Tây Sơn, and the second in the heart of enemy
territory. Neither was successfully taken during
Nguyễn Anh’s climb to power, and they irritated
the Tây Sơn and heartened the Cochinchinese.82
The two French engineer architects reached
Cochinchina the year before and after Pigneaux
197
 returned from Versailles in 1789. Joseph-Victor-
Cyriaque-Alexis Olivier de Puymanel was a
second-class volunteer on the Dryade, which he
deserted at Poulo-Condor (Côn Đảo Island)
in September 1788, at the age of twenty.83 He
immediately joined the Cochinchinese cause
and was soon appointed chef d’état-major of the
assorted French soldiers serving Nguyễn Ánh and
was known by the French as “Colonel Olivier”
and by the Cochinchinese as “Ô Ly Vi.” He has
always been treated as a man of mystery. Learning
from an eighteenth-century source (see below)
that Olivier was born in Carpentras (Provence),
historian Alexis Faure in 1891 discovered his
parents’ names, Augustin-Raymond Olivier
and Françoise-Louise Vitalis, presumably in his
birth records, but claims that “we have no other
information about his civil status, nor about his
family’s position.”84 Faure must not have been
looking too carefully as his Latin parochial birth
register is in fact quite revealing and demonstrates
that he was no mere soldier of fortune but an
aristocrat born into one of the grand families of
Provence, which would explain not only why he
was educated but also why Pigneaux held him
in such high esteem despite his youth and low
military rank:
Joseph Victor Alexis Cyriaque Olivier.
In the above year [1768] on the eighth of
August, Reverend Audin, curate, baptised
Joseph Victor Alexis Cyriaque, natural
the architecture of empire
and legitimate son of Noble Lord Augus-
tin Raymond, Chancellor of the Supreme
Court of the Comtat Venaissin, Lawyer in
the Supreme Senate of Aix-en-Provence,
also Secretary of the Holy Order of the
Jerusalemites, and of Lady Françoise-
Louise Vitalis, spouse: born today at five
in the morning: Godparents were Lords
Hyacinthe-Joseph-Ignatius-Martinus
198
Olivier brother of the baptized, and Lady
Thérèse-Joseph-Gabrielle Vitalis.85
The Olivier family, also spelled Olivari, were no-
blesse de la robe ennobled in 1668, a family of law-
makers that included a grand prior of Toulouse,
several knights of the Order of Malta (which had
a base in Aix), and a counsellor of the Provence
Parliament.86 The Olivari had married into the
Vitalis family, that of Victor’s mother, as early as
1568, acquiring land in Campredon, southeast
of Carpentras, by inheritance. Victor’s father
Augustin-Raymond (1731–1804) was chancellor
of the Supreme Court of the papal enclave of Ven-
aissin, near Avignon, sat in the Supreme Senate of
Aix-en-Provence, and was secretary to the Jerusa-
lemite confraternity to which his ancestors had
long belonged.87
Victor’s birth record makes no mention of the
nobiliary particle “de Puymanel,” and it appears
in only one contemporary letter, an autograph
missive written in 1789.88 The next mention of
“de Puymanel” I have found is in a royal decree of
1818 bestowing the particle on a distant relative
with a similar name, Pierre-Charles-Nicolas-
Victor d’Olivier (1750–68).89 The same source
also makes another key revelation regarding a
much closer relative, Albert-Joseph-Augustin
d’Olivier (1792–1867), who was given the appel-
lative “de Petzet” on the same occasion. Albert
was Victor’s nephew, the son of Victor’s eldest
brother Gabriel-Raymond-Jean de Dieu-François
d’Olivier (1755–1823), a judge at Court of Appeals
at Nîmes and later counsellor at Imperial court.90
The source notes that he was a military engineer, a
captain in the Corps royal du genie, which makes
it very likely that he studied at the École royale du
génie de Mézières. It is not unreasonable to con-
clude that Albert was following in Uncle Victor’s
footsteps, and that the Cochinchina Olivier had
studied at the same institution. Such an education
would explain his precocious expertise in forti-
fications, weaponry, and military manoeuvres.
But Olivier did not last long in Cochinchina. He
appears in a handful of letters, including one from
1789 that noted that his back and arms had been
badly injured, and died in 1799, only eleven years
after his arrival in Đại Việt, while refitting a ship
for the Cochinchinese fleet at Dutch Malacca,
bequeathing all his possessions to Pigneaux.91
Alexis Faure, writing at the height of the colonial
era, wrote proudly that “[t]his officer, dead at 31,
had accomplished a considerable amount of work
in Cochinchina, that those familiar with the
numerous fortifications in the Vauban style that
he constructed over ten years could appreciate
and admire.”92 Note the exaggeration about the
number of fortresses he built, which is a standard
part of this patriotic myth.
Unfortunately, Théodore Le Brun remains
an enigma. A first-class volunteer on the frigate
Méduse, he reached Macau at the end of Decem-
ber 1790 and quickly joined the Cochinchinese
army.93 But he spent a mere fifteen months in
Cochinchina: working under Olivier irritated
him as he outranked the “Colonel,” and he
demanded a pay increase in line with his position
in the French military. When his request was
denied he promptly left Nguyễn Ánh’s service,
departing for good to Île de France in 1791. He
was never heard from again. It is hopeless to
try to search for his birth records or any other
documents relating to his early life in France as we
have no idea where he came from and he has such
an ordinary surname (I did look in the marriage
and death records for Île de France for the decade
after 1791, but to no avail). In fact, his surname
suggests that he was a commoner, which may have
been another reason he did not get along with his
noble colleague.
Everything we know about Olivier’s and Le
Brun’s architectural contributions comes from
terse references in four contemporary letters and
a printed map.94 In 1791 Chrétien-Louis-Joseph
de Guignes (1759–1845), an agent with the French
consulate in Guangdong, wrote to the minister
of foreign affairs about the Gia Định citadel
(fig. 5.9):
In 1789 and 1790, if the King of Cochin-
china had wanted it, he could have immedi-
ately reclaimed his kingdom. The arrival
of the frigates (the Dryade, the Pandour
and the Méduse), as well the ships from
Pondicherry, Ile de France and Macao, had
raised the alarm among the enemies. Tonkin
was waiting for the moment to shake off
the yoke and recognize its real king. […]
MM. Olivier and Le Brun, French officers,
gave [the king] a plan of a fortified city.
The King wanted to build one immediately,
although this required more favourable
weather. It was then necessary to inconven-
ience the people, to destroy the houses and
to occupy 30,000 men in fortifying a citadel
[place] to which the King hoped to retreat in
the event of a setback. The people and sev-
eral mandarins rebelled. MM. Olivier and
Le Brun were in danger since they were the
authors of the project. The Bishop of Adran,
by sheltering them in his home, delivered
them from any accident. However, calm re-
turned, the king having dismissed his troops
and allowed everyone to sow rice.95
Apostolic Vicar of Cochinchina Barthélémy Bois-
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
serand (d. 1797) informed fellow missionary Mer-
cier in 1792 that “[t]he King […] learns European
ideas quite well. Mr. Olivier […] formed a body of
fusiliers, closed the ranks, and exercised them in
our way. The same Mr. Olivier, and Mr. Lebrun,
who has just returned to Ile de France, built a
good fort for the king, with bastions, ditches,
199
5.9 (oppoSiTe ) Plan of the
City of Saigon Fortified in
1790 by Colonel Victor Olivier
Reduced from the Large Plan
commissioned by Order of
the King, in 1795 by Mr Brun,
Engineer of his Majesty by
Engineer Mr Dayot, from
M. d’Ayot, Le Pilote de
Cochinchine (Paris, 1791–
1807). Ink on paper, 60 ×
45 cm. BNf , Département
cartes et plans.

5.10 (Top ) Victor Olivier,

Plan of the citadel at Dien
Khánh, from the Lefebvre de
Béhaine family collection.
After Paul Boudet,
Iconographie historique
de l’Indochine française
(Paris, 1931): plate XXi , 41.
In this plan north is at the
bottom. BNf .

5.11 (BoTTom ) Julien-Marie

Solain-Baron, Plan of a New
City to Build at Cayenne
Designed by Le Sieur Baron,
the King’s Engineer at
Cayenne, 1750. Ink and
watercolour on paper, 80.5 ×
64.5 cm. ANom .
 drawbridges, covered paths, glacis, demilunes;
all in European style. This fort gives them confi-
dence, but maybe a little too much.”96 Although
Mantienne claims that Boisserand mentioned
the two men’s contribution to the citadel in a
letter written in 1790, it does not mention either
of them, only noting that Nguyễn Ánh “had a
fairly strong town built here in the European style
[à l’européenne].”97
On 13 May 1795, missionary Pierre Lavoué
wrote from Tân Triều to mep missionaries Denis
Boiret and Jean-Joseph Descourvières in Paris
about the new citadel at Diên Khánh (figs. 5.10,
5.12–14), near Nha Trang in enemy territory:
The King returned to Gia-định [sic] which
he had first captured. He fortified it as best
he could, built galleys [galères], etc., and
hired Mr. Olivier, a French officer, to make
him a European city in one of the newly
conquered provinces. It was barely finished
when the rebels rushed to it, numbering
forty thousand men, resolved to climb it;
but all their efforts were useless, and they
were forced to lift the siege and to withdraw
to Quy-nhơn, where the King went to attack
them by land and by sea. But having set out
in campaign, they forced the prince to with-
draw in turn; and two months later they
again came to lay siege to the city which
mocked them. They have been besieging it
for four months; but we hope that the King,
the architecture of empire
who has just set out on the campaign, will
be able to rescue it in time and force them to
withdraw again.98
This report is confirmed by Le Labousse, writing
to Boiret on the same day: “The king, after having
lifted the siege from the capital of his enemy,
came to entrench himself in a neighbouring
province. Mr. Olivier of Carpentras, an officer
202
in his service, made him a European-style fort
[à l’européenne].”99
The final reference to the engineers is in the
caption of the only contemporary plan of the
Saigon citadel, by Jean-Marie Dayot (1754–1808?)
in his manuscript folio of maps entitled “Le Pilote
de Cochinchine” (co-authored with François
Etienne de Mesros, 1748–1832): “Plan of the City
of Saigon, fortified in 1790 by Colonel Olivier,
reduced from the grand plan drawn by order of
the King in 1795. By M. Brun, engineer to His
Majesty” (fig. 5.9).100 This was later published as
an engraving in Dayot’s Atlas de la Cochinchine
(Paris, 1818) with the caption “Plan of Gia-dinh
and its surroundings, drawn by Trân Van Hoc,
the 4th day of the 12th moon of the 14th year of
Gia Long (1815).”101 Trần Văn Học was a Viet-
namese cartographer who collaborated with
Dayot on his project to map the Cochinchinese
coast. Although Olivier and Le Brun would have
been familiar with French fortification archi-
tecture they almost certainly worked from the
many books that disseminated Vauban’s designs
and defensive philosophy, particularly Bernard
Forest de Bélidor’s La science des ingénieurs (Paris,
1729), which had ample plans and elevations of
fortresses and the buildings in them.102 We know
that the engineers had a map dated 1773 entitled
“A Military Map [containing] all the main parts
[for defensive and offensive attacks] of a site built
based on the memoirs of Marshall de Vauban by
J. E. Duhamel, royal engineer,” which was still in
5.12 (oppoSiTe Top ) Victor Olivier and others, Citadel,
Diên Khánh (Vietnam), 1793, west gate.
5.13 (oppoSiTe miDDLe ) Victor Olivier and others,
Citadel, Diên Khánh, south gate.
5.14 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Victor Olivier and others,
Citadel, Diên Khánh, east gate.
 5.15 East gate (Donghuamen), Forbidden City,
Beijing, 1420.
Vietnam in 1921 and which included Vietnamese
translations of fortification terminology.103
Few have considered the role of Cochinchinese
architect engineers in the design and construc-
tion of these citadels, and most studies ignore the
predominantly Sino-Vietnamese style of their
elevations. Diên Khánh, the only surviving one,
the architecture of empire
has Chinese-style pavilions crowned with double
tiled roofs with overhanging eaves, upturned
corners and eave brackets, and cloud motif finials
(fig. 5.13). The way the double-roofed pavilions
rest directly on the massive gatehouse and the red
colour scheme evokes the gates of the Forbid-
den City, Beijing (1420), if on a miniature scale;
Chinese imperial fortification architecture would
later serve as a model for Gia Long’s great citadel
204
at Huế (fig. 5.15).104 French features are much
subtler: the pilaster-like vertical frames for the
arch and, on the south and east gates, the bal-
ustrades with piers. By contrast, the gate houses
in Beijing are plain with unadorned openings,
in some cases arched and elsewhere rectangular
with prominent lintels. The Gia Định citadel,
destroyed in 1835 by Minh Mạng (r. 1820–41) fol-
lowing a rebellion there by Lê Văn Khôi (d. 1834),
also was predominantly Chinese in style judging
by the comments of European visitors, such as the
Scots John Crawfurd (1783–1868) and George
Finlayson (1790–1823), who visited the site in the
1820s, and the American John White, who went
there in 1819. Finlayson described it as “handsome
and ornamented in the Chinese style”; Crawfurd
noted that “the large gateways are built of stone
and lime, and are very substantially constructed,
although a Chinese tower with a double-canopied
roof gives them a grotesque and unmilitary
appearance”; and White commented that “over
the gates, are square buildings with tiled roofs,”
and that the palace had “roofs covered with glazed
tile, and ornamented with dragons, and other
monsters, in the Chinese Style,” and that a cem-
etery in the western sector “contain[ed] several
barbarously splendid mausoleums of mandarins
in the Chinese style.”105 The gates would have
resembled those of Diên Khánh, with the massive
gatehouses below and delicate, double-roofed
Sino-Vietnamese pavilions above.
We do not know which Cochinchinese archi-
tect engineers were working for Nguyễn Ánh
in the 1790s; however, we do know the names of
those working for him as Emperor Gia Long in
Huế after 1802, where he and his successor Minh
Mạng had a corps of engineers dedicated to fort-
ress architecture under a Giám thành (“director
of fortifications”). The directors included Nguyễn
Văn Yên and Đỗ-Phúc-Thạnh, and they were
served by deputy (Phó-Đội) Nguyễn-Học, captain
(Đội-Trưởng) Nguyễn-Thông, and chief (Trưởng)
Viết-Súy, all in charge of studying and establish-
ing plans and budgets for citadels such as Thuận
Hòa citadel (1804), the first one built after Diên
Khánh.106 There can be no doubt that some of
these engineers, or others like them, were involved
in the construction of Saigon and Diên Khánh
citadels and that they probably contributed at
least as much, if not more, to the projects as did
Olivier or Le Brun.
The plans of the two citadels are more clearly
based on Vauban-style schemes than are the eleva-
tions, although early modern Vietnamese sources
and some scholars have also drawn attention to
Chinese models (figs. 5.9, 5.10). The Gia Định
citadel was a stone structure with a perimeter of
4,126 metres, “built on a typical Vauban model”
although it has also been described in the Viet-
namese literature as Chinese-inspired: the Đại
Nam nhất thống chí (Đại Nam Comprehensive
Encyclopaedia), a gazetteer written under Em-
peror Tự Đức (r. 1847–83) – long after the citadel
had been demolished – mistakenly describes
it as being “octagonal, lotus-shaped with eight
gates,” although it correctly acknowledges the
“Chinese” elements.107 The citadel did have eight
gates but was in fact built on a square plan, with
four main projecting bastions at the corners
and four shallower ones between them containing
powder magazines and a flagstaff house at the
front.108 The ramparts sat on two additional layers
of radiating bastions and ravelins. Inside was
a miniature grid plan city that combines royal
residences with military buildings.109 The oblong
king’s palace, “of about one hundred and sixty
feet square, constructed principally of brick, with
verandas enclosed with screens of matting,” was
at the centre fronting a Place d’Armes and arms
depot, with the queen’s palace behind it, and it
was flanked by the prince’s palace to the right and
the cartwright shop on the left.110 Between these
buildings and the ramparts were the hospital,
barracks for 50,000 troops, arsenal, and forge.
The citadel and its gridiron arrangement are of a
standard design used in particular in the Atlantic
colonies, or on a grander scale at Vauban’s own
citadel at Lille (1667–72); however, these citadels
usually located the place d’armes in the centre
fronted by government buildings and usually a
church. The citadels also tend to be pentagonal,
hexagonal, and occasionally octagonal (unless the
territory necessitated an uneven design), whereas
the Gia Định citadel is based on a square, which
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
Vauban and his followers executed infrequently,
for instance at the Citadel of Saint-Martin at
the Île de Ré near La Rochelle, as Mantienne
has noted.111
White, Crawfurd, and Finlayson wrote that
the citadel was a square structure with four main
gates and four smaller ones, emphasized the plan’s
205
 European design, and also noted that that it used
iron reinforcements in the gates. Crawfurd com-
mented: “the original plan appears to have been
European, but left incomplete. It has a regular
glacis, an esplanade, a dry ditch of considerable
breadth, and regular ramparts and bastion […]
The interior is neatly laid out and clean, and
presents an appearance of European order and
arrangement.”112 Finlayson remarked that the
“fortress […] has been constructed of late years,
on the principles of European fortification. It is
furnished with a regular glacis, wet ditch, and a
high rampart, and commands the surrounding
country.”113 White, likewise, wrote that the gates
are “very strong, and studded with iron, in the
European style” (he also saw 250 cannons “of vari-
ous calibres and fashions,” about a dozen of them
bearing inscriptions from the time of Louis XIV,
which suggests that Pigneaux’s ragtag army
enlisted any weapon they could get their hands
on in Pondicherry or Île de France.114 The hybrid
nature of the structures went beyond the contrast
between a European plan and a Sino-Vietnamese
elevation. Mantienne suggests that the unusual
(for Vauban) square plan was chosen to reson-
ate with Chinese square or rectangular fortress
architecture – as happened also at Huế and Thăng
Long (Hanoi) – because Saigon was the tem-
porary capital and therefore the employment of
such imperial references was an important way of
projecting legitimacy.115
Diên Khánh, although irregular due to the
the architecture of empire
particularities of the terrain it was built on, is hex-
agonal and therefore more typical of Vauban-style
citadels, such as Vauban and Paquine’s citadel at
Cayenne (1696) or Julien-Marie Solain-Baron’s
project for its replacement in 1750, which, like
its Vietnamese counterpart, is irregular and
incorporates a rectangular extension on one end
(fig. 5.11).116 Both citadels have bold, arrow-
shaped bastions, and triangular ravelins, and both
206
quadrilateral extensions (on the west at Diên
Khánh) are slightly askew from the axis of the
main citadel, in Diên Khánh’s case to follow the
course of the Cái River, which today has advanced
considerably to the north. Diên Khánh is unlike
Solain-Baron’s plan (and nearly all the Atlantic
citadels, not to mention Gia Định) in that it does
not have a regular grid of streets, despite having
a place d’armes at the centre. The main citadel
has five bastions and two demi-bastions and the
lower quadrilateral forecourt has two more and a
ravelin. According to the Hoàng Việt nhất thống
dư địa chí (Royal Viet Geographical Gazetteer),
compiled in 1806 by Lê Quang Định for Gia
Long, the Diên Khánh citadel had a circumfer-
ence is 1,019 tầm (1,825 metres), with six gates, two
on the west and north side, and one each on the
south and east, all surrounded by a moat with a
suspension bridge at the front.117 Today only three
gatehouses survive, to the west, south, and east,
and there is no trace of the western quadrilateral
forecourt (partly destroyed by the shifting course
of the Suối Đầo River) or place d’armes, and
much of the interior of the citadel is now occu-
pied by empty lots. Unlike the Gia Định citadel
it is built of stuccoed brick. However, the earth-
works survive: 3.5 metres high, they are paved on
the top with red terracotta tiles, and the outline
and remains of the moat (once 3 to 5 metres wide)
are clearly visible from the air.
After Olivier’s and Le Brun’s departure, and
after Pigneaux’s death in 1799, the newly styled
Emperor Gia Long continued to build citadels
that blended French technology with Sino-
Vietnamese aesthetics and geomancy. He
and his successors Minh Mạng and Thiệu Trị
(r. 1841–47) built thirty-two such forts along an
1,800-kilometre stretch from Cao Bằng to Hà
Tiên between 1802 and 1844.118 Whereas Gia
Long’s citadels were mostly hexagonal or pentag-
onal in the Vauban mode with a few square plans,
beginning with Minh Mạng rectangular forts
with four bastions at the corners began to pre-
dominate. Mantienne argues that this change re-
flected not a return to Chinese models but in fact
an understanding of the latest French designs used
in Napoleon I’s First Empire (1804–14), such as
Fort Liédot (1811) on an island on the Atlantic
coast between La Rochelle and Rochefort.119 He
traces this change to Jean-Baptiste Chaigneau
(1769–1832), one of the two naval officers to
stay in Huế after the war, who went to France in
1819 to purchase books for Gia Long, including,
according to Chaigneau’s account, “the principal
books related to the manufacturing and arts”
and “the latest edition of the Encyclopaedia.”120
However if updated French square plans were
indeed employed – and the evidence is frankly
scanty – they were chosen precisely because they
echoed Chinese imperial structures. Significantly,
unlike in the 1790s, French specialists no longer
assisted the emperor’s own highly organized and
skilled corps of engineers. The fleeting French
episode in Cochinchina may have provided new
technologies but the increasingly orthodox and
xenophobic Confucianist Nguyễn government
was ultimately more concerned with adopting
the Chinese visual language of sovereignty, one
that emphasized the antiquity of their regime and
Đại Nam’s long-standing ties to Chinese civiliz-
ation. For them, as for the Qing Chinese, France
was considered a peripheral barbarian nation
of little importance beyond certain techno-
logical achievements.
The French Conquest of Indochina, 1858–1907
The French presence in Southeast Asia used as
justification for the French conquest of Cochin-
china (1858–62) was thus a chimera, and coloni-
alism’s supporters had trouble convincing anyone
but themselves (including vocally anti-colonial
French politicians) of France’s right to take the
region – not to mention, as they expanded their
empire, the Protectorates of Cambodia (1863),
Annam (1883), Tonkin (1884), and Laos (1893),
the latter three under the Third Republic. Mere-
dith Martin has written insightfully about the
ways in which the Second Empire harnessed
nostalgia for the supposed glory years of French
dominance in Asia to prop up their ambitions
for a modern colonial empire: “channel[ing] and
rewrit[ing] the past so as to advance France’s
imperialist ambitions in Southeast Asia and legit-
imize the Second Empire government at home
and abroad.”121 She refers specifically to the era of
the Siamese Embassies, but her comment is just
as appropriate for Dupleix’s India, Alexandre de
Rhodes, and the partnership between Pigneaux
and Gia Long.
Another tactic was to emphasize the French
identity of the missionaries in Đại Việt from
Rhodes’s day – conveniently ignoring the substan-
tial role played by Portuguese Jesuits and Spanish
Franciscans and Dominicans, among others – and
to use the recurring persecutions of Christians
there as a justification for France to safeguard “its”
flock. Early nineteenth-century Đại Nam had the
largest Catholic community in Southeast Asia
outside the Philippines.122 Although Gia Long
tolerated Catholicism, missionaries slowly lost
their privileged position during the reigns of his
successors, who considered Christianity to be a
heterodox faith that conflicted with indigenous
religious practices and Confucianism.123 Minh
Mạng instituted the first persecutions (1832–40),
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
which resulted in the deaths of nine French and
three Spanish missionaries as well as thousands of
Vietnamese Christians, and they continued under
Tự Đức.124 Although these persecutions served
as a rallying cry for the Second Empire’s coloni-
alist camp, France’s true interests in Đại Nam
were geopolitical and economic. The government
207
 wanted a military and economic base in South-
east Asia to rival the regional European ports of
Singapore, Batavia, Manila, and especially Hong
Kong (ceded in 1842); they hoped to halt Britain’s
encroachment into Burma (1852, 1862, 1885); and
they sought to compensate for the Anglo-Siamese
treaty of 1855, which allowed Britain free trade in
Bangkok, a diplomatic mission, and the right to
own property there. Britain was simply becoming
too influential in Southeast and East Asia. In fact,
in an echo of the missionary–cio conflicts in
Madagascar and Siam, the religious motivation
for French conquest became something of an
embarrassment for the secularist Third Repub-
lic (1870–1940), which had an ambivalent and
often contentious relationship with the colonial
church and with missionaries after the colony’s
foundation.125 France’s tenuous rationalization
for conquering Indochina is best characterized
by that 1902 statue in Saigon’s Cathedral Square
(fig. 5.3). Meant to be a symbol of France’s abid-
ing commitment to protect Indochina, it in fact
showed a French priest serving Cochinchinese
interests by protecting a prince who would never
rule and holding a treaty that was not worth the
paper it was written on.
Responding to an intensifying missionary
campaign to redress the persecutions, to growing
capitalist demands at home for overseas markets
and products, and to a desire to promote France’s
might in Asia, Napoleon III agreed in July 1857
to invade southern Đại Nam.126 The invasion and
the architecture of empire
colonization of Cochinchina and annexation of
Cambodia as a protectorate was a naval project,
and the first twenty years of the colony (1859–79)
were known as the Era of the Admirals, an age
in which the propaganda of French heroism was
deftly manipulated by the Second Empire for con-
sumption at home. Key figures included Prosper
de Chasseloup-Laubat (1805–1873), Napoleon
III’s minister of the navy from 1860 to 1867,
208
and his successor Admiral Charles Rigault de
Genouilly (1807–1873), the conqueror of Saigon
(both of whom would be immortalized in the
statue group in the Palais du Gouverneur-Général
in Saigon; see chapter 1). In 1858 Rigault de
Genouilly and 2,300 Franco-Spanish troops
captured Tourane, where he had hoped to estab-
lish a military base; however he was unable to
reach the imperial capital of Huế and proceeded
southward to Saigon, leaving a small garrison
behind.127 Saigon fell in February 1859 and its
surrounding villages were destroyed, but it took
four more years for the French to conquer the
seven neighbouring provinces that would form
French Cochinchina, the only actual colony (as
opposed to protectorate) in French Indochina. In
1866–68 naval officers Ernest Doudart de Lagrée
(1823–1868) and François Garnier (1839–1873)
led an expedition up the Mekong River to find a
trade route to Yunnan (China), but as the river
was unnavigable for commercial traffic France
turned its attention to the Red River in Tonkin
and became intent upon its acquisition as a
strategic base even though it, too, was impractical
for trade.128 The era of the admirals ended in 1879
with the imposition of civilian government by the
Third Republic.129
The Indochinese Union took decades to build,
first with an unsuccessful attempt to secure
the Red River for France in 1873 (the “Tonkin
Crisis”), followed by a more concerted effort to
take northern Đại Nam in 1882, when the Saigon
government sent 250 troops to Hanoi. Although
its commander, Captain Henri Rivière (1827–
1883), was killed, France was able to force the Huế
court in 1883 to cede central and northern Đại
Nam to France as the protectorates of Tonkin and
Annam (Annam, as we have seen, was an artificial
entity, a Chinese name imposed onto what had
originally been the heartland of historic Cochin-
china).130 Only pressure from China forced the
French to settle for protectorates as opposed to
outright colonies. The Indochinese Union was
declared in 1887 and Laos, the last of the protect-
orates, was annexed six years later. But in an early
sign of the continued fragility of the union, the
French immediately suffered a violent setback
from a national insurgency called Cần Vương
(“Save the King”), which broke out across Viet-
nam and Cambodia between 1885 and 1897 to
place the child emperor Hàm Nghi (1872–1943)
on the throne of an independent Đại Nam. The
rebellion was a protracted but incohesive guerrilla
war that was only defeated when France dis-
patched a massive expeditionary corps of colonial
troops and exiled the emperor to Algeria (where,
ironically, he married a Frenchwoman).131 The
final land grab took place in 1907, when a large
part of southeastern Siam was “retroceded” to
French Cambodia, including the greatest ideo-
logical trophy of French Indochina, the ancient
ruins of Angkor Wat (see chapter 7). Throughout
its history, France’s colonial empire in Indochina
was also deeply unpopular with many Frenchmen
who saw it as an unnecessary expense and poten-
tially dangerous – in fact the main promoter of
the capture of Hanoi, Prime Minister Jules Ferry
(1832–1893), who was known derisively as “Ferry
le tonkinois,” was ousted in 1885 for his expansion-
ist views.132
Administering these conquests also proved
difficult. At no time in French Indochina’s ninety-
five-year history did France have a truly secure
hold on this patchwork of states, and the degree
of French influence differed dramatically between
regions. Only in the large cities such as Saigon
(the much-vaunted “Paris of the East”) and Hanoi
was the French presence dominant. The colonial
regime also suffered from the complexity of the
system of governance, which varied between
the different parts of the union. Cochinchina
was ruled by a governor but he was subservient
to the governor-general in Hanoi after it became
the capital in 1902; the governor-general was
also the administrator of Annam and Tonkin
(although each of them also had a résident-
supérieur); furthermore, every Annamese and
Tonkinese province also had both a French and
an indigenous chief.133 Meanwhile, the monarchy
and mandarin bureaucracy at Huế still officially
ruled, but in a very circumscribed and formalistic
way, with the imperial privy council subject to
the résident supérieur (see chapter 7). Cambodia
and Laos both had kings, again mere figureheads,
the real power resting with each protectorate’s
résident-supérieur. Turnover was also so rapid it
verged on anarchy: during the forty years between
1886 and 1926 Indochina had fifty-two different
governors-general; Cochinchina thirty-eight gov-
ernors; and Tonkin, Annam, and Cambodia had
thirty-one, thirty-two, and twenty-two résidents
supérieurs each; while Laos, in thirty years, had
seventeen.134 Even French colonists argued
among themselves: Cochinchina, as the richest
and oldest entity and only colony, resented the
Indochinese Union and the move of the capital
to Hanoi and they were constantly at loggerheads
with the governors-general.135 Such an adminis-
trative system and so much staff renewal did not
bode well for long-term infrastructure projects or
efficient rule. As Gwendolyn Wright remarks: “by
the 1890s […] Indochina was widely considered
the greatest failure in the French empire.”136
Nevertheless, with the arrival in 1897 of
Governor-General Paul Doumer (1857–1932)
Indochina’s colonial administration was strength-
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
ened through a reorganization of its finances,
bureaucracy, and cadastral system, taking away the
authority of the Vietnamese mandarinate and re-
ducing the emperor to a puppet figure who could
be (and was) removed and replaced as it pleased
the French.137 By 1900 the ratio of French officials
to indigenous persons in Indochina significantly
209
 outstripped that of British India and the Dutch
East Indies.138 Colonial officials applied a set of
policies of mise en valeur, of what they considered
to be “ethical intervention” that would develop
the colony and “bring it into the era of progress,”
often using architectural metaphors to describe
them.139 Beginning in 1906 serious attention was
paid to educational reform, with the opening
of franco-indigenous schools at multiple levels.
However, the curriculum was designed to legit-
imize colonialism and depict France as a civilizing
benefactor (the mission civilisatrice), and indigen-
ous youth were trained to take on poorly paid
secondary positions within the colonial system
rather than to join the establishment.140 One of
the educational system’s most insidious goals in
Vietnam was to root out the use of traditional
Chinese ideograms (chữ nôm), used by the man-
darin elite, and use only Latinized quốc ngữ and
French. It is symptomatic that the colony’s only
university, in Hanoi (1907), closed after only a
year for fear that educated “Annamites” would
become ambitious and critical of colonialism (it
reopened in 1917). Some Indochinese students
pursued higher education in Paris, but authorities
were afraid that they would learn the “wrong
things” and they were closely watched by the
sûreté – the French were quite right to worry as
many independence activists, including Ho Chi
Minh (1890–1969), studied in Paris.141 As late
as the 1930s, even after a policy of association or
rapprochement was adopted with the Vietnam-
the architecture of empire
ese and their cultural and social institutions (see
chapter 7), indigenous officials could still not rise
as far as Europeans in the civil service. This dis-
crimination also underlay architectural projects,
as we will see in the next two chapters: architects
were mostly European – often they were hired
in France and sometimes they never even left
France – as were most contractors. However, as
we will see in the next two chapters Cambodian
210
and Vietnamese architects, contractors, and artists
were involved, sometimes decisively, in major con-
struction projects – it was just that their involve-
ment was not discussed openly by French officials.
French economic interests also sidelined efforts
at social reform, and indigenous peasants and
workers suffered as their land and labour were
appropriated, particularly after the early 1920s.
Indochina had been largely an agricultural society
focused on village communities that combined
secular and spiritual functions (in Vietnam the
làng or làng xã), and the imposition of large,
European-style cities was detrimental to their way
of life.142 Indigenous people, as well as Chinese
and Indian “coolies,” were also ruthlessly ex-
ploited for labour in building projects, mines,
rubber plantations, rice fields, and other extract-
ive ventures that brought a quick profit to their
owners but destroyed the traditional agricultural
economy and ignored the long-term development
of the country or the betterment of its people.
One of the most successful exports was cheap
rice grown in Cochinchina, refined in Saigon
and Cholon, and sold on the Asian market. This
industry directed the regions’ historic staple away
from the peasantry and toward large Chinese- and
European-owned companies, and its mills drew
migrant workers from across the region, many
of whom did not find employment and joined
the growing ranks of disaffected urban poor.143
The authorities responded by creating institu-
tions to house or regulate them, whether prisons,
police posts, orphanages, clinics, or hospitals.
Doumer also imposed a costly infrastructure on
Indochina, especially roads, railways, bridges,
canals, and ports, which were meant to make it
easier to exploit the colony’s natural resources but
which were inefficient: the staggeringly expensive
1,000-mile-long Trans-Indochinese railway was an
unnecessary addition to a network of cheap water
and land trade routes, and his giant Pont Doumer
in Hanoi (1902) was over a mile long but too
narrow to accommodate more than a single lane
of traffic.144
We will see in the next chapter how the French
administration’s focus on prestige projects like
opera houses at the expense of drainage and other
essential services was characteristic of colonial
decision making at the time and reflective of
colonists’ priorities. More so than any other Euro-
pean colonial power at the time, France attempted
to recreate the homeland in their colonial cities,
with its cafés, opera houses, grand boulevards, and
cathedrals, acting as if Saigon or Hanoi were clean
slates instead of settlements that had been around
for centuries. American traveller Jasper Whiting,
whom we will meet again in the next chapter, put
it most succinctly in 1902: “When the French
start to colonize in a country they do not proceed
like the English to apply to the development of
the new land only such of their home customs as
seem suited to the new conditions, but they trans-
plant in toto the ways and means and manners of
the Mother Country to the new locality, rip up
everything native by the roots, and begin immedi-
ately to make a Colonial France, with a capital
laid out on the lines of what is in their eyes the
only perfect city: Paris.”145 The approach of the
French colonial government to its cities at the
turn of the century echoes some French colonies
of the ancien régime, particularly Antillean cities
such as Cap-François, with its grand theatre
(fig. 1.12), grid plan of streets, place royale, foun-
tains, obelisks, and Mansart-inspired church.146
It also has much in common with the outward
appearance of the buildings of eighteenth-century
Pondicherry before the fall – although in that
case, as we have seen, they were animated by
Mughal court ceremonial that is invisible to those
who peruse their plans and elevations. But as was
so often the case when French colonialists tried so
hard to project the perceived superiority of
French culture through architecture, the buildings
of Belle Époque Saigon, Hanoi, and Haiphong
compensated for a growing sense of uneasiness
about France’s position there.
DiêN kháNh cA 1793
211
6
semblance
Saigon and Hanoi ca 1900

When it had the opportunity to do so, France promoted its elite

culture with greater fervour than did any other colonial power:
indeed, since the seventeenth century the French state considered
culture to be an essential instrument of power. Nowhere was this
zeal more evident than in its sponsorship of French opera and
theatre and the monuments built to host them. Opera had been a
centrepiece of French colonialism since the 1680s, when it featured
in the Franco-Siamese embassies (see chapter 2). Monumental
theatres – financed by private and state funds alike – were also
the showpiece of prosperous colonies in French West Indies in the
eighteenth century, the largest of them the 1,200-seat Spectacle or
Comédie in Cap-François (1764) (fig. 1.12), which had a greater
capacity than the Grand Théâtre de Bordeaux (1780), and the
stately neoclassical Salle des Spectacles in Saint-Pierre, Martin-
ique (1786), which was so prominent atop its sweeping double
staircase – before its obliteration by an eruption in 1902 – that
sailors used it as a landmark. The former opened with Molière’s
The Misanthrope and mounted operas and plays shortly after their
premieres in Paris, and it boasted celebrity visitors of the calibre
of Prince William Henry, the future British king William IV
(r. 1830–37).1 The Salle des Spectacles, which closely resembled
its near contemporary, the Opéra de Marseille (1787), was the
largest theatre in the Lesser Antilles and it combined opera with
more patriotic fare, as in its 1788 season, which included Nicolas
6.1 Jean Bourduaud, Théâtre municipal, Haiphong
(Vietnam), ca 1896–1900.
Dalayrac’s swashbuckling Le corsaire (1783) – ap-
propriate for its Caribbean setting – and Mathieu
Blanc-Gilli’s La bienfaisance de Louis XVI (1783),
a stalwart celebration of the king’s clemency.2
In fact, the privileging of opera and classical
theatre, and their function as a way to entertain
and maintain order among colonists on one
hand and to impress European rivals and col-
onized peoples with the supposed superiority of
French culture on the other, is one of the most
significant continuities between the old and new
colonial empires in Asia, another ancien régime
ideology that was reinvented for modern times.
Two of France’s most famous opera composers
bookended this era of opera diplomacy and opera
colonialism. The first is Jean-Baptiste Lully, the
inventor of French opera, who personally escorted
Kosa Pan and the other Siamese envoys to his
operas Armide and Acis et Galatée during their
1687 visit to Paris and whose airs were played to
King Narai by a French violinist. Just over two
centuries later Camille Saint-Saëns (1835–1921),
at the height of his career and a seasoned traveller
fascinated by Asia, visited Saigon in 1894–95 as
a guest of the colonial government. His personal
preference for Chinese opera performances in the
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
neighbourhood of Cholon did not dissuade his
patriotic devotees from mounting his Samson and
Delilah (1877) during the Saigon opera house’s tri-
umphant opening season in 1900–01 (see below).3
Beginning in the mid-nineteenth century
the construction of municipal theatres – they
were opera houses in all but name since the term
“opéra” usually referred exclusively to the Paris
Opéra – became a standard feature of France’s
213
mission civilisatrice, particularly in Algeria and
Indochina. They first appeared under Napo-
leon III and reached their apogee in the Third
Republic, first with the lavishly appointed
Beaux-Arts style theatres in Algiers (1850–53),
Constantine (1861–83), and Oran (1906–07), and
then with the Indochinese theatres of Haiphong
(ca 1896–1900) (fig. 6.1), Saigon (1898–1900)
(fig. 6.2), and Hanoi (1901–14) (fig. 6.3) – the
latter three too large for the European population
and given priority over more desperately needed
public works projects such as drainage, sanitation,
and public transportation.4 Albert Camus (1913–
1960) highlights the frivolity of these buildings
by setting one of the most consequential scenes in
The Plague (1947) in the Municipal Opera House
in Oran: the lead singer falls dead in the middle
of Gluck’s Orpheus, serving as a metaphor for
the pointlessness of social pretense and the “toys
of luxury” in a time of pestilence.5 Playwright
Eugène Brieux (1858–1932) characterized this era
of hubris in Indochina as one suffering from a
“folly of grandeur,” and few commentators have
failed to ask why such ostentatious buildings were
built in such a young and unstable colony.6 There
was certainly no equivalent in the Dutch, British,
or Spanish colonies – the Dutch and Spanish
expected ticket sales to pay for theatre buildings
in Java and the Philippines, and the British in
India and Burma were decidedly lukewarm about
opera or elite theatre, proud as they were of being
philistine and suspicious of something that was
too intellectual or “clever.”7
In Indochina opera houses were the secular
Third Republic’s equivalent to the monumental
6.2 (oppoSiTe Top ) Eugène Ferret, Félix-Louis-Jean-
Marie Ollivier, Ernest-Amédé Guichard, and others,
Théâtre de Saigon, Saigon, 1898–1900.
6.3 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Victorin Harlay, Jean Bossard,
and François Lagisquet, Théâtre municipal, Hanoi,
1901–14.
churches built by early modern French religious
orders in Siam and Saint-Domingue and by Span-
ish and Portuguese missionaries across the globe;
France’s program of promoting secular civilization
was as ardent as any evangelist’s propagation of
the faith.8 In fact the urge to replicate metropol-
itan secular buildings epitomized by the opera
houses was uncannily similar to the medieval
and early modern practice of building simulacra
of Christian pilgrimage shrines across Europe
and Latin America, whether the Church of the
Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the Holy House of
Loreto, or the Gnadenkapelle at Altötting.9 These
replicas of paradigmatic Parisian monuments in
Indochina were uniquely characteristic of the
decades before the First World War, during the
so-called Belle Époque (1890–1914), and they in-
cluded much more than opera houses. Such were
the Saigon Hôtel de Ville (1907, by Paul Gardès;
fig. 6.4), based on its Parisian prototype by
Théodore Ballu and Édouard Deperthes (1873–
92; fig. 6.5), or the Hôtel des Postes in the same
city (1891, by Alfred Foulhoux and Henri Vildieu;
fig. 6.6), which I have traced to Jean-Marie-Victor
Viel’s Palais de l’Industrie, the centrepiece of
Paris’s first Exposition universelle in 1855 (fig. 6.7).
This desire to make Saigon into “la métropole
sous les tropiques” reflects the racist sentiments
of French scholar Jean Bouchet, who wrote in
1904 that “It is desirable […] that the European
city should be as homogeneous as possible to
avoid these constructions in a style that we call
métis.”10 Nevertheless, like the Pondicherry
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
Gouvernement, these vainglorious buildings were
more a sign of vulnerability than one of strength,
their grandeur inversely proportional to France’s
authority in Indochina. One significant difference
between the opera houses in this chapter and the
buildings discussed in previous chapters is that
the former were commissioned by municipalities
and not by the government or the cio (which
was liquidated in 1794), although the government
215
6.4 (oppoSiTe Top )
Paul Gardès, Hôtel de
Ville, Saigon, 1907.

6.5 (oppoSiTe BoTTom )

Théodore Ballu and
Édouard Deperthes,
Hôtel de Ville, Paris,
1873–92.

6.6 (Top righT )

Alfred Foulhoux and
Henri Vildieu, Hôtel des
Postes, Saigon, 1891.

6.7 (BoTTom righT )

Jean-Marie-Victor Viel,
Palais de l’Industrie,
Paris, 1855. Demolished
1897. Photograph
ca 1860 by Édouard
Baldus. Albumen silver
print, 21.6 × 27.9 cm.
Metropolitan Museum of
Art, New York.
 helped finance them. This is not to say that the
government did not enthusiastically participate
in the campaign to project French grandeur
through metropolitan styles, most notably in the
neo-Renaissance Palais du Gouverneur Général in
Hanoi (1900–06) by Beaux-Arts laureate Charles
Lichtenfelder (1857–1938), a locksmith’s son from
Strasbourg (figs. 6.8–9).11 Situated dramatic-
ally on the edge of the city in a park next to the
6.8 Charles Lichtenfelder, Palais du Gouverneur Général,
Hanoi, 1900–06.
6.9 (oppoSiTe ) Charles Lichtenfelder, Palace of the
Governor General at Hanoi: Plan of the Ground Floor,
ca 1895. Ink and wash on paper. 34 × 45 cm. ANom .
the architecture of empire
218
botanic garden in what was to be the nucleus of
the administrative centre of Hanoi, this gargan-
tuan four-storey block, the successor to the Palais
du Gouvernement Général in Saigon (fig. 1.6), re-
calls the larger French Renaissance palaces such as
the Château Ancy-le-Franc (Yonne, ca 1544–50)
with its severe massing and tower-like projections
at the ends.12 Like the Pondicherry Gouverne-
ment and Palais du Gouvernement Général in
Saigon, although more modest than both, the
Hanoi palace was designed for maximum dis-
play and lavish events, with sweeping staircases,
grand vestibules with mosaic star patterns on the
floor, a 205-square-metre oval ballroom at the
centre, and an opulent 282-square-metre dining
 room that took up the entire right wing on the
ground floor.13
These projects were criticized even before they
were built, particularly as they were overloaded
with ornament in a style that was already going
out of fashion by the time they were completed
and because architects made few concessions to
the local climate. Such concerns were raised early
on by the Colonial Public Works Committee
of the Ministry of Colonies, for example when
examining plans for the Saigon Hôtel de Ville
(fig. 6.4) in 1899:
The overall architectural and detailed
arrangements of the town hall give rise to
criticism from the Commission, which
considers that the decoration is too con-
cerned with effect and creates complications
of questionable taste that are not consistent
with the materials used, bricks & plaster […]
If we were to adhere to the planned budget,
we would have to design a much more sober
monument; this could moreover be ob-
tained without harming the appearance of
the monument to which the chosen archi-
tectural character is not suitable.14
The committee was similarly frustrated with
Lichtenfelder’s larger and more ostentatious
earlier project (1895) for the Palais du Gouverneur
Général in Hanoi, which would have cost about
78 per cent of that of its predecessor in Saigon.
the architecture of empire
Henri Deglane (1855–1931), architect of the
Grand Palais in Paris, commented: “From an
artistic point of view, the proposed constructions
generally seem to have been designed to be built
in any city in the Métropole, with an excessive
overload of mouldings and ornamentation; it is
regrettable that the climatic and technical condi-
tions particular to the region did not inspire the
creation of a kind of local style less like that of
equivalent buildings in our countries.”15
220
Colonial administrators in Third Republic
Indochina attributed almost thaumaturgic powers
to Indochina’s theatres: they were meant to con-
firm the colony’s allegiance to France, provide a
prestige activity for white elites, improve morals
and morale (especially homesickness), cure the
rampant boredom that plagued colonial society,
and demonstrate French cultural hegemony over
the Vietnamese elites, whom they hoped would
mingle with the colonists and learn to appreci-
ate European opera and theatre.16 In 1873 the
commission for the Saigon theatre noted that in
France “the theatre was not only one of the most
useful distractions offered to the population of a
city but also a powerful remedy to habits and un-
healthy practices.”17 It was also seen as a means for
“improving” the bourgeoisie. Architect Charles
Garnier himself had written about his Paris Opéra
(1861–75) (fig. 6.10) that “the spectators who
enter into it undergo a sort of moral impression
from which they cannot distance themselves
completely. They feel themselves surrounded,
encompassed, by a sort of elegant atmosphere that
influences their thoughts, their character, even
their speech and their bearing; they sense instinct-
ively that a certain dignity is appropriate, and that
to let themselves go too much would be unsuit-
able.”18 Had Garnier been asked his opinion about
the Saigon project he certainly would have been
concerned only with its impact on the colons:
Garnier had only contempt for the “yellow” races
of East Asia, and believed that of the races of the
world “only the white family had worked on the
historic development of civilisation.”19
The Saigon commission maintained that the
need for a theatre was even more urgent in the
colonies: “if the municipalities of France consider
it a duty to include a similar expense in their
budget, how should we consider it here, gentle-
men, where the lack of distractions, idleness and
boredom that result end up inevitably driving
people around the gaming tables which seem
6.10 Charles Garnier, Opéra, Paris, 1861–75.
to have multiplied for some time in Saigon?”20
However, as studies of colonial opera and theatre
demonstrate, these buildings impressed only
the French (and by no means all of them): the
Vietnamese and Chinese were largely oblivious
to these imported art forms – significantly they
referred to the Hanoi building as the “Western
Theatre” rather than the “Municipal Theatre” –
persisting, like Saint-Saëns, in visiting Chinese
operas and traditional puppet shows.21 As meLê
yamono comments: “[o]pera in French Vietnam
strengthened the imperial ambitions of the col-
onisers, while alienating the indigenous commun-
ity from its cultural practice.”22
French municipalities also failed to impress
rival Europeans with these buildings. Such
visitors, particularly anglophones, were decidedly
unenthusiastic about the pretensions of Indo-
china’s French architecture, even if most were
astonished by its physical resemblance to that
of France. Writing in 1902, American journalist
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
Jasper Whiting compared Saigon to “one of the
smaller provincial capitals of La Belle France”
and “Paris on a small scale,” with “a miniature
Champs Élysées, a miniature Bois de Boulogne,
and a miniature Avenue de l’Opéra […] a twin-
spired cathedral, the Notre Dame of the city, and
a beautiful Opera House, of which every resident
is justly proud.”23 William Somerset Maugham
(1922) also likened the city to “a little provincial
town in the South of France,” with “an opera
221
 house white and shining, built in the flamboyant
style of the Third Republic, which faces a broad
avenue, and […] a Hotel de Ville which is very
grand, new and ornate.”24 Norman Lewis (1951)
was less complimentary: “It is as sensible to call
it – as is usually done – the Paris of the Far East
as it would be to call Kingston, Jamaica, the
Oxford of the West Indies,” and likened Saigon
instead to “a pleasant, colourless and characterless
French provincial city, squeezed on to a strip of
delta-land in the South China Seas … The better
part of the city contains many shops, cafés and
cinemas, and one small, plain cathedral in red
brick. Twenty thousand Europeans keep as much
as possible to themselves in a few tamarind-shaded
central streets and they are surrounded by about
a million Vietnamese and Chinese.”25 Graham
Greene, writing four years later, was even more
dismissive of the city’s architecture, singling out
its “hideous pink cathedral” (fig. 9.14).26
However Osbert Sitwell (1939) best captured
the theme-park atmosphere of the place: “[i]n
Paris, the Colonial Exhibition had but recently
finished, and the general effect of Saigon was
that it had been constructed as its antithesis;
a French Imperial Exhibition arranged for the
Colonies, or, even, something larger and more
important, a Western Exhibition organized for
the benefit of the peoples of the Extreme East.”27
He went on, with great perspicacity, to describe
the buildings as representing two styles which
“plainly derive from those that had dominated
the architecture of empire
the two great Paris Exhibitions of 1900 and 1925.”
He continued:
To the first period belong, as a rule, the pub-
lic buildings, ticketed all over in gold letters
with the three world-famous tags of the Third
Republic. Such, for instance, is the Post Office
[…] Again, such an important Art-Nouveau
item as the Hôtel-de-Ville belongs to it;
222
an edifice boasting balconies which curve
backward and forward into the tropical air in
a most coquettish way, supported by enor-
mous plaster caryatides, a hundred times the
size of human beings, smiling very roguishly
but looking singularly out of place in an
atmosphere that bathes every vast cheek and
nostril in a harsh and mocking light. The
second period, on the other hand, Les Arts
Décoratifs of 1925, claims the streets of low,
marble-fronted shops, with their curved plate-
glass windows, fashioned so as to look invis-
ible, and their slick, chic, simple interiors.28
He continued, “the theatre, the Palace, the streets
of shops, the Post Office – might disappear in
an instant; an order might come at any minute,
it seemed, for the Exhibition (which could not
now be counted as altogether a financial success)
to be wound up, and for the gay, exotic exhib-
its – and those responsible for them – to be
packed immediately and sent home.”29 Indeed, as
already noted, the Saigon post office was directly
derived from a building at the 1855 exposition,
and the Saigon opera house was modelled after
the Petit Palais (1897–1900, by Charles Girault)
(fig. 6.11) at the 1900 exposition, the fair specific-
ally mentioned by Sitwell. Saigon’s Belle Époque
buildings were the mirror equivalent to the mini-
ature replicas of Indochinese gates, temples, and
shophouses in the Marseille Exposition Coloniale
of 1906 or the Angkor Wat replica in the 1931
Exposition Coloniale Internationale in Paris.30 In
fact the link goes deeper, as Foulhoux and Vildieu
designed, respectively, the Pavilion of Cochin-
china and the Pavilion of Annam and Tonkin
at the 1889 Universal Exposition, and Vildieu was
the architect of the Indochinese pavilion in the
1906 Exposition.31 An extraordinary number of
the architects in French Indochina designed
or executed pavilions at universal expositions in
6.11 Charles Girault, Petit
Palais, Paris, 1897–1900.
Europe, and the pavilions, in turn, had a profound
effect on architecture in Indochina, a theme that
will be taken up in greater detail in the following
two chapters.
This chapter will consider the two most em-
blematic of these Belle Époque monuments in
Indochina: the opera houses or “théâtres muni-
cipaux” of Saigon (fig. 6.2) and Hanoi (fig. 6.3),
the latter a scaled-down replica of Garnier’s Paris
Opéra (1861–75) (fig. 6.10). Although they are
the most famous colonial buildings in Indochina
very little has been written about them as works
of architecture, particularly their construction
history, and most of their architects are known
by surname only. By contrast, opera in Third
Republic Indochina has garnered considerable
attention from musicologists, who provide insight
into the motives and ideologies that drove the
young colony to invest so much money into these
seemingly superfluous monuments.32 Ironically,
by the time the Saigon and Hanoi opera houses
were built French grand opera had been in decline
for nearly three decades, having lost ground
to Germany and Italy, particularly to Richard
Wagner (1813–1883), Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901),
and Giacomo Puccini (1858–1924), and the
reputation of their greatest living practitioners,
Saint-Saëns or Jules Massenet (1842–1912), was
on the wane. French opera no longer had the
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
reputation it enjoyed in its heyday between 1830
and 1870 – not to mention in the age of Lully and
André Cardinal Destouches, when France was at
the cutting edge of the art form. Even in France,
opera had lost its political edge as a “tool of the
state.”33 Louis XIV had used opera as a “political
occasion to display himself to his subjects and to
receive their homage both through prologues in
the works and by the audience’s applause,” but in
223
 nineteenth-century France opera engaged equally
with national political culture and those who
opposed it.
Buildings to accommodate opera were not the
only drain on colonial finances: organizing opera
and theatre seasons and importing troupes from
France were so expensive that municipalities such
as Hanoi and Haiphong kept trying (unsuccess-
fully) to get the Tonkin Protectorate to pay for
them.34 One problem was that colonial cities
insisted on bringing opera companies from France
and refused to hire singers and musicians from
Indochina – even French ones – not to mention
the many itinerant troupes who toured the rest
of Southeast Asia, serving theatres in the Dutch,
Spanish, and American colonies (the Philippines
after 1898). Although the troupes were small
compared with their metropolitan equivalents –
in 1900 the average company had about thirty
performers and a chamber “orchestra” of five to
twelve musicians – the travel costs for the musi-
cians and their instruments were formidable, and
theatres also had to pay for set designers, costume
makers, and publicity departments.35 Most
troupes were formed of second-tier performers
from places like Lyon or Marseille as the month-
long voyage did not appeal to artistes who could
make a living in Paris. French Indochina created
“Commissions théâtrales” to oversee program-
ming during the typically six-month season.36
Although the Saigon, Haiphong, and Hanoi
opera houses were built as temples to high
the architecture of empire
culture, the performances that they hosted were
mostly the kind of lighter fare that appealed to
colonists, most of whom were from the lower
bourgeoisie or the military: works such as oper-
ettas, opéra-bouffes, opéra-comiques (all with
speaking parts), vaudeville comedies, and popular
theatre. The opening season at the Saigon opera
house (1900–01) highlighted La navarraise
(1894) and Werther (1892) by Massenet, who
224
was not only considered one of France’s most
important opera composers but also one whose
frequent use of “exotic” subjects was paradigmatic
of France’s romantic interest in non-European
peoples fuelled by colonialism – such a work by
Saint-Saëns (Samson and Delilah) was also on
the program as I have just noted.37 The opening
season, most of which featured operas that were
decades out of date, also included Gounod’s
Faust (1859), Léo Delibes’s Indian fantasy Lakmé
(1883), and George Bizet’s Carmen (1875), as well
as Wagner’s Lohengrin (1850) and Franco Faccio’s
Hamlet (1865).38 The second season (1901–02)
reprised Lakmé, gave the Saigon premieres of
Massenet’s Thaïs (1894) and Sapho (1896) as
well as opéra-bouffes (including another Orient-
alist piece, Le Grand Mogol, 1877, by Edmond
Audran), opéra-comiques, vaudeville comedies,
and plays.39 Theatregoers could replicate an
evening out in Paris, complete with dinner at
the restaurant “de tout premier ordre” at the
Grand Café Hôtel Catinat with its “chef cuisinier
français” and its “soupers de nuit” in the four pri-
vate pavilions in the hotel garden.40 The social life
revolving around opera performances served to
“celebrate French aesthetic refinement and taste,
representing Gallic culture as the ideal to which
other societies aspired. In this way, the physical
presence of theatre buildings in combination with
the less tangible performances of opera within
embodied the glorious past of the metropole and
the triumphant future of the empire.”41 Writing
in 1906, Joseph Ferrière boasted that the Saigon
opera house’s performances “rank it at the level of
the best provincial stages in France.”42
Théâtre de Saigon (1898–1900)
The Théâtre de Saigon (fig. 6.2) was the most cele-
brated of the colony’s three theatres, contempor-
ary with that of Haiphong (fig. 6.1) and followed
6.12 Léon Feuchéres and
others, Théâtre municipal,
Toulon, 1860–62.
by the larger theatre at Hanoi (fig. 6.3). Paradox-
ically for such a famous building, the scholarship
has largely ignored it as a work of architecture and
cannot even agree about its size or the names of
its architects. Although the building is a central
part of her thesis that the “Folly of Grandeur”
characterized the first generation of architectural
commissions in Indochina, Wright devotes two
sentences to it and attributes it to “Joseph-Victor
Guichard” (his name was Ernest-Amédeé Gui-
chard, 1869–1953), whom she calls a “resident
architect,” whereas in reality he was the third
architect to work on the project and was brought
in from Paris.43 Nicola Cooper similarly illus-
trates the building as the quintessential symbol of
France’s early policy of “hegemonic and universal-
izing policy of assimilation,” but does not discuss
it, nor does she identify any of its architects.44
Arnaud Le Brusq, who has written most percep-
tively about these buildings, nevertheless writes
that Félix-Louis-Jean-Marie Ollivier (1863–1947),
Guichard, and Eugène-Alexandre-Nicolas Ferret
(1851–1936) won the competition jointly, when
in fact only Ferret was given the commission and
then subcontracted the decorative sculpture to
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
Ollivier; Guichard joined the project only in 1899
and only as a replacement for Ferret.45 I have had
to seek their histories in numerous Parisian and
provincial archives from Orléans to Cambrai.
Although operas had been performed in dif-
ferent venues beginning in the 1860s, the decision
to build a permanent theatre in Saigon dates
from a 1873 meeting of the city’s Commission du
Théâtre, which declared that “in France no city of
225
 the importance of Saigon does not have a theatre
subsidized by its municipality; even many who are
far from having a budget like ours make sacrifices
to support their theatrical troupe.”46 Indeed at
this very moment provincial cities across France
were madly commissioning Beaux-Arts style opera
houses inspired by Garnier’s Opéra: “any city
worthy of the name dreams of building a replica,
even a miniature, of the Opéra.”47 Such were the
theatres at Toulon (1860–62) (fig. 6.12), Lyon
(1873–77), and Montpellier (1882–89). Although
no one denied that it would be ideal for Saigon
to have its own theatre, the city still lacked the
funds to build one (estimated at over one million
francs) and they housed the theatre in the existing
École municipal instead. By 1879, when the city
was renting a theatre for 150 piastres a month,
they set up a lottery to pay for a new building that
would host not only performances but committee
meetings and other public events.48
In 1884 Henri Crapoix, inspector of municipal
buildings, submitted a proposal for a new theatre
but the commission could not agree about its
location.49 The city managed to build something
in time for the 1889 Exposition Internationale in
Paris, for which the commemorative volume, pub-
lished as part of Les colonies françaises, described it
as being “lightly constructed” but “quite elegant;
it is built in such a way as to allow as much air as
possible to circulate around the spectators, which
is essential in a country where, even in winter, the
temperature is very high,” and in a remark tinged
the architecture of empire
with homesickness that “the productions repre-
sented are, in general mounted with care and it is
difficult to believe oneself to be so far away when
one attends the performance of pieces which have
been most successful in France.”50 However even
this optimistic report could not avoid mentioning
the reality that made the opera project in Indo-
china so marginally important: “the natives, even
those who understand French, have little taste for
226
our theatre; they prefer the Chinese theatre to it,
or, better still, the traveling Annamese theatres
which circulate in the country and delight the
inhabitants.” As Michael McClellan notes, “the
theatre offered a constant reminder of the short-
comings of colonial life and cast doubts on official
justifications for the French presence in Vietnam.
The size, location, function, and opulence of the
building heralded the power of empire, but its
irregular use and mediocre performances in
combination with a lack of Vietnamese interest
discredited it as an emblem of authority.”51
In December 1893 the municipality settled
upon the location for the present theatre, on
boulevard Bonard between rue Catinat and rue
Nationale (later rue Paul Blanchy), and on 20
November 1894 the Commission des Grands
Travaux approved the preliminary program for
the architectural competition, agreeing to pay the
winner 6 per cent of the expenses of the theatre
or a fee of 5,000 francs.52 Urban planner Ernest
Hébrard later expressed his disapproval with the
site because it blocked off the widest boulevard
in the city, although planners placed it there
precisely to give the facade a dramatic approach
similar to that of the Avenue de l’Opéra in Paris,
enriching its mimetic impact (in fact the square
in front was named Place Garnier and its centre-
piece was a sculpture of the architect) (fig. 6.13).
The boulevard was also built over a filled-in canal,
which meant that the theatre required six-metre-
high piles around the perimeter of the walls to
support its foundation.53 On 29 July 1895 a jury
chaired by the mayor and formed of members of
the city, military, and chamber of commerce met
to vote on four pseudonymous projects that had
been submitted for the concours: the winner,
“Parisaï,” designed by Ferret; “Soeur Anne,”
second place, by Antoine Genet (1867–1943),
a graduate of the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris;
“Age quod Agis” (“come as you are”), third
6.13 Map of Saigon from 1943 showing location of
Théâtre de Saigon (92). The post office is “33,” the
Cathedral is “35,” the Palais du Gouverneur-Général is
“44,” and the Hôtel de Ville is “52.” From André Baudrit,
Guide historique des rues de Saigon (Saigon, 1943).
Collection of the author.
place, by Louis-Constantin Bergé (1850–1929),
a municipal architect; and “Suum cuique” (“to
each his own”), which did not place and was not
attributed.54 The fourth architect may have been
Georges-André Audouin (1860–1920), a French-
trained, Algeria-based architect, who submitted a
227
 portfolio of “Plans et vues du théâtre de Saïgon”
to an exhibit of “Architecture, Matériel et Access-
oires du Théâtre” in the 1896 Exposition théâtre et
de la musique in Paris, which has since vanished.55
At the end of August Ferret was asked to make
amendments to his plans. The theatre was to be
enlarged by 10 per cent, and changes were to
be made in the materials of the floors, seats, and
lavatories, as well as the dimensions of the seats.56
Wooden floors were to be replaced with mosaics
or cement tiles, the balcony and orchestra seating
was to be made partly or completely of walnut
and the seats and backrests of cane with a tilting
mechanism. Later it was decided to use imported
teak and a native wood called bois de Sao instead
to ensure durability in the climate.57 The balcony
seating was to be increased by a row. The materials
in the lavatories ranged from marble in the loges
to ceramic tiles in the principals’ dressing rooms
and enamelled cast iron in the room for extra
cast members.
Racial purity lay at the very foundation of
the Saigon opera house project, which expressly
forbade the use of “entrepreneurs asiatiques” in its
construction: nothing more clearly signalled that
this was to be a French building, a transplant from
Paris, and a monument to cultural hegemony.58
Even Saigon’s Palais du Gouvernement Général
(see chapter 1) had not been as strict: although
it imported its decor from France, it enlisted
local and foreign builders such as Chinese work
crews from Hong Kong (fig. 1.6). The contracts
the architecture of empire
of the Saigon theatre were given to companies
run by French colons in four lots: (1) earthworks,
piles, masonry, wood, and iron work; (2) car-
pentry, locksmithing; (3) roofing and plumbing;
and (4) painting and glazing. Ferret hired the
chief sculptor and ornamental sculptor directly
although his choices were vetted by the municip-
ality because, despite the interest “the City may
have in entrusting the execution of works of art to
228
artists of great talent,” great talent came at a cost.59
On 5 November 1895 Ferret announced the selec-
tion of Paris-based Ollivier, an architecte diplômé
du Gouvernement and a former member of the
service of the Bâtiments civils de l’État, as his “col-
laborator and […] correspondent in Paris.”60
Some newspaper reports and unpublished
documents from the 1920s and ’30s claim that
Ollivier had been the chief architect of the
Théâtre de Saigon, implying that Ferret was
simply the executing architect. An article in the
Parisian paper L’Évènement (16 November 1895)
writes that “the architect, M. Félix Ollivier, has
as his collaborator M. Eugène Ferret, engineer in
Saigon: the sculptural part is due to the sculptor
Dolivet.”61 Ollivier was a more established archi-
tect and graduate of the École des Beaux-Arts
(unlike Ferret, see below) and he had friends in
high places. A 1937 typewritten document in his
dossier at the Legion of Honour claims that the
Théâtre municipal of Saigon was “built according
to his plans.”62 A letter by Ollivier in the same
dossier (4 May 1927) maintains that “I was in
1897–1898 the corresponding Architect of the
City of Saigon (French Cochinchina) for the
works of the new Municipal Theatre which were
executed according to my plans and under my
direction as: ornamental sculpture and statuary,
decorative painting, machinery, decor, while
Mr. Paul doumer was Governor of Indo-
china.”63 Here the meaning is more ambiguous,
as he suggests that the plans were all his own but
then only specifically mentions the sculpture,
decoration, and machinery for which he was hired
by Ferret. The unambiguous references to Ferret’s
role in the municipal minutes leave no doubt that
he was in charge and the building his invention.
Ferret assembled the construction team in
1897, beginning in January with Graf de Lailhacar
& Cie., specialists in iron trusswork with offices
on 65 rue Catinat in Saigon, as well as Paris and
6.14 Théâtre de Saigon with its original relief carvings
and sculpture, 1910. Postcard, collotype, 9 × 14 cm. New
York Public Library.
Phnom Penh.64 In February the Parisian artists
were chosen, most of whom would never visit
Saigon.65 Emmanuel Dolivet (1854–1910), a
“sculpteur-statuaire” living on 115 rue de Vaugirard
was placed in charge of “[sculptural] groups
for the principal façade, caryatids” for 11,720
francs, with a price for packing and transporta-
tion estimated at 2,500 francs and for the ma-
quette at 300 francs (fig. 6.14). Another team of
“sculpteurs-ornemanistes,” Messieurs Roy-Renaud
& Cie. of 10 rue de la Quintinie, was hired for
an advance of 20,000 francs, presumably under
Dolivet’s or Ollivier’s supervision, and three
sculptors from that firm were to visit Saigon to
direct works on site. Eugène Carpezat (1833–
1912), resident at 50 boulevard de la Villette, was
hired as “peintre-décorateur” to execute paintings
for the decoration of the auditorium, foyer, and
the elite boxes. These included tempera paint-
ings for the lambrequin (a fixed decorative frieze
in front of the proscenium), the stage curtain,
mobile draperies, and the canvas paintings to be
affixed to the interior by a painter to be sent from
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
Paris, all for just over 38,931 francs. Like Dolivet,
Carpezat prepared presentation maquettes for
the committee’s approval. Delphin Amable (b.
1846), residing at 9 rue Lauzin, was responsible
for the set designs, for which he was paid 103,924
francs. In August 1898 Carpezat, Amable, and the
Opéra’s chief machinist, M. Bruder, refused to
continue working except under direct supervision
from an employee of the Saigon municipality who
229
 could forward the required technical and site in-
formation, and this role was given to Ollivier, who
thus acquired more prominence in the project as
“architecte représentant la ville de Saigon à Paris”
and a salary increase of 2½ per cent.66
When the Paris team was hired the Saigon
mayor believed that the work could be completed
within 16 or 18 months. However, during a
meeting in Paris in June 1899, officials complained
that they could not judge the progress of the
building (which was supposed to open in
October) and whether the 1,019,700-franc price
tag was sufficient. Civil engineer Ernest Pontzen
(b. 1838), member of the Comité de l’exploitation
technique des chemins de fer, complained that
the cost was exorbitant given how few Europeans
lived in Saigon. Nevertheless Deglane, who, as
well as being the architect of the Grand Palais
in Paris, was a member of the Conseil des
bâtiments civils, and Ernest Roume (1858–1941),
director of political and commercial affairs in the
Department of the Colonies and later governor-
general of Senegal, both urged that the opera
go ahead as planned because Saigon’s prestige
demanded a showpiece building and that it was
well adapted to the climate.67 The minutes record
the discussion:
As far as [Mr Ponzen] is concerned, he
maintains that the theatre, which will not be
frequented by the natives, is far too large in
view of the European population of Saigon.
the architecture of empire
The budget for the whole & in detail, which
would be very suitable in a large provincial
theatre, takes no account of the climatic &
local conditions of the Colony. Mr. Roume
pointed out that Saigon is a big & beautiful
city & that the number of Europeans who
live there or are passing through justifies the
construction of a large European theatre.
Mr. Deglane indicates that the amount of air
230
per spectator is about twice that of theatres
in France; ventilation is well ensured: we
have therefore considered the special condi-
tions of the Saigon climate. The Chairman,
summing up the discussion, proposed that
the Committee state the opinion that the
budget attached to the file does not make
it possible to determine whether the sum
provided will be sufficient to complete a
monument of which its progress is not
even indicated. The Committee adopted
this resolution.68
By the time this meeting was held Ferret had
already returned to Paris, perhaps because he was
tired of the budgetary squabbling or the Sisy-
phean task of coordinating the Paris designers and
Saigon work crew. Guichard took over as the pro-
ject’s new chief architect in Saigon the same year.
However, Guichard was far from satisfied
with the arrangements. He did not believe that
the October 1899 deadline was feasible given the
delays in the arrival of the machinery and decor-
ations from Paris, and he negotiated an exten-
sion of his contract to 1 April 1900. He also
complained that he was not being paid enough,
and among his many requests was first-class
travel back to Paris (he had travelled to Saigon
in second class): “according to the established
practices in all nations the architect earns a salary
relative to the importance of the building being
constructed. In the present instance, Mr. ferret
had been granted fees of 6% on the amount of the
work, which would have made a sum of 132,000
francs in fees while the total salary I have received
since the day you appointed me to supervise the
work amounts to 27,400 francs, that is to say a
difference of 104,000 francs. Believing that I have
deserved your trust through my work and my zeal,
I hope that this will be favourably received.”69 The
Commission granted Guichard’s request for the
extension until April and his higher salary, as well
as his first-class passage to Paris because he “has
without a doubt directed the works of the new
theatre well,” but he was only given a 15,000-franc
indemnity to make up the difference with Ferret’s
percentage (architects were customarily paid
a percentage of the cost of the project).70 City
officials were pleased with Guichet’s gifts as a
supervisor because, as Monsieur Rivière noted,
“there has not been a single accident on the work
site of much importance.” Nevertheless, four
months later the project was in trouble again,
and on 22 February 1900 all work was suspended
because of a delayed loan.71
At long last the Saigon Theatre opened its
doors on 14 December 1900, one year and two
months late but to the general acclamation of the
local and international press. Le Figaro exclaimed:
A première in Saigon! At the new Saigon
Theatre, a marvel of architecture inaug-
urated this year, the first performance of
la Navarraise, the poignant lyric drama of
Massenet, was given some days ago. Enor-
mous success. Our brave soldiers, returning
from the campaign in China, thus con-
tacted a little of France by enthusiastically
applauding the master’s work. Everyone in
Saigon warmly congratulates the directors
of the new theatre, MM. Aristide Boyer and
Baroche, who were able to make the capital
of Cochinchina a true centre of art [...]
4,000 leagues from Paris.72
One wonders what these battle-weary soldiers
really thought about sitting through a grand opera
in the stifling heat. Writing six years later another
commentator declared: “the monument is very
beautiful, indeed almost sumptuous, and skilfully
fitted out for the needs of the theatre art in cli-
matic conditions which are hardly compatible at
this latitude close to the equator.”73 The opening
was attended by mayor Paul Blanchy (1837–1901)
and Prince Valdemar of Denmark (1858–1939),
who had been doing business in Siam and Indo-
china on behalf of the newly founded Danish East
Asiatic Company.74 However, not everyone was
in a celebratory mood and a chorus of criticism
was not long in coming. French politician Joseph
Chailley-Bert (1854–1928), founder of the French
Colonial Union, complained about the expense
of maintaining the opera seasons: “It may be
worth looking, after the revenue budgets, at the
expense budgets. Some of these expenses can
hardly be approved: for example, in the budget of
Cochinchina, an annual subsidy of 83,333 piastres
for the theatre of Saigon, (after one has already
spent a huge sum, more than a million, on the
construction of the theatre itself ). This is inexcus-
able, when one thinks that this same Saigon lacks
essential equipment in the large ports.”75 Writing
in December 1902 Le Temps aimed its barbs at the
pretentiousness of the theatre’s audiences:
These white men from a democratic France
become aristocrats in a colony, a striking
phenomenon: they all consider themselves
equal among themselves, as belonging to the
superior race. In Europe there were class div-
isions among them. In the colony, there are
none. And even the simple white linen suit
that they all wear, and that the climate im-
poses on them, symbolizes this levelling. Go
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
in the evening to the Saigon theatre. This
ingenuous brilliance of white canvas extends
from the orchestra seats to the second bal-
cony, and the lieutenant-governor is dressed
no differently than the most modest of his
subordinates […] The spectacle takes its
beauty not only from the light which plays
in the folds of these uniform clothes and
the rather proud faces of all these men, but
231
 especially from this deep feeling of egalitar-
ian pride which reigns. Only it is an equality
between members of the same caste, and not
that which is written in the Declaration of
the Rights of Man.76
In a similar vein, the Colonial Council’s special
meeting of 10 December 1903 acknowledged
the beauty of the public building projects but
questioned the municipality’s priorities: “the
municipality has done a lot so far for the beauti-
fication of the city of Saigon, for its streets, its
boulevards, its gardens and its monuments. The
Saigon Theatre is a building renowned through-
out the Far East. Now we are building a town hall
which would not disgrace a large city in Europe.
Finally, the Municipality is concerned with the
reconstruction of its halls and markets. On the
other hand, hygiene issues were neglected, and we
did not start with the most urgent works.”77 The
French Colonial Union criticized the municipal-
ity’s “lavish spending of which the Saigon theatre
is the most characteristic example,” observing
that colonial councillors placed these “assaults of
prodigality […] onto the back of the indigenous
taxpayer, for the benefit of the civil servants who
made up the great majority of the electoral body,”
and that in “these campaigns of generosity […]
the colonial councillors did not always forget [to
benefit] themselves.”78
As noted, the Saigon theatre’s design does not
derive from an opera house but from Girault’s
the architecture of empire
Petit Palais for the 1900 Exposition, of which it
is an exact contemporary (fig. 6.11).79 The Petit
Palais was more fashionable than the by now
elderly Opéra and the Saigon theatre opened a
mere month after the Exposition’s closing in Paris.
Ferret would go on to build one of the pavilions
at the Exposition after leaving the Saigon pro-
ject (see below), and perhaps he saw Girault’s
preliminary designs before leaving for Saigon.
232
Nevertheless, the Saigon theatre is smaller than its
model and only quotes its two-storey proscenium
arch entrance (although with a single rather than
triple arch), replacing the colonnades and end
pavilions with short receding wings on rusticated
basements with pilasters, arched windows, an
entablature, and a balustrade. He substitutes the
Petit Palais’s central dome and toits à l’impériale
with a mansard roof with oculus windows in
cartouche frames. The building is thus more a
metonym than a simulacrum.
Unlike the Opéra Garnier (fig. 6.10) or the
Hanoi theatre (fig. 6.3), the roof is uniform along
most of its length rather than rising to correspond
to the different heights of the foyer, auditorium,
and stage.80 The sides are formed of a central
ressaut with a rounded pediment, two five-bay
wings, and two end pavilions, all on the same
rusticated basement and each crowned by an
extension of the main roof with the oculus win-
dows but without the balustrade (fig. 6.15). The
sides are dominated by giant-order Doric pilasters
flanking arches that, except in the end pavilions,
are bisected by curvilinear balconies resting on
decorative corbels. An attic level, surmounted by
a projecting cornice and parapet rather than a bal-
ustrade, contains single or paired rectangular win-
dows. The central ressaut is dominated by giant
order Ionic columns and a Palladian window with
Corinthian columns and it is crowned by an es-
cutcheon, and its pediment contains a cartouche
and garland relief with a female mascaron.
The Saigon theatre’s entrance portal substitutes
tile revetments for the Petit Palais’s high-relief
stone carving. Nevertheless both portals are
flanked by Ionic engaged columns (paired in
the Saigon theatre and triple in the Petit Palais)
and both are crowned with sculptural groups,
in Saigon’s case a pair of angels flanking a car-
touche with a lyre above it (these, the caryatids,
and the other facade reliefs are crude modern
6.15 Théâtre de Saigon, side view (south facade).
replacements) (figs. 6.2, 6.14).81 Ferret responds
to the social needs of the building by adding a
loggia-like viewing gallery, which allowed Saigon’s
elites to put themselves on display for the people
walking by on rue Catinat, and the projecting
portal also emphasizes the importance of the
foyer and vestibules: “spaces of sociability where a
representation complementary to that played on
the stage is performed.”82 The interior is relatively
plain, although it has undergone many vicissi-
tudes (fig. 6.16). While the scale of the foyer is
modest, the auditorium is gracious, with curving,
bow-shaped, garlanded balconies, boxes framed
by classical aedicules and separated in the upper
level by engaged Ionic columns, a prominent Cor-
inthian proscenium arch with a coffered soffit,
and a ceiling vault supported on paired columns.
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
Paradoxically, this great temple to French cul-
ture was not really that big. The rectangular struc-
ture measures a mere 62 by 35 metres compared
with the Palais Garnier, which had a footprint
of 154.9 by 70.2 metres, not even including the
lateral pavilions (fig. 6.10).83 Scholars have tended
to exaggerate the capacity of the 468-seat build-
ing: Wright and Cooper claim that it has 800
seats while Le Huu Phuoc goes as high as 1,800,
233
which would make it larger than the theatre at
Hanoi (870–1,200 seats) and closer to Charles
Garnier’s Opéra (2,156 seats).84 It is worth putting
this building into context internationally, not
merely with the Palais Garnier, which had nearly
five times the capacity of the Saigon theatre, and
the great opera houses of other European capitals,
but with other non-European opera houses such
as the giants being constructed by the prosperous
republics of South and North America. The Thea-
tro da Paz in Belem (1869–75, enlarged 1904),
flush with money from the Brazilian rubber
boom, boasted 1,101 seats; the Teatro Municipal in
Santiago, Chile (1857, rebuilt 1873) (fig. 6.17), had
1,800 seats; the Teatro Colón in beef-rich Buenos
Aires (1889–1908) had 2,367 seats, larger than
the Garnier; and, topping them all, the Metro-
politan Opera House on Broadway in New York
(1892–1903) accommodated 3,849 seats.85 France
was not the only nation using monumental opera
houses as a sign of prestige; they were merely
the only one to do so in their colonies. Whereas
France built them to project a sense of cultural
superiority over indigenes and European colonial
rivals, young republics poured money into these
commissions to signal that they could stand up to
Paris or Berlin and to announce their arrival on
the world stage.
Théâtre municipal de Hanoi (1899–1901)
The Théâtre municipal de Hanoi (fig. 6.3) is the
largest in Indochina and the only literal copy
of Garnier’s Opéra (fig. 6.10), although on a
smaller scale and with significant modifications.86
6.16 (oppoSiTe Top ) Théâtre de Saigon, interior.
Photograph courtesy Nguyen The Duong (AAPhoto.vn).
6.17 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Lucien-Ambroise Henault,
Teatro Municipal, Santiago (Chile), 1873.
Unsurprisingly, given its size (it measures 87 by
30 metres), it was also more controversial and had
an even more protracted and difficult building
history, with three main phases of construction:
an initial one between 1901 and 1902 when
most of the outer walls were built and work was
halted by a fire; a period from 1906 to 1908 when
mounting criticism of the project’s extravagance
nearly led to its abandonment; and a final phase
between 1909 and its opening in 1911 – although
work on interior decorations and furnishings lin-
gered on until 1914.87 As in Saigon, three princi-
pal architects were involved, but unlike Guichard
and Ollivier they were architect-engineers already
employed by the Bâtiments civils: Victorin-
Anatole-Albéric Harlay (b. 1865), Jean-Isidore
Bossard (1875–1940), and François-Charles La-
gisquet (1864–1936). Only Bossard was a Beaux-
Arts graduate. The Hanoi Opera House is by any
yardstick one of the most important buildings in
the French colonial empire, a monument on the
scale of the Pondicherry Gouvernement (fig. 1.1)
or Château Saint-Louis in Quebec. Nevertheless,
as with its Saigon counterpart, sources contradict
each other about its size, authorship, and chron-
ology: a recent publication claims that it was
built between 1908 and 1916 and that it had 900
seats; another gives the number as 870 seats, still
another at 600 seats; and one source states that
the architect is “unknown,” while another one
invents an architect, “Broyer,” who never existed.88
And like their Saigon counterparts, the theatre’s
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
architects have vanished into obscurity.
From the very beginning the project was
hampered by indecision, mismanagement, and
disagreement about location and budget. In May
1895 the municipality elected to move the the-
atre from its temporary location on rue Takou
to the iron hall of the market at the corner of the
boulevards Dong-khanh and Carrau, a modest
refitting to be finished in time for the next
235
 theatrical season at a cost of 4,000–5,000 piastres
(about 9,200–11,500 francs).89 A concours was
held that year, and although Belgian-born archi-
tect, civil engineer, pianist, and plantation owner
Henri Knosp (b. 1840) won first prize, the jury
eventually rejected his proposal because it would
cost 6,000 piastres even before “the purchase of
the seats or the fitting out of the exterior of the
auditorium.”90 The council then voted seven to
six to build an 800-seat 40,000-piastre (92,000
franc) “théâtre définitif ” and announced a second
competition with a first-place prize of 500 piastres
and a second-place prize of 300 piastres.91 Knosp
and two others resubmitted in November but
were again rejected because of budgetary dis-
crepancies. Just over a year later, on 31 December
1896, they tendered updated proposals and Knosp
won again with a scheme bearing the pseudonym
“xyz ,” with Henri Berruer, a local contractor,
winning second place for “Quand Même,” and
Félix Dessoliers (1870–1927), a civil engineer,
coming in third with “X.” Yet architecte-voyer
Victor-Anatole Leclanger (b. 1861) now in-
sisted that the budget had to be more generous
“to deal with the unexpected” and raised it to
52,000 piastres (119,000 francs), directing Knosp
to adjust his budget, which he resubmitted on
25 February 1896. By this time, some councillors
were complaining that the building was taking
precedence over more important structures and
wanted the price capped at 40,000 piastres, but
they agreed to 60,000 piastres (138,000 francs)
the architecture of empire
when the Protectorate government promised to
pay a third. Again, Knosp drew up plans, now
under the supervision of the roads department
at a fee of 5 per cent of the total executed.92 On
10 December 1897 the city voted to move the
building to the adjacent rue de France, but now at
more than twice the cost – 350,000 francs, which
had to be obtained through loans. Almost two
years later, on 29 September 1899, the municipal
council asked Knosp yet again to revise his plan
236
and budget, but on 30 March 1900, “while rec-
ognizing the artistic taste of Mr. Knosp, and the
attractive appearance his plans had at first glance,”
they declared them “incomplete and unbuildable”
and definitively fired the architect on 25 May
1900.93 Small wonder Knosp tried to sue the city.
Harlay, clerk of the Bâtiments civils in the
Public Works Department, was invited to take
over the project and “revise the plans,” and his em-
ployment was confirmed on 7 June 1900 by Resi-
dent Mayor Frédéric Baille (1848–1910) under
the supervision of Louis-Pierre-August Babon-
neau, the architecte-voyer of Hanoi.94 But within
a few months, in October, the city considered
replacing him with the architect of the Haiphong
opera house (fig. 6.1) and chef de la voirie of that
city, Jean Bourdeaud (1838–1910).95 L’Avenir du
Tonkin reported:
One of our colleagues announced yester-
day [31 October], a little prematurely, we
hope, that M. Bourdaud [sic], chief of roads
at Haiphong, was soon to come to Hanoi
to “be more particularly responsible for
overseeing the construction of the future
theatre, the plans for which are currently
being reworked by Mr. Harley [sic].” If the
news thus launched is not a simple test bal-
loon, we wonder in which brain this absurd
idea could well have germinated. […] You
have the plans made by a man in whom all
his comrades and his leaders do not hesitate
to recognize this essence that makes the
artist, and when it comes to monitoring the
execution of these plans you will borrow
another man from the next town? Why do
you suppose him, at first sight, to be less
talented in supervising the execution than
you thought he was in working out the final
plans? But some might say Mr. Bourdaud
has proven himself; he has to his credit the
Haiphong theatre which everyone agrees to
 be “perfect.” […] It is very good that we are
envious of our sister city’s theatre, since we
do not have one. But that we should seques-
ter its chief of roads, no and a hundred times
no. […] Could it be because Mr. Harley is a
modest man, who hates intrigue and fame?
We do not think so, but if it is believed that
the entire Hanoi press will welcome the
news, we are sure that those who announced
it will be disappointed. The whole public
would protest, not against Mr. Bourdaud,
but against the unwitting insult – because
we want to believe it is unwitting – that
one would demonstrate by inflicting on a
modest person and a hard worker an affront
that anyone would feel.96
The municipality must have backed down as we
hear nothing more about Bourdaud’s participa-
tion in this project.
Harlay submitted new plans, now with a
budget of 230,000 piastres (529,000 francs), but
not including painting, decoration, interior
fittings, and incidental expenses (his facade and
plans were published in L’Avenir du Tonkin in
March 1905) (fig. 6.18).97 However on 10 January
1901 the council voted unanimously to increase
Harlay’s budget to an incredible 800,000 francs,
and to finance it with a 500,000-franc loan from
the Protectorate government payable over ten
years. In fact, the first field surveys had already
been executed as they were under pressure from
Governor-General Paul Doumer (1897–1902) to
get the theatre done in time for the 1902 Expos-
ition d’Hanoï.98 The minutes read:
The Municipal Council has just approved
the first vote already issued, last June 26
[1900], by its works and budget committee.
It fully approved the plans for the theatre
project now executed that this committee
had adopted in principle and voted for their
immediate implementation. The greatest
efforts will be made so that, according to
the desire of the Governor General, the
construction is, if possible, completed for
the Exposition of 1902. The total expendi-
ture […] is estimated […] at 800,000 francs.
The Municipal Council expressed the
wish that the Government of the Colony
[sic] wanted, for a work which truly is of
a generally useful nature, especially on the
eve of the Exhibition, to lend its benevolent
assistance to the city by advancing it, in
addition to the sum indicated above, that
of 500,000 francs that [the Council] would
reimburse in 10 years, for example by regular
annuities automatically registered in his
budgets. […] The Governor General was
kind enough to give his personal approval
to these plans for the new theatre and to be
very satisfied with the method according to
which they were designed. He himself, with
great benevolence, spontaneously expressed
the idea of a financial combination which
would facilitate its execution for the city.
I would be very grateful to the Superior
Resident, if he would be willing, on behalf
of the considerations I have just outlined
and municipal interests, to support the wish
expressed by the Municipal Council to
Mr. Governor General.99
Once again, a major colonial building was
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
linked to a world exposition, this time in Hanoi
(fig. 1.11). The contract for this “theatre worthy
of the Capital of the Indo-Chinese Union”
was issued on 25 April 1901 to the local firm of
“Charavy & Savelon, Entrepreneurs, Construc-
teurs,” on the boulevard Carreau, who offered
a 25 per cent discount on the price of drainage
and excavations, and the start date was fixed at
7 June.100 As it happens Harley was in France
at the time, this “modest and hardworking civil
237
6.18 Théâtre municipal de
Hanoi, Harlay’s original concours
design, from L’Avenir du Tonkin
(6–7 March 1905). BNf . Photo-
graph courtesy Khieu Anh
Nguyen.

6.19 (oppoSiTe ) Théâtre

municipal de Hanoi. Side view
(1905 project), signed by Harlay.
Vietnam National Archives
Number 1, Hanoi.
servant” having gone on leave on 22 March 1901
with his wife and young son only to return on
the Marseille steamer on 15 December.101 On
30 July 1902 he was promoted to the rank of
“first class clerk (commis)” in the Travaux publics
de l’Indochine.102
The Théâtre municipal as it stands today is
principally Harlay’s design, as indicated by a side
and rear elevation (both 1905) that are signed
by the architect (figs 6.19–20) and an updated
facade (1909) signed by Harlay and Lagisquet to
which Bossard made significant contributions
(fig. 6.21).103 I cannot agree with architect Hoàng
Đạo Kính, leader of the theatre’s restoration in the
1990s, who maintains that the building’s architect
is a mystery – nor his claim that the Garnier is
not the model for the building – since the names
of Harlay and his successors are confirmed as the
building’s architect in the archives and news-
papers alike and the building is unambiguously
based on the Parisian model.104 Writing in 1911,
E. Bourrin confirmed that the essential appear-
ance of the building is due to Harlay: “Mr. Harlay
will claim the long preliminary studies for the
structural work, the intelligent distribution, the
harmonious proportions, and all that concerns
the layout of the stage, in accordance with the
most modern requirements of theatrical art.”105
Like its equivalent in Saigon, the Hanoi opera
house was located on a former swamp that formed
the end of a boulevard (rue Paul Bert), blocking a
major artery but affording an impressive view of
the facade from a distance that was again meant
to recall the approach to the Palais Garnier.106 As
McClellan has noted, the site also mattered be-
cause it was near the old French concession along
the river and at the hub of a rapidly developing
residential neighbourhood of large European-style
villas.107 Two days before the contract was
signed, on 22 April 1901, Augustin-Julien Fourès
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
239
6.20 Théâtre municipal de
Hanoi. Rear facade (1905
project) signed by Harlay.
Vietnam National Archives
Number 1, Hanoi.

6.21 City of Hanoi – Théâtre

municipal. Main Facade
(1909 facade project) signed
by Harlay and Lagisquet.
Vietnam National Archives
Number 1, Hanoi.
(1897–1904), director general of public works,
released the land:
Five plots of land with a total area of 235
acres 55 centiares […] belonging to the Col-
onial Estate are transferred free of charge to
the City of Hanoi, for the construction of
a theatre and for the opening of roads near
the theatre. The said plots appear tinted
in pink on the attached plan, drawn up on
March 11, 1901 by the Architect-Surveyor
Chief of the Hanoi Highways Department.
[…] The transfer is made, at the expense
of the City of Hanoi, to proceed with the
construction of the planned theatre and the
opening of the roads in the vicinity.108
As in Saigon special care had to be taken with
the building’s foundations: 35,000 piles were
driven into the ground before the pouring of an
almost metre-thick concrete foundation, and the
monument consumed 12,000,000 bricks and
about 570,000 kilograms of cast iron or iron.109
But unlike at Saigon most materials were sourced
locally, including bricks, lime, cement, wood,
terracotta, enamels, and marble: only the iron was
imported and worked and forged on the site, as
was the slate roofing, which was chased with zinc
patterns and gilding.110 An enormous bamboo
scaffolding was erected around the worksite and
the contractors won “unanimous praise” because
“in this worksite where three hundred coolies
swarmed daily, they finished this job without any
fatalities or even serious accidents having been
reported.”111 Indeed all of the labour was pro-
vided by indigenous and Chinese workers under
the “constant supervision” of municipal surveyor
Jean-Aimé Morin and a Monsieur Croci em-
ployed by Charavy & Savelon, entrepreneurs.112
Municipal officials may have wanted Frenchmen
to design the buildings but they had no qualms
about hiring colonized peoples or Chinese to
build them. We get a closer picture of a single
day’s work crew from a book of wages from
toward the end of the construction period (1911),
which shows that three carpenters, two masons,
one engineer, one machinist, fifteen “coolies,”
and one woman (congaie), likely a cook, were
employed on the worksite.113 Tenders went out to
contractors and craftsmen: in April 1902 painter
George Fraipoint submitted a budget of 100,000
francs to travel to France to prepare decorative
work but it was rejected, even after it was lowered
to 74,100 francs, in favour of a project by painters
Henri Émile Vollet (1861–1945) and Charles-Jules
Duvent (1867–1940), who proposed a fee of only
50,000 francs to supply 28 ornamental panels for
the walls and ceiling (presumably without having
to go to France).114
In July, the public works department halted
construction and the next year and a half were
spent negotiating with angry contractors.115 By
January 1904 the finance committee recom-
mended abandoning the project altogether and
settling with the contractors, but the resident-
mayor demurred: “the big question, the one that
especially necessitated this special meeting, is
the continuation of the works of the theatre. The
Protectorate recognizes the obvious embarrass-
ment that the city is currently experiencing in the
continuation of the theatre construction, but it
fears that the remedy is worse than the disease.”116
He cited the city’s commitment to the contract-
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
ors, noted that resuming the works later might be
more expensive than proceeding now, ensured his
nervous colleagues that the Protectorate “will do
everything possible to help the municipality,” and
proposed funding it with a complicated ar-
rangement of loans, taxes, deferred annuities,
and reshuffled budgets. Although civic officials
remained discontented, they admitted that “too
much money had been spent to allow the theatre
241
 to fall into ruins.”117 At last the mayor and council
agreed to proceed with construction. One of
the first expenses was 92,000 piastres spent on
fireproofing the building after a blaze had re-
vealed weaknesses in Harlay’s design: contractors
replaced the wooden floor with sandstone tiles,
lined the stage basements with refractory bricks,
replaced lime mortar coatings with cement,
increased the weight of the ironwork supporting
the galleries, and replaced wooden trusswork
in the roof with iron.118 The roofing was subcon-
tracted to Paul-Louis Delarouzée and the stairs
were placed under the supervision of entrepreneur
Louis Vola.119
As the public became increasingly vocal in
their condemnation of a prestige project that took
precedence over roads, sewers, and water pipes,
the theatre’s promoters became even more zealous
in promoting it:
To those who criticize the monument on
rue Paul Bert for its excessive dimensions,
it is easy to respond that tomorrow it will
hardly be large enough. To think big is often
to think accurately. And besides the the-
atre is not intended only for inhabitants of
Hanoi but also for all the colonists and civil
servants of the country whose interests or
obligations call them to the capital: in sum,
one can therefore only applaud the guiding
idea behind the design of this monument
and hope from a general point of view,
the architecture of empire
that the necessary funds be allocated to
its completion.120
Nevertheless by late summer 1906 only the exter-
ior walls had been finished and the municipality
brought in government architect Bossard, not
to replace Harlay as is often claimed – and even
less to completely redesign the theatre – but to
242
make modifications alongside the architect.121 It
is telling that in November the newspapers still
described Harlay unequivocally as “L’architecte
du théâtre de Hanoi.”122
Critics praised Bossard for simplifying Har-
lay’s project without compromising its grandeur,
although some remarks could be read as faint
praise: “whatever one may say, write or think,
there is no one who can reasonably maintain that
our new theatre is not – I will not say a master-
piece – but a simple design in which aesthetics,
not to mention elementary rules of architecture,
have been respected. […] I was pleased to see
it and I must say – bluntly – that Mr. Bossard,
its author, deserves all the congratulations.”123
Bossard’s changes mainly involved simplifying
the facade: “without changing anything in the
structure of the building and simply by changing
the exterior decoration, the main facade takes on
a completely different character. Heavy, packed,
crushed as it was, with its two rows of superim-
posed columns, it acquires a slender, elegant,
unobstructed appearance. Badly styled – badly
hatted, if I dare say it – as it was on its two side
pavilions, it becomes soberly but nobly monu-
mental. Finally, the two entrances for carriages,
heavy, narrow and inconvenient, are replaced by
two large and very pretty marquees.”124 The refer-
ence to two rows of superimposed columns (“deux
rangées de colonnes superposées”), which is borne
out in the double arcade in his concours design,
confirms that Harlay’s original conception was
even closer to the Opéra Garnier than the struc-
ture eventually built, a simulacrum that became
too bulky when its dimensions were reduced to
satisfy the budget of a colonial outpost (compare
figs. 6.10, 6.18).
In December 1906, the municipal council
approved the amendments and new budget.125
It agreed to allow construction to resume and
estimated that it would take two years.126 It
was to be financed by a loan of 50,000 piastres
per annum of which 40,000 were supplied by
the Protectorate and 10,000 by the city. As one
reporter put it: “The theatre must be completed.
All these delays end up costing more than hard
work.”127 But more criticism of the building fol-
lowed, this time about its decoration. In July a re-
porter ridiculed the architects’ ignorance in their
placement of plaques bearing the names of great
composers and writers, listing Alexandre Dumas,
Victorien Sardou, and Émile Augier under the
rubric “Operetta” and Bizet, Massenet, and Victor
Massé under the title “Comedy,” quipping that
“we had yesterday – perhaps for the hundredth
time – the opportunity to note that the architect
responsible for the construction of the theatre
knew his job as a builder much better than the
works in the French theatrical repertoire and their
authors.”128 These plaques – a prominent feature
of the Saigon post office (fig. 6.6) – were removed.
The city agreed to Bossard’s economies, and at
a special meeting of 11 January 1907 they praised
him and his “assistant” (adjoint) Harlay – note
Harlay’s subtle demotion – for making it possible
to cancel the debt in ten years; three days later
the municipal council and mayor Albert Logerot
conferred about how to proceed with the the-
atre’s execution.129 However that same year the
municipal committee rejected the use of further
taxation to support the theatre and construction
stopped again in 1908 – by this time the building
was beginning to deteriorate and people started
calling it a ruin.130 On 30 September the pro-
tectorate architect Lagisquet was called in and
submitted a twenty-two-folio report on the state
of the building and what was needed to “complete
what is not finished and to simplify it if pos-
sible.”131 The new plans he submitted on 15 April
1909 were merely reductions of Harlay’s project,
literally a “modification des façades” that were
“inspired both by the projects of MM Harlay and
Bossard” (fig. 6.21).132 According to a report filed
by Lagisquet on 30 April, the funds needed to
complete the building would amount to 1,100,000
francs.133 By 20 July 1910 the first 15,185 francs had
been spent.134 Bourrin praised Lagisquet for co-
ordinating such a monumental job: “Finally, Mr.
Lagisquet, who accepted with perfect good grace
the thankless task of economically and practically
adjusting the works and plans carried out and
drawn up before his intervention, will have earned
not only the merit of completing the monument,
but also of bringing it the felicitous changes in
detail which contributed to make it one of the
beautiful theatres of France, Navarre, and their
faraway dependencies.”135
Impatient to open the long-awaited theatre,
the city ordered Lagisquet to postpone less vital
parts of the buildings, including the grand stair-
case (escalier d’honneur), the grand public foyer,
the fire curtain, and the stage scenery, which they
would borrow from the provisional theatre.136 On
24 October 2010 Lagisquet submitted his report
for the “provisional opening of the Municipal
Theatre,” which included significant omissions
from the entry vestibule, the first story foyer and
other parts of the building:
1. entry vestibule . – The vestibule on
the ground floor will be arranged to allow
access to the stairs leading to the orchestra
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
seats and those of the 2nd Galleries also
serving the boxes of the 1st Galleries. The
central staircase called the main staircase
will not be executed. 2. first floor
foyer. – The construction of the first-floor
foyer will be postponed. The public will
have at their disposal the two lounges to the
right and to the left of the Foyer, the two
243
 terraces of the side façades and the loggia on
the 1st floor giving onto the main façade.137
In 1910 Brieux was appalled to note about the
theatre that “when we come up close, we see that
it is not finished, and when we walk around it,
we rub our eyes when we realize that they are
starting to demolish it.”138 The next year tenders
were granted to subcontractors for stage machin-
ery (unlike at Saigon they could now rely upon
a local firm, the Hanoi-based Alfred Gaussin
& Cie.), electric lighting, masonry, carpentry,
metal trusswork, hardware, and cabinetry, with
“Monsieur Lagisquet, auxiliary architect of the
Bâtiments civils” presiding over the bids.139 The
theatre finally had its opening night in November
1911, with a less patriotic selection than its sister
theatre in Saigon – notably there was nothing
by Massenet – including Puccini’s La Bohème
and Tosca, and Franz Léhar’s The Merry Widow
as well as French operas by Gustave Charpentier
(Louise) and Gounod (Roméo et Juliette), a
season they shared with the theatre in Haiphong
(fig. 6.1).140 More revealing was a work performed
the following year: entitled Hanoi-sur-Scène (an
obvious pun for Hanoi-sur-Seine), this comedy
gently parodied local figures but also reflected
colonial vanity in celebrating Hanoi’s role as a
miniature Paris: “the anonymous authors repeat-
edly expressed parochial pride in the city itself
and enthusiastically acclaimed the city’s public
structures […] the authors constructed paral-
the architecture of empire
lels between Hanoi and cities in France, Paris
in particular.”141
Only the final decoration and furnishing of the
building remained, but they took three years to
finish. In 1912 local furniture maker Vuong Vinh
Tuy supplied coat racks, hangers, and umbrella
stands – another sign that the municipality was
becoming less rigid in excluding Asians from
its prestige projects – and in 1913–14 the final
244
painting, glazing, and furnishings were fitted, as
well as mosaics for the stairwells, hardware and
decorative ironwork, this time under architecte
auxiliaire Adolphe-Louis Bussy (b. 1865), who
had designed the Grand Palais for the 1902 Hanoi
Exposition (fig. 1.11) and would later be respon-
sible for the Résidence supérieure (1917–19) in the
same city, a work with a sophisticated iron and
glass marquee over its entrance (fig. 6.22).142 The
Théâtre municipal de Hanoï was finished in 1914,
after almost twenty years of planning, fourteen
years of construction, and 2,250,000 francs – just
in time for the outbreak of the First World War
and the beginning of a new, less triumphant de-
velopment in Indochina’s French architecture, as
I will explore in the next two chapters.143
Despite all its modifications, the Hanoi
Théâtre municipal still looked enough like the
Palais Garnier to satisfy homesick colons, par-
ticularly because of its location at the end of a
boulevard and it produced a “strange sensation
of reminiscence” (figs. 6.3, 6.10).144 Like the Paris
Opéra, its roof was pitched at different heights to
accommodate the foyer, auditorium, and stage,
respectively. Viewed at the front, the building is
dominated by a lofty triangular gable over the
stage fronted by the crown-like, ribbed half-
cupola of the auditorium. However, the building
was smaller than the Garnier and less opulent
than Harlay’s original vision. Garnier’s facade
featured a colonnade on top of an arcade, the first
floor loggia formed of paired giant-order Cor-
inthian columns like the east front of the Louvre
(fig. 1.4) combined with a secondary Corinthian
order of free-standing columns like the Ionic ones
on the ground floor of Michelangelo’s Palazzo
dei Conservatori in Rome (1447–55). Harlay
had tried to fit a similar two-storey arrangement
into his diminutive building, which the above
critic called “heavy, packed, crushed” (fig. 6.18). A
description of the project from 1905 confirms that
6.22 Adolphe Bussy, Hôtel de la résidence supérieure du
Tonkin, Hanoi, 1917–19. Detail of marquee.
Harlay’s original design included “a Corinthian
entablature adorned with a frieze of enamelled
terracotta rinceaux and supported across its avant-
corps by columns in the same style” with a second
Ionic colonnade underneath, which reminded
the author of “the gallery of the old palace of the
Tuileries.”145 Harlay’s design in fact was formed of
two superimposed arcades rather than a colon-
nade on an arcade; however it shared the sharp
divisions between the two storeys that charac-
terizes Garnier’s facade as well as the balustrades
between the upper-storey column plinths, which
were supported by capsule-like balconies in the
executed version (figs. 6.18, 6.21).
Bossard and Lagisquet simplified the facade
using a single row of giant-order Ionic columns on
high rusticated plinths which unite both storeys
and form a five-bay arcade under the loggia –
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
arguably a more satisfactory solution than Gar-
nier’s, as it creates a vertical thrust that balances
the long horizontal facade – and it is raised over a
sweeping staircase at the front for greater visibility
from afar. There is still a secondary (Ionic) order
in the Hanoi theatre, now rusticated, at the rear
of the loggia between the doorways. The high-
arched doorways resting on lower paired Ionic
columns recall the arches supporting the roof of
245
 the Grand Staircase at the Opéra Garnier, as Le
Brusq has noted.146 Harlay chose toits à l’impériale
for the end pavilions rather than flat roofs with
sculptural groups as in Paris – Bossard and La-
gisquet lowered them slightly – and the pavilions
are closed rather than forming part of the ground
floor arcade. Harlay also placed a low hip roof
over the arcades to mark it as a separate pavilion
in the late Renaissance style of François Mansart
(1598–1666) or Jean-Baptiste Androuet du Cer-
ceau (1544/47–1590) (fig. 6.22). As occurred at
the Saigon theatre, the Hanoi building replaces its
6.23 Victorin Harlay, Jean Bossard, François Lagisquet,
Théâtre municipal de Hanoi, side view (south facade),
1901–11. Hemis / Alamy Stock Photo.
the architecture of empire
246
model’s heavy stone relief carving with econom-
ical glazed tiles, here showing rinceaux in relief.
On the pavilion side entrances (and at the stair-
case pavilions on the sides of the building) Harlay
has introduced expansive wrought iron marquees
to accommodate theatregoers arriving by car-
riage (fig. 6.3).147 To ensure that the building was
fire-proof, there was an “almost total exclusion of
wood whenever there was metal to replace it.”148
The dominant feature of the long sides of
the Théâtre municipal is the pair of emergency
staircase pavilions protruding from the centre of
each wall and crowned with wider versions of the
facade pavilion cupolas (fig. 6.19, 6.23). Although
these are positioned similarly to Garnier’s Pavillon
des Abonnés and Pavillon de l’Empereur, they
are merely stairwells leading to the top of the
building from lateral entrances. Like the Gar-
nier the sides of the Hanoi theatre feature high
rectangular windows with alternating arched and
triangular pediments in the rear section, but in
the central section they lack pediments and are
fitted together more closely, the two lower rows of
windows opening onto balconies. This is the sec-
tion of Harlay’s original design that Bossard and
Lagisquet changed most radically: they removed
the double staircase at the centre and although the
central bay is still wider and framed by giant-order
pilasters it is now more prominent, advancing
slightly from the wall and superimposed with a
grand arch in the manner of the Saigon theatre
(fig. 6.15). Like the facade, the sides of the Hanoi
theatre sit on a rusticated basement.
The rear elevation is more faithful to Har-
lay’s original conception (fig. 6.20). Tripartite,
it encompasses a lofty central bay en ressaut
flanked by wings with two bays of two-storey
rectangular windows and an extremely narrow
third bay at the ends formed of giant-order Doric
pilasters framing much narrower rectangular
openings. The same terracotta tiles that adorn
the other three sides of the building run along the
frieze of the wings but stop at the ressaut. The
ressaut, crowned by a slate hip roof and formed of
two storeys and an attic, has a prominent central
pair of superimposed windows over a small arched
doorway that is flanked by two more modest
superimposed windows, and oculus windows
adorn the attic on each side. In Harlay’s original
elevation the ressaut was to be rusticated right
to the top; however, the rustication was never
executed, and the oculi were replaced with blind
bas-relief cartouches.
The Hanoi theatre measures 2,500 square
metres.149 Its plan also preserves the basic arrange-
ment of Garnier’s Opéra, although the cluster
of public social rooms at the front (porch, foyer,
stair hall, loggia, and salons) occupies less space
than the auditorium or stage whereas at the Opéra
they are larger than the auditorium.150 In both
buildings the rear wing comprises the director’s
office, meeting room, library, artistes’ apartments,
makeup rooms, storage areas for sets and musical
instruments, a guardhouse, and caretaker’s room,
all of which were serviced by a pair of interior
iron staircases. The Hanoi theatre’s emergency
stairwells, with iron steps adorned with decora-
tive tiles are positioned at the juncture between
auditorium and stage.151 Pedestrians climb the
front steps and enter the grand foyer through the
porch, while those in carriages arrive at the side
marquees, which give direct access to the foyer at
each end. Garnier placed great importance on the
porch as a place for the visitor “to allow for [a]
useful and desirable pause” between the bustle of
the streets and the foyer.152 In the Hanoi theatre
box offices are placed at each end. The grand foyer
(measuring 30 by 15 metres) stretches the full
width of the building, unlike the foyer publique
upstairs, which is only as wide as the loggia.153
The main difference from the Opéra is that
in the latter building those coming by carriage
alight at the lateral porte cochère and assemble in
the basement rotunda (grand salon), under the
auditorium, before mounting the stairs to mingle
with the pedestrians in the stair hall. In the more
democratic Hanoi version, everyone gathers
in the grand foyer.154 Leaving this foyer, which
is quite low, visitors then enter the stair hall in
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
which a central, open T-shaped staircase leads
to the first-storey foyer public; a flanking pair of
enclosed U-shaped staircases lead to the first and
second storeys; and two single-flight staircases
access the orchestra and parterres. The stair hall
is a reduction of Garnier’s Grand escalier d’hon-
neur in which a central staircase of five flights
is enclosed in a six-storey-high stair hall with
balustrades or grilles on the upper three balconies
247
 6.24 Théâtre municipal de Hanoi, project for the ground
floor, first galleries, and second galleries. Anonymous,
ca 1910. Ink and wash on paper. ANom .
the architecture of empire
to allow guests from the cheaper seats to watch les
grands enter the boxes and the premières loges. At
Hanoi, grilles and balustrades also surround the
staircase and serve the same function, but only on
two levels. Nevertheless the main staircase retains
the curving profiles of Garnier’s creation.155 The
foyer public is lined with mirrors (it is popularly
known as the “mirror room,” phòng gương) and
248
opens directly onto the loggia on one side and the
stair hall on the other.156 It is flanked by two other
mirrored rooms the same width as the pavilions
that served as a smoking room and ice-cream
stand on the left and a salon on the right, prob-
ably for the buffet. Hanoi’s opera house may have
been smaller than Garnier’s, but it devoted nearly
as much attention to social rank and display as
did its model.
In the auditorium the number of seats could be
increased or decreased by adjusting interior par-
titions, the source of the scholarly confusion over
the theatre’s capacity (figs. 6.24–5). McClellan,
for instance, claims that Bossard reduced the
number of seats from 1,200 to 754 and E. Bourrin
maintains that he reduced them to 680, yet those
numbers reflected the maximum and min-
imum number of seats that could be accommo-
dated depending upon the expected audience.157
The numbers are admittedly confusing and seem
to fluctuate: a 1911 plan gives the minimum at
737 seats (fig. 6.24) whereas the current occu-
pancy is 870 seats.158 If anything, these numbers
show that the seating was adjustable and flexible.
The pendentives of its vault (fig. 6.25) are sup-
ported, like Garnier’s, by paired giant-order Cor-
inthian columns surmounted by high plinths and
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
a small arch, but otherwise it is simpler, without
the gilding and with only two balconies instead
of four. There are three levels in the auditorium:
the lower one with boxes and orchestra seats; the
premières galeries, with boxes, a single row of seats
on the sides and a double row at the rear; and the
deuxièmes galeries, with three levels of seats on the
sides and five at the rear. All levels also have loges
avant-scène, or stage boxes. These have their own
249
 6.25 Théâtre municipal de Hanoi, interior of auditorium.
Photograph copyright Quenhitran (Wikimedia
Commons).
vestibules, as do the grander boxes at the back of
the first and second levels. The stage is 17.5 metres
long, 20 wide, and 30 high at the proscenium
arch. In contrast to the resolutely Parisian build-
the architecture of empire
ing that housed it, the stage curtain reflected local
pride, painted with a “splendid panorama” of
Hanoi offering views of the Ninh Bình and Ba Vi
mountains and the pine forests of Tam Đảo.159
The Hanoi opera house drew the same criti-
cism as its counterpart in Saigon. Brieux wrote
in 1910, when the unfinished building was being
reduced in size to cut costs, that it bore “a cer-
tain resemblance to the Opéra of Paris” but that
250
it was “a pretentious caricature which would be
ignored.”160 He went on:
This theatre has not been finished because
now, retreating from the era of the folly of
grandeur, we know that whatever we can
do, if we finish it, could only underscore the
first mistake. To fill its stage, it would take
a throng of choristers and extras; to paint
all its décor, hundreds of square meters of
canvas; to listen to a score, a large orchestra.
And if we managed to ensure all of this, we
would still be lacking spectators because the
whole European population of Hanoi would
not fill the auditorium. We demolish the
two wings that we just found to be decid-
edly too ugly. We need even more courage
 than that. What should the Annamites
think about this enormous construction,
raised with their money, in which they would
never have entered, and which is useless
even to us? It is, moreover, a symbol made
sad by its reality, this Temple of Pleasure,
this monument to semblance, to fiction,
to theatrical lies, erected in the most
beautiful place in the city, disproportionate
and abandoned before being completed.
All our shortcomings can be summed up
here: love of pleasure, artifice, artificiality,
thoughtless enthusiasm, lack of foresight
and superficiality.161
Allegedly he recommended turning it into a
school for Vietnamese children.162 And indeed
the building never lived up to its promise. Like
its Saigon equivalent, and in spite of all the grand
rhetoric of its boosters, grand operas were pro-
duced with much less frequency (one or two a
year) than more popular and sentimental works
such as operettas and comédie-opérettes by Audran,
Hervé (Louis-Auguste-Florimond Ronger, 1825–
1892), and Alexandre-Charles Lecocq (1832–
1918). As McClellan remarks, “this predominance
of lighter genres countered the lofty images with
which the theatre had been promoted,” and “the
Municipal Theater’s status as a symbol of Euro-
pean high culture was compromised,” particularly
as popular musical theatre – just as popular in the
métropole as in the colony – would never have
been performed at the Paris Opéra.163
Architects of the Théâtre de Saigon and Théâtre
municipal de Hanoï
It is baffling that so little is known today about
the architects of two of the most emblematic
monuments of French Indochina. Eugène-
Alexandre-Nicolas Ferret, the architect of the
Saigon opera house, is a case in point. Although
he built ostentatious buildings on two continents,
contributed to the 1900 and 1931 international
exhibitions in Paris, and was made chevalier of the
Legion of Honour in 1933, his full name and life
dates do not appear in any of the secondary liter-
ature.164 Part of the problem is that, although he
was an enthusiastic proponent of the Beaux-Arts
style, he did not study at the École des Beaux-
Arts as did his colleagues Ollivier and Guichard,
who have left traces of their careers in the École’s
archives and publications. Instead, Ferret trained
as an engineer architect (his Legion of Honour
file called him an “Ingénieur architecte diplômé ”),
specializing in railway engineering, probably at
the École des Mines (founded 1783), which of-
fered courses in the subject under Charles-Henri-
François Couche (1815–1879).165 Learning about
Ferret’s life and career – as with those of the other
architects in this chapter – has involved concen-
trated work in archives and searching through
newspapers and journals: the picture that emerges
is of a public figure as typical of the global Belle
Époque as was the Théâtre de Saigon itself.
Born in Paris’s first arrondissement in 1851,
Ferret volunteered for the army at the outbreak
of the Franco-Prussian War in 1870 and served
for six months with distinction, winning the
Médaille et Croix de Guerre de 1870–1871.166 He
witnessed first-hand France’s humiliating defeat,
Emile Zola’s “débâcle,” that would directly fuel
France’s aggressiveness overseas. While working
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
on the railways at Perpignan–Le Barcarès and
Marseille Ferret also maintained a successful
sideline designing and building private and public
buildings, including his first theatre design (for
the Hippodrome Théâtre at Roubaix, 1882), for
which he won first prize but which was never
built.167 In January 1884, when he was described
as an “engineer-architect living in Paris, rue du
Rocher, No 49,” Ferret founded a company with
251
 three other investors to build a “grand hotel”
in the Norman seaside resort of Étretat.168 One
of the other investors was the writer Guy de
Maupassant (1850–1893), a year older than Ferret
and possibly a comrade from the war, as he was a
fellow veteran – indeed his stories published in
Boule de suif et autres contes de la guerre (1880) are
some of the most vivid depictions of the horrors
of that battle – and he lived a fifteen-minute
walk away from Ferret in the Eighth Arrondisse-
ment.169 Maupassant’s mother owned a villa in the
Étretat and one of his stories, “The Englishman
of Étretat” (1882) is set there.
Whether or not this Norman hotel was ever
built remains a mystery, but Ferret was already in
Cochinchina in 1886, first as the commissioner
of tramways and railways and then (in 1890) as
founder of the Compagnie française des Tram-
ways de l’Indochine, responsible for a tram line
between Saigon and the neighbourhoods of
Cholon and Gò Vấp.170 He may have applied to
obtain this commission after a business associate
gained a concession, as concessions for railway
projects were advertised in the Paris architec-
tural journal La Construction moderne.171 This
was a very good time to be an expert in railways
in Indochina as municipalities were stepping up
their efforts to modernize, and he rose quickly
through the ranks of the city’s public works
department. While working on the Théâtre de
Saigon he was also elected as Concessionaire of
the Saigon Electric Company and as commer-
the architecture of empire
cial agent for the coal mines at Kebao (Cái Bầu
Island); he built several bridges including the
metal bridge over the Arroyo Chinois, made
famous in Graham Greene’s The Quiet American
(1955); and he undertook studies of the sewage,
drainage, and drinking water facilities in Saigon
and Cholon. Clearly he came to the Saigon
theatre project with the highest of recommenda-
tions – during his employment on that project
252
he was variously described as an “Architect of
the City of Saigon” and as an “engineer in this
city,” and he became increasingly involved with
the Cochinchinese government, as expert adviser
to the Civil Tribunal and the Saigon Appellate
Court.172 When he left Indochina for good in
1899 he was showered with accolades by a grate-
ful colonial government: he was made an officer
of the Royal Order of Cambodia, the Imperial
Order of the Dragon of Annam, and he received
the Star of Anjouan, and the Grande Sapèque and
Kim Khánh of Tonkin, and even the Médaille de
Sauvetage for acts of bravery.173
Either before or after his return to France,
Ferret was elected as a jury member for the 1900
Exposition universelle, which suggests that he
was involved earlier with the project and explains
why he had exposure to the elevations of the Petit
Palais, which served as the main model for the
Saigon opera house (figs. 6.2, 6.11).174 His repu-
tation and experience working in Asia won him
the commission by the Korean government to
design their national pavilion for that exposition,
with the financial backing of a French count with
dealings in the Congo.175 The structure was a
departure from his work in Saigon as it was not
his own invention but a meticulous replica of
the Royal Audience Hall of Kyongbok (Gyeong-
bokgung) Palace. Although newspapers credited
Ferret with the design – Le Figaro attributed the
“pretty multicoloured pavilion” to the architect
and credited his familiarity with Asiatic styles to
the “many years” he had spent in the “Far East” –
Ferret had nothing to do with the design and
was merely the executing architect, collaborating
with two Korean artisans sent to Paris with the
vice-president of the Korean commission.176
Ferret briefly hit his stride designing luxury
buildings on the Riviera, although by this time
the Garnier idiom he preferred was going out of
style and only one of them was built. In March
6.26 Eugène Ferret, Project for the Casino municipal,
Cannes, 30 January 1899. © Archives municipales de
Cannes.
1899 he won first prize in the concours to design
the Casino municipal in Cannes (fig. 6.26).177 The
main facade returns to the still uncompleted Petit
Palais for inspiration in its long horizontal profile,
pavilions crowned with toits à l’impérial, and a
high central section dominated by a giant arch
(fig. 6.11), although he frames it with a pair of
towers like those flanking Garnier’s facade at the
Casino de Monte Carlo (1881–82) or perhaps the
Paris Hôtel de Ville (fig. 6.5). The lateral facades
also resemble the Monte Carlo Casino, particu-
larly the profile of the central section, which is
capped with a dome and flanked by pavilions,
although the pavilions are closer to those of the
Petit Palais and the dome has been lifted straight
from Garnier’s Opéra (fig. 6.10).178 After an
acrimonious dispute that lasted until 1923 the city
rejected Ferret’s project, which was to have been
built by executing architects Victor Fournier and
Armand de Fallois, by reneging on the contract
the city had signed with the latter on 24 March
1899. The casino that was built (opened 1907; de-
molished 1979) was more modest and economical
than Ferret’s invention, the impractical extrava-
gance of which was reminiscent of a Beaux-Arts
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
student exercise.179
Ferret had better luck with his commission for
the Sanremo Casinò Municipale on the Italian
Riviera (fig. 6.27). One of eight French com-
petitors for the 1901 concours, Ferret signed a
contract of eighteen articles with the Consiglio
Comunale di Sanremo on 25 May 1903 and seems
to have directed the entire project from Paris with
local architect Franco Tornatore serving as site
253

supervisor.180 His first progetto, dated 10 Octo-
ber, was accepted in January, and the Casinò was
built swiftly, opening a year later, on 14 January
1905. Not surprisingly, it was another homage to
Beaux-Arts eclecticism, fusing an Italian Ren-
aissance revival structure with baroque decorative
details such as the heavy cartouches that adorn
the twin towers, and it was also monumentally
the architecture of empire
expensive at 1,076,960 lire. Criticized for being
retardataire and ill-conceived, it went so far over
budget that one official proposed taking 7,250 lire
out of the architect’s fee. Duetto Conti dismisses
the building as “inspired by models of the worst
and most antiquated eclecticism, weighing down
the façade with heavy motifs from the Neo-Bar-
oque repertoire, with an awkward resumption of
the theme of the towers of Charles Garnier.”181 In
254
6.27 Eugène Ferret, Casinò
Municipale, San Remo, 1905.
Simona Abbondio / Alamy
Stock Photo.
1906 Ferret formed a company with the Marquis
de Rabar called the “Société du Casino Munici-
pale de San-Remo” to recoup the financial losses
he incurred while building the casino.182
The critical reception of the Sanremo casino
was a harbinger of things to come. Ferret’s next
submission, for the Kursaal in Lugano (1906), was
rejected, as were his projects for the presidential
palace in Havana (1906) and the Théâtre muni-
cipal in Annaba, Algeria (after 1918), although he
still had ready customers for private residences in
Paris and Provence.183 Ferret also worked on in-
dustrial projects, including an electric train from
Verona to Riva San Vitale (1908) and mechanized
slaughterhouses in Warsaw (1913–14). He was also
active on the lecture circuit, giving presentations
across Europe on theatre building and agriculture,
and serving as an adviser to the French govern- technology behind ostentatious decoration.187 A
ment after the Great War. He last served the cause tripartite stone or marble portal with two iron
of colonialism as a member of the admissions doors and an openwork niche, Ollivier’s invention
committee for the Indochinese section of the 1931
Exposition coloniale internationale. In his Legion
6.28 Félix-Louis-Jean-Marie Ollivier, project for a gate for
of Honour citation, the minister of colonies wrote
a hall in a museum of decorative arts, winner of the Prix
that Ferret “has played a very important and effi- Godeboeuf in 1889. Watercolour and ink on paper. École
cacious role in the economic development of the nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts, Paris. © Beaux-Arts
Colony.”184 Ferret had two Paris residences upon de Paris, Dist. rmN -Grand Palais/Art Resource, Ny .
his return from Indochina: 35 rue Notre-Dame-
de-Lorette and 54 rue Taitbout, both of them a
short walk from Garnier’s Opéra and the former,
appropriately, now housing a Vietnamese restau-
rant. Ferret died in bed at 6:15 in the morning
on 14 November 1936, discovered by his young
servant Roger Barbudaux.185 His death register
revealed that he had married twice, his first wife a
divorce and his second one apparently predeceas-
ing him. No mention is made of either woman
in any of the many newspaper articles about the
architect and there is no mention of children.
Astonishingly, for such a highly decorated and re-
spected public figure, no obituary of Ferret seems
ever to have been published; I was obliged to
find his death date by looking through an entire
decade of ninth arrondissement état civil records.
Ferret’s collaborator and rival Ollivier and
his successor Guichard enjoyed a higher profile
because they were both educated at the École des
Beaux-Arts – and they likely thought of Ferret
as a parvenu. A lawyer’s son from Guingamp
(Brittany), Ollivier entered the École’s first class

SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900

in 1887 and received his architect’s diploma in
1891.186 He won the prestigious Prix Godeboeuf
in 1889 for which he executed a design for a
neo-baroque gate (Clôture à jour) for a museum
of decorative arts (fig. 6.28). The Godeboeuf
was a contest for students of the first class that
emphasized modern engineering technologies
“such as locksmithing, plumbing, working with
marble, etc.,” although they generally disguised

255
 is particularly saturated with ornament, including
Roman sarcophagus style bas-reliefs, garlands,
rocailles, and acanthus scrolls, and it also features
prominent female caryatid figures (fig. 6.14).188
The inscription at the foot of the sheet notes that
Ollivier was the student of Julien Guadet (1834–
1908), one of the Beaux-Arts’ most important
theorists of the turn of the century, who worked
at Charles Garnier’s agence for the Paris Opéra.189
Like so many architects in the later chapters of
this book Ollivier contributed to a universal
exposition, in this case the design for the Breton
pavilion at the Exhibition universelle of 1900, for
which he won a gold medal.190 The Saigon project
was the high point of his career: as the president
of the Société Central des Architectes wrote
in 1934, “his project for the theatre of Saigon,
rapidly executed, captured everyone’s atten-
tion.”191 Afterward Ollivier was modestly success-
ful, with a practice at the quai du Louvre, and he
was an accomplished watercolourist.192 He won
gold medals at the Salons des Architectes Français
in 1902 and 1905 and he built various houses
and villas as well as the Institut Notre-Dame and
collège de Guingamp in his hometown.193 He was
architecte honoraire de la ville de Paris from 1897
to 1927, working on improving the city’s parks
and gardens including the parc du Champ de
Mars, and he was elected chevalier of the Legion
of Honour in 1937.194 His school dossier reveals
that he died in February 1947.195 No obituary was
ever published.
the architecture of empire
Guichard was born to a wealthy French family
of agriculturalists in Callao (Lima, Peru) who
operated a rubber plantation, a cattle station, and
finally a coffee farm in the jungle across the Andes
from Lima, in Villa Rica, Puerto Bermudez, and
La Merced Chanchamayo.196 He left for Paris
around 1890 and studied at the Beaux-Arts under
Deglane, Charles-Alphonse Thierry (1830–1907),
and Paul Blondel (1847–1897), and he returned
256
to Paris after the Saigon commission to open a
private practice on 93 rue de Rennes.197 Three
studies are recorded from his days at the École,
the first of them a “fragment d’architecture” (now
missing) executed in 1890 for the second-class
Concours d’histoire de l’architecture, probably
an esquisse (rough sketch), the usual first part of
a concours that culminated in a rendu, or large-
scale finished drawing of the same project.198 In
1896, for his concours d’émulation, the final contest
before graduating to the première classe, Gui-
chard executed an esquisse in twelve hours on the
theme of “Un petit hospice de ménages,” or small
domestic clinic, which also does not survive.199
His only extant school study is his projet rendu for
a chamber of notaries building (1895), a plain but
elegant neo-Renaissance design centring upon a
three-arched loggia (fig. 6.29).200 The structure is
formed of a central corps de logis and receding
wings like the Saigon Théâtre and monumental
arches are the main motif of both buildings
(fig. 6.2), but it is otherwise a standard student
exercise in Italian Renaissance style such as Emile
Bérnard’s fantasy restoration of Raphael’s Villa
Madama in Rome (1871).201 The next year, three
years before taking over the Saigon project, Gui-
chard is mentioned in the journal La Construction
moderne as working in partnership with Garnier,
which suggests that he worked in Garnier’s agence
and was therefore the closest link among the
architects of the Saigon Théâtre with the creator
of the Paris Opéra.202 Guichard married Madel-
eine Marc at the church of Saint-Sulpice in 1904
and died on 1 October 1953.203 He is buried at
Montparnasse Cemetery.
Sculptor Dolivet, from Rennes, was also a
student at the École.204 Three drawings survive
in the Beaux-Arts archives, two of them studies
of plaster casts after antique vases in the style of
Giovanni Battista Piranesi (1874, 1876) for the
Concours du dessin d’ornement and Concours
6.29 Ernest-Amédé Guichard, study for a chamber of
notaries (1895). Ink and wash on paper. eNSBA . © Beaux-
Arts de Paris, Dist. rmN -Grand Palais/Art Resource, Ny .
d’emulation (which both won the third-place
medal) and one a candlestick design (1876).205
The vases demonstrate expertise in reproducing
classical bas-relief carving. A familiarity with clas-
sical sculpture would serve him in Saigon, where
he executed the exterior decorative sculptural
reliefs (fig. 6.14). By contrast, the candlestick,
for which he also won a third-place medal in
the Concours du dessin d’ornement, is a gilt
wooden torchère in the style of Louis XIV.206
Dolivet debuted at the Paris Salon of 1877 with
a plaster bust portrait, which also received a
third-class medal, and he executed plaster busts,
silver medals, and marble sculptures, of which his
erotic Madeleine (1886) is in the Musée des Beaux-
Arts in Rennes.207 Dolivet was therefore a provin-
cial sculptor of modest success, receiving mostly
third-class medals for his work, and little known
outside his hometown of Rennes.
The municipality of Saigon may have chosen
lesser-known architects and artists for the the-
atre itself, but they insisted on the best when it
came to interior decor and scenography, going
straight to specialist set designers from the closed
world of the Paris Opéra. Hired to execute perma-
nent paintings for the Saigon Theatre’s interior,
Paris-born Carpezat was in fact one of most
important scenographers of the Belle Époque,
about whom Germain Bapst wrote in 1893: “the
scenery of almost all the grand operas mounted or
remounted for thirty years came from his studio,”
including such famous premieres as Massenet’s
Thaïs (1894).208 It is thus odd that he was chosen
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
to paint permanent decoration rather than stage
sets, which were his real métier. Trained in the
atelier of the famous set maker Philippe-Marie
Chaperon (1823–1906), Carpezat contributed
to set designs for major premieres in the 1870s
and 1880s by Gounod, Saint-Saëns, Massenet,
Wagner, and Verdi at the Opéra, Opéra Comique,
and Comédie Française, often in collaboration
with Joseph-Antoine Lavastre (1834–1891).209
257
 Carpezat also had a connection with a universal
exposition: he was awarded a grand prix and
made chevalier of the Legion of Honour at the
Exposition universelle of 1878 after contribut-
ing to the interior paintings of the exposition’s
Dôme Centrale, Dôme des Beaux-Arts, and Dôme
des Arts Libéraux, and more significantly, he
became the Opéra’s chef du service des decora-
tions in 1891. Many of his maquettes survive in
the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris: those in the
late 1880s and ’90s by his hand alone and the
earlier ones in collaboration with Lavastre.210
Saigon was not his only overseas commission: in
1889 he painted the stage curtain for the Theatro
da Paz in Belém, which is closer to the kind of
decorative paintings he was hired to do for the
Saigon theatre.211
Carpezat’s collaborator on the Saigon theatre
project was Amable, who also worked at the Paris
Opéra, between 1885 and 1909, and who also re-
mained in Paris.212 Carpezat sent Victor Lamorte
(1874–1929) to Saigon in 1899 to supervise the
installation of his decoration for the theatre and
stage sets. Lamorte was a decorative painter from
Marseille trained at the École des Beaux-Arts
d’Avignon, who was described in 1894 as a “young
artist full of promise.” He enlisted in the Avignon
reserve infantry in 1898, and ended up moving
permanently to Indochina, working on the Royal
Palace in Phnom Penh (see chapter 7), for which
he was made an Officer of the Royal Order of
Cambodia. He also contributed to the interior
the architecture of empire
decoration of the Saigon Hôtel de Ville (fig. 6.4)
and the Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse in 1924
(figs. 8.3–4).213
The Hanoi Théâtre municipal was built almost
entirely by local architect-engineers. In fact,
Jean-Isidore Bossard was the only one to have
been educated at the École des Beaux-Arts, and
even he enjoyed only a modest career. Born in
Paris in 1875 to a bronze fitter from the ninth
258
arrondissement named Jean-Baptiste Bossard,
Jean-Isidore entered the Beaux-Arts in 1893,
studied with Léon-Paul-René Ginain (1825–1898)
and Louis Henri Georges Scellier de Gisors
(1844–1905), won the 1897 Prix Deschaumes
(for “domestic virtue” and “artistic talent”), and
received his diploma in 1903, two years before his
arrival in Hanoi sometime in 1905.214 A first-class
projet rendu for a concours d’émulation survives
in the archives of the École, a study of a French
embassy in a foreign nation that is (probably
incorrectly) dated to 1904.215 He left Paris shortly
after his marriage to Marianne Israël on 6 July
1905, and appears to have been something of a
philanderer, divorcing her on 8 July 1910 because
of “the husband’s misdeeds and subjects of com-
plaint” (she retained custody of the children).216
Bossard was in Paris again at 203 boulevard
Raspail at least by 1922, when he married his
second wife, Marie Armande-Clémentine
Rongier, whom he divorced four years later, on
13 July 1926.217 By that time he was living in the
small town of Jaulgonne (Aisne), from where he
submitted an unsuccessful project for a concours
for a new suburb in Alexandria, Egypt, in 1925.218
Bossard seems to have been drawn to the colonies,
and he and his son Georges moved permanently
to Algeria, where he served as the architect
of the municipality of Algiers, dying there on
7 June 1940.219
The other two of the Hanoi opera house’s
masterminds were engineer-architects from the
Travaux publics who rose through the ranks on
the job in Indochina. The theatre’s principal
designer Harlay, characterized, as we have seen,
as a “modest and hardworking civil servant,”
was a case in point. Born on 17 January 1865 to
a schoolteacher in the village of Floyon in the
département du Nord, Harlay left for Indochina
as a young man, perhaps in the military, and was
already a “commis des Travaux publics” in Hanoi
by the time he married Berthe-Marie-Henriette
Flanneau on furlough in Cambrai on 29 Novem-
ber 1897 – as noted above the couple had a son,
Jacques-Sydney-Émile, who was born in Hanoi in
September 1898, with the architect Bussy serving
as witness.220 Harlay joined Hanoi’s municipal
administration on 10 December 1899.221 No
clue survives about his training as an engineer –
let alone as an architect – but his designs for
the Théâtre municipal are quite accomplished,
suggesting that he had some early exposure to
the Beaux-Arts idiom, although apparently
not in the Beaux-Arts or École des Ponts-et-
Chaussées.222 He may in fact have been self-
taught, relying on architectural treatises published
by professors from the École Polytechnique or
the Beaux-Arts, such as Léonce Reynaud’s Traité
d’architecture (Paris, 1850–58), which in fact illus-
trates a plan and elevation of Garnier’s Opéra.223
At any rate, the commission resulted in a modest
promotion within the Travaux publics: by 1905 he
was titled “Inspecteur des bâtiments civils, chargé
de la surveillance du théâtre en construction”; in
1909 an electoral register listed him (and Bossard)
each as an “inspecteur des Bâtiments civils,” and in
1910 and 1911 he was called “Inspecteur de 2e classe
des bâtiments civils, mairie Hanoi.”224 The 1911
reference is the last we hear of him, probably be-
cause he soon returned to Cambrai: records show
that his son Jacques was mobilized in that city in
1918.225 If he died in Cambrai, he died after 1942,
the latest date in the publicly accessible death
records in the Cambrai archives, but he was never
mentioned again. Thus, the principal architects
of two of the most famous colonial buildings in
present-day Vietnam, Ferret and Harlay, never
even merited an obituary in the newspaper.
Lagisquet was another matter entirely, even
though he, too, came from a humble background
and like Harlay never seems to have received
formal training as an architect, either at the
Beaux-Arts or any of the Grandes Écoles. He
was born on 18 January 1864 in Villefranche-sur-
Mer (Nice), the son of a telegraph operator and
a seamstress.226 Enlisting as a “simple soldier”
he arrived in Tonkin in 1885 as a staff secretary
with the Tonkin Expeditionary Corps under
General Henri Roussel de Courcy (1827–1887),
quitting the army in 1887 to assume a post in
the Protectorate administration.227 He married
Léonie Blanche Bouderghem (b. 1870), daughter
of a machinist and milliner, while on furlough
in Paris in 1890, when he was titled “Ingénieur
civil” (one of the witnesses was Achille Aumoitte,
“vice-résident au Tonkin à Paris”), and the birth
certificate of their daughter Suzanne Pauline
(15 May 1899) described him as “Inspecteur des
Bâtiments Civils.”228 Lagisquet served as an archi-
tect for the Travaux publics for twenty-six years,
retiring in 1912 or 1913, before the opera house was
complete.229 Like Ferret before him, he leveraged
his expertise in Indochina into an exposition
commission, as assistant to the architect of the
pavillon du Cambodge in the 1906 Exposition
Coloniale de Marseille, a heavy-handed pastiche
of the Angkor Wat and Bayon temples designed
by Vildieu (fig. 6.30).230 In an electoral register
from 1909, the same one that listed Harlay and
Bossard as mere “inspectors,” Lagisquet was styled
“architecte des Bâtiments civils.”231
Lagisquet’s meteoric rise from the lower
bourgeoisie to the top echelons of colonial high
society is impressive, although as a veteran of the
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
Tonkin campaign he belonged to an elite group,
the Association des Anciens Tonkinois veterans’
fraternity. Lagisquet was given a full state funeral
at Hanoi cathedral on 25 April 1936, attended by
Governor-General René Robin, the chief of the
Sûreté, the resident superior, the secretary general,
the resident mayor, and many other city notables.
L’Avenir de Tonkin, which devoted three columns
to his exequies, declared that “never before, as far
259

as we can remember, was there a more crowded,
more imposing procession,” and it emphasized
that “Annamites” and Frenchmen paid him equal
honour.232 The same obituary portrayed him as
the saviour of Hanoi architecture, stepping in to
rescue a project that was “poorly conceived” and
that had become “a giant hovel [une immense
masure], on which scaffolding hung in ruins,” and
it credited him with the “felicitous changes to the
appearance of this beautiful monument.” Two
months before his death Lagisquet was made a
chevalier of the Legion of Honour, the only archi-
tect associated with the Hanoi theatre to be so
honoured. All these accolades happened long after
the architecture of empire
the Beaux-Arts style he championed had gone out
of fashion in the colonies.
One more figure deserves mention: Jean
Bourdeaud, the author of Haiphong’s neoclassical
theatre (fig. 6.1) and the man who allegedly was
to replace Harlay in October 1900. None of the
secondary literature mentions this architect and
head of the Haiphong voirie, and his few appear-
ances in the contemporary press spelled his name
260
6.30 Henri Vildieu and
François-Charles Lagisquet,
Cambodian Pavilion,
Exposition Coloniale de
Marseille, 1906. Coloured
postcard. Private collection.
in so many ways that it is difficult to trace his
career. Once again much about him can be found
in the provincial archives in France. Bourdeaud,
like Harlay, came from a humble background.
Born in the small town of Linard (Creuse) to a
single mother and unknown father (he took her
surname), he trained as a mason in Orléans and
founded a profitable public works contracting
firm in Ivry-sur-Seine (a southern suburb of Paris)
together with his son Pierre-Jean, who took over
after his father’s death in 1910.233 Bourdeaud had
three wives, whom he married in 1865, 1876, and
1884 respectively.234 He arrived, alone, in Saigon
on the ship Colombo on 8 April 1896, and the next
we hear about him is at the theatre’s inauguration
in November 1900, when L’Avenir du Tonkin
praised his building, which had been constructed
with imported materials from France:
Mr. Bourdeand [sic] has endowed our
city with a monument truly worthy of it.
Our new theatre will make Hanoi jealous,
which is still in its little Chinese hall. The
 exterior of the monument has a very pleas-
ing architectural effect. The very well-or-
dered interior layout includes a large hall at
the entrance where there is the box office
and the ground floor corridors giving access
to the orchestra seats and the lavatories. At
the ends, two very beautiful staircases, with
imitation bronze banisters lead to the loges
and the foyer. Two beautiful floor lamps are
mounted at the entrance of each staircase.
The room and the ceiling are decorated with
paintings in warm and light tones with the
most beautiful effect. The electric light, very
well placed on the ceiling, illuminates the
room without disturbing the spectators.
Artists who have already tried the room find
the acoustics excellent.235
Indeed, alone among the opera houses in Indo-
china, the Théâtre de Haiphong received nothing
but praise from the press, probably because it
was suitably modest and built in a restrained and
elegant classical mode and did not attempt to
recreate a paradigmatic building from the metro-
pole. Shortly after 1900 Bourdeaud returned to
Orléans, where he died a decade later, still run-
ning the family firm.
For all the aspirations of grandeur and metro-
politan ambition of their patrons, the buildings
treated in this chapter were constructed by men
of mostly modest backgrounds who, with one
exception, vanished into partial or complete
obscurity – and that exception, Lagisquet, was
celebrated more because of his association with
powerful colonial factions than for his work as an
architect. Like the troupes who came to perform
in them, the theatres did not attract Paris’s top
talent but instead drew the second- and third-
tier engineers who were already in Indochina
or willing to undertake the long voyage east to
make their fortunes. The scaled-down buildings
were also less impressive than first appearances
might suggest, and the operatic season in those
three Indochinese cities, with its vaudeville and
opéra-bouffes, had more in common with that of
a minor French provincial city than with anything
in the capital. As Sitwell noted, these monuments
are like pavilions in an exposition, and it is fitting
that they are now popular with Asian tourists
keen to visit a romanticized “little Europe,”
providing a theme park atmosphere ready-made
as backdrops for “selfies.” The Great War changed
everything, and as we will see in the next two
chapters the colony’s planners changed tack in the
1920s and 1930s, abandoning the retardataire opu-
lence of the Beaux-Arts tradition and its obsession
with mimesis in favour of equally wrong-headed
attempts at associationism: a drive to assimilate to
local styles to entice the Vietnamese, Cambodian,
and Lao people to see France as their natural ruler.
The leading architects of those buildings were
also a different breed from their Belle Époque
predecessors. Self-promoters who lectured and
published articles about their work, they operated
with the backing of academic and governmental
institutions and brought a nefarious pseudo-
scientific approach to the architecture and arts
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1900
of the colonized, not just by appropriating in-
digenous forms but also by championing ancient
indigenous models to denigrate contempor-
ary indigenous culture.
261
7
appropriation
Phnom Penh ca 1917

The last chapter considered two archetypal buildings of the era

before the Great War, when prestige architecture was commis-
sioned to advertise French power and cultural superiority and
colonial municipalities meticulously imitated metropolitan
models for the benefit of homesick colons. In these respects, the
buildings of early twentieth-century Saigon and Hanoi were like
their predecessors in ancien régime Saint-Domingue or Pondi-
cherry – except that, unlike in Pondicherry, the people who used
the buildings did not employ Asian ceremonial to legitimize their
presence there but acted as much as possible as they would have
done in Paris or Marseille. But things changed dramatically after
the war as colonial administrators, urban planners, archaeologists,
and architects encouraged a new syncretic approach to building
in Indochina that was part of a premeditated campaign to assert
French control by making colonial institutions look like they
belonged. We have seen several phases in French colonialism in
Asia when buildings constructed by and for French agents were
culturally convergent, ranging from invisible hybridities such
as the Jesuit church in seventeenth-century Pulucambi, which
looked Sino-Vietnamese but functioned as a Catholic church,
to structural and stylistic hybridities in the Franco-Siamese
Cathedral of Saint-Joseph in Ayutthaya or the Sino-Vaubanian
citadels of eighteenth-century Saigon and Diên Khánh. In the
next two chapters we will look for the first time
at engineered hybridity, a selective, top-down,
pseudo-scientific métissage, grafting forms
taken from indigenous architecture (primarily
roofs and decontextualized surface decoration)
onto essentially European (in this case art deco)
substructures. Its promoters, who publicized this
assertion of power through cultural appropria-
tion as a friendly accommodation to indigenous
traditions, called it an architecture of “associ-
ation” (as opposed to “assimilation” to French
styles). There was no equivalent in France’s early
modern empire.
A word of explanation is needed here about
the term “associationism.” In the scholarship on
Indochina, “architecture of association” has been
focused quite narrowly on the work of Ernest
Hébrard, whose impact, as we will see in the next
chapter, was limited to a handful of buildings in
the 1920s and early 1930s. However, Hébrard’s
experiment in architectural métissage – which,
incidentally, he called “style indochinois,” not
“architecture of association” – was not particularly
original. Not only did his brand of associationist
architecture derive directly from precedents in the
French Maghreb, but it was not significantly dif-
ferent from strategies employed by rival colonial
powers, such as the “Indo-Saracenic” architecture
of later nineteenth- and early twentieth-century
British India or especially the “Indies Architec-
ture” in the Dutch East Indies (1920s–30s), which
I will discuss below. Associationism as an admin-
istrative policy in French colonies was itself based
on the British precedent of indirect rule, used so
successfully in parts of India, in which local elites
and the existing class and power structure were
left in place in the service of Empire.1 In this book
I use “associationism” to refer more broadly to
any calculated architectural hybridity in which
a European power combines architectural and
ornamental forms of colonized peoples with
essentially European structures to assert the
colonizers’ indigeneity and their technological
superiority and universalism.
Associationism was developed by a new kind
of architect, unlike any who were involved with
French colonial architecture previously. Those
whom we considered in the last chapter were
mostly modestly successful professionals who
struck out for the colonies to boost their careers
because they needed the money, were in the mil-
itary, or were not getting very far in France. The
architects who dreamed up associationism had
more iniquitous intentions. They, too, sought to
make a name for themselves through their work in
the colonies. But this time they did so by usurping
and manipulating the culture of the colonized,
electing themselves as the guardians of Khmer or
Sino-Vietnamese artistic traditions and claiming
credit for buildings designed and executed by
indigenous people – all the while treating the
latter like simpletons unable to appreciate their
own past. During the decades when the architects
of the opera houses were vanishing into obscurity
the associationists were ensuring lasting fame by
promoting their quasi-scientific theories and ac-
complishments through academic journals (some
of them self-published) and in international
expositions, using pavilions to champion their
design principles or to recreate structures they
had built in Indochina. Hébrard was particularly
successful in this regard, and he has consequently
received the lion’s share of scholarly attention (see
chapter 8).2 The architects in the previous chapter
phNom peNh cA 1917
were not necessarily more personally racist than
the average Frenchman, although they certainly
shared in the era’s systemic racism and worked
for racist municipalities and governments. But
those in the following two chapters, particularly
Hébrard and George Groslier (1887–1945),
263
 espoused an intellectual, clinical racism that was
backed by sympathetic academic institutions in
Europe and its colonies.
Architectural associationism in French Indo-
china emerged at the intersection of four specific
historical phenomena: the plundering and seizure
by French archaeologists of Angkor Wat and
other ancient Khmer and Cham sites beginning
in the 1860s, culminating in the work of the École
Française d’Extrême-Orient (efeo , founded
1898); the international exhibitions of Paris and
Marseille (1878–1937), where copies of Indo-
chinese monuments were reproduced as well as
pavilions that anticipated or imitated association-
ist styles in Indochina; the great modernizing
urbanistic and architectural projects of French
Morocco in the 1910s and ’20s, the immediate
inspiration for Indochinese associationism; and
the first Indochinese museums and art schools:
the museums in Phnom Penh (1909, 1917),
Tourane (1916), Vientiane (1925), Huế (1927),
Saigon (1929), and Hanoi (1932), and the École
des arts cambodgiens (1917) in Phnom Penh and
the École des beaux-arts de l’Indochine (1924)
in Hanoi.
The next two chapters examine the three most
important museums in Indochina: the Musée
Khmer (later Albert-Sarraut) in Phnom Penh
(figs. 7.13–15); the Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse
in Saigon (figs. 8.3–4), and the Musée Louis-
Finot in Hanoi (figs. 8.10–13), all built under the
auspices of the efeo . These monuments also
the architecture of empire
offer three different takes on associationism. The
first, the most sophisticated and satisfactory of
the buildings, makes extensive use of authentic
Khmer-Siamese forms, grafted onto an essentially
European substructure, but one that is reticent
enough that the Asian forms are allowed to take
centre stage. The second, although not lacking a
certain inventiveness, literally emerged from an
(aborted) international exposition pavilion and
264
has the superficial pastiching and festival atmos-
phere common to such ephemeral structures.
The third, designed by Hébrard but significantly
altered, is a less appetizing building: possessing a
sterile, impersonal monumentality, it focuses on
climatic solutions at the expense of ornament,
and the “vernacular” forms with which it dresses
up an essentially modern building are pan-Asian
rather than regional. It is the kind of structure
Nicola Cooper refers to when she comments that
“[t]his rationalising, universalist and essentially
modernist vision sat uncomfortably alongside the
imperatives of association.”3
Museums are particularly appropriate subjects
for two chapters on appropriation and associ-
ationism. Arnaud Le Brusq was the first to note
that “it is precisely in these museum projects, in
the milieu of the exposition pavilions, that this
architecture peculiar to Indochina […] takes
place. […] it is the opportunity offered by the
construction of museums that allows it to achieve
its full artistic claim.”4 He argues that unlike
several of the museums in the French Maghreb,
which were installed in pre-existing palaces (as
was also the Khải Định museum in Huế, installed
in a royal pavilion), the Indochinese museums
treated here rank among the most dedicated
experiments in associationism. They contrast
particularly with the stripped neoclassicism of the
museums built in Algeria in 1930 to celebrate the
centenary of the French occupation, especially
the National Museum of Fine Arts in Algiers
(1930), which – in a settler colony that was
considered an extension of French soil – made
no attempt at associationism: “on the contrary, it
privileged European vision in the forum of elite
French culture.”5 The Indochinese museums are
even unusual when compared with museums in
other colonies, such as the Royal Asiatic Society
in Bombay (1830), the Batavia Museum (1862) in
Jakarta, or the Colombo Museum in Ceylon
7.1 James G. Smither, Colombo Museum (Sri Lanka),
1872–76.
(1872–76), which are all neoclassical or Palla-
dian (fig. 7.1), although other British museums
in India such as the Prince of Wales Museum in
Bombay (1908–14) were built in Indo-Saracenic
style (about which more below).6
It is important to note here that, like the opera
houses in the last chapter, these are exceptional
buildings. Indeed, associationism was never the
predominant style of public architecture as most
French colonists and officials feared that it would
dilute their cultural hegemony over Indochina.
Instead, they favoured the more utilitarian
“travaux publics” or “compradoric” style of public
architecture produced by the Service des Bâti-
ments civils discussed in chapter 1: simple but
eclectic combinations of neo-Renaissance and
late medieval genre normand or Alsatian forms
often adorned with Alpine-style roof brackets
and friezes of coloured tiles, like the Chemins
de fer de l’Indochine building in Saigon (1914)
(figs. 1.9, 7.2). By the end of the nineteenth
century they included locally produced materials
such as concrete (manufactured in Haiphong
from 1899) and factory-made tiles and bricks
(made in Hanoi from 1896), but they were
primarily built of imported French bricks, tiles,
and window glass (never produced in Indochina)
or Chinese tiles.7 Their designs are reminiscent
phNom peNh cA 1917
of those published in the popular and practical
architectural journal La Construction moderne in
the 1880s and 1890s, which featured, among other
things, new buildings of various purposes to fit
different budgets, whether schools and hospitals,
or villas or chalets, and they were likely adapted
directly from that publication. Such were the
265

7.2 Chemins de fer de l’Indochine building, Saigon, 1914.
A typical building of the “travaux publics” style.
the architecture of empire
Hospital-Hospice at Aurillac by M.L. Magne
(1897); M. Mongeaud’s École primaire supérieure
de filles at Saint-Maixent (Pays de la Loire); a
Norman-style villa by M.L. Rigoni at Clermont
(Oise); and a Maison de campagne at Fontenay-
aux-Roses (south of Paris) by M. Mériot (all from
1898).8 The journal’s description of the school’s
facade could describe any number of buildings of
that era in Indochina:
266
The facades, although very simple, are pleas-
ant and cheerful in appearance, thanks to
the use of ordinary two-tone brick in bands
and friezes. The front of the main building is
enhanced by a few enamelled bricks (golden
yellow, brown and emerald-green tones)
discreetly used in the bands, by natural
terracotta spandrel panels on a gold back-
ground, [an] enamelled central rosette, with
brown frame with golden yellow lines and
blue beads at the corners; finally by a motif
of the initials RF in antique blue on a pale
gold yellow background with antique green
palms, all made by the house of Parvillée.9
Such buildings can be found across Vietnam,
Cambodia, and Laos, whether schools, post
offices, private houses, or country villas, and they
are strikingly uniform in style (figs. 1.9, 9.24).
In the same breath contemporary critics derided
their lack of originality but praised their practical-
ity, cheapness, and permanence. In 1920 Henri
Coucherousset, who considered the École des
Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine (ebai) to be elitist,
wrote that although the “Service des Bâtiments
Civils [is] the most perfect school of bad taste,”
and that “[t]he native architects, trained by prac-
tice alone, by working for the Bâtiments Civils,
are responsible, we are told, for the comprador
style,” yet “better a comprador style house that
does not collapse, costs a reasonable price and
is habitable, than a wonder of the imagination,
overpriced, not solid and uninhabitable.”10
The scholarship treats these museums as
if they were solely the invention of European
architects; consequently, I will highlight the
indigenous contributions to their design and
construction. The first one, the Musée Khmer/
Musée Albert Sarraut, owes a profound debt to
Vietnamese and Cambodian builders and design-
ers – architects such as François Khuôn Nguyen
Van (ca 1860–after 1931), a graduate of the École
centrale in Paris, or palace architect Oknha Tep
Nimit Mak (1856–after 1924), well known for
his work in the Royal Palace and as indigenous
director of the École des arts cambodgiens. I will
argue that these two architects and their Cam-
bodian colleagues were more responsible for the
museum’s design than was Groslier. Vietnamese
architects, designers, and craftsmen made contri-
butions to the construction and possibly design
of the two museums in the next chapter too,
including the entrepreneur Trinh-Quy-Khang
(fl. 1926–36), who took over the construction of
the Hanoi museum in 1929 and helped bring it to
7.3 John Clunish, Phra Thinang Chakri Maha Prasat,
Grand Palace, Bangkok, 1876.
completion. Frustratingly, our understanding of
these architects and contractors is handicapped
by French sources that rarely mention their names
and usually ignore them altogether. We must read
carefully between the lines in government reports,
newspaper articles, letters, contracts, and other
documents to recreate, as best we can, the role
these Indochinese architects had in the develop-
ment of this style.
Another non-European contribution to the
design of these museums – and, I will argue, for
associationist architecture in general – has never
been acknowledged despite being literally right
next door. During the second half of the nine-
teenth century European and Siamese-European
hybrid architecture flourished in Siam, a nation
that maintained great cultural and religious
phNom peNh cA 1917
267
 authority over French Cambodia and Laos as “the
great regional centre of Buddhist spirituality.”11
Eager to present itself as a world power in the
face of British and French encroachment, the
Siamese government participated in the Paris
Exposition of 1867 and Kings Rama IV (Mong-
kut, r. 1851–68) and Rama V (Chulalongkorn,
r. 1868–1910), hired British and Italian architects
to build Beaux-Arts neoclassical/Renaissance
palace and public buildings in Siam.12 Some
buildings, like the neoclassical Bangkok Ministry
of Defence (1891) by Gerolamo Emilio Gerini
7.4 Throne Hall, Royal Palace, Phnom Penh, 1917.
the architecture of empire
268
(1860–1913), looked entirely Western.13 But
others, notably the monumental Phra Thinang
Chakri Maha Prasat (Throne Hall) at the Grand
Palace, built by John Clunish in 1876, combined
European-style lower sections with Siamese trad-
itional roof forms and spires (fig. 7.3).14 Clunish’s
original French Renaissance design featured a
domed roof, but Rama V insisted on a Siamese
triple roof with spires to blend in with existing
throne halls on the same alignment. In the first
three decades of the twentieth century architects
increasingly combined Siamese ornamentation
with neoclassicism in public architecture such
as schools or museums.15 This combination of
7.5 Royal Palace, Luang Prabang, 1904–09; 1922–24.
indigenous roofs, spires, and other forms with
European substructures is a clear prototype for
the hybridizations employed by the architects of
association in Indochina or their contemporaries
in the Dutch East Indies, but it was also a great
inspiration for non-European patrons who were
seeking styles that could reflect their own trad-
itions in an essentially modern building. Such are
the royal palaces of Phnom Penh (1860s–1960s)
(fig. 7.4) and Luang Prabang (1904–09; 1922–
24) (fig. 7.5), both directly inspired by the Bang-
kok Grand Palace, and many of the buildings we
will encounter in chapter 9. The Phnom Penh
palace is particularly relevant here as it was the
immediate precedent for the design of the Musée
Albert-Sarraut, which was mostly built and de-
signed by the same palace architects. Paradoxically
therefore, French associationist architecture in
Indochina derived in part from an experiment by
an Asian rival to indigenize European architec-
ture as part of a program “to assert its sovereignty
on a global stage … presenting itself as a modern,
phNom peNh cA 1917
civilized nation.”16
Angkor Wat, the EFEO, and the
Universal Exposition
French cultural appropriation in Indochina has
a long history, beginning at Angkor Wat, the
twelfth-century Hindu-Buddhist temple complex
269
 that is also the world’s largest stone religious
structure (fig. 7.6). As Michael Falser has recently
shown, French archaeologists used Angkor as a
pretext to advance colonialism, particularly as
it stood on territory that belonged to Siam
before its “retrocession” to French Cambodia
in 1907.17 The alleged French “discovery” of
the site by Henri Mouhot (1826–1861) in 1860
coincided with the first era of conquest in French
Cochinchina (1858–62) and the foundation of
the Protectorate of Cambodia (1863). A wave
of archaeologists soon followed, notably Louis
Delaporte (1842–1925) and Lucien Fournereau
(1846–1906) in the 1870s and 1880s, who plun-
dered the temples, drove an active Buddhist mon-
astery from the site, stole oxcarts of sculptures for
Khmer art collections at Compiègne and later the
7.6 Angkor Wat, detail of main building. Twelfth century.
the architecture of empire
270
Trocadéro and Musée Guimet, and damaged its
buildings through the incessant making of plaster
casts, some with caustic cement.18 The site was
cleared, structures were “corrected” or rebuilt, and
the archaeological park was landscaped according
to Beaux-Arts principles of harmony and balance.
Beaux-Arts-trained architects executed the first
comprehensive drawings of Angkor in 1889 and
its axial symmetry and its pars pro toto compos-
ition in which a central motif, its main tower,
formed the basis of its whole design made it look
like an entry for a Prix de Rome competition, a
comparison made explicit in a remark by conserv-
ator Henri Marchal (1876–1970) of the efeo
in 1925.19
In the twentieth century the École Française
d’Extrême-Orient took responsibility for all
Khmer, Cham, and other Indochinese antiqui-
ties, presented them at expositions in France and
7.7 Charles Blanche and
Gabriel Blanche, Angkor Wat
replica at the Exposition
coloniale internationale in
Paris. Photograph, ca 1931.
Private collection.
Indochina, and operated all Indochinese mu-
seums. Founded in Saigon by Governor-General
Paul Doumer (first as the “Mission archéologique
d’Indo-Chine”) and transferred to Hanoi when
it became the capital in 1902, the efeo was itself
under the aegis of the Académie des Inscriptions
et Belles-Lettres, founded in 1663 by Colbert to
celebrate the gloire of the monarchy by providing
Latin inscriptions for medals and monuments.20
Contrary to popular perception the efeo was
not a teaching institution but a scholarly body
devoted to research, monument preservation,
linguistics, and “public service,” as Doumer wrote,
“such that the members are integrated to the gov-
ernmental system of the colony.”21 Their Bulletin,
founded in 1901, was not only a critical scholarly
journal but also a mouthpiece for the school’s
vision for archaeology in Indochina and its opin-
ions about contemporary Indochinese culture.
An important facet of their “public service” was
to advance the cause of colonialism, primarily by
promoting the Angkor park as French property
and calling for the Siamese retrocession, which
“demonstrates the complicity of science and
scholarship in the colonial project.”22
As had French archaeologists in previous dec-
ades, the efeo represented Angkor as an example
of ageless “classicism,” a loaded term meant to
equate the site with the Greco-Roman tradition
and evoking the classicisme that had characterized
French architecture since the time of Louis XIV.
This was why archaeologists removed present-day
Buddhist structures from the site and retrograded
the monument itself – which was first Hindu
and then Buddhist – into a neutrally Hindu
phNom peNh cA 1917
monument. Hinduism was no longer an active
religion in Cambodia, although aspects of Hindu-
ism had been incorporated into contemporary
Buddhism, as was also the case in Siam as we have
seen in chapter 2. Its scholars also denigrated
present-day Cambodian artists and architects.
Ingrid Muan remarks: “[s]o strong is the lure of
271

the famous temples of Angkor […] that art history
seemingly cannot admit a more contemporary
Cambodian art. […] With their eventual clearing
and literal reconstruction, the temples of Angkor
became the magnificent example against which
the present fell short.”23 This bias toward Angkor
and other Khmer and Cham monuments to the
detriment of contemporary Indochinese archi-
tecture – characterized as decadent and infected
by foreign influences – had a huge impact on
museum design and arts training within the
the architecture of empire
colony, as we shall see.
French archaeologists worked just as zealously
on the home front. Through its global replication
in carton paté, wood, metal, and glass in universal
and colonial expositions in Paris and Marseille
between 1878 and 1937 – including a life-sized
model of the central section in 1931 (figs. 6.30,
7.7) – Angkor was portrayed as a French pos-
session that had been rescued from an ignorant
272
7.8 Henri Vildieu and
François Lagisquet,
Palais de la Cochinchine
from the 1906 Exposition
coloniale in Marseille.
Coloured postcard,
ca 1906. Private
collection.
and degenerate Cambodian people. Novelist
Claude Farrère declared in 1931 that the French
were the “legitimate inheritors of this antique
Khmer civilisation.”24 But even these models were
pastiches: the replicas were arranged differently
from the original, omissions and additions were
made (most of them incorporated the face towers
from the nearby Bayon Temple), the grade of
the staircases was lowered, and in the case of the
1931 replica it was given a modernist interior – all
glass bricks, smooth lines, and grey tones like an
ocean liner dining room. Léon Blum, moderate
socialist politician and later prime minister (from
1939), made the most eloquent critique of French
exposition- and Angkor-mania in 1931: “we must
not forget what reality hides behind this décor of
art and joy […] At the exhibition, we reconstitute
the marvellous stairway of Angkor […] but in
Indochina we shoot, or deport, or imprison.”25
Blum was likely referring to the Yên Bái uprising
of February 1930, the most powerful anti-French
rebellion to date: as Cooper remarks, while the
exposition was going on “the Indochinese were
being submitted to probably the most severe
repression the territory had yet seen under
French rule.”26
I will return to these expositions throughout
these two chapters: their pavilions were import-
ant auditions for pastiche Franco-Asian styles
in Indochina (or representations of them); the
architects of all three of the museums in these
chapters built exposition pavilions, from Angkor
Wat reproductions to miniature replicas of more
contemporary Cambodian, Lao, Cochinchinese,
Annamese, and Tonkinese monuments; and in
one case a pavilion was even a reproduction in
miniature of an Indochinese museum (fig. 7.16).
Typical is the Palais de la Cochinchine from the
1906 Exposition Coloniale in Marseille (fig. 7.8),
by Henri Vildieu and François-Charles Lagisquet,
architects who contributed to the Hanoi opera
house (fig. 6.3) and Hôtel des Postes in Saigon
(fig. 6.6) respectively, a fantasy juxtaposition of
Sino-Vietnamese forms taken from temples and
houses that was unconcerned with accuracy.27
The museums in these two chapters have more
in common with exposition pavilions than with
genuine Indochinese architecture: as Caroline
Herbelin notes, “vernacular art did not directly
influence the colonizers. Instead, an imagined
‘Asia,’ constructed in France, conditioned the first
responses of the colonizers regarding local art
and, consequently, local architecture.”28
Associationism and Métissages
The doctrine of association began as a political
policy designed to stabilize government authority.
One of its earliest theorists, former governor-
general Jean Marie Antoine de Lanessan (1843–
1919), called for a departure from the violent
assimilationism of the early period of colonization
toward “a ‘directed’ complementarity” between
Frenchmen and indigenes, in Pierre Brocheux’s
and Daniel Hémery’s words: “to define the terms
of a compromise with the political structures of
Dai Nam [Vietnam] and mobilize what it pre-
served of its social legitimacy.”29 Jules Harmond
(1845–1921) defined associationism in 1910 as the
“scrupulous respect for the manners, customs,
and religion of the natives,” and Raymond Betts
defines it as “a more flexible policy which would
emphasize retention of local institutions and
which would make the native an associate in the
colonial enterprise.”30 Associationism had been
officially endorsed in 1905 by Étienne Clémentel
(1864–1936), at the time the minister for colonies,
and it was approved in a resolution by the Cham-
ber of Deputies in 1917.31 It was implemented
at the turn of the century by Joseph-Simon
Gallieni, governor of Madagascar (1896–1905),
and Louis-Hubert Lyautey, the first French
resident-general in Morocco (1912–25) – both
of whom had previously served in Indochina.32
It was related to the concept of “mise en valeur,”
not just economic development but also “moral
and cultural improvement,” a program that fit
colonial France’s self-image as a regime of com-
passion, munificence, and custodianship.33 Albert
Sarraut (1872–1962), French radical politician
and governor-general of Indochina in 1911–13
and 1917–19, was the first to call for association-
ism in Indochinese architecture, referring to the
“absolute necessity of ending the painful fantasies
through which public edifices … have highlighted
phNom peNh cA 1917
a bad taste, a love of the disparate, a lack of under-
standing about aesthetics that has often character-
ized administrative constructions.”34 Nevertheless,
there was never anything like a government strat-
egy for architecture, much less a series of specific
stylistic directives for architects to follow. Only
in Cambodia did Resident-Superior François
273

7.9 Robert Chisholm, the great tower at Chepauk Palace,
Madras, begun 1871.
the architecture of empire
Baudoin (b. 1867) instruct his residents and chief
engineer to work toward a hybrid style (in 1917),
although here it was specifically Khmer and not
merely a matter of aesthetics but of adapting to
Cambodians’ lifestyles and concept of space.35
Associationist architecture was nothing new.
The conscious use of indigenous styles to insinu-
ate a colonial power into the hearts and minds of
274
its subjects began in British India following the
“Mutiny” of 1857, when sepoys of the East India
Company army revolted across northern and
central India under the Mughal flag and sparked
a nationalist rebellion that nearly toppled the
colonial regime.36 After crushing the rebellion,
Britain sought to legitimize its rule by associat-
ing the Raj with the Mughal Empire, just as the
French had done a century earlier at Pondicherry,
but this time through architecture. Although the
British seized actual Mughal monuments, notably
the Red Fort in Delhi, transformed recklessly
into a barracks, they also began in the 1870s
consciously to adopt Mughal forms into their
architecture, echoing the Mughals’ own tactic
of co-opting earlier Indo-Islamic architectural
forms after invading India from Central Asia in
the sixteenth century. Architect William Emerson
(1843–1924) famously remarked in 1873 that “[i]t
was impossible for the architecture of the west to
be suited to the natives of the east.”37 As in Indo-
china archaeology played a major role, as British
organizations like the Archaeological Survey of
India (founded 1861) strove to survey, enumerate,
and possess the antiquities of the subcontinent,
and archaeologists made similar claims about pro-
tecting a classical past from contemporary people
who had fallen into ignorance.38 Where French
archaeologists cleansed Angkor of its Buddhism,
British ones de-emphasized Hinduism, which the
British disdained, in favour of Buddhism and,
especially, Islam.
The pioneer of the style that became known
as “Indo-Saracenic,” a pastiche of Mughal and
other Indo-Islamic forms, was Robert Fellowes
Chisholm (1840–1915), an architect based in
Madras.39 Chisholm added Islamic-style domes
and arches to railway stations, assembly halls,
theatres, and colleges. His first work in the style
was an 1871 adaptation into government buildings
of the Chepauk Palace (1768), former residence
of the nawab of the Carnatic, including a striking
red-and-white-striped tower with domed corner
finials, a huge parapet, and a giant onion dome
at the top (fig. 7.9). It won Chisholm further com-
missions and guaranteed the style a lasting place
in Raj architecture, until Edwin Lutyens (who
considered all Indian architecture to be “child-
ish”) radically reduced the Indian content in of-
ficial Raj architecture, combining stripped-down
Indic forms with European classical modernism in
a way that recalled fascist architecture in Europe,
most monumentally at the Viceroy’s House in
New Delhi (1912–29), which, like Hébrard’s
buildings, placed Asian roof and dome structures
on top of an essentially European building.40
No one has ever said it, but Hébrard, who went in
for massiveness and restrained art deco aesthetics
and who also eschewed decoration, surely knew
what Lutyens was up to. As in French Indochina,
where associationism was widely criticized, British
officials and colonists were far from unanimous
in their acceptance of Indo-Saracenic style, most
preferring to emphasize their Britishness through
gothic and neoclassical styles (see chapter 9).
However, if some feared that it was “too Indian”
for the British, Indo-Saracenic architecture was
hardly authentic – there was more than a whiff of
the Brighton Pavilion (1787–1823) about it and
Chisholm even incorporated elements of Byzan-
tine architecture into his work.
The Netherlands developed its own brand
of associationism around the same time as did
France. The Dutch had introduced what they
called an “ethical policy” at the turn of the twen-
tieth century, again using outward benevolence to
mask a strategy for tightening their hold on the
colony.41 Its architectural manifestation was called
“Indies Architecture,” a syncretic modernism
that thrived in the 1920s and 1930s, particularly
in the work of Thomas Karsten (1884–1945) and
Henri Maclaine Pont (1884–1971), that aimed
to appropriate structural forms from indigenous
architecture that harmonize with modernist prin-
ciples. Pont wrote that he wanted to bring “west
and east together without suppressing either” and
his colleague H.P. Berlage (1856–1934) saw
“Indies architecture” (elsewhere called “Indo
Europeeschen architectuur stijl”) as “a synthesis
of two elements: the modern constructive spirit,
born of a rationalistic and intellectual knowledge
that is universal and therefore eternal, and the
spiritual aesthetic elements that are particularis-
tic and therefore everywhere different.”42 Notice
the characterization of modernism as eternal, the
same term French architects were using to
describe ancient Khmer architecture: for associ-
ationist architects the ancient and the modern
were a marriage made in heaven.
Pont’s greatest work is his 1919–20 Indische
Technische Hoogeschool (Indies Technical
College) in Bandoeng (Bandung, Java) (fig. 7.10).
Pont focused on the style and structure but also
the mathematics and physics of Javanese and
Sumatran monumental vernacular architecture
to find commonalities with Western “rational”
architecture. He achieved striking results but was
highly selective, and the Indonesian elements
were divorced from their socio-cultural context.
Like Groslier (see below), he believed that he was
saving the Indonesians from themselves, raising
their vernacular traditions to the level of scientific
rationalism, and as a proponent of the arts and
crafts movement he also promoted indigenous
artisanry, a major concern for Groslier.43 The
Indische Technische Hoogeschool was typical:
phNom peNh cA 1917
it employed a multi-level roof shape covered
with wooden slates (sirap) that was derived from
large family houses of the Minangkabau people
of Western Sumatra, and the interior furnishings
and ornament employed local crafts traditions.44
The European elements were mostly structural:
the building was supported by a (paradoxically)
275
 7.10 Henri Maclaine Pont, Indische Technische
Hoogeschool, Bandung (Indonesia), 1919–20.
French framework of posts and roof trusses, and
the floors and foundations were of concrete. As an
educational institution it demonstrated the other
side of the “Ethical Policy”: the school trained in-
digenous engineers, but the buildings and canals
they were taught to execute served the planta-
tions, factories, and government institutions of
the colonists, not Indonesian communities. The
the architecture of empire
first Dutch pavilion at the 1931 Paris Colonial
Exposition (by P.A.J. Moojen and W.J.G Zwee-
dijk), built in a similar style but more of a pastiche
from different parts of Indonesia, was one of the
most praised at the fair before it burned down in
June and had to be replaced by a more modest one
based on Balian themes alone.45
Associationism’s strategy of pasting indigenous
roofs and motifs onto modernist or neoclassical
276
substructures also has a precedent in one of the
first civic structures in French Indochina, the first
to be constructed in permanent materials rather
than wood and straw.46 The massive terminal of
the Compagnie des messageries impériales (later
Messageries maritimes) in Saigon harbour (1862–
63), designed by an architect named Laborde in
La Ciotat and executed by engineers Palicot and
Maucher, is the earliest example of such a com-
bination in Indochina (fig. 7.11).47 The lower part
of the structure is surrounded by an arcade on the
ground floor and a colonnade of piers above and
recalls the functional neoclassicism of the British
colonies, such as the officer’s quarters at Murray
Barracks (1844) or Flagstaff House (1846),
both in Hong Kong. The lower section was also
a building type favoured by wealthy Chinese
merchants in Saigon: such was the Maison Wang
Tai (1867), a building so large that it later served
as the Saigon Customs House.48 The Messageries
building crowns this substructure with a fanciful
hip-gable temple roof of red tiles surmounted by
two undulating dragons riding on Chinese clouds,
earning it the popular epithet “Dragon House”
(Nhà rồng).49 However, despite the terminal’s
apparent similarities to Hébrard’s designs this was
no associationist building: in fact, the “exotic”
roof was nothing more than a corporate gimmick
of the Compagnie des messageries: the company
built indigenous-style roofs to match the styles of
many of its overseas terminals to please European
lovers of exotica, whether in Louisiana, Senegal,
or Brazil.
7.11 Engineer Laborde, former Compagnie des
Messageries impériales building, Saigon, 1862–63.
The Musée Khmer in Phnom Penh, George
Groslier, and François Khuôn Nguyen Van
The earliest associationist museum in fact com-
prised two consecutive buildings: the Musée
Khmer (1907–09) (fig. 7.12) and its larger suc-
cessor, the Musée Albert-Sarraut (1917–20)
(figs. 7.13–15). Stylistically they are the most
authentically indigenous of the museums in this
book, although the Khmer forms were applied to
buildings of a type and layout that were alien to
Cambodia. Scholars attribute the hybridity of the
Musée Albert-Sarraut – as they did in his day – to
the painter and amateur archaeologist George
Groslier.50 However I contend that Groslier
took full credit for a building to which Khmer
phNom peNh cA 1917
277

the architecture of empire
7.12 François Khuôn Nguyen Van after Henri Parmentier,
Project for the Musée Khmer, Phnom Penh, ca 1905. École
française d’Extrême-Orient (efeo ), Paris.
architects and craftsmen trained in the Royal
Palace at Phnom Penh were the main contribu-
tors, but who were sidelined or ignored in ac-
counts of these buildings’ history. Such behaviour
is entirely in keeping with Groslier’s paternalistic
approach to indigenous artists, as was particularly
278
manifested in his École des arts cambodgiens,
a sister institution to the second museum and
located directly behind it, which has been ana-
lyzed in pioneering works by Ingrid Muan and
Gabrielle Abbe.51 Unfortunately for the historian,
written records represent the bias of the colonists
and Khmer architects are rarely mentioned by
name: nevertheless, it is possible to find out
important details about them from archival and
published sources.
 Groslier was a born self-promoter and fabu-
list. In fact, his birth – he claimed to be the first
Frenchman born in Cambodia – was something
he frequently cited as proof that he was a true son
of Cambodia, and which the secondary litera-
ture has accepted at face value. However, a look
through the births in the état civil documents
from the Protectorate of Cambodia between
1874 and 1886 reveals that Groslier was in fact the
forty-fifth child of a French father registered by
the Protectorate. Although most children were
of mixed race (the mothers were usually Cam-
bodian or Vietnamese) they were recognized by
the state as French citizens, as were the “French
from India,” or Pondychériens, including the baby
born immediately before Groslier (on 11 January
1887), Michel Singararayan, son of a trader from
Pondicherry and specifically identified as a “sujet
français.”52 Racial bias likely prevented Groslier
from recognizing these children as truly French;
however even he could not deny the legitimacy of
a French child of French Caucasian parents: Paul-
Henri Saëton (born 7 October 1886), whose mar-
seillais father, Honoré-Généreux-Marie Saëton,
was an agent with the Messageries fluviales de
Cochinchine and whose mother was Marie-Anne
Néaves.53 Groslier’s claims about his birth are
characteristic of a man who would frequently
stretch the truth to advance his reputation.
Groslier’s father was a civil servant and came to
the Protectorate in 1885 with his wife Angéline-
Sidonie Legrand. Groslier spent only the first
two years of his life in Cambodia, returning in
1889 with his mother to France, where he would
spend the next twenty-one years.54 What hap-
pened next is unclear. Scholars unanimously say
that he was “Beaux-Arts trained” and even that
he won a Second Prix de Rome, an impression he
did nothing to dispel.55 However I have been
unable to find any trace of him in the Beaux-Arts
archives and neither was his teacher, the academic
painter Albert Maignan (1845–1908), associated
with the École.56 On 8 October 1908, one month
after Maignan’s death, Groslier was conscripted
into the First Regiment of Engineers at Versailles
as a sapper (Sapeur du Génie).57 In June of 1909
he even participated in a charity salon by soldier
artists in the Petites-Écuries of “painting, sculp-
ture, architecture, decorative arts, and engraving”
attended by the Under-Secretary of State for
War, to which Groslier contributed a sentimental
painting of a Breton girl praying before a statue
of the Virgin executed in Maignan’s studio a few
days before the latter’s death.58 Although Groslier
claims already to have been in Cambodia that
year, his military records demonstrate that he
returned to Indochina (to Saigon) only at the very
end of 1910, on 12 December.59 In the meantime
he shed the “s” from his first name and adopted
the English spelling “George,” although it is still
spelled “Georges” in official documents. Groslier
spent 1911–12 travelling throughout Annam and
Cambodia sketching and painting, including six
months at Angkor.60
Groslier worked quickly. In 1912–13 he was
already back in Europe, organizing a series of con-
ferences based on his field research and publishing
his best-known work, on Cambodian dance,
Danseuses cambodgiennes anciennes et modernes
(Paris 1913). This book became controversial be-
cause of its erroneous claim that the female apsara
figures in Angkorian temples were representations
of dancers, a fabrication that his own son, archae-
ologist Bernard-Philippe Groslier (1926–86),
constantly had to dispel, much to his own embar-
phNom peNh cA 1917
rassment.61 George was eager to establish a reputa-
tion as a native-born expert on Cambodia but in
fact had spent less than four years of his life there
by that time, only two of them as an adult. In 1913
he was back in Indochina, placed in charge of “ar-
chaeological and artistic study” in Cambodia by
the Minister of Public Instruction and Fine Arts
279
 and the Société Asiatique, but barely a year later
he returned to France (on 3 August 1914) when he
was mobilized.62 One month later he was assigned
as a flyer to the First Aviation Group, 19th Squad-
ron, trained for two years in Aerodrome Five at
Ippécourt (Meuse), and saw active combat in
Romania in 1916, becoming a corporal on 16 Feb-
ruary 1917.63 On the occasion of his wedding to
Suzanne-Cécile Poulade in Paris on 27 May 1916
he identified himself as an “artiste, peintre.”64 By
this time his father had retired and was living in
Nice and his mother in Marseille. The wedding
was witnessed by Maignan’s widow Louise.
Groslier settled permanently in Indochina
only on 17 September 1917, joining the Fifth
Colonial Artillery Regiment with the Cambodian
Flying Corps.65 That year, with the blessing of
Governor-General Albert Sarraut (1872–1962), he
took the helm of the Musée Khmer, established
a Service des arts cambodgiens, and founded the
institution that was closest to his heart, the École
des arts cambodgiens.66 He also contributed to
the two colonial expositions in Marseille (1922)
and Paris (1931), producing sketches for the main
doors in the Cambodian pavilion at the former
and making a miniature version of the Musée
Albert-Sarraut for the latter (fig. 7.16).67
Groslier is best remembered, as highlighted by
Muan and Abbe, for his condescending opinions
about Cambodian artists and architects and his
agenda – a kind of artistic mission civilisatrice – to
rescue and “safeguard” them from “decadence,”
the architecture of empire
using his own journal, Arts et archéologie khmers
(founded 1921), as the main forum for his views.68
In his opinion, buildings such as the Royal Palace
(fig. 7.4) were contaminated by influences from
Europe, Siam, China, or Vietnam, and his goal
was to restore true Khmer art by controlling
Cambodian artistic production in the École des
arts cambodgiens and commodifying it in his
museum shop.69 Groslier’s was not the first such
school in the French empire: in Algeria the Office
280
of Indigenous Arts (founded in 1908) included a
“Cabinet de dessin” to document indigenous arts,
the motifs of which were then copied by Algerian
copyists under French supervision as models for
workshops that would produce works for sale.70
Lyautey founded a similar bureau in Morocco
called the “Office of Indigenous Arts Industries”
in 1916, although it gave artists more creative
leeway than did Groslier’s school, allowing them
to work unsupervised in traditional Islamic guilds,
including, in the case of carpet manufacturing,
women-only ateliers.
By contrast, Groslier’s École was artificial and
micromanaged. Muan comments: “at this insti-
tution, existing forms of practice were ‘corrected’
and students were trained to mass produce hand-
made ‘authentic’ Cambodian art objects” for
tourists using “many of the methods associated
with modern forms of product development and
industrial manufacturing,” and that Groslier’s
claim that he was preserving traditional Cam-
bodian arts was “largely fictional.”71 Indeed, as
a showman with essentially commercial goals
Groslier was more like P.T. Barnum than he was
a serious archaeologist or teacher (significantly,
the efeo never admitted him as a full member),
and his writings were “carefully placed publicity
pieces whose … aim was to convince colonial
authorities and the French public at large of the
merits of Groslier’s project.”72 Even his promotion
of Khmer arts and the associationist architec-
ture of the museum derive from an attitude best
described as cultural apartheid, as he meant them
only for indigenes and tourists, not for white
colonists, whom he encouraged to eschew orna-
ment and decorative objects altogether in their
own houses because they were unsuitable for the
climate and even harmful to the health (concerns
he did not extend to Cambodians, as Herbelin
demonstrates).73 Groslier enjoyed a long career in
Cambodia, was lauded by Hébrard, and to this
day he is credited with “restor[ing] an original
Cambodian artistic patrimony that was in danger
of disappearing completely.”74 But his luck ran out
with the Japanese occupation of Cambodia and
he died under torture during an interrogation by
the Japanese police in Phnom Penh in 1945.75
The 1908–09 Musée Khmer, the miniature
prototype for the Musée Albert-Sarraut, was
designed in 1905 by François Khuôn Nguyen Van
on preliminary drawings by efeo head Parmen-
tier and constructed on a plot north of the city on
the campus of the Phnom Penh Lycée (fig. 7.12).76
The building was the first purpose-built home for
the royal collection of Khmer sculpture, which
had earlier been stored in the palace and a build-
ing in the Silver Pagoda, and it was part of an
Indochina-wide initiative to create regional mu-
seums.77 It was also designed to be a critical base
for efeo activities in Angkor Wat, which was still
in Siamese territory until 1907, under the auspices
of the archaeological section of Khmer antiquities
and the Résident supérieur.78
I maintain that although the preliminary
project was by Parmentier, it was likely perfunc-
tory, concerned more with the arrangement of the
galleries and the floor plan than with aesthetics,
which he left to Khuôn. Parmentier was a Beaux-
Arts–trained architect, but his business in Indo-
china was archaeology, making lists, drawings,
plans, and elevations of ancient buildings in Cam-
bodia and Vietnam.79 His only other museum, the
Musée Cham in Tourane, is essentially European,
a stripped-down neoclassical structure with some
token Sino-Vietnamese details. Parmentier was
also very busy: in 1904 he assumed the direc-
torship of the efeo ; the same year he made an
extended journey to Java to study antiquities with
his Dutch counterparts; immediately upon his
appointment as head conservator of the Musée
Khmer in 1905 he spent a year in France to receive
his diploma and get married; and while in France
he also directed the efeo wing in the Palais
de l’Indo-Chine at the 1906 Marseille colonial
exposition, personally executing plans and draw-
ings of Cham and Angkor buildings to adorn the
building’s walls and vitrines (fig. 7.8).80 As Muan
points out, the so-called “Palais du Cambodge”
at the exposition, to which Vildieu and Lagisquet
also contributed, made no claims to authenticity
but was “ironically a melange of foreign elements
just as ‘hybrid’ and ‘decadent’ as the contempor-
ary ‘failures’ being condemned in Cambodia.”81
It was certainly a far cry from the more authentic
Khmer palace style used in the Musée Khmer.
Back in Indochina, Parmentier spent 1906 restor-
ing the Po Nagar Temple in faraway Nha Trang.
Illness compelled him to return to France again
between 1907 and 1908, the first years of the mu-
seum’s construction.
No preliminary sketch of the sort I believe Par-
mentier would have made has survived. Instead,
there is a formal presentation drawing in the
efeo ’s archives in Paris depicting a plan, front
and side elevations, and a sectional view which is
the exact likeness of the building executed, minus
some decorative details (fig. 7.12).82 I attribute
this drawing to Khuôn, who would have been
eminently qualified to make such a work: the one
time the efeo mentions him (spelling his name
“Khoun”) they note that he had studied at the
prestigious École centrale des arts et manufactures
(founded 1820), one of the Grandes Écoles of
Paris, from which we can already surmise that he
was a skilled draughtsman and engineer.83 I have
been able to piece together a fuller picture of the
life of the architect in the archives, contemporary
newspapers and government documents, and
phNom peNh cA 1917
from a PhD dissertation by Marie Aberdam on
Cambodian elites in the colonial era (2019).84
Khuôn (also spelled Khoun, Khuan, and
Khun) Nguyen Van was the younger brother
of Alexis-Louis Chhun (b. 1853), an influential
figure in the Protectorate government and Royal
Palace alike between the 1880s and early 1900s.85
They were Vietnamese-Cambodian Christians
281
 from Oudong (north of Phnom Penh), born to
Paul Yang and Catherina Ep, who lived in Phnom
Penh’s deuxième quartier, the neighbourhood for
foreign Asians.86 Yang was the construction man-
ager at the Royal Palace and built the first resi-
dence of Admiral Doudart de Lagrée (1823–68)
in Phnom Penh, around 1864. Chhun was chief
interpreter of the Résident-Supérieure, “Intend-
ant de la liste civile,” member of the municipal
council of Phnom Penh, and Akharac Chenda
(Secretary of the Royal Treasury). The French
press described him as “a person from Phnom
Penh who exercises serious influence over the in-
digenous population of Cambodia.”87 He also was
known for being pro-French – as a young man
he was Doudart de Lagrée’s interpreter during
his 1866–68 voyage with the French Mekong
Expedition – and in 1900 he was awarded a
medal of honour for a lifetime of service to the
Protectorate.88 In 1897 Chhun served on the
executive sub-committee of the Cambodian
section of the Paris 1900 Exposition, charged with
putting into place the decisions of the organiza-
tional committee.89
Most of what can be gleaned about Khuôn
comes from references to Chhun. Khuôn first
appears in Lagrée’s letter from 8 July 1865, which
refers to a small child named “A-Kuong,” who
was Chhun’s brother.90 Given that he was young
enough to run around naked, we can assume that
Khuôn was born around 1860. The most detailed
mention is a request Chhun made in December
the architecture of empire
1885 to the governor of Cochinchina to reimburse
him for half of the 2,400 francs he had to pay
for his brother’s education at the École centrale
(the Cambodian Protectorate had paid the other
half ).91 Although Chhun was unsuccessful (the
Cochinchinese government thought it would
make a bad precedent to support non-Cochin-
chinese subjects), the reference is important as it
gives us more precise details and dates concerning
Khuôn’s education in France. It notes that Khuôn
282
studied first at the Collège (Lycée) of Marseille,
this time on a scholarship paid by the Cochin-
chinese government. The Lycée de Marseille
(now Thiers) had a five-year program, and the
school was proud about the cosmopolitanism of
its student body, with students from around the
world and several French colonies by the 1890s.92
Khuôn then studied at the École centrale in Paris
for three years, graduating in 1886 according to
the school archives.93
Khuôn was therefore in France between 1878
and 1886, beginning when he was in his late
teens. Interestingly, his Paris residence was at
2 rue Bailly, in the heart of the city’s oldest Asian
neighbourhood, still renowned for its Chinese
and Vietnamese restaurants.94 Khuôn reappears in
February 1893, when travel writer Alfred Coussot
(1869–1914), himself an alumnus of the École cen-
trale, was surprised to discover that the brother of
his Cambodian host in Phnom Penh (Chhun, al-
though he was not named) was “a former student
of the École centrale des arts et manufactures” and
moreover that he owned a mechanical sawmill
(a profitable machine that would also have been
useful for a builder).95 Chhun valued French
education highly: his young son impressed a
reporter in 1905 with the eloquence of his French
and the journalist noted that his older brother
had gone to the colonial school (presumably the
Lycée where the Musée Khmer was about to be
built) and that this child would follow suit.96
When Khuôn returned to Cambodia he took up
his father’s profession and in 1897 was reported
to have carried out the earthworks at the rue de
la Douane.97
In 1900 Khuôn returned to Paris as part of the
retinue of two Cambodian princes, including the
heir apparent Prince Norodom Yukanthor (1860–
1934), to attend the 1900 Exposition universelle.98
More significantly, Khuôn belonged to the “Ser-
vice d’Architecture” in the Indochinese section
of that same exposition, presumably because his
brother was on the executive committee.99 The
Indochinese section, supervised by Scellier de
Gisors (teacher of Hébrard and Auguste Delaval)
and built by architects Alexandre-Auguste-Louis
Marcel (1860–1928), du Houx de Brossard, and
Decron, included five replicas of buildings in
the colony and protectorates. These pavilions
included Marcel’s 47-metre-high reconstruction
of Wat Phnom (early 1880s, commissioned by
King Sisowath), the great pagoda of Cholon, the
Cổ Loa Citadel north of Hanoi, a house of a rich
Vietnamese person, as well as the “Théâtre Cam-
bodgien,” which combined Cambodian building
styles more generically.100 Khuôn was therefore
intimately familiar with exposition pavilions, per-
haps explaining in part the pavilion-like appear-
ance of his museum building.
Sisowath chose the location of the Musée
Khmer and directly funded it, demonstrating its
importance to the monarch and making it likely
that Khuôn was taking orders directly from the
palace. In fact, the king introduced decorative de-
tails that had not been part of the original project,
as the efeo noted in 1907:
His Majesty Sisovat [sic] has agreed to have
erected at his expense, on the ground where
the Phnom Penh school complex is built,
a special pavilion intended to receive this
small Museum. The project was built by Mr.
Khoun [sic], Cambodian, former student of
the École Central, in the Khmer style, on a
preliminary drawing executed earlier by Mr.
Parmentier: because of the liberality of the
king, the decor will be richer than we first
expected. It is hoped that the construction
of the Museum will be completed in 1909.101
Khuôn would have had a small army of elite arti-
sans and technicians at his disposal in the palace
arts ateliers, who had been responsible for the
construction and decoration of palace buildings
since they were begun under King Norodom in
1866–70 and who would provide most of the
work on King Sisowath’s major reconstruction
and expansion of the complex between 1910
and 1927.
Oknha Tep Nimit Mak and the Royal Atelier in
Phnom Penh
In 1907 the palace ateliers were reformed and
placed under royal patronage as the “Manufac-
ture Royale,” based on the model of the Sèvres
Manufactory, which the king had visited in Paris
in 1906, with two sections: one for jewellery and
works of art and the other for costume, embroid-
ery, and textiles.102 In 1912 Sisowath created the
École royale des arts décoratifs cambodgiens to
execute works of art for sale outside the palace,
changing the name of the Manufacture Royale
to the “Magasin central,” although neither was a
school. Like palace architects, they learned their
rudiments traditionally in temple schools and
the palace workshops. Architects made plans
and line drawings of the houses they proposed
to build, but not formal presentation drawings,
nor did they relate them to a scale.103 However,
palace artists also worked with Siamese and Euro-
pean artists and architects whom the kings had
introduced to create a hybrid Khmer/Siamese-
European style inspired by the Grand Palace in
Bangkok (eighteenth to twentieth centuries)
(figs. 7.3–4), which Sisowath knew personally,
having spent several years there.104
Among the palace artists were Méas, the “head
phNom peNh cA 1917
of the painters” who had worked as a painter in
the Royal Palace for thirty-eight years and studied
European style under a British artist named Mr
Holland in the first years of the twentieth cen-
tury; Bibhakti Cakravit, executing architect of
the Silver Pagoda (1903–04); Oknha Reachna
Prasor Mao (b. 1871), assistant palace architect
since 1914; and especially Oknha Tep Nimit Mak,
283
 principal palace architect since 1897, who had
worked there since 1875 and whom Groslier later
hired as the “Cambodian director” of his school
of the arts and disparagingly called an “old and
faithful native collaborator.”105 Oknha is a title
denoting that Mak was in the second rank of
court mandarins and Tep Nimit is an honorific be-
stowed by Sisowath upon three successive Oknha
who were both painters and decorators: Mak,
Has, and Khiev.106
Mak was born in Phnom Penh to a mandarin
father and his grandfather was a sculptor.107 He
studied drawing with architect-monk Yuos at the
city’s Vat Botum Vadei between 1868 and 1874
and went on to build large royal pagodas of Chruy
Tà Keo, Phnom Dél, Phnom Kruong (Longvek),
and Samrèt Thichei. He was also an accom-
plished sculptor and painter. His best-known
work, executed with Oknha Mao and some forty
apprentices between 1903 and 1904, was the
series of murals in the Golden Pagoda depicting
scenes from the Reamker (the Khmer version of
the Ramayana).108 But he also executed murals in
Vat Sisowath Ratanaram, on the left bank of the
Bassak River, the sanctuary of the Vat Preah Kèo
Morokot in Phnom Penh, and the pagoda and
monastery of the village of Vat Phnom Del, to the
south of the province of Kampong Cham, north
of Tonlé Sap Lake (all destroyed).109 Madeleine
Giteau calls Mak “the greatest Khmer painter of
the beginning of the twentieth century.”110 Mak
would soon oversee the construction of the Musée
the architecture of empire
Albert-Sarraut, the building for which Groslier
would take full credit (figs. 7.13–15). In 1912 the
colonial government honoured Mak, a “mandarin
from the palace of Cambodia,” with the title of
“Officier d’académie,” a title given primarily to
European colonial functionaries.111 He was made
Chevalier of the Legion of Honour on 17 October
1915 as “architecte de sa majesté le roi du Cam-
bodge” and was awarded the Gold Medal of the
284
Minister of Colonies along with several Cambo-
dian honours, colonial and royal.112
Mao was born at Vihear Tuontin in Kandal
Province, the son of a farmer, but like Mak
his grandfather was an artisan, this time an
architect-carpenter.113 Mao also trained in a mon-
astery for thirteen years between 1877 and 1890
and went on to apprentice with five different mas-
ters, among them architects, sculptors, and de-
signers. Once he finished his training he worked
closely with Mak on various projects, both in
the palace and at Groslier’s school, although
the two had a falling-out – Mak was famously
dictatorial in his direction of the school – and
Mao was transferred shortly after 1918.114 It is very
likely that Mao also contributed to the Musée
Louis Finot.
European sources make it difficult to deter-
mine how much of the Royal Palace was built
and decorated by the palace ateliers, since they
only mention the European contributors by name
and give them inflated titles (fig. 7.4). A com-
memorative postcard of 1915 for instance names
Pierre-Jean-Corneille Vila (b. 1879) as the “archi-
tect” and it calls the Saigon-Based Cochinchinese
Concrete Society (Société Cochinchinoise de
Béton Armé, run by Démétrius Papa and André
Richaud), along with Victor Lamorte, as con-
tractors.115 Lamorte was not even an architect: he
was the decorative painter and opera set designer
whom Eugène Carpezat had sent to Saigon in
1899 to install his designs in the Théâtre munici-
pal (see chapter 6), and Eugène Cazenave (1872–
1935) and François Xavier Tessarech (b. 1866),
described as “engineer” and “engineer in chief,”
were mere Protectorate government functionaries,
the former a naval officer and the latter serving
in 1914 as interim Resident Superior. Elsewhere,
the “Salle des Fêtes” (Phochani Pavilion, 1912)
and the “Salle des Danses” (Chanchhaya Pavil-
ion, 1913–14) were credited to Papa and Richaud
but the “Cambodian workers” or “workers of
Cambodian art from the Royal Palace” were
never identified by name.116 European sources
claim that Cambodians simply executed projects
planned by Europeans, as at the Salle des Fêtes,
where they allegedly worked after maquettes
provided by the contractors, and that even Mak
merely produced details in projects directed by
Westerners. In some cases Cambodians were
completely sidelined: Sisowath’s new throne hall,
also built by Papa and Richaud, included murals
by French artist François de Marliave (1874–1953),
and the large-scale canvas ceiling paintings of
Cambodian dancers and scenes from the Ream-
ker in the Moonlight Pavilion were executed by
Franco-Spanish painter Augustin Carrera (1878–
1952) in 1913 in Paris and only retouched on
site.117 As Muan puts it, “the palace ‘masters’ were
systematically excluded from public commissions
and Palace projects.”118
However, I think it is more complicated than
that: it is not that they were excluded from
commissions but that they were excluded from
reports about the commissions, written by and
for Europeans and biased against indigenous
artisans whom they (like Groslier) saw as infer-
ior and decadent. Such attitudes were prevalent
throughout Indochina: in a 1929 article in L’Éveil
économique de l’Indochine, Henri Coucherousset
went so far as to claim that Vietnamese builders
had the wrong physique to use superior Euro-
pean tools and because of a poor work ethic they
needed to work under the constant supervision
of French foremen.119 Throughout the colonial
period, Vietnamese architects in the Service des
Bâtiments civils were subordinated to European
overseers and could only practise as architects
if they went private, as happened in the mid-
1930s. In fact, the first Vietnamese architects to
win an international concours (for a church at
Haiphong), Hoàng Như Tiếp (1910–1982) and
Nguyễn Cao Luyện (1907–1987), did so as late as
1935.120 Résident-Supérieur of Cambodia Ernest
Outrey (1863–1941) praised Lamorte by name
in his inauguration speech at the opening of the
Salle des Fêtes but referred to Mak simply as:
“the Cambodian architect of your Palace who has
been the drafter and executor of all the sculpted
motifs which ornament so elegantly the exterior
facades of this pleasing building.”121 Groslier is
particularly guilty of such hyperbole, as when he
made the blatantly false declaration that: “Not a
single sculptor, not a single carpenter, in short not
a single Cambodian artisan” had contributed to
the construction of the Palace buildings but that
“all had been confided to European architects and
entrepreneurs.”122
This statement was probably made to signal
the superiority of his museum and school,
where the architects and designers worked in
what he considered to be a “pure” Khmer style.123
That such a motley crew, including two concrete
engineers, two government officers, an opera set
designer, and a Beaux-Arts architect and former
co-inspector at the Tunis Casino, could have
produced a predominantly Siamese-Cambodian
style Royal Palace in such short order is absurd.
A 1954 treatise on architecture by Mak’s pupil
court architect Ieṅ Sioeṅ, translated by Giteau
in 1971, is unequivocal about Mak’s dominant
role: “It was Mr. Deb Nimitt Mak who built the
Bhojanī [Phocani] Hall and the Cand Chāyā Hall
and the Dīnām.ṅ Devavinicchay [Throne Hall]
in the magnificent Royal Palace Catumukh in
the city of Bhnam. Beñ [Phnom Penh].”124 The
phNom peNh cA 1917
picture that emerges is that Sisowath went to the
Europeans for the concrete technology (as the
older buildings had deteriorated because of their
wood construction) and for some high-profile
European-style interior sections to keep up with
the Siamese, but that what he really wanted was
a Khmer-style palace complex built in materials
285
 that would last longer. He left the design and exe-
cution of traditional forms to professionals who
had trained for generations in that style: his own
palace staff.
François Khuôn’s Musée Khmer, a modest and
delicately proportioned gazebo-like structure in
the traditional Khmer-Siamese style, was more
traditional, as it was a wood-frame building
(fig. 7.12). Measuring 23 by 27 metres, it featured
an elaborate three-tiered roof with a spire, tri-
angular pediments on all four sides richly carved
with kranok leaves with bevelled and incised edges
(the decoration does not appear in the elevations)
and prominent finials at the gable ends of each
roof and smaller ones at the lower corners of the
pediments. This structure rested on another pair
of superimposed roofs, each with smaller finials at
the four corners and four decorative eave brackets
below. The entire roof system was supported by a
peristyle colonnade on square plinths connected
by a low dado except at the four entrances, one
in the middle of each side. The plain, seven-step
staircases were flanked by pairs of seated lion
sculptures. There were also two parallel colon-
nades running down the middle of the building as
in a Buddha hall (e.g., at the Wat Phnom) flanked
by a pair of narrow, rectangular chambers, pos-
itioned between the outer peristyle and the closest
of the inner colonnades. These cella-like rooms
were accessed by doors on each side and had win-
dows at the ends, all crowned with Siamese-style
ban talaeng pediments. The entire structure sits
the architecture of empire
on a Khmer-style redented base, with curved
mouldings representing lotus buds.125 The stylistic
trademarks of this little pavilion will reappear
in the Musée Albert-Sarraut, particularly its
superimposed roofs, spire, and finials. It is worth
reminding ourselves that when this building was
designed Groslier was still an art student paint-
ing canvases of Breton peasant girls in Maignan’s
studio in Paris and had yet to spend a single adult
year of his life in Cambodia.
286
Phnom Penh, Musée Albert-Sarraut
Groslier, Mak, and likely Mao entered the scene
in 1917 with the Musée Khmer’s next incarna-
tion, the monumental Musée Albert-Sarraut,
built just north of the Palace grounds on a square
used for royal cremations and religious festivals
(figs. 7.13–15). It is a hybrid, but the divisions
between East and West are clearly demarcated:
the ground plan, front colonnade, and ventilation
system derive from European models but the rest
of it, like Khuôn’s earlier version, was inspired by
Khmer palace architecture. Sisowath was closely
involved with the development of this museum
and art school as he had been with the Musée
Khmer. Oknha Veang Thiounn (1864–1946),
his minister of the palace, finances, and fine arts
between 1902 and 1941, who had accompanied
the king to France in 1906 and was a key mediator
between the crown and the Protectorate, was in
Abbe’s opinion “without a doubt one of those
who facilitated Groslier’s enterprise.”126 Thiounn
considered the Museum–school complex to be
in line with royal initiatives and emphasized the
importance of French patronage. Furthermore,
the artists and architects of the palace ateliers
“formed the core personnel” of Groslier’s school:
at least five of the original six ateliers at the school
were run by palace artists.127
In 1917 Groslier wrote to the Gouvernement
général that the Musée Khmer was a mere “dépôt-
musée,” that it was overcrowded, and that it was
in a dilapidated state.128 It first held the Khmer
sculptures returned from Saigon in 1905 (see
chapter 8), and Sisowath donated a substantial
collection of his own jewellery; there were also
gifts of plundered sculptures from the various
provincial residents. Groslier was also unhappy
that it was on a schoolground and hard to get
to. François-Marius Baudoin (b. 1867), résident
supérieur of Cambodia, responded with enthusi-
asm, writing to all his résidents: “You know the
7.13 Oknha Tep Nimit Mak and George Groslier, Musée
Albert-Sarraut, Phnom Penh, 1917–20. Main (west) facade.
importance I attach to the conservation and the
renovation of Khmer art, which I consider [as]
being the only means of preserving for Cambo-
dia a personality of its own.”129 For Groslier this
project would not just protect Khmer patri-
mony – more precisely, “French” patrimony in
Cambodia – but rescue living Khmer art trad-
itions from the pastiche-like decadence of the
palace school: “In Groslier’s system the museum
guaranteed the authenticity on which the
teachers, who were responsible for the education
of the new artisans, must rely.”130
The building was meant above all to respond to
the canons of “traditional” Khmer architecture,
and his project faced stiff criticism from Caz-
phNom peNh cA 1917
enave, the chief engineer of the Travaux publics
de Cochinchine, who did not want Groslier to
rely upon Cambodian builders. In a letter dated
19 September 1917 he wrote: “these men, not
very numerous and lacking authority over the
Chinese and Annamese workers, have the worst
way of working with wood and carpentry. The
conservative taste of the local colour will lead to
287
difficulties in execution.”131 This letter reveals that
the government intended to employ Chinese and
Vietnamese workers to do the job (as the French
did in both Cambodia and Laos: see chapter 9).
Groslier responded on the same day: “Yes! I
insist with all my strength because I am ashamed
of what has been done so far, too often, by the
7.14 (oppoSiTe ) Oknha Tep Nimit Mak and George
Groslier, Musée Albert-Sarraut, Phnom Penh, 1917–20.
Detail of steeple.
7.15 (BeLow ) Oknha Tep Nimit Mak and George Groslier,
Musée Albert-Sarraut, Phnom Penh, 1917–20. Courtyard.
French, people of taste who ridicule foreign trav-
ellers, because you need consistency, logic in art,
especially in architecture,” comparing the pastiche
style as resembling the architecture of the Huns
or a music hall. He also insisted that only Cambo-
dian workers would do the job. Although Groslier
must have made some sort of plans himself it is
significant that none have turned up either in the
archives in Cambodia or at the efeo in Paris, and
they may well have amounted to a basic avant-pro-
jet like Parmentier’s that was concerned primarily
with the plan and arrangement of the galleries,
leaving the superstructure to Mak and his crew.132
phNom peNh cA 1917
289
 After all, Groslier the “artiste, peintre” was not
trained as an architect or engineer. Even some
official correspondence suggests that Groslier’s
role was primarily to supervise the translation of
the objects from the new museum and to provide
the best conditions for their display, as in improv-
ing the lighting conditions and ensuring that the
pieces were exhibited in spacious galleries.133
At times Groslier made comments that sug-
gested he was oblivious to the style of the build-
ing’s Khmer component. He claimed that “his”
design was a “slightly modified” version of the
Temple of Preah Vihear (eleventh to twelfth
centuries) and Angkor Wat (fig. 7.6) – both made
of stone but also quite unlike the museum, which
is in the Khmer-Siamese style of the palace and
Musée Khmer with a few details from Angkor
such as the baluster columns used in the rect-
angular openings above several of the doorways
(fig. 7.13).134 Yet, conversely, in his description of
the building for the 1931 Exposition coloniale,
Groslier writes that the building exhibits the
“main characteristics of contemporary Cambo-
dian architecture in which the proportions have
been scrupulously respected.”135 The building is
remarkably inventive, one of the most success-
ful hybridities of Asian and European forms in
Indochina. It consists of an interconnecting series
of palace or pagoda-like pavilions arranged like
railway cars around a rectangular cloister. These
linked segments present a rich interplay of super-
imposed rooflines, complex multilobed spires (in
the architecture of empire
the east wing), richly carved lotus pediments, and
spiny gable-end naga finials. Their complexity is
balanced by the almost monochromatic oxblood
colour scheme in the walls and roof tiles, offset
only by dark brown carving in the interior pedi-
ments and those of a pavilion in the middle of the
courtyard (fig. 7.15). On the entrance facade and
in the courtyard high piers support the massive
superstructure with its overhanging eaves to form
290
open galleries, and the gallery walls are pierced
with high rectangular doorways with transoms
containing the Angkor-style baluster columns to
encourage free air circulation.
Similarities with the Royal Palace abound
(fig. 7.4). The individual cruciform sections over
the three entrances of the main (east) gallery,
with triple roofs, spires, and finials – and the way
that the higher central prang spire is flanked by
lower subsidiary ones – recall the arrangement
of the throne hall. Both buildings also use
colonnades to support the roof (in the palace
they are columns, in the museum, piers). The
main facade of the museum faces east as do all
the pavilions in the palace and Silver Pagoda.
However, whereas the throne hall and silver
pagoda are oriented east to west with the entrance
at the narrow end of the rectangular hall, the
museum’s east gallery is oriented north to south,
with the entrance in the middle, so that the roof
behind the main pediment, which is long and
prominent in the throne hall, is truncated, like a
closed telescope (compare figs. 7.4, 7.13). Instead
of having the colonnade surround the hall, as in
the throne hall and Silver Pagoda, the piers of
the museum’s east gallery are arranged along the
exterior and interior flanks only, forming a series
of terraces: these latter advance forward three
times toward the centre to form an avant-corps to
emphasize the entrance.
The pediments of the throne room and
museum are very similar: they have a lotus profile
formed by elongated naga serpents ridged with
spines, and both have richly carved pediment
decoration with rinceaux, other foliate designs,
and naga forms. Similar pediment designs, exe-
cuted by Mak and Mao, appear among a series
of templates published by Groslier in 1923.136 In
the museum an enthroned Vishnu-like allegor-
ical figure at the centre of the entrance pediment
holds the tools of the sculptor’s and architect’s
trade in his hands, and there is a traditional rahu
face below it, as in Siamese, Lao, and Cambodian
temples (figs. 3.21, 7.13). The museum also repro-
duced elements of Khuôn’s pavilion (fig. 7.12):
the triple-roof and spire superstructures over the
lateral entrances on the east facade are almost
identical, as are the naga finials, and both struc-
tures have a similar decorative band separating the
upper roofs from the lower one. Both buildings
rest on a lotus plinth and are accessed by simple
staircases flanked by pairs of Singha lions in the
style of the Bayon era, although the low dado of
Khuôn’s pavilion has been replaced in the larger
building by a European-style balustrade.
Whereas the component structures and
decorative motifs are authentically Khmer the
overall layout of the building is fundamentally
alien to indigenous tradition. In Khmer, Lao,
and Thai temples and palaces pavilions are in the
courtyards, which are usually formed by modest
boundary walls or sometimes low cloisters (as at
the Silver Pagoda), while in the museum the con-
joined pavilions themselves form the courtyard.
Temple and palace courtyards are traditionally
entered via small, ornate gates, but in the museum
the courtyard is accessed by means of high
pedimented entrances, which would only appear
on the main facades of temple or palace halls.
The museum piers support the roof directly with
Doric style-capitals rather than Siamese/Khmer
eave brackets so that the facade recalls a Greco-
Roman temple front and colonnade. It is possible
that Groslier intended to recall the east colon-
nade of the Louvre, which would have been an
appropriate reference for a French-run museum,
although, if so, the reference is subtle (fig. 1.4).
The pavilion in the centre of the courtyard
containing an antique statue of a seated Buddha is
also deceptive (fig. 7.15). Although meant to look
like a shrine, it more closely resembles a drum or
bell tower with its miniature spire roof and four
pediments, and its placement in the courtyard
has more to do with the European tradition of
garden pergolas.137 Particularly foreign to Khmer
tradition are the high triple doors that lead into
the galleries from the courtyard. The museum was
also larger than most temple or palace pavilions,
originally occupying 550 square metres with
60-metre-long north and south galleries with a
width ranging from 7 to 8 metres and designed to
be expanded.138 When it was expanded, in 1924,
a new wing was added to each end of the east
facade giving it a total length today of 97 metres.
Finally, its placement at the centre of a city block
facing a spacious square that once offered a direct
view of the river recalls the location of a govern-
ment building or church in a French provincial or
colonial town: as Helen Grant Ross and Darryl
Collins note, “the way it was set into the urban
plan reflects the grand perspective element of
French town planning that evolved from the 17th
century onwards.”139
Inaugurated in February 1920 the museum
combined antiquity with contemporary trad-
itional arts and included spaces related to the ad-
jacent school. After the 1924 enlargement the east
gallery contained the royal treasury and silks in
the centre, ancient Hindu and Buddhist bronzes
in the south end, as well as ceramics and a library
of scholarly books and photography. In the north
end were the contemporary bronzes, weapons,
coins, paintings, the royal litter, and other objects,
as well as the conservation and arts department
offices and a bookshop and crafts shop where
objects made in the school were sold.140 The
phNom peNh cA 1917
south wing housed the sculpture gallery with each
sculpture on a plinth and lit by indirect light. The
west gallery accommodated a records office and
casting workshop, and the north wing had a gal-
lery of contemporary arts and ethnography. Since
this museum did not contain Sino-Vietnamese
antiquities it was not divided, as were those of
291
 Saigon and Hanoi, between the Indian and Chi-
nese cultural “families” (see chapter 8).
As we can already see with the inclusion of a
crafts shop, casting workshop, and library, the
museum cannot be considered separately from
the École des arts cambodgiens, housed in a
modest building painted in the same oxblood
tones just west of the museum and forming part
of what was essentially an arts campus for visitors,
researchers, and art students in which, as Muan
and Abbe have demonstrated, the boundaries
between ancient art, art making, and art selling
were blurred.141 As Groslier wrote in 1917, “to
ensure the autonomy of the organization and for
a maximum economy in expenses, everything
will have to be centralized: workshops, school,
museum, shops, directions and offices as well as
accommodations for the director.”142 In fact the
idea of the school predated the new building.
Organized at the instigation of Governor-General
Sarraut in 1916 and opened three years later,
the school, also known as the Direction des arts
cambodgiens, quickly became a model institution
and one that was widely celebrated for preserving
traditional arts and saving them from the corrup-
tion of foreign influences. Its various intertwining
roles included:
The implementation and propagation of
Native Arts. The protection and control
[my italics] of Cambodian artists and art
workers. The study and conservation of
the architecture of empire
local objects and works of art relating to the
processes, traditions, and evolution of the
country’s arts and to promote their dis-
semination through photography, casting,
copying, publication and, if necessary,
through local exhibitions or by participating
in exhibitions in and outside the Colony.
The Cambodian Arts Department ensures
the conservation of the Cambodia Museum
292
under the scientific control of the École
Française d’Extrême-Orient.143
Together with Resident-Superior Baudoin, Gros-
lier instructed résidents supérieurs in Cambodia
to draw up a census of artisans in July 1917 as a
way of creating what Penny Edwards calls a “new
artisanate,” from which he could draw members
to staff his new school (130 were found, many of
them retired).144 Groslier made much of the fact
that the school was not run by foreign teachers
but by Cambodians under Mak (retired 1923);
however as Muan and Abbe have shown, the
reality was much different: Muan aptly calls the
school’s programming “cultural engineering.”145
The artists were constantly supervised by Groslier
and they submitted to a strict curriculum of his
devising, which Groslier justified by saying that
they were corrupted by their training in the palace
and needed “scholars” like him to correct them.146
Groslier also believed that they were incapable of
innovation and could only be trained to imitate,
which on one hand allowed them to execute ex-
cellent copies of antiquities but on the other made
them susceptible to deleterious influences.147 They
were even prevented from working directly with
patrons, who had to buy works from the museum
shop – much like an early Renaissance atelier in
Italy. As Abbe points out, the students and teach-
ers also provided a cheap workforce to build and
decorate the museum and other efeo projects,
restore objects, and make casts and stamps, and
could even be hired out to work for the Protector-
ate, the king, or religious foundations.
Students entered the school at the age of
fourteen or fifteen and were required to be
literate in Khmer, although Groslier preferred it
if they had studied first at a monastery and it was
advantageous if they spoke some French.148 The
aim was to have thirty boarders at any one time
representing all regions of Cambodia; by 1922 the
school had 150 students in total.149 The school
included ateliers devoted to drawing (compulsory
for all students except single women, who worked
the looms), architecture, metalwork and sculp-
ture, and weaving, all focused on the study of
traditional Khmer forms and subjects taken from
models, drawings, or directly from objects in the
museum. Although the focus on drawing comes
directly from the European art academy, life draw-
ing was conspicuously absent. For example, the
architectural section taught:
Study of Khmer architecture; Traditional
elements of architecture; Compositions (en-
sembles); Construction materials; Indigen-
ous architectural decoration; Cambodian
civil and religious buildings; Execution of
copied sectional views, plans and elevations,
and at a given scale. Survey plans of ancient
and contemporary Khmer buildings. Archi-
tectural composition.150
The instructors and students were specifically
warned that “the techniques will only be executed
as long as they do not change the appearance of
Cambodian art. These studies will always be ap-
proved by the Director and no model will be used
without the Director’s opinion.”151
George Groslier’s greatest act of showmanship
on behalf of the museum and the school was his
contribution to the 1931 Colonial Exposition in
Paris, the same exposition that had the largest
copy of Angkor Wat ever constructed in Europe
(fig. 7.7). Groslier’s pavilion (fig. 7.16) was a mini-
ature replica of the museum as a representation
of, in the words of the Administrator of Civil Ser-
vices, “the best specimen of a modern and strictly
Cambodian architecture.”152 It seems ironic
that a school and building that insisted on the
utmost historical accuracy should be presented as
something avant-garde. An elevation by Charles
Blanche of the main facade survives after “original
plans drafted by Groslier, Directeur des arts cam-
bodgiens,” which shows the building’s signature
trio of spires and pediments, although, curiously,
without the European elements: the Doric piers
are gone (they are only at the back of the pavilion)
and in their place are traditional columns with
eave brackets and Siamese-style ban talaeng pedi-
ments over the three doors and four windows.
Groslier once again took the credit, but Mao and
his assistants were in fact responsible for the plans
of the pavilions under Groslier’s supervision.153 In
photographs the structure is top-heavy and over-
crowded, the pediments and rooftops too close
together and lacking the airiness of the original.
To add to the circus-like atmosphere, Groslier
introduced tableaux vivants of life-sized costumed
puppets inside, in one set Buddhist monks at
prayer and in another peasants in a house on stilts,
and he offered products of his school for sale.154
Groslier, who had contributed to the 1922 and
1925 expositions as well, including a “rue Anna-
mite” in Marseille, was in his element.155
Groslier was more successful within the colonial
system than was Hébrard, whom we will con-
sider in the following chapter. Groslier’s brand
of associationism, which focused on preserving
antiquity in aspic – although as we have seen,
it included unacknowledged Siamese and other
more contemporary influences – and which
only employed the style in buildings for Cam-
bodians or dedicated to conserving historical
Cambodian objects, appealed to the kind of
phNom peNh cA 1917
conservatives who opposed Hébrard’s attempts
to integrate Asian elements into French colonial
governmental buildings. Groslier’s architectural
apartheid designated Cambodian architecture for
the Cambodians and French modernism for the
French, a tactic that echoed colonial policies that
prevented Cambodians from being assimilated
293
 7.16 George Groslier and Charles Blanche, Elevation of
the main facade of the Cambodian Pavilion, Exposition
the architecture of empire
Coloniale Internationale, Paris, 1931. ANom .
equitably into the colonial government. As Her-
belin remarks: “By supporting Groslier and his
architecture, the politicians seemingly chose, at
least symbolically, to promote the protection of
native culture over the integration of local elites
into the political system: paternalism over a more
294
open system.”156 Groslier was able so blatantly to
claim authorship for monuments and styles that
were created by Cambodians because he could
rely on a sympathetic colonial government and an
archaeological community – not to mention the
phenomenon of the international exposition for
which Asians were an exotic, eternal “other” – to
back him up, sidelining his indigenous collab-
orators and relegating them to obscurity.
8
association
Saigon and Hanoi ca 1925

Ernest Hébrard (1875–1933)

Most scholars have credited Ernest Hébrard, a Beaux-Arts-trained

urbanist and architect responsible for several buildings in Hanoi,
Saigon, and Phnom Penh in the 1920s, with the introduction of
associationist architecture, his so-called “style indochinois,” which
Michael Falser aptly calls a “regionalist neo-style.”1 However, as
we have seen in the last chapter, when Hébrard came onto the
scene Franco-Indochinese architectural hybridities such as the
Compagnie des messageries building, not to mention the two
museums in Phnom Penh, had existed in Indochina for the better
part of sixty years, and similar British and Dutch experiments
were built in their colonies, in Britain’s case as early as the 1870s.
Additionally, Caroline Herbelin reveals that French architects
designed fantasy Sino-Tonkinese pastiche buildings for the 1887
Exposition de Hanoi that, although never executed, received a
wide audience through publication, and that several private villas
of government functionaries also incorporated indigenous ele-
ments – notably roof types – into their architecture in the first
decade of the twentieth century.2 The reason Hébrard has received
the most attention, despite his spending only five years in the
colony and being stymied by conservative colonists during his stay,
is that he was the highest-profile architect – the only Prix de Rome
laureate – to work in Indochina. For three years he also held the
 highest architectural office as chief of the Service
central des bâtiments civils (founded in 1923 and
not to be confused with the Service des bâtiments
civils), a centralized architectural body respon-
sible for all town planning and building projects
entrusted to it by the general government or local
administrations. Like Groslier, Hébrard was also
a self-promoter, broadcasting his ideas in short,
highly quotable articles in the 1920s and ’30s that,
while hardly constituting an architectural mani-
festo, at least gave his visions a wide audience.3 He
criticized the Belle Époque style of his immedi-
ate predecessors:
The traveller […] is amazed when arriving
at Saigon to see the city dominated by a
Romano-Gothic cathedral, stones and
bricks, crowned with two pointed spires.
350 meters from there, he encounters the
Governor General’s Palace with arcades,
covered with a Mansard slate roof. Further
on, the Palace of Justice, in the Corinth-
ian order, reveals its colonnades. The Post
Office, more modernized, has a vulgar
marquee of iron and glass at the entrance.
A museum that has been transformed into
a palace for the Governor of Cochinchina
also does not add a well-considered local
note. […] From a decorative point of view, it
seems absolutely useless to have the Hindu
or Indochinese craftsmen copy Corinthian
capitals, garlands, crockets, balusters and
the architecture of empire
other motifs, of classical or Gothic origin.4
He famously quipped about the taste for neo-
gothic churches in the colony that “it makes you
believe that for French priests Gothic architec-
ture is the only one pleasing to the Lord,” and he
lambasted the “horror” of the buildings pro-
duced by the Direction des Travaux publics (the
“travaux publics” or “compradoric” style discussed
296
in chapters 1 and 7).5 Hébrard was particularly
critical of the buildings’ inappropriateness to the
climate, noting that “At the Saigon post office, a
glazed skylight caused fatalities” (fig. 6.6).6
Hébrard was born in 1875 in modest circum-
stances at his family home in the 11th Arrondisse-
ment (his father was a concierge), and his brother
Jean (1878–1960) also became an architect.7
Ernest was admitted to the École des Beaux-Arts
in 1892, and into the première classe in 1895, where
he studied with Léon Ginain (1825–1898) and
Louis-Henri-Georges Scellier de Gisors, win-
ning (among other prizes) the Prix Godeboeuf
(1895), the Prix Rougevin (1901), and the Grand
Prix de Rome with residency at the Villa Medici
(1904–08).8 While in Rome Hébrard made the
most important friendship of his career. Fellow
laureate Henri Prost (1874–1959) was an urbanist
and architect who would go on to execute major
urban redevelopment schemes and associationist
buildings in French Morocco, including Casa-
blanca, Rabat, and Marrakesh, and he subse-
quently worked for the Turkish government on
modernization projects in Istanbul.9 Hébrard
accompanied Prost to Istanbul and visited Dio-
cletian’s Palace at Split (Croatia), which became
the main project of his residency and which he
reconstructed in two lavish published volumes
in 1912. His visit to the Ottoman Empire was his
first foray into the vast world Western Europeans
called the “Orient,” although I would not go as
far as Gwendolyn Wright in claiming that the
Split project foreshadows his associationist style
because “in an effort to represent the unity of
an empire on the verge of collapse, Diocletian
had freely intermingled Western and Eastern
precedents.”10
Hébrard’s next important career move took
place during the Great War, when the Armée
d’Orient sent him in 1916 to Thessalonica as the
head of the archaeological service, and he stayed
on as architect to the Greek government (1917–
21). He directed the reconstruction of the city’s
historic district after its destruction by fire and
earthquake, and as professor of the Athens School
of Architecture he headed efforts to preserve the
Parthenon district. His Legion of Honour dossier
comments in 1932 about his work in Thessalonica
that he “rendered a very great service to French
influence in Macedonia. This considerable work
(101 hectares destroyed by the fire to reconstruct,
the whole city to rebuild following a modern plan
that fully respected its character and its ancient
monuments) made great honour to French sci-
ences and arts.”11
On Prost’s recommendation Maurice Long
(1866–1923), the ministre du ravitaillement
général, invited Hébrard to Indochina in 1919
(he arrived in 1921 and left for good in 1926).12
Hébrard was hired as an urbanist to satisfy the
Cornudet Law of 1919, by which all French
communes of 10,000 inhabitants or more had
to have a development, extension, and beauti-
fication strategy provided by the state, a decree
that revealed the wretched state of sanitation
and living conditions in Indochinese cities, for
which master plans had only haphazardly been
applied.13 Hébrard was influenced by Prost’s work
in Morocco as well as that of utopian urbanists
(and fellow Rome Prize laureates) Tony Garnier
(1869–1948) and Léon Jaussely (1875–1932),
working in France and Barcelona respectively.14
These men looked to redesign entire cities, not
mere neighbourhoods or building clusters,
separating them into administrative, residential,
cultural, and industrial sectors, a reorganization
that in the colonies invariably translated into
racial zoning.15 Hubert Lyautey (1854–1934),
the governor of French Morocco between 1912
and 1925 and the man who had invited Prost to
redesign its cities in 1913, developed the idea of
what Janet Abu Lughod calls “urban apartheid,”
leaving indigenous neighbourhoods to fend for
themselves and building fashionable modernist
villes nouvelles for the Europeans.16 Others have
suggested, less convincingly, that the urbanistic
program was a “recognition of Moroccan cultural
integrity,” although it did have the positive effect
of preserving historic quarters from French en-
croachment.17 Arnaud Le Brusq comments about
Hébrard’s brand of urbanism: “his reflection on
the separation of the European and indigenous
populations is similar to a solution in mainland
France of dividing the bourgeois zones of resi-
dence from the poor quarters.”18
Hébrard’s approach to individual buildings was
profoundly influenced by the architects working
in Prost’s Morocco: men such as Adrien Laforgue
(1871–1952), Joseph Marrast (1881–1971), and
Albert Laprade (1883–1978) in the 1910s and
1920s. Morocco was a protectorate (from 1912),
in which France officially shared power with the
sultan, a stark contrast to neighbouring Algeria,
which, because it had been a French settler colony
for almost eighty years and was considered to
be an extension of France, had long followed a
policy of assimilation.19 The houses, post offices,
and other government buildings designed by
these and similarly minded architects grafted
decontextualized features from Islamic buildings
onto monumental but austere art deco structures
that, minus the decorative details, could have been
in Lyon or Lille. The pastiche of “vernacular” ele-
ments, which they called “arabisances,” included
horseshoe arches, tiles, mashrabiyyas (wooden
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
grilles), muqarnas (honeycomb vaults) and even
mihrabs – the latter deeply offensive to Muslims –
arranged decoratively and without concern for
their original function. Wright comments about
these buildings that they were “at once functional
and romantic, contemporary and responsive to
local history,” but the decorative pastiches were
not exclusively local and they included features
297
 from Islamic architecture in Spain, Egypt, and
even Syria.20 The results are stale, impersonal, and
oblivious to the true meaning or function of the
“Arabian” motifs the buildings appropriate.
Hébrard worked in Hanoi and Saigon until
1926, designing urban schemes for Hanoi, Saigon,
Phnom Penh, and the summer capital of Dalat
(none of them fully executed), as well as seven
buildings in the new style (mostly in partnership
with other architects and all completed after his
departure).21 They included the Université Indo-
chinoise (with Paul Sabrié, 1924–27), the Musée
Louis-Finot (with Charles Batteur, 1925–32)
(figs. 8.10–13), the Ministry of Finances building
(1927–31) (fig. 8.1), the Institut Pasteur (with
8.1 Ernest Hébrard, Ministry of Finances building, Hanoi,
1927–31.
the architecture of empire
298
Gaston Roger, 1930), and the Church of the Holy
Martyrs (1925, built 1931–32), all in Hanoi, the
Lycée Petrus Ky in Saigon (1925–28) (fig. 8.2), and
the Hotel Le Royal in Phnom Penh (with Jean
Desbois, 1927–29).22 Nevertheless Hébrard’s work
in Indochina was not particularly well received:
colonial authorities did not comment on his “style
indochinois,” and although it enjoyed some atten-
tion in the press the Public Works Department
did not adopt it: “Hébrard seems to have progres-
sively become persona non grata in the eyes of the
political authorities. He insinuated that one of
the causes of the conflict lay in his architectural
designs, bitterly complaining upon his return to
France in 1926: ‘I often heard repeated in high
places that I should construct French Architec-
ture in Indochina.’”23 His Indochinese projects
enjoyed some international attention in the wake
8.2 Ernest Hébrard, Lycée Petrus Ky, Saigon, 1925–28.
of the 1931 Colonial Exposition, and in 1932, the
year of his death, Hébrard was made chevalier of
the Legion of Honour.24 His obituary in L’Avenir
du Tonkin highlighted his project for Dalat, his
museum in Hanoi, and his city plan for Thessa-
lonica, all of which the reporter indiscriminately
located in the “Orient.”25
Two government buildings can serve as
examples of Hébrard’s “style indochinois.” The
first, the Ministry of Finances, was the only one
completed of a cluster of government buildings
he planned in a park-like setting along an axis
emanating from the Governor-General’s Palace
(figs. 6.8–9; 8.1).26 It was also the only association-
ist administrative building erected in Hanoi.27
The long, rectangular, three-storey building with
three avant-corps and high chimneys follows
the familiar lines of a French office building (as
Trần Quốc Bảo notes), to which Hébrard adds
a Chinese hip gable tiled roof and lower awning
with overhanging eaves supported by brackets.28
The projecting gable atop the central ressaut takes
the form of a temple pavilion resting incongru-
ously on four piers. The guardhouses that flank
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
the entrance with their double roofs are like
miniature pagodas, and the gate has lotus finials
and Chinese-style green ceramic grilles. But most
innovations are concerned not with vernacular
architecture but with ventilation and shade, as
with the tiled awnings over the windows and
the vents under them, flanked by Western-style
corbels. Decoration is kept to a minimum: just
299
 some ceramic grilles under the balconies, decora-
tive eave bracketing supporting the main entrance
porch, and panels with swastika patterns between
the windows in the attic. The Asian-inspired
forms, which are pan-Asian rather than Tonkin-
ese, are divorced from their original context and
would have been meaningless to an indigenous
viewer. The building, painted with the yellow
whitewash typical of government buildings, is
strangely sterile despite these “exotic” elements.
Hébrard wrote much about vernacular architec-
ture but, as Herbelin remarks, “his fear of the pic-
turesque overshadowed his willingness to use local
motifs. […] If one can compare architecture to a
language, Hébrard did not use the vocabulary of
vernacular architecture but its syntax.”29 The same
goes for the Lycée Pétrus Ky in Saigon, a generic,
arcaded cloister around a courtyard in a style very
close to that of the Travaux publics that Hébrard
derided: the only “Asian” element is a token
pagoda-like clocktower at its entrance with two
Chinese temple roofs supported on little brackets
that look out of place in the otherwise West-
ern-style building, like the gateway to an outdoor
food court in present-day Singapore (fig. 8.2).
Auguste-Émile-Joseph Delaval (1875–1962)
The Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse, the first
permanent museum in Saigon and the head-
quarters of the Société des Études Indochinoises
(Society for Indochinese Studies, founded 1883),
the architecture of empire
was the second large-scale museum to be opened
in Indochina, and it also involved Groslier in
its developing stages (figs. 8.3–4). However its
history is the reverse of its sister institution in
Phnom Penh: whereas the Cambodian build-
ing was a purpose-built museum that was later
copied at an exposition, the Saigon monument
began as an exposition pavilion – two, in fact.
It is one of the few architectural legacies of
300
Auguste-Émile-Joseph Delaval (1875–1962), like
Hébrard a graduate of the École des Beaux-Arts,
although he was not a Prix de Rome laureate
and had not established a career in France before
leaving for Indochina.30 This building is a par-
ticularly clear rebuke to the claim that Hébrard
was solely responsible for the “style indochinois.”
One could argue that the Musée Albert-Sarraut
was an exception, as it was Franco-Khmer, but the
Blanchard-de-la-Brosse, the design of which dates
to 1924, was as associationist as its successor in
Hanoi – and just as much of a pastiche.
Born in Nevers, Delaval was the son of a grocer
and a homemaker from Hennebont (Morbihan),
where Delaval lived before his departure for Indo-
china and where he returned upon his retirement.
Delaval joined the military in 1895 and served
until 1921, including as a sergeant in the 88th
Infantry Regiment (Lorient) during and after the
Great War (1914–19), but he first came to Indo-
china much earlier, in 1905, as a “sous-inspecteur
de 2e classe” with the Service des bâtiments civils,
only returning to France briefly in 1908–09 to
marry Alice Lambert, also from Nevers.31 Delaval
had entered the École des Beaux-Arts in 1895,
where he studied with Paul Blondel (1847–1897),
Scellier de Gisors, and Alphonse Defrasse
(1860–1939), and he was admitted into the first
class in 1899 and graduated in 1909.32 Delaval
participated in the usual round of competitions
between 1899 and 1909, including the Godeboeuf
(three times) and the Rangevin (twice), although
was only modestly successful. Among his entries
(none of which survive) were a decoration of
the rear of a ship, a foyer in a grand theatre, a
bell tower, an episcopal throne, a staircase for a
8.3 (oppoSiTe Top ) Auguste Delaval, Musée Blanchard-
de-la-Brosse, Saigon, 1929. Facade.
8.4 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Auguste Delaval, Musée
Blanchard-de-la-Brosse, Saigon, 1929. Detail of cupola.
 palace, and a railway station. He participated in
the architecture section of the Salon des artistes
français in Paris (1903), where he contributed two
watercolours depicting the gate of the Hôtel du
Gouvernement and the Basilica of Saint-Martin
d’Ainay, both in Lyon. Throughout his career
he produced watercolours and drawings, mostly
pedestrian landscapes and architectural studies,
including of buildings in Huế and Tonkin; these
have recently been acquired by the Archives com-
munales at Hennebont.33
Upon his arrival in Hanoi in 1905 Delaval ran
into a problem. The Ministry of the Colonies had
told him that he did not need his Beaux-Arts dip-
loma in Indochina, so he left off obtaining it until
his first leave. However, it turned out that with-
out it he would have to sit an examination that
would require two years of preparation just to be
promoted to third- or second-class inspector. He
wrote an impassioned letter to the secretary of the
Beaux-Arts from Saigon in 1905:
Currently I am in Indo-China, incorporated
into the Civil Buildings Service as a Sub-
Inspector. This Civil Buildings Service is
divided into 3 categories: 1st Part – 1st, 2nd,
and 3rd Class Architects. 2nd – 1st, 2nd,
3rd, and 4th class Inspectors. The position
of Sub-Inspector does not correspond to
the capabilities of any pupil who has com-
pleted studies at the Ecole des Bx [sic] Arts
and, to be appointed Inspector, I will be
the architecture of empire
forced to pass an examination equivalent
to those passed in the course of my studies
at the School, given that I have finished all
my requirements. This exam can make me
lose a year or two to my greatest detriment,
since I am currently 30 years old. In France,
at the Ministry of the Colonies, where I was
wrongly informed, I was told that the Dip-
loma of the School was unnecessary; this is
302
why I put off obtaining my diploma, the cur-
riculum of which has been completed for a
long time, for my next leave, that is to say in
3 years. Here, I learn that this diploma could
have earned me the rank of 2nd or 3rd class
Inspector at the time of my arrival. Manage-
ment does not know how we study at the
Ecole des Bx Arts and requires an exam to
become an Inspector. I will therefore be very
grateful to you, Mr. Secretary, if you would
send to Mr. Guillemoto, Director General
of Public Works in Indo-China, a note con-
cerning me and indicating the precise details
of the examinations which I have passed as
well as the marks obtained by me, insisting
on this matter that I can graduate and that
there is no point in wasting time that is too
precious for me in preparing for these exams
again. A letter couched in these terms and
coming from you will have more value than
a list of marks to which the Director will
not attach enough importance.34
The Beaux-Arts administration must have com-
plied with his request as Delaval rose relatively
quickly through the ranks: he was promoted to
third-class inspector with the Travaux publics
in October 1905, second-class inspector in 1907,
first-class inspector with the Bâtiments civils in
1909, and during his second tour in Indochina
(1909–13), he had risen to “Inspecteur principal
des Bâtiments civils” in 1911 and then Architecte
auxiliaire des Bâtiments civils in 1913.35 In 1928,
during his fourth and final tour in Indochina
(1927–31; his third tour was in 1923–26) he was
finally appointed architecte principal des Bâti-
ments civils (on 21 April 1930). During his fourth
tour he also taught at the École des Beaux-Arts
de l’Indochine in Hanoi (ebai , founded 1924),
where, unlike Groslier in Phnom Penh, he taught
indigenous students architectural theory as well as
practice, in addition to architectural and garden
decoration, with a focus on Cham and Sino-Viet-
namese art.36 On 2 August 1923, by which time he
was living in Saigon, Delaval was made a chevalier
of the Legion of Honour.37 However Delaval was
unsatisfied with his pay grade and left the colony
in a huff, even before he had reached retirement
age with its benefits.38 As chief architect of the
Bâtiments civils he did not enjoy the higher
salary and benefits of the chief engineer of the
Travaux publics, which he would have received
had he been allowed to join efeo (as he had been
invited to do) as architect of the school. Delaval
left Indochina for good in 1931, continuing, un-
successfully, to demand promotion in arrears.
Delaval’s induction into the Legion of Honour
was a direct outcome of his participation in the
1922 Colonial Exposition at Marseille, where he
was the chief architect of the Indochinese section
and was responsible for the first near full-scale
replica of Angkor Wat, the exposition’s undis-
puted highlight.39 In fact he had already designed
the pavilion for the aborted 1916 Colonial
Exposition, which had to be abandoned when
he was mobilized, and during the war he con-
tinued to draught plans and finalize the bidding
documents. The 1922 replica was reproduced in
newspapers and postcards and was a backdrop in
the film Tâo (1923) released by Pathé, prompting
Delaval to file copyright suits in 1924 and 1927
because these reproductions were done without
his permission, and, in the case of the film and the
postcards, without citing his name as the author
of the project.40
The case is interesting because it brings up
contemporary issues about authorship in a case
of cultural appropriation: was Delaval in fact the
author of the monument or was it merely a replica
of a building constructed in antiquity by someone
else? On one hand the tribunal noted that Delaval
“chose for the model of his pavilion that he was
to execute the temple of Angkor in Cambodia”
but on the other hand they concluded that “he
borrowed from this ancient temple only the
elements of his building which constitute a real
original creation protected by the laws of July 17,
1793 and March 11, 1902.”41 Because his replica
took many liberties with the original, selecting
particular features and aligning them according to
Beaux-Arts principles of axial symmetry, he was
legally the author of the work.42 Pastiching made
it his cultural property. Also at stake in the case
was the nature of Delaval’s employment: he had
never signed a contract and worked directly under
the Indochinese colonial government to repro-
duce a work of “French” patrimony to the public
for educational purposes. There was no stipula-
tion about the rights of the author, who was paid
by an allowance rather than on the percentage
of expenses as was customary, and the exposition
management explicitly retained the right to au-
thorize general views of its pavilions.
In the end the newspaper L’Illustration won the
suit, because they had in fact published Delaval’s
name (albeit in small print), but the postcard
manufacturers and Pathé had to pay damages
amounting to 9,000 francs. Delaval continued
to have a fraught relationship with the French
expositions (as he did with the Travaux publics).
In 1925 he sued Charles Blanche, who went on to
design the most complete full-scale reproduction
of Angkor Wat for the 1931 Colonial Exposition
(fig. 7.7), alleging that Blanche stole his idea (the
planning was already well underway as the expos-
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
ition was originally scheduled for 1925).43 Jean
Locquin, the deputy from Lièvre in the Chamber
of Deputies, wrote to the governor-general in
Hanoi in 1931 that Delaval considered Blanche’s
work to be “nothing more than a knock-off, not
to say a copy” of Delaval’s pavilion and that the
architect had been “cruelly wronged,” and de-
served compensation.44 The two may have had a
303
 8.5 Auguste Delaval, Temple du Souvenir Annamite
(Hùng King Temple), Saigon, 1927–29.
falling out before: Blanche had been the executing
architect for Delaval’s Indochinese Pavilion for
the 1925 Decorative Arts Exposition, a Sino-
Vietnamese fantasy that was similar in spirit to
his project for the Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse
and the adjacent Temple du Souvenir Annamite
the architecture of empire
(1929) (fig. 8.5). The Indochinese pavilion was
reused in the 1931 exposition as an administrative
building and was, ironically, placed right next to
Blanche’s Angkor Wat replica. That year Delaval
once again tried – unsuccessfully – to claim
compensation from the Indochinese government
for the theft of his design.45 Indeed, Delaval
appears to have been a litigious personality whose
constant complaints about alleged wrongs did
304
not gain him much sympathy from within the
colonial administration.
Except for the Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse,
Delaval made few architectural contributions to
Indochina.46 He oversaw the expansion of the
Lycée d’Hanoi (1914; 1928–30) and was one of
the executing architects of the Museum of Cham
Arts in Tourane, working under Parmentier in
partnership with Claudius Auclair (1876–1940).
Although the design, approved in 1915, was Par-
mentier’s own, it anticipated the Saigon museum
in its emulation of indigenous styles, in this case
classical Cham architecture, although it only
amounted to a few lotus finials in a building that
otherwise reflected a kind of denuded neoclassi-
cism. As Parmentier’s successor as head, Henri
Marchal (1876–1970), modestly put it in 1936,
“his building scheme was sufficiently inspired by
Cham architecture that the sculptures do not
seem out of place.”47 As we will see in the next
chapter, Delaval was also approached in 1929 by
the founders of Caodaism, a syncretic religion
that includes elements of Catholicism and French
culture, to design their temple at Tây Ninh
(figs. 9.12–13), but he was forbidden from doing
so by a jittery colonial government. Although
Royaume, the inspector-general of the Travaux
publics, did not object if he worked “outside
office hours,” governor of Cochinchina Jean-Félix
Krautheimer (1874–1943) responded:
it does not seem advisable, at the very
moment when the Administration is taking
various measures with regard to Caodaism
in order to hinder its influence, to authorize
the representatives of this sect to openly
use the services of an official for the con-
struction of a “great temple” intended, by
its monumental character, to impress the
crowds. Such an authorization would be
misinterpreted by public opinion, which
would see it on the Government’s part
as at least a tacit recognition of the new
sect. There is also every reason to believe
that the so-called leaders of Caodaism [...]
would take advantage of this circumstance
to intensify their propaganda and collect
large subscriptions whose use could not be
controlled. Under these circumstances, if we
want to prevent the leaders of the Caodaist
sect from this new attempt to exploit public
credulity, I believe that it is not appropriate
to authorize Mr. delaval , architect of
the Government, to carry out the projects
which are requested of him.48
The commission is interesting, however, since it
suggests that the group was attracted to Delaval
because of his reputation for architectural
hybridity, about which more in the follow-
ing chapter.
The only building Delaval constructed in Indo-
china as chief architect, aside from the museum,
was the Temple du Souvenir Annamite (Hùng
Vương Temple), built in 1927–29 in the botanic
gardens adjacent the museum in memory of the
Vietnamese soldiers who died for France during
the Great War (fig. 8.5). The 14-metre-high, cube-
shaped Sino-Vietnamese monument has a sloping
Chinese roof and two awnings over a gallery, and
it is raised on a platform accessed by a staircase
with dragon balustrades. It has intricately carved
wooden panelling on the interior with gilded
decoration lit by a row of oculus windows con-
taining openwork wooden screens, and includes a
memorial stele.49 Delaval’s attention to ornamental
detail, especially in the doors, the lively undulat-
ing dragon finials, and the ornamental bracketing
of the roof, echoes the adjacent museum, which
was built at the same time. The building was
dedicated to the ancestor kings of all Vietnamese
people and was likely commissioned by a com-
mittee of Vietnamese veterans led by newspaper
owner Nguyen Vàn Cua and approved (and pos-
sibly financed) by the General Government.
The Campaign to Build a Permanent Museum
in Saigon
Although it was not opened to the public until
the first day of 1929, the Saigon museum was
long in coming – in fact the idea of having a
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
museum in the city goes back to the days of the
admirals – and throughout the history of its
development it faced significant opposition from
more business-oriented colons.50 In 1865, Admiral
Pierre-Gustave Roze (1812–1883) established a
Comité agricole et industriel, which, from 1883,
grew into the Société des études indochinoises,
the remit of which was to promote knowledge of
305
 the region and to encourage public authorities to
found a Museum in Cochinchina. Around the
same time, probably soon after Lagrée’s voyage up
the Mekong River (1866), Admiral Pierre-Paul
de La Grandière (1807–76) had formed a small
collection of Khmer sculptures in Saigon that he
hoped would form the basis of an archaeological
museum, but he departed before it could be
begun. Instead, these sculptures were arranged
as decorative accents in the botanic garden by
botanist Jean-Baptiste Louis Pierre (1833–1905)
in 1868.51 In 1871 a physician named Dr Pichon
asked the Municipal Council to finance an excava-
tion of Angkor Wat for the purpose of creating a
museum in Saigon. Fortunately, this project never
saw the light of day as it would have caused even
more losses for the beleaguered temple. In 1880
the municipal government recommended the
creation of “a public library as well as museum,”
which came to naught.52 Two years later zoologist
Henri Milne-Edwards (1800–1885) petitioned
the Colonial Council to found a Cochinchinese
study museum in the old courthouse building,
but the minister of the marine chose to found a
commercial museum instead, essentially a trade
fair. Nevertheless the Société des études indochi-
noises had not given up, and in 1897 it elected to
build its own museum in Saigon, a project given
further impetus the next year when explorer
Charles Lemire (1839–1912) donated a series
of Cham sculptures taken from sites in Annam
and stored in a garden in Tourane.53 Looted and
the architecture of empire
purchased objects from far and wide (including
works of Japanese art) continued to find their way
to Saigon, where they were moved about, broken,
and partially lost until being stored in a ware-
house in 1925.
The project for a permanent museum in Saigon
gained traction in 1898 when Governor-General
Doumer created the “Mission archéologique
permanente” that would become the efeo . The
efeo opened a small museum in 1900 on the
306
ground floor of a building located on 140 rue Pel-
lerin; however with the transfer of the administra-
tive capital to Hanoi in 1902 the efeo decamped
for Tonkin. 54 The Society of Indochinese Studies
still held onto their museum in Saigon, and by
1904 they operated two facilities in the city, the
one on rue Pellerin, which was devoted to ori-
ginal sculptures, and a museum of casts on rue
Lagrandière, while other objects were kept at the
police station. In a letter to the lieutenant-
governor of Cochinchina (15 March 1904)
Governor-General Paul Beau (1857–1926) urged
that “it is necessary to plan the construction of
a dedicated building,” but that any relocation of
the objects and casts must be done with extreme
prudence to avoid damaging them. He continued:
But, as I do not forget that if this Museum,
conceived as an instrument of study and
conservation, is first of all a work of gen-
eral interest, it holds nonetheless a particular
interest for the Colony of Cochinchina and
for the city of Saigon. I would therefore
agree to the best solution, that which, associ-
ating the Colony and the City with the costs
of building and maintaining this Museum,
would at the same time assure them a
corresponding share in the management
of the establishment and the guarantee that
the collections would not be moved against
their advice. I hope that this plan will meet
with your full assent and that the elected
bodies of Cochinchina will be unanimous
in supporting the execution of a project
which promises to make the first capital of
Indochina the guardian of the monuments
of its history.55
But not everyone was enthusiastic about a
civic museum run by an academic organiza-
tion: that same year Brigadier General Léon
de Beylié (1849–1910), an avid art collector
himself, explained to the mayor that it would
be better for the “Musée de la Ville” not to
have a “special attachment to the Société des
Etudes Indochinoises.”56
In a meeting of April 1904, the commission
rejected the idea of an archaeological museum
because they believed that it would bore the
average visitor. Commissioner Bonade, himself
a prosperous trader, was quite blunt about it:
“the very project of installing an Archaeological
Museum will be of very vague interest to travellers
visiting Saigon, […] an archaeological exhibition
will hardly interest anyone. We will encounter
archaeologists from time to time who will be
interested in an exhibition of old stones […] It
would have been possible first to create a more
useful and interesting Museum in Saigon, such
as that which exists in Hanoi, […] a commercial,
industrial and artistic Museum. […] If it were a
question of providing the City with a more com-
plete and more inclusive Museum, we would have
serious reasons to accept the proposals which have
been made to us […] But for the organization of
the project which is under discussion, I do not
believe that it is necessary to commit ourselves
to considerable further expenses.”57 Saigon was a
business town, and its citizens wanted a museum
devoted to business.
In the meantime, in 1905, the collection
experienced another setback when most of the
Khmer antiquities were returned to Phnom Penh
to be placed in the newly begun Musée Khmer
(fig. 7.12). In 1917 the remaining collections were
shifted again, to a building on boulevard Noro-
dom across from the Cercle Militaire, but by
1925 rental costs forced them to move the objects
back into a warehouse.58 In 1918 the collections
were further depleted when 17 Cham pieces were
returned to the new Musée Cham, but the collec-
tion grew in other areas, notably in pre-Angkor
sculptures excavated in Cochinchina. The event
that would finally precipitate the decision to build
what would become the Musée Blanchard-de-
la-Brosse was the death in 1927 of naval phar-
macist Victor-Thomas Holbé (1859–1927), who
had assembled a massive collection of artworks
obtained over his forty-year career in Asia which
he hoped would remain in Saigon but which
municipal authorities feared would be sold at
auction.59 After an emergency meeting in June of
1927 the Society of Indochinese Studies agreed
unanimously to acquire Holbé’s entire collection
and the amount was raised by October through
public subscription. On 28 November Paul
Blanchard de la Brosse (1872–after 1944), gov-
ernor of Cochinchina, signed a decree officially
creating the Musée de la Cochinchine, a museum
of “art, history, archaeology, and ethnography”
that would exist under the auspices of the efeo
but under his direct authority.60 Jean Bouchot
(1886–1932), a government archivist, was made
curator in June 1928.
The Rice Palace and Cochinchinese Economic
Museums (1918–1926)
The new museum, duly named after the governor
on 6 August, was to occupy a building already
under construction in the botanic gardens that
was sometimes called a “Rice and Cochinchina
Palace” (“Palais du riz et de la Cochinchine”) and
elsewhere an “Economic Museum of Cochin-
china” (“Musee économique de la Cochinchine”).
The choice was practical, as it repurposed a struc-
ture that was already partly built, but it was also
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
symbolic as the location was near where Pigneaux
de Béhaine had lived under Gia Long’s protec-
tion and therefore could serve as a reminder of
the legitimacy of French rule. The building (of
which Delaval was the architect) was in fact
a pavilion for an aborted Saigon Exposition
planned initially for 1926 and then for 1927–28.
Directly inspired by the Marseille Colonial
Exposition of 1922 and popularly known as the
307
 “Foire-Exposition de Saïgon,” it was meant to be,
after the 1902 Hanoi Exposition, “the largest and
most complete exposition of Indochinese and
French products ever mounted,” with “hundreds
of pavilions and stalls,” and it would also pro-
vide permanent space for exhibitions for tourists
after it closed (an official tourist office opened in
1926).61 In 1923 Governor-General Martial Henri
Merlin (1860–1935) advanced a sum of 150,000
piastres (1,200,000 francs) to purchase land and
advertising, among other things.62
Still, the exposition was not all business. Not
unjustly, Saigon suffered from a reputation as
being a city of capitalists and vice, and the fair’s
promoters hoped to incorporate something more
cultural, or, more specifically, ethnographic.63
Governor-General Sarraut had remarked as early
as 1917 that what Saigon needed was “some-
thing analogous to what we see in Paris, at the
Trocadéro, an ethnographic museum, where,
in vast galleries, we can find, in the gestures of
their daily life, the various races which inhabit
Indochina, with their habitat, their surroundings,
their costumes, their furniture, all the historical
documentation which concerns them, the collec-
tions of local fauna and flora and the collections
of our economic wealth. This is an institution that
would be perfectly appropriate in Saigon.”64 The
Foire-Exposition, which was widely discussed in
French newspapers, was officially approved by
minister of the colonies (and future prime minis-
ter) Édouard Daladier (1884–1970) during a brief
the architecture of empire
visit to Paris of Cochinchinese governor Maurice
Cognacq (1870–1949) in the autumn of 1924.65
However, even before the Foire-Exposition
project got off the ground, Sarraut organized
a separate concours in 1918 to fulfill the goals
he stated the year earlier for a Saigon equiva-
lent to the Trocadéro, and he placed George
Groslier in charge. The competition was for an
economic, ethnographic, and historic museum
308
“with exhibition rooms,” which he hoped would
“give traders and travellers all the facilities to
study Indochina.”66 The Economic Museum, as
it was usually called, was inspired by precedents
in Hong Kong and Singapore.67 Here Groslier
departed from the métissage of his Phnom Penh
museum, seeking a modernist aesthetic: “[t]he
architects remain entirely free in the design of the
monument [...] Finally, it is recommended that
the architects be inspired by very simple con-
ceptions, in the French taste, to seek the purity
of line which harmonizes with the beautiful
light of tropical countries.”68 As the building was
meant primarily for a European audience, Gros-
lier’s decision was in keeping with his belief that
associationist buildings were only for the Indo-
chinese (see chapter 7). The budget was not to
exceed 200,000 piastres, but 55,000 had already
been spent by October.69 The concours was open
to architects and engineers from the public works
departments in Saigon, Hanoi, Huế, and Phnom
Penh, and five candidates participated: the con-
tractor Lamorte and architects Vila and Kropff
(the first two had worked on the Royal Palace in
Phnom Penh), Auclair (Delaval’s partner at Tour-
ane), and Jules Josse (1877–1950). 70 On 28 June
1919 Josse, architect with the Bâtiments civils
who later designed the Pavillon de l’art colonial
française at the 1925 Decorative Arts Exposition
with Charles Blanche, was declared the winner of
the commission.71 But Josse’s project was shelved,
probably because of the economic difficulties at
the end of the Great War as Le Brusq suggests,
and when Groslier was asked in 1923 to proceed
with the Saigon museum he rejected Josse’s pro-
ject because his T-shaped plan “has the drawback
of constantly forcing visitors to retrace their steps
in each gallery.”72
In 1924, Ernest Hébrard was put in charge of a
new concours, this time for the Foire-Exposition
project.73 Originally, the “Musée économique”
(sometimes called the “Palais de l’Indochine” and
incorporating the ethnographic museum) and the
“Palais du riz et des produits de la Cochinchine”
were to be separate buildings, along with a “Pa-
villon artistique” that showcased local art schools.
The Palais de l’Indochine, probably inspired
by the Hanoi pavilion (fig. 1.11), was to have
8.6 Auguste Delaval, Government of Cochinchina.
Economic Museum of Cochinchina, Main Facade, ink,
graphite, coloured pencil, and ink wash on paper,
March 1926, 74.5 × 111.3 cm. The Wolfsonian–Florida
International University, The Mitchell Wolfson, Jr
Collection of Decorative and Propaganda Arts, Promised
Gift, wc 2008.08.11.2. Photograph: Lynton Gardiner.
economic exhibitions on the ground floor and an
ethnographic diorama and library upstairs.74 The
displays were to be similar to those recommended
by Groslier in August 1923 for the aborted earlier
project. He had called for photographs, small
dioramas of agriculture and extraction, samples of
agricultural or mining produce, specimens of local
fauna (such as models, taxidermies, skins, and
hunting trophies), manufactured goods (vegetal
and animal oils, grains and shell products, flour,
and conserves), and finally models of European
and indigenous production, whether agricultural,
mineral, or industrial.75 The Foire-exhibition’s
economic and ethnographic museum was to be
supported by the General Government while
 8.7 Ten Thousand Springs (Wanchun ting) Pavilion at the
Forbidden City in Beijing (sixteenth century).
the rice museum and the arts pavilion were to be
financed directly by Cochinchina. They would be
accompanied by temporary pavilions displaying
the products of France (automobiles, silks, farm
implements), model Moi and Lao villages, and pa-
vilions from different countries, including Great
Britain, the United States, Honolulu, Siam, the
the architecture of empire
Philippines, China (including the French conces-
sion in Shanghai), Japan, the Straits Settlements,
and the Netherlands East Indies.76
In his unsuccessful design for the economic
and ethnographic museum Jean-Yves Claeys
chose the French style of the 1918 concours and
produced a two-storey art deco building featuring
a colourful mural depicting Indochinese ethnici-
ties.77 By contrast, Delaval’s avant-projets for the
rice, ethnographic, and economic palaces, which
310
won the commission on 31 January 1924 and were
fully developed between March of that year and
September 1928, were in his Sino-Vietnamese
style (fig. 8.6). Delaval developed his project for
all three museums simultaneously – in fact in
some drawings the Musée économique and Palais
du riz are the same building (e.g., one dated 8
September 1925). The avant-projet for the Musée
ethnographique is the earliest (7 March 1924) and
those for the Palais du riz date exclusively from
1925. Projects for the Musée économique, by far
the most numerous, date from 2 April 1924 to
27 September 1928 (although this must be a mis-
take), but mostly from 1926. They are essentially
the same building except for some minor decora-
tive discrepancies in the latticework, panelling,
and revetments and the use of an arched main
entrance with an oeil-de-boeuf motif above it for
the rice palace instead of the rectangular doorway
surmounted by three narrow rectangular panels
containing Chinese characters and six windows
for the economic museum. Two sets of plans and
elevations were made, one for the Travaux publics
of the Central Government in Hanoi and the
others for the Government of Cochinchina; some
of the latter are now in the Wolfsonian Museum
at Florida International University, and I have also
examined photographs of further drawings the
whereabouts of which are unknown.78
The design for the economic museum is the
one executed (figs. 8.3–4, 8.6). It is a rectangu-
lar structure with a giant pagoda-like octagonal
rotunda in the middle with a double roof and
prominent finial. The rotunda resembles Chi-
nese prototypes such as the Ten Thousand Springs
Pavilion (Wanchun ting) at the Forbidden City in
Beijing (sixteenth century) (fig. 8.7). The central
pavilion is flanked by low wings and a pair of low
cupolas near each end, rectangular this time and
crowned with Chinese-style hip gable roofs. Each
wing also contains a patio with a pool like the
interior courtyard of a mandarin’s house (ya-men)
or temple. The arrangement of galleries around
the rotunda and courtyards allows for the free
flow of visitors that was lacking in Josse’s project.
On 31 January 1924, Governor-General Merlin
wrote that “the general project of M. Delaval,
which corresponds entirely to the needs of the
aforementioned program, would be followed
and developed, under his direction if it is pos-
sible because Mr. Delaval, sequestered by the
Exhibition of Decorative Arts of 1925 in Paris,
will undoubtedly be called to leave the colony
soon.”79 Years later, a sympathetic Hébrard would
also praise “my colleague Delaval” for his “beauti-
ful” building.80
From Exposition Pavilion to the Musée
Blanchard-de-la-Brosse (1929)
The efeo accommodated their galleries to
Delaval’s existing scheme. When visitors entered
the building they passed directly through a
vestibule with a wardrobe, proceeded into the
rotunda, where outstanding works representing
the whole of Asia were displayed, and then circu-
lated around the galleries in each wing, seven on
the left and six on the right.81 The curator’s office
was in an apse-like extension in the far right (its
pendant on the left was a gallery) and the library
of the Society of Indochinese Studies was directly
off the rotunda, opposite the entrance. The efeo
divided the exhibition space according to their
theory that Asian art fell into two “families,”
Indian (Khmer and Cham) and Chinese (Annam-
ese and Tonkinese): the left wing housed the col-
lections of the Indian “family” and the right wing
the Chinese.82 However, since the space was not
designed for a permanent museum it did not have
sufficient offices and it also lacked storerooms and
workshops; a major renovation was undertaken
in the 1950s to make amends and also to improve
visitor circulation.83
The Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse retains the
spirit of an exposition pavilion: it is notably more
light-hearted and delicate than its industrial-
looking successor in Hanoi (fig. 8.10), even
though it has reconstructed timber structures
from traditional Sino-Vietnamese architecture
in concrete. Its elements of polychromy – red
corbels, green moulded roof tiles, and yellow
walls – give the museum a festive appearance, as
do the phoenix finials on the rotunda’s pagoda
roof (fig. 8.4), the delicate balustrade around the
rotunda windows, the refreshingly open patios
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
with their pools of water, the relatively plain walls
adorned with simple rectangular panels, and es-
pecially the post-and-lintel garden pergola facing
the garden and the Temple du Souvenir Annamite
(fig. 8.5), which marks a natural progression from
the museum to the botanic garden.
At the entrance to the porch two parallel
sentences in Chinese on either side of the en-
trance promise to show the curious visitor a large
311
 collection of rare objects from Indochina and the
Far East.84 The bronze doors, cast in Hué in 1925,
are richly adorned with sapèque coin motifs (a
remnant of the decor of the economic museum?),
symbols of longevity, and Chinese-style floral
arrangements. Inside, the rotunda and galleries are
well lit with clerestory windows (fig. 8.4), which
are nevertheless protected from direct sunlight
by Sino-Vietnamese–style sloped awnings, and
the galleries are separated by panels resembling
folding screens. The pergola walls (fig. 8.3) are
divided into plain panels and bare pilasters in a
hint of art deco. The carved woodwork of the
vestibule is decorated with a double series of al-
legorical motifs made up of four precious objects:
the brushes of the scholar, the ruan (a stringed
musical instrument), the book, and the fan. The
large courtyard at the rear of the building was
added only in the 1970s.85
Delaval’s Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse
makes no pretensions toward authenticity –
there is, for example, limited bracketing under
the eaves of the “pagoda” and hip gable roof
pavilions (compare figs. 8.4, 8.7) – and its Asian
structures and motifs do not compensate for
the essentially alien form of the building, a basic
rectangular block with a central portico which,
minus the decorative details, might just as well
have been designed for a French railway station.
The museum is a permanent exposition pavil-
ion, a playful but meaningless pastiche of forms
designed to delight the eye. But at least Delaval,
the architecture of empire
as argumentative and litigious as he was, was not
part of the Groslier-Hébrard club, masterminding
an associationist style to control indigenous arts
production and legitimize French rule. He was
more like the architects in chapter 6, an academic-
ally trained architect of modest talent who made a
name for himself in Indochina and then returned
to France after his retirement to the provincial
town of his mother’s family.
312
Charles-Louis-Joseph Batteur (1880–1932)
and the Other Builders of the Musée de l’École
Française (Musée Louis-Finot) in Hanoi
The last of the three Indochinese museums fea-
tured in this book, the one acclaimed as the para-
gon of Hébrard’s “style indochinois” was in fact
the last to be completed, begun in 1926 and inaug-
urated only in 1932.86 The official museum of the
École française d’Extrême-Orient, the building
has a long and protracted history, and Hébrard’s
role in its final appearance has been exaggerated:
as France Mangin first noted, the architect who
oversaw its construction from beginning to end,
making significant changes to Hébrard’s design,
was the efeo ’s scholar-architect Charles-Louis-
Joseph Batteur (1880–1932), who must at least
be acknowledged as the building’s co-author
and who chose many of its signature structural
and decorative forms, drawing upon his own
knowledge of Asian arts.87 In fact Hébrard left
the project (and Indochina) a few weeks after the
museum was begun, in early 1926, and it was Bat-
teur who developed his avant-projet and budget
over the next several months so that it could be
put out to tender in November of that year.88
Henri Parmentier was quite clear about the scale
of Batteur’s changes to Hébrard’s project, writing
that, although it was “very beautifully conceived
by Master Hébrard,” Batteur
had made [it] his own through a meticulous
study of the smallest details, with extra-
ordinary care, patience, and pleasure. And
if this Museum looks today, with its finesse
of presentation and lighting, like one of the
best works produced in this manner in
the Far East, it is almost entirely due to his
continuous study and was never put off by
all vicissitudes suffered by this unfortunate
building, for which we are grateful: it is this
 museum, where he has put all his soul, that
will best preserve, with the memory of his
affectionate companionship, his perpetual
memory in our midst.89
Batteur did not change Hébrard’s plan much,
but he profoundly altered the elevations. He was
responsible for the grid of decorative awnings
and verandas on a double colonnade that stands
forward from the walls and prevents direct sun-
light from entering the building, and the archi-
tect improved the air intake and exhaust vents
and other openings distributed on all the floors,
allowing air to be heated in winter by radiators in
the basement.90
Batteur’s pan-Asian vision – in which he
wanted the building to reflect the efeo ’s work
across the continent and not just in Indochina –
also led to the transformation of the style of
Hébrard’s project into one that was much more
of a pastiche, or what Wright (although attribut-
ing it entirely to Hébrard) justly calls a “hodge-
podge.”91 In particular, the Sino-Vietnamese
roofs were transformed using features taken from
Siamese, Cambodian, or Lao buildings. As a con-
temporary commentator wrote, “the enamelled
awnings can make one think of certain Indian
structures; while the totality of the polychrome
facades evokes a little of the art of Japan, however
not so that these coordinated elements make us
forget the French inspiration of the whole.”92
Le Brusq adroitly suggests that what the source
meant by “French inspiration” is the building’s
very eclecticism, the spirit of the Beaux-Arts.93
Herbelin comments that this “perfect mastery
of Asian architectural systems” allowed Batteur
to “apply Hébrard’s scheme more faithfully than
Hébrard could have done himself.”94 The works
were contracted out to three different engineers:
Albert Aviat (1869–ca 1947), Trịnh Quý Khang,
and Max-Robert Papi (b. 1890s), the latter two
joining the project in 1929 (Aviat had quit the
previous year) as part of a push to complete the
building.95 While these men merely executed
Batteur’s project and were not in a position to
make stylistic decisions, their role was essential,
particularly as Batteur appears not to have been a
trained engineer.
In fact, as an architect and archaeologist
Batteur was an amateur in the mould of George
Groslier. Unlike Hébrard, Batteur did not discuss
his architectural training, although his elevations
of the Musée Louis-Finot demonstrate that he
was an accomplished draughtsman (fig. 8.12).
He was also born in the humblest of circum-
stances, to parents who were both employees of
the dismal La Salpêtrière Hospital for mentally
ill women, something which he kept to himself
and which I only learned from his birth records.96
The Salpêtrière, which began as a hospice for
prostitutes and by the late nineteenth century
housed desperately poor young women who were
frequently victims of sexual assault, was a place of
Dickensian horrors. As Olivier Walusinski puts it:
“Imagine rows of several dozen beds, some closed
off with curtains to hide the ‘reposantes,’ pros-
trate patients who were often incurable. Heating
during the winter was inadequate, provided by
only a few stoves. Visitors were suffocated by
pestilential odors.”97 It was also a centre for the
study of epileptics and “hysterics,” particularly
during the tenure of neurologist Jean-Martin
Charcot (1825–1893), who would have still been
there when Batteur was born. It is possible that
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
his mother, Rosalie Mathurine Rabineaux, had
been a patient before marrying Pierre-Joseph
Batteur, and that therefore mental health issues
ran in the family, which might explain Batteur’s
own depression and suicide (he died by shoot-
ing himself in the head with a revolver while on
furlough in his brother’s house in Paris’s Ninth
Arrondissement, which newspapers attributed to
313

a “crisis of neurasthenia”).98 Batteur also remained
single his whole life: his death certificate, which
calls him an “architect, living in Hanoi,” notes
that he was a bachelor.99 Parmentier characterized
Batteur as a self-made man who had escaped bad
circumstances: “wonderfully gifted in study and
drawing, he did it himself through hard work,
and the circumstances of life made it particularly
painful; then, tired of a thankless and hopeless
job, he came to ask the colony for a freer existence
and a more interesting employment.100
Like Groslier, Batteur was involved in restor-
ation, archaeology, and architecture during his
time in Indochina, in Batteur’s case primarily
the architecture of empire
in Laos, and he also shared Groslier’s passion
for training indigenous artists to reproduce the
art of their past, teaching architecture classes
at the École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine and
instructing his students to make reliefs.101 In
1905 he began working in the Circonscription
Territoriale du Laos for the Service des Bâtiments
civils under Henri Parmentier and rose through
the ranks from an auxiliary inspector (4th class)
314
8.8 Charles Batteur,
Laos Pavilion in the 1931
International Colonial
Exposition. From a postcard
by Braun & Cie., ca 1931.
Private collection.
8.9 (oppoSiTe ) Wat Xiang
Thong, Luang Prabang,
Laos, 1560.
to an inspector (1st class) in 1915, and from 1910
he worked at the Royal Palace at Luang Pra-
bang (fig. 7.5).102 On 24 March 1919 Batteur was
seconded to the Service archéologique and was
made a permanent member of the efeo on 29
June 1921 – an honour that had evaded Groslier –
and he was the interim director of archaeology at
Angkor during Henri Marchal’s furlough (August
1920 – January 1922), supervising the clearing
of Prasat Ta Keo and Bantay Srei, as well as the
reconstruction of the Balustrade of the Giants
at Angkor Thom’s Southern gate.103 By January
1925, a year after he returned from a furlough
in Calvados and Paris, he was earning 12,000–
14,000 francs a year as inspector of the Service
archéologique.104 In Vientiane he was responsible
for the 1922–23 restoration of Wat Si Saket (1818),
where he installed a museum of Lao art, returning
there in 1929 to supervise when he was already
involved with the Musée Louis-Finot in Hanoi,
and he restored the Wat Tham Chom Si (1804)
in Luang Prabang.105 He also advocated for the
protection of monuments in Tonkin, particularly
after 1930, including the famed One Pillar Pagoda
(Chùa Một Cột, 1028–1054) in Hanoi.
Batteur began teaching architecture at the
École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine in 1926,
where, in the words of N. Tô, “he put his taste for
artistry into his courses, while giving his students
the example of the most scrupulous scientific
analyses. His teaching could not be said to have
been brilliant, because Mr. Batteur never sought
out brilliance; but he carried there, as in all things,
the conscience of an honest scientist and the
method of a well-balanced mind.”106 One of the
main functions of the school, founded by Victor
Tardieu (1870–1937) in 1924, was to train artists
to produce decorative artworks such as reliefs and
other architectural details, although, as Herbelin
notes, Tardieu, unlike Groslier, sought to engage
students’ creativity rather than turn them into
copyist automata.107 Nevertheless one of Batteur’s
major projects at the school was mechanical in
nature: he directed his students to make a series
of reliefs from various Tonkinese monuments,
such as the Temple of Literature (Văn Miếu,
ad 1070) and other sites in and around Hanoi
such as the Bút Tháp Temple in Bắc Ninh Prov-
ince (thirteenth century). These he published
(posthumously) in a catalogue entitled Relevés
de monuments annamites anciens établis par les
élèves de l’École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine
(Paris, 1933).108 Like Groslier, Batteur designed a
pavilion for one of the expositions, this time the
Laos Pavilion in the 1931 Colonial Exposition, a
replica of the Wat Xiang Thong at Luang-Prabang
(1560), one of the efeo ’s main restoration
projects in Laos, which was executed by Blanche
(figs. 8.8–9).109
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
315
 Principal contractor Albert Aviat was a
prominent and well-off Hanoi society figure
with decades of experience in the region.110 He
first came to Vietnam in 1899 with the Tonkin
Naval Artillery and later joined the 9th Colonial
Infantry Regiment, returning to fight in France
in 1915. By the time he was back in 1922, as an
“Entrepreneur à Hanoi,” he was already a cheva-
lier of the Legion of Honour and member of the
Hanoi Chamber of Commerce, of which he later
became president. Aviat contributed to many
public works projects, including the river port
and pavilions for the 1924 Foire-Exposition de
Hanoi (of which he was the president), the Hong
Kong and Shanghai Bank building in Haiphong
(1924; under Charles Lagisquet), the Institut
Curie (1925), and the Hanoi University building
(1925; under Hébrard), for which commission he
was described as “conscientious and capable.”111
In 1936 he founded Garage Aviat, one of the first
Citroen dealerships in Indochina. Max-Robert
Papi was born into a family of Corsican engin-
eers resident in Algeria, served with the rank of
captain as a sapper in the First World War, where
he suffered a gas attack, and went on to gradu-
ate as an engineer from the École des Arts et
Métiers.112 Papi arrived in Hanoi in January 1924
and served there and in Annam with the Public
Works Department, becoming ingénieur du 1ère
classe des Travaux publics and chief of section in
February 1936. Papi also travelled in high social
circles: he belonged to the Philharmonic Society,
the architecture of empire
the Corsican Association, and the Commission
locale de colonisation; he raced his own Citroen
in rallies; and he attended masquerade balls at
the Hôtel Métropolitain.113 Papi and Aviat were
evidently close as Papi attended Aviat’s daughter’s
opulent wedding at Hanoi Cathedral in 1927 and
in 1938 he participated in a poker run hosted by
Aviat’s Citroen dealership in Haiphong.114
316
Although Trịnh Quý Khang’s name is con-
spicuously absent in the official museum literature
he was also a successful engineer and society
figure who bid for more practical kinds of pro-
jects in Hanoi and Haiphong such as officers’
living quarters, lepers’ pavilions, and a cement
reservoir in the Hôpital indigène, permanent
anti-malarial sanitation works, a canal lock, and
canal earthworks and irrigation.115 These may not
have had the high status of a museum but they
were arguably more important to the city’s infra-
structure and provided him with a ready source
of income. Trịnh occasionally worked in partner-
ship with entrepreneur Dinh-van Tê, served as a
municipal counsellor in Haiphong, was invited
to society dinners, and donated generously to the
Red Cross. Both Batteur and Papi were awarded
honours for their contributions to the museum,
Batteur made officer of the Royal Order of
Cambodia and Papi chevalier of the Dragon of
Annam, but Trịnh received nothing.116 However,
this slight was not necessarily racially motiv-
ated as two Vietnamese “designers at the efeo ”
(presumably Batteur’s students) were honoured:
Nguyèn-tiên-Loi was also made a chevalier of the
Dragon of Annam and Tran-huy-Ba was given the
Order of Kim-tiên, Third Class. It is most likely
that Trịnh had been fired before the building’s
completion, which would explain why he, like
Aviat, did not share in the accolades.
The Construction of the Musée Louis-Finot
As had been the case with the Society of Indo-
chinese Studies in Saigon, the efeo shuttled
its Hanoi collection between various locations:
from 1898 it was in the school’s headquarters
and in 1902 it was relocated to the palace of the
Exposition de Hanoi, which became known as the
Musée Maurice Long (fig. 1.11).117 The following
year a typhoon damaged the palace and destroyed
part of the collection, which was evacuated to
the school library in boulevard Carreau and, in
November 1910, to a historic building in a spa-
cious garden on rue Maréchal-Galliéni which
had been the French Consul’s residence (1874–83)
before the Protectorate and then the seat of the
résident général (1884–87) and governor-general
(1888–1907).118 After the opening of the palace
of the Gouvernement général (fig. 6.8) the house
on rue Maréchal-Galliéni served briefly as the site
of the first Indochinese University.119 However
the collections grew steadily over the next fifteen
years and the building could barely house them,
resulting in cluttered, cramped installations in
poorly lit rooms with many works in storage. The
collections were moved back to the efeo build-
ing, and with reluctance the efeo demolished
the former residence between May and July 1925
to make way for a larger structure.
Governor-General Merlin released funds for
the efeo to begin the new construction project
as a “collaboration” between Hébrard, of the
Service central des bâtiments civils and Batteur,
inspector of the efeo ’s Archaeological Service
and their de facto in-house architect (figs. 8.10–
11).120 The report of the inspector general of
public works (24 February 1925), which again
states that Hébrard worked “in collaboration”
with Batteur, noted that the building “consists of
a rotunda and main building connected by the
stairwell of the grand staircase, an avant-corps and
two wings,” with two storeys devoted to exhib-

SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925

itions and a basement to accommodate storage,

8.10 (Top ) Ernest Hébrard and Charles Batteur, Musée

Louis-Finot, Hanoi, 1925–32. Entrance and main rotunda.

8.11 (BoTTom ) Ernest Hébrard and Charles Batteur,

Musée Louis-Finot, Hanoi, 1925–32. Detail of main
rotunda.

317
 8.12 Ernest Hébrard and Charles Batteur, Musée
Louis-Finot, front elevation, 1925. Ink on paper. Private
collection.
8.13 (oppoSiTe ) Ernest Hébrard and Charles Batteur,
Musée Louis-Finot, general view, 1925. Lithograph.
efeo, Paris.
collection management, and offices, and that it
would occupy a total of 1,835 square metres and
cost 100,000 piastres.121 Merlin approved their
the architecture of empire
project on 28 February. Hébrard’s “avant-project”
was “taken over and completed” by Batteur in
advance of the award of the commission on
7 November.122
Elsewhere Batteur is named as the sole archi-
tect and Papi as his executing architect.123 Bat-
teur’s original drawings – all of which are signed
by Batteur as “Architecte membre de l’école
française d’Extrême-Orient” and dated 8 October
318
1925 – survive in the National Archives Centre 1
in Hanoi and a second set in a private collection
in Da Nang; they include a north and west facade,
a ground-floor plan, and a longitudinal sectional
view (fig. 8.12).124 The tenders for the building’s
contractor were put out on 6 October 1925, and
on 7 November Aviat was provisionally approved
by a committee headed by Albert Normandin,
chief engineer of the public works of Tonkin, the
decision made official on 12 November.125 He won
out over three other contenders, two European
firms and Dô huu Thuc dit Cai Ba, a Vietnamese
entrepreneur who had prevailed over Aviat for
a 1923 commission for work on the Hanoi Post
Office and would try to win the museum contract
again when Aviat left the project.126
The clearing of the work site and the ancillary
preliminary works were executed immediately
and construction proper began in mid-February
1926, following Tet, the lunar New Year.127 Work
was interrupted between 17 March and 2 May
when the pilings supporting the foundations of
the rotunda and wing had to be rebuilt and the
mortar coating on the concrete replaced; toward
the end of July rains flooded the site and caused
further delays. By January 1927 they had com-
pleted the concrete foundations, the reinforced
concrete supports of the main floor, and the
exterior wall of the basement with its brick revet-
ments and concrete lintels (except in parts of the
stairwell and rotunda wings). The second-floor
framing in the main gallery, rotunda, and ro-
tunda wing was also well underway. Nevertheless
construction stalled again, this time for a year and
a half, when Aviat went on a ten-month furlough
to France (April 1927–31 January 1928), shortly
after which, on 1 March 1928, he wrote his letter
of resignation.128 Aviat submitted a claim for
compensation on 6 January 1929 and on 4 April
was granted an indemnity of 20,923.14 piastres
for the “extensive prolongation of the work” and
“insufficient payment for work performed,” which
Governor-General Pierre-Marie-Antoine Pasquier
(in office 1928–34) approved on 15 May.129 As
Herbelin has noted, Aviat’s resignation was the
direct result of Batteur’s micromanagement of the
project: the “scholarly architect” was constantly
amending and perfecting the design, causing
considerable delays and exasperating Aviat with
the multiple changes to the design.130 As early as
1926 the anonymous report in the efeo Bulletin
already noted that there were a “lot of studies be-
cause of the many and necessary drawings of de-
tails, of architecture proper, and of construction”
and that this will “require a long delay, owing to
the necessary slowness of very delicate work in all
of it.”131
Aviat’s departure did not slow Batteur down: a
government report from 1929 noted that he had
“prepared numerous [new] working drawings
for the Public Works Department with a view to
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
319
 the tender for completing the museum,” and on
21 February that year a thief broke into his home
and stole seven paintings and ten studies that
he had been working on for the same tender.132
Another bid for tenders went out “for the com-
pletion of construction works” as approved on
30 May 1929, and Trịnh Quý Khang was hired
on 11 June 1929 (again beating out Dô huu Thuc
dit Cai-Ba), with the total budget for the museum
now calculated at $199,542.53 over three years.133
I have not found any record about when Papi
was brought on board, but all of the references
to his contributions say that he was the man who
made the building’s completion possible and,
as I suggest above, Trịnh must have been ter-
minated before it was finished.134 On 11 March
1931 Governor-General Pierre Pasquier officially
named the efeo ’s new museum after Louis Finot
(1864–1935), the school’s former director.135 One
year later, on 19 March 1932, George Coedès
(1886–1969), director of the efeo , wrote to the
mayor of the city of Hanoi, “I have the honour of
informing you that the Musée Louis Finot will be
open to the public starting next Sunday 20 March,
every Thursday and Sunday from 8:00 to 11:00 in
the morning and 2:00 to 5:00 in the afternoon,”
taking the opportunity to request four policemen
to guard the museum during opening hours at the
museum’s expense.136
Like the nearby opera house (fig. 6.3), the
Musée Louis-Finot, on a north-south axis, was
positioned for maximum impact on the viewer,
the architecture of empire
with the entrance opening onto a small square
on the north and giving onto the rue de France,
the road passing to the left of the Théâtre de
Hanoi when approaching the latter from rue
Paul Bert (figs. 8.10, 8.12–13). The building’s plan
is reminiscent of that of a church, with a long,
nave-like main hall with an apse-like conference
room at the end and, via a narrow stair hall, an
octagonal rotunda with transept-like single-storey
320
extensions to the east and west, the west one
longer to accommodate a gallery for inscriptions
(fig. 8.13). The entrance facade features a low
triple-arched pavilion-like porch accessed at the
ends via a pair of gently curving ramps (fig. 8.10).
The park was carefully cultivated, with a steep
decline from east to west – the museum promin-
ently located on the eastern height – and a series
of curving pathways meeting at ronds-points and
surrounded by trees. The efeo was concerned
not to use up all the land as it hoped to expand
the building as the collections grew.137 The flanks
of the main building were easily visible from the
park and avenue Clémenceau and the Red River
to the east (fig. 8.13). The entire structure is built
of reinforced concrete with a tiled roof.
The entry ramps and porch lead to a vestibule
containing the cloakroom and bookshop, which
gives onto the main rotunda hall, allowing visitors
a view of its entire 30-metre height, as we have
seen in Saigon. The museum has a total exhibition
area of 1,835 square metres and its cross-like plan
measures about 100 by 50 metres.138 Surround-
ing the visitor are the rotating galleries for the
most important objects, accessed via five separate
short staircases. The rotunda design is practical
as people can either circulate around the rotating
galleries or proceed directly to the main stair hall
and principal gallery. It is also bathed with light
from windows in the walls on both levels and in
the lantern. To the left and right of the rotunda
are the small, transept-like exhibition halls for
recently excavated works, the right gallery lead-
ing to the larger hall of the inscriptions. The
main gallery, with its own transept-like paired
exhibition halls at the north end, opens into the
“grandes galeries d’exposition” with a colonnade
down the middle and amply lit by generously
proportioned windows. The apse-like projection
opens onto a little veranda with a view of the
southern part of the garden, and a second pair
of transept-like chambers contain the service stair-
case and freight elevator. The layout of the first
storey is the same as the ground floor except that
the rotunda cannot be accessed from this level.
The basement, reached by service entrances, was
for museum staff, with the section under the main
gallery devoted to storage and exhibition prepar-
ation, while the rotunda and front section of the
building contained offices for the administration,
rooms for drawing, lavatories, a photography
studio, a storage area for teaching materials, and
a general storeroom. As with the Saigon museum
the collections were divided into Chinese or
Indian “families,” with Vietnamese and Japanese
art falling into the former and Khmer, Siamese,
and Lao into the latter.139 The ground floor of the
main gallery was assigned to the Chinese “family”
and the first floor to the Indian “family.”
Ironically, given Hébrard’s dislike of gothic,
there is more than a hint of the cathedral to the
elevation as well, with its high-pitched roof,
prominent windows arranged vertically, and an
octagonal cupola like that of the thirteenth-
century Coutances Cathedral in Normandy
(fig. 8.13). However, as Christian Pédelahore and
Le Brusq have demonstrated, the museum bor-
rowed structural forms from Asian building types,
such as the đình (fig. 5.5); the pagoda-like rotunda
with its pointed roof and complex bracketed
overhang (figs. 8.10–11); and the eave bracketing
of the roof and square module of columns and
horizontal elements on the flanks, both from
Chinese architecture, although the pairing of the
columns is French (fig. 8.13).140 The triple roof and
prominent finial atop the rotunda hint at imperial
religious structures such as the Temple of Heaven
in Beijing (1406–20, with later additions), which,
however, is circular. Le Huu Phoc sees the influ-
ence of Lao-Thai and Khmer double roofs in the
side wings, although he notes that the bracketing
is closer to Sino-Vietnamese models, and the
stylized fret capitals along the flanks are “modern
abstractions” of the dragons found in Vietnamese
or Chinese architecture.141 To my mind there is
very little that is Lao about this building (com-
pare fig. 8.9), which is remarkable given Batteur’s
interest in that region and the considerable work
he did restoring buildings in Luang Prabang and
Vientiane. More convincingly, Trần Quốc Bảo
believes that the rooflines resemble those of the
Keo Pagoda in Thái Bình (begun 1061).142
However these Asian references cannot conceal
the museum’s European scale: like Hébrard’s
Finance Ministry (fig. 8.1) its borrowings from the
timber-framed trabeated architecture of East Asia
are out of proportion with all but the largest im-
perial structures like the Grand Ancestral Shrine
in Beijing (fifteenth century) or the Great Buddha
Hall at Tōdai-ji in Japan (present building ca
1700).143 Although less severe than Hébrard’s
other buildings the museum is still an unmistak-
ably European invention that translates Asian
forms into modernist ones – or, more properly,
what Herbelin aptly calls “Art déco modéré” –
and its translation of timber architecture into
concrete is mechanical and sterile (fig. 8.11).144
Governor-General Pierre-Marie-Antoine Pasquier
(1877–1934) made no secret of the building’s
French identity at its inauguration: “Without
France, this Museum would not be possible. It
represents one of the centres of this consciousness
which it has given to the various countries of
Indochina, a consciousness which is unique for all
although separately perceived.”145
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
The building was much praised in its day, not
only by members of the efeo but also by local
reporters. “H.C.,” writing for L’Éveil économique
de l’Indochine on 14 March 1926, applauded its use
of ancient Asian elements instead of returning to
neoclassicism, comparing it favourably with ear-
lier French architecture in Indochina and Western
style architecture in Siam:
321
 With this new building, as already with
the Finance Department building […]
we depart from the banality of French
and Italian architecture and of Greek and
Roman architectural motifs whose beauty is
certainly indisputable, in Europe, but which
are out of place in the Far East, as we can see
in Bangkok. After some trial and error, Mr.
Hébrard discovered how to give his projects
something quite local in the appearance
of the exterior, without losing anything
of the amenities that the most modern
European architecture offers in interior
design, nor of the nobility of the ensemble,
the legacy of Mediterranean antiquity and
the Renaissance. Regarding the Museum,
Mr. Hébrard’s plans were completed in the
same spirit by Mr. Batteur, the distinguished
architect of the Far Eastern School, who is
responsible for supervising its execution.
This collaboration between two first-rate
artists, nourished by the best architectural
traditions of the West, combining the most
classic taste of Rome, Athens and Paris with
the most practical American designs and a
rare knowledge, in a European architect, of
the art of the Far East and local conditions,
will leave a building quite remarkable and
of which Indochina will be proud.146
Interestingly, despite his respect for the “original-
ity and local colour” of the building H.C. in the
the architecture of empire
end attributes the building’s overall superiority
to its use of such a melange of sources as Medi-
terranean antiquity, the Renaissance, and the
architecture of Paris and the United States –
quite a pastiche indeed.147
I will let N. Tô, a Vietnamese critic writing for
L’Avenir du Tonkin on 8 March 1932, have the last
word on this building. This erudite writer, who
quoted a constellation of architecture critics from
322
François Fénelon (1651–1715), Eugène Viollet-le-
Duc (1814–1879), John Ruskin (1819–1900), and
William Morris (1834–1896) to Otto Wagner
(1841–1918) and Hippolyte Fierens-Gevaert
(1870–1926), was indeed impressed with the
building’s combination of modernity and trad-
ition. But he was also a bit daunted by all that
concrete and by the uneasy balance between the
delicacy of Asian forms and the impersonality of
an alien, uncompromising building: “the work
designed by Messieurs Hébrard and Batteur
manifests something that is at once powerful,
determined, and strained. It disparages harmonic
refinements and formal perfection but achieves
a severe majesty and strong oppositions. […]
all the classic elegances have not disappeared
from the new Museum of the École française
d’Extrême-Orient to make room only for this
cold and methodical equilibrium introduced
by concrete.”148
Nevertheless, the associationist architecture
of buildings like the Hanoi museum was well
received by a new generation of elite Indochinese
critics and architects between the 1920s and 1940s
as Herbelin has explored in detail, people who
sought an architecture that was at once modern,
comfortable, and genuinely Vietnamese. The
movement began in 1919, with the foundation
in Hanoi of the group known as the Association
pour la formation intellectuelle et morale des An-
namites (afima ), whose members included Viet-
namese politicians and a judge. afima sought
cultural links with France to ease their country’s
move toward independence, “a controlled mod-
ernization that respected certain traditional
norms and for progress within continuity without
wrenching cultural breaks.”149 Like Hébrard, who
presided over the jury of their 1924 concours for a
model house and shop, they blended European
and Sino-Vietnamese styles; however they were
more specific in their use of localized forms than
was Hébrard: they had to be Tonkinese (“our way,”
lối ta). As with associationist architecture they
focused in particular on indigenous roof forms,
which were more richly decorated than those of
the Hanoi and Saigon museums and which used
specific quotations of structures and motifs from
local architecture. Like Hébrard afima also
stressed the importance of comfort in response to
climate, but they did not look at modern con-
veniences as something uniquely European: they
claimed them for their own and adapted them to
meet Vietnamese needs.
The more overtly nationalistic architecture
students and alumni of the ebai in Hanoi in the
1930s and ’40s also aimed to bring Vietnamese
architecture into the modern world, combining
vernacular and Asian historical architecture with
Western modernism.150 Their efforts echoed
analogous attempts in free Asian nations, notably
the Bunriha Kenchikukai (Secessionist Archi-
tectural Group) in 1920s Japan, which sought
“an architecture firmly situated in the present
yet resonant with their own conception of a
more vital and authentic ‘tradition.’” I suspect
that the Vietnamese architects were aware of the
earlier movement, particularly as Bunriha designs
similarly combined traditional roofs with modern
substructures.151 The output of the ebai gradu-
ates was surprisingly eclectic, from modernist
villas to houses that blend East with West and ver-
nacular with antiquity, but the concern of greatest
importance to them was that “local architecture
had to be adapted to contemporary living and to
social concerns,” notably by preserving traditional
ground plans that reflected Vietnamese life-
styles.152 Herbelin considers the school to be the
most fruitful outcome of Hébrard’s “style indo-
chinois,” one that was more faithful to his theories
than he was himself.153
Nevertheless, there was no unified vision for a
Vietnamese style; others decried these highbrow
projects as being aimed solely at rich patrons.
Journalist Tha Sơn criticized an ebai exhibition
of house designs in November 1933 in the news-
paper Ngọ-Báo because they amounted to “an
expensive hobby for the rich” affordable only by “a
millionaire like Trần Trinh Trạch” (1872–1942),
buildings “as spacious as a palace” with “little
impact” on ordinary people like the “husband and
wife with three children” living on a small plot
in the country.154 His ideal for a new “Vietnam-
ese architecture” (“kiến-trúc Việt Nam”) was to
create more practical and affordable designs using
traditional materials such as bamboo and to focus
on sanitation – but also to seek beauty in simpli-
city and balance. If there was any hybridity in his
vision, it was merely to employ modern standards
of cleanliness and his interest in raising the living
conditions of the poor was something notably
lacking in even the most utopian projects of Viet-
namese architects.
Thus, on the eve of the Second World War, in
parallel with similar developments in independ-
ent Asian nations, some academic Vietnamese
architects sought to upend the top-down archi-
tecture of association: a hybridity engineered to
control the colonized became a means for some
Vietnamese at once to reclaim their identity and
enter the modern world. However, they were
not the first indigenous agents to attempt do so
in French Asian colonies: they were merely the
first to theorize about it. As we will see in the
next chapter, grassroots architectural hybridiza-
tion thrived in the eighteenth to early twentieth
SAigoN AND hANoi cA 1925
centuries in India and Indochina, buildings
commissioned by and for Asians that combined
indigenous and European styles variously to assert
their own agency and identity within the colonial
system, to subvert the values of colonialism, to
claim European styles as their own, or to make the
final push for independence.
323
9
hybridity
India and Southeast Asia 1738–1962

In the last two chapters we looked at French, Dutch, and British

attempts to appropriate structural and decorative features of the
architecture and arts of the colonized for the architecture of the
colonial state. These powers did so to consolidate their authority,
curate the culture of the colonized, denigrate indigenous creativity
of expression, and promote the modernizing mission civilisatrice in
the name of progress and health. However, as we have already seen
throughout this book, hybridity was not a monolithic process and
it could not be regulated: it took many forms depending upon the
needs and desires of the patrons, the ingenuity of the builders,
the degree of freedom they enjoyed within the colony, the era in
which it occurred, and the specific regional, religious, and polit-
ical realities that motivated it. In this final chapter we will look at
six examples of architectural hybridity commissioned by Asians
living in French colonies or former colonies that challenged, each
in its own way, French rule and Gallic perceived superiority. These
buildings were constructed variously to assert a patron’s promin-
ence within the colonial government; to manipulate European
structures, images, and motifs for purposes specific to four quite
different Asian religious institutions; and to combine modernist
principles with Asian motifs as a visualization of independence –
precisely the reverse of Hébrard’s top-down “style indochinois,”
and similar to the goals of afima and the graduates of the École
des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine in Hanoi discussed in the last
chapter. As Caroline Herbelin notes specifically
about Vietnam: “The colonizers were not the only
ones trying to develop a local style; the colonized
were addressing this question as well.”1
In the case of Ananda Ranga Pillai’s House
in Pondicherry (1738) (figs. 9.2–6), the building
represented the owner’s dual role as an employee
of the French and the leader of the Tamil com-
munity, as well as his self-association with an
ancient South Indian royal lineage and Hindu
philanthropy. By contrast, the patrons of Phát
Diệm Cathedral (1892) (figs. 9.7–10) and the
Caodaist Holy See (1933–55) (figs. 9.12–13) were
driven by a desire (in the first case) to indigenize
Christianity by cleansing it of all foreign stylis-
tic features, and (in the second) to incorporate
Franco-Christian structural forms – but, again,
not styles – into the headquarters of a syncretic
faith with sporadic anti-colonial sympathies.
The métissage of the Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda in Mỹ
Tho (1907–33) (figs. 9.16–19) was motivated
by an enthusiasm for eclecticism and material
splendour, much as we have seen in seventeenth-
and early eighteenth-century Siam, but one
in which the elements we recognize as being
of European origin were not considered to be
European at all. The Buddhist Wat Khili Temple
in Luang Prabang (1930–45) (figs. 9.20–2), by
a Bangkok-trained abbot architect, reasserted
Lao architectural identity within the framework
of the city’s dominant Franco-Vietnamese neo-
classicism, possibly motivated by his exposure
to modern Siam’s own fusion of European and
regional forms (fig. 7.3). Modernist architect Van
Molyvann’s gargantuan independence monu-
ment in Phnom Penh (1962) announced that
the days in which France could claim Angkor
Wat as French patrimoine were over and directly
linked the new government to Khmer antiquity
(fig. 9.32). Its combination of a superstructure
composed of forms adapted from Angkor with a
modern substructure recalled the replicas made
at the French expositions in the earlier part of the
century, but this time in a permanent building.
Van Molyvann’s brand of modernism became
known as “New Khmer Architecture,” but it had
opposite goals to that of Groslier – indeed Van
Molyvann, a Cambodian architect who studied at
the Beaux-Arts in Paris, received precisely the
kind of architectural training Groslier tried to
deny to Cambodians.
All these monuments demonstrate a desire for
regionally inflected European forms, whether
neoclassicism or art deco modernism, forms
that had become by then a global rather than
European language of architecture. Nevertheless,
the modernism with which they engaged was
not modernism as it was understood in Europe.
None of the buildings in this book (unlike some
of Vann Molyvann’s larger projects in the 1960s)
used Bauhaus- or Le Corbusier–inspired archi-
tecture, with its unadorned reinforced concrete,
steel, and expanses of glass. Such forms were
not yet familiar in Asia because the colonizers
themselves never built true modernist buildings
there (although they did turn up at the later
international expositions in Europe). Mercedes
Vollait, writing about Egypt, explains it well:
“The contemporary architectural critic may see
the bulk of Egyptian Europeanized architecture
as second-rate, if not third-rate. But this would be
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
to miss the fact that societies around the Medi-
terranean, and probably in other parts of the
world too, shared, in the wake of imperialism, a
middling modernism of European origin, after
having experienced a middling Beaux-Arts that
was characterized by compromises and negotia-
tions resulting from varied exposure to the diverse
architectural culture of Europe.”2
The chapter also includes an episode in which a
Southeast Asian nationalist politician fought with
colonial authorities in the courts in the 1930s to
325
 indigenize drastically a neoclassical government nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It is
building. The politician’s insistence upon adding important to bear this in mind, lest, because of
a regional roof and encasing the building in an art the nature of area studies, we think that France’s
deco envelope festooned with indigenous motifs colonies were an isolated case.
was a proclamation of national identity and an
open challenge to colonial authority, using the Ananda Ranga Pillai House, Pondicherry (1738)
tools of associationism precisely to overturn the
colonial order. This building happens to be in Ananda Ranga Pillai’s Franco-Tamil mansion
British Rangoon, which might seem out of place in the heart of Pondicherry’s Indian Quarter is
in a book on the architecture of French colonial- the oldest building in the city and the only one
ism. However, I have chosen Rangoon City Hall to survive the British sack of 1761 (figs. 9.2–6).4
(1925–40) (figs. 9.28–29), because no French Although it was built almost two centuries before
examples were as openly politicized, nor is the Hébrard, its designer – likely its patron – likewise
discussion about an Asian roof as a rejection of made a conscious decision to juxtapose French
colonialism so well documented. The Rangoon and Asian architectural structures. However,
City Hall is also not isolated from French cur- unlike associationist architecture, which tends
rents. The importance of the roof in this struggle to relegate the indigenous features to the roof
suggests that Burman intellectuals were aware of
Hébrard and other associationist experiments 9.1 Portrait of Ananda Ranga Pillai, Ananda Ranga Pillai
in French Southeast Asia, not to mention the House, Pondicherry, mid-eighteenth century. Pigment,
Japanese Bunriha Kenchikukai, which, as I have gold leaf, and gemstones on gesso. © efeo .
suggested, may have inspired the graduates of the
ebai. Furthermore, it also plays into one of this
book’s major themes, that of the international
exposition, as its architect had tested out hybrid
styles in an exhibition pavilion before beginning
City Hall. The main protagonist of the cam-
paign, politician U Ba Pe (b. 1883), leader of the
radical Twenty-One Party, was well known in
France and its colonies, and delivered lectures
in Aix-en-Provence and Marseille in 1932 on his
way home from participating in the 1931 Burma
the architecture of empire

Round Table Conference in London, where he

demanded a new constitution separate from that
of India, as was reported widely in the French and
French Indochinese press.3 Colonized subjects
of French colonies were not isolated in their
attempts to create regional architectural mod-
ernisms but were in fact part of a wide network
of ideas and architectural movements spreading
across South, Southeast, and East Asia in the late

326
9.2 Ananda Ranga Pillai House, Pondicherry, begun 1738.
Garden facade.
and surface decoration, Ananda’s house contrasts
the two cultures in equal measures and in inter-
secting ways: interior vs exterior, back vs front,
plan vs elevation, and upstairs vs downstairs. And
unlike the palaces of the south Indian nawabs
with whom he did business, few of the Indian
elements in Ananda’s house are Mughal: overall it
is resolutely South Indian, derived from domestic
and religious architecture alike, even though as we
shall see he employed Mughal ceremonial and in-
terior decorations during special events.5 This dual
nature of the house was appropriate to a place
where Ananda received both Indian and French
guests. However, the building is also a visualiz-
ation of Ananda’s bi-cultural role in the colony
and of his wealth, prestige, faith, and (falsified)
royal lineage.
In addition to his position as courtier to the
cio, Ananda was the leader of the Indian com-
munity. As Liza Oliver has recently shown in an
analysis of the portrait commissioned by him
in his house (fig. 9.1), he drew upon northern
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
and southern Indian ideologies of authority and
kingship when constructing his public persona.6
His portrait combines imagery associated with
the Rajput chūbdār (“mace-holder” in Persian),
an elite soldier class under the Mughals, sym-
bolized by the white robe tied at the left and the
staff in his right hand, and the “chief of peons,” a
South Indian honorific denoting the leader of an
assembly, signalled by his large hoop earrings and
moustache (the dagger was common to both). He
also adopted the identity of the Nayaks, governors
327
 in charge of principalities of the Vijayanagara
Empire (1336–1646) who became regional “kings”
after the empire’s fall, one of them in Gingee
(fig. 2.9).7 Nayaks were also mythic heroes, and it
was this identity that Ananda sought, inventing a
royal lineage for himself when in actual fact he be-
longed to the itaiyar cowherd caste and was from
a Telugu family originating in Madras.8 Ananda
enshrined his public persona more thoroughly
in his self-commissioned Sanskrit biography,
Śrinivasa’s Ānantaraṅgavijaya Campū, a work in
a language he did not understand but which en-
hanced his prestige, as Sanskrit was the liturgical
language of Hinduism and classical Hindu phil-
osophy and history.9 Members of Ananda’s family
were “staunch Hindus” and had been active for
generations in founding and maintaining Hindu
charitable endowments, and the Campū celebrates
the charitable acts of his ancestors and Ananda’s
own religious obligations.10 David Shulman aptly
characterizes it as “biography as driven by auto-
biographical impulse.”11 The text would have been
read aloud in a public performance (araṅkerram)
¯¯
in the house to an audience including Brahmins,
who would have been the only people to have
understood it.12
As both governor and king the Nayak was
a perfect avatar for a cio courtier who served
the French governor but was indispensable to
him. Indeed, the Campū goes further, depicting
Ananda and his father as equals of the governor,
giving the title of “king” to courtier and governor
the architecture of empire

9.3 (Top ) Ananda Ranga Pillai House, Pondicherry.

Street facade.

9.4 (miDDLe ) Ananda Ranga Pillai House, Pondicherry.

Mutram (central courtyard). © efeo .

9.5 (BoTTom ) Ananda Ranga Pillai House, Pondicherry,

interior. Row of South Indian temple-style mahogany
columns. © efeo .

328

9.6 Ananda Ranga Pillai House, Pondicherry, ground
floor. © efeo . Main house is at the bottom of the plan,
with the entrance marked “A.”
alike. Here is Śrinivasa’s description of a meeting
between Tiruvangadan (Tiruveṅkat.a), Ananda’s
father, and Governor Pierre Dulivier (in office
1712–17) in Canto III (the French are referred
to as Hūn.as): “Then, king Tiruveṅkat.a who was
resplendent like the Sun god (mitra) set out along
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
with his ministers and saw the lord of Hūn.as
(Dulivier) who already knew the incessant acts of
charity of king Tiruveṅkat.a. The king of Hūn.as
knowing him (Tiruveṅkat.a) as very opulent
greeted him with all respect, understanding that
he (Tiruveṅkat.a) is very competent in planning,
policy and decision making the king gladly
appointed Tiruveṅkat.a as his saciva (counsel).”13
His description of Ananda’s appointment as
dubash by Dupleix after Tiruvangadan’s death in
329
 1746 (Canto IV) makes Ananda sound almost
like a god: “Lord Ānandaranga shone in the
earth with his great genius and oratorical powers.
He went beyond all by qualities like humility,
purity, straightforwardness, tolerance, charity,
power, truthful words, policy, learning, sober-
ness, courage, compassion, valour, enthusiasm
and secrecy.”14
The Campū provides a detailed description
of Ananda’s house, the only contemporary one
in existence, as Ananda never described it in his
diary. The reference is in Canto IV, and describes
a palatial interior with silver and jewelled orna-
ments and an elaborate clock; it also notes that
Ananda provided musical entertainment to
his guests:
He built a new mansion with several rooms
that was befitting the kings and which was
equal in beauty and opulence to the abodes
of Indra and Kubera where in Mukunda
and other gods dwelt and were worshipped.
In that superior mansion of Ānandaranga
embedded with shining silver and decorated
with vanishing precious stones, the interiors
of which smelt with the fragrance of divine
flowers. Guru – the preceptor of Gods is
capable of describing the greatness of the
mansion of Lord Ānandaranga. It is indeed
served constantly by the pious due to its
opulence. Women like the celestial nymphs
indulge in the praises of their lord (Indra).
the architecture of empire
And the gods who shine with righteousness
constantly wish to dwell therein. There the
clock resounds wonderfully informing
the time, causing happiness to astrologers
who wish to know the time constantly. It
shines uniquely and suggests fulfilment to
the twice born who come to accept vari-
ous objects from Lord Ānandaranga. This
lord Ānandaranga shone in that wonderful
330
mansion being generously praised by all the
twice born, like the Lord of gods (Indra) is a
divine form. While Ānandaranga indulged
in playing lute (inside the mansion) the
goddess of opulence Laksmi and the goddess
of learning Saraswati. The music consoled
everyone’s mind that is like a deer.15
The passage’s mention of “shining silver” is
corroborated in Ananda’s Tamil diary when, on
29 May 1760, just before the Siege of Pondicherry,
he was ordered to melt down the silver and gold
furnishings of his house.16 The Campū may be the
only description of the house, but it and Ananda’s
diary provide insight into how it was used and
even decorated. The house had many roles: it was
a place for banquets with music and nautch dan-
cers, a warehouse for goods, a location for giving
and receiving diplomatic gifts, a venue for reli-
gious ceremonial, an office for business meetings
with company officials and merchants, a nexus for
regional and international intelligence, and even
a place for dispensing justice.17 In other words,
the Hindu ceremonial aside, it was the counter-
part to the Gouvernement, or more precisely, it
combined cio activities with those of a commun-
ity leader.
A description of Ananda’s daughter’s wedding
at the house in Canto V of the Campū hints at
the lavishness of the ceremonies hosted there:
“He (Ānandaranga) entered the famous resi-
dence along with his happy wife, royal men, other
joyous folks following him, group of ministers
sent by the king, men adorning various garlands
and decorations on their bodies and ascending
palanquins, horses, chariots and tall haughty
elephants. Having entered his own residence and
receiving auspicious blessings along with his wife
from learned twice born, later he with a generous
mind gave befitting presents to all who came.”18
Indeed this wedding, in June 1747, was the most
extravagant event that took place there, lasting for
days, allegedly involving 10,000 guests (including
the governor and cio merchants), and using up
so much food that the governor was concerned
that it would cause a rice shortage.19 The house
was particularly important as a place of diplo-
matic gift exchange. On 6 August 1743 historian
Mīr Ghulām H.usayn T.abāt.abā’ī (b. 1727/8) paid
his respects to Ananda at his house, whereupon
Ananda “went as far as the front door to meet
him, conducted him within, and presented him
with two rolls of broadcloth, and four bottles of
rose-water.”20 On 11 June 1744 dubash Ôrkan.d.i
Rangappa Nâyakkan of British Fort Saint David
in nearby Cuddalore paid Ananda a visit follow-
ing his wedding in Madras and stayed the day
and night at his house, where “I entertained him
with a banquet, and presented him with a dress
of honour.”21
The house hosted events of a more religious
nature, as on 18 May 1746 when the Raja of
Karvetinagar (west of Madras and home to an
important temple) sent Ananda various gifts,
including an Arab horse, a dagger inlaid with
gold, and various costly textiles. The presents were
transported by a Brahmin who was the son-in-
law of Ananda’s priest, four temple priests from
Tirupati (northwest of Madras) who had brought
sacred offerings from the god Venkateswara, the
main deity of Tirupati’s Tirumala Venkateswara
Temple, and a few other people: “at about four
Indian hours before sunrise, the Brâhmans, the
others who came from the Râjâ, and I, set out
for Pondichery, and reached my house at about
fifteen minutes after sunrise, when the rising sign
of the zodiac was Taurus. We went upstairs, where
we all sat down. Betel and nut were distributed to
us there, after which the men sent by the Râjâ re-
paired to my indigo storehouse, where accommo-
dation was provided for them.”22 On 12 January
1748 during the Gopās.t.amī feast (at which cattle
and carts are decorated and venerated in honour
of Lord Krishna), Ananda described the way
he decorated his house: “The central hall of my
house was adorned after the manner of the Court
of S’aadat-ul-lah Khân. The floor was spread with
carpets of wool and cotton. In the midst were
large pillows of velvet brocade. I sat in the centre,
and there received all the principal people and
merchants of the town, distributing gifts accord-
ing to the rank of each – broad-cloths, shawls,
women’s cloths, upper cloths, and other things.
Then at midnight pân supârî [betel leaf and areca
nut] was given and all withdrew.”23 Sa’adatullāh
Khān I was the Nawab of Carnatic (r. 1710–32),
and by consciously emulating the Nawab’s lavish
Mughal-style courtly interior Ananda was making
a personal statement of power and influence no
different from that made by the governor, al-
though in this case, paradoxically, using the style
of a Muslim potentate to adorn a Hindu reli-
gious event.
The date of construction of Ananda’s house,
which was directly across the street from the
mep church, is usually given as 1738, which is the
first time he mentions it in his diary, on 6 May.24
However he continued to decorate it for the
next two decades including, importantly, the
teak wood ornamentation of the interior, as he
notes in his entry for 10 September 1758 where
he initially refuses to part with his supply of teak
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
at the request of a European: “I told him that I
could spare none, as I wanted it for my house.
He replied ‘I have all the timber and stone at
Devanâmpattanam, and I will let you have them
cheap or exchange timber for timber.’ – ‘Very
well,’ I replied.”25 A two-storey, flat-roofed,
rectangular building of brick and stucco arranged
around a central courtyard, it has a street facade
on the north facing the central Tamil market,
and a garden facade to the south, giving onto a
rectangular garden slightly longer than the house
331
 (fig. 9.6). The garden facade is indistinguishable
from that of a French hôtel particulier in the style
of Louis XV, with a ground-floor arcade and a
first-storey seven-bay Doric colonnade with a bal-
ustrade crowned with a plain entablature and attic
featuring panelled decoration (fig. 9.2). It likely
was adapted from one of the architectural books
used by the French engineers as models for cio
buildings (see chapter 4). A pair of staircases at
either end of the arcade provide access to the first
storey, and the garden is entered through a clas-
sical portal like those in French houses in the city.
Thus, it blends seamlessly with the architecture
of French officialdom in the colony. By contrast,
the street facade, while crowned with a classical
balustrade with piers and finials, uses narrow
Tamil-style wooden columns in its nine-bay
first-floor colonnade with brackets and corbels, a
feature that has gone unnoticed in the literature,
but which makes sense since it lets onto the city’s
main Tamil commercial street (fig. 9.3). It would
be fascinating to know whom he received at each
end: were Indians welcomed on the Tamil side
and French on the French side, or was the Tamil
side reserved for business and the French one for
ceremonial? Wooden panelling encloses the col-
onnade, with only small windows at each end, and
it has a decorative iron railing at the base.
The building’s hybridity is more striking on the
interior (figs. 9.4–5). The plan is that of a typical
Tamil house, with a series of semi-covered, open,
and covered spaces on a single axis, beginning
the architecture of empire
with a thalvaram vestibule (veranda resting on
wooden posts, now spoiled by contemporary
shops), the lavishly carved wooden main door-
way leading to the thinnai (transition space), the
mutram (central courtyard which gives access to
private spaces in the house), and a yard at the back
(fig. 9.6). Ananda mentioned the thalvaram in his
diary when, on 23 December 1756, an elephant in
rut “made a rush towards my house, and struck a
332
pillar of the verandah, breaking many tiles.”26 As
with much of the surviving French architecture
of late eighteenth-century Pondicherry the roof
is a “Madras terrace” roofing system with parallel
beams supporting brickwork and carved wooden
beams supporting the ground floor ceiling (see
fig. 4.35). Traditionally, the mutram, also known
as the brahmāsthanam � (“vital space” in Sanskrit),
was an auspicious structure, meant to align with
the five elements, earth (siting), fire (sun), water
(rain), air, and space, as instructed by the vāstu
śāstra (the ancient Indian science of architecture
and geomancy), and it was often used for family
meetings.27 More private zones include the prayer
room (pooja room, or sami arai), bedroom,
storeroom, and kitchen, which opens onto the
rear courtyard. As was traditional, the yard at the
back had a well and was used to store livestock
(in this case horses and elephants), and there
was once a simpler building on the south side for
domestic functions.
The juxtaposition of India and France is most
obvious in the courtyard and the semi-public halls
to the north and south of it. On the ground floor
Ananda commissioned numerous Dravidian-style
teak columns. Most of them have smooth shafts
and modest corbelled capitals with foliate reliefs
(fig. 9.4), however the transitions between the
courtyard and, respectively, the north vestibule
and south hall are each demarcated by four
outsized, profusely carved corbelled columns, the
northern ones attached to the wall and octagonal
and the southern ones freestanding and doubled.
These latter feature segmented shafts adorned
with fluting and lozenge patterns, and they have
textile-like arabesque patterns in the interstices,
perhaps reflecting Ananda’s role in the textile
trade (fig. 9.5). They also recall Vijayanagara
temple architecture, as in nearby Gingee. The
inner perimeter of the courtyard on the ground
floor also features a chhajjā (a projecting eave
resting on a row of mixtilinear wooden brackets),
a form typically found in Mughal and Rajput
architecture. The south hall (fig. 9.5), demar-
cated by the doubled columns, is the ceremonial
centre of the house. It houses the patron’s portrait
(fig. 9.1) above an eighteenth-century French
rococo console table, and it also has the richest
sculpted teak ceiling in Pondicherry. I believe that
the rows of temple-style columns in the vestibule
and hall are meant to recall the pillared halls
(Chaultris or Chawadis) in South Indian temples,
which is appropriate given their function as
demarcations of a ceremonial place where Ananda
would receive Brahmins, important merchants,
and other officials, and where his Sanskrit biog-
raphy was likely read aloud.28 By contrast, the
first storey is in the style of Louis XV, with Ionic
columns and classical entablatures, as seen in the
central courtyard, where there is also a balustrade
above the entablature with wrought iron rail-
ings like those of the street facade between the
columns, but here with four escutcheons with
Ananda’s coat of arms and titles (fig. 9.4). The
walls with their simple decorative panels and
the doorways with segmental arches also follow
French models.
Ananda used architectural hybridity not to
challenge or overthrow French authority; indeed,
it advertises that he was an essential part of the
colonial apparatus. However, the building also
demonstrates that he was the governor’s equal,
a figure without whom France could not do
business with the Indian community. The classical
baroque parts of the house recalled the buildings
of the cio and it was a more modest counterpart
to the Gouvernement, participating in the same
ceremonial, receiving the governor and cio offi-
cials, as well as those of South Indian potentates
and merchants and dubashes from rival colonies.
It was, along with the Gouvernement and Hôtel
de la Compagnie, one of Pondicherry’s most
important settings for mercantile and diplomatic
exchange. But the South Indian aspects of the
house also sent a distinctively religious message,
that Ananda was a key patron of Hindu charitable
foundations and himself a devout Hindu, and
the references to the architecture of Vijayanagara
underscored his self-made persona as a Nayak.
More than any other building in this chapter,
Ananda’s house is a personal expression of iden-
tity: rather than representing a people, religion,
or culture, it was architectural autobiography,
precisely the built equivalent of his portrait and
the Campū.
Cathedral Complex, Phát Diệm (1876–1892)
The next building was completed 154 years later
in Tonkin, and for very different reasons. The
Phát Diệm Cathedral complex (1876–92), in
the Kim Sơn District of Ninh Bình Province,
is the first known example since the early modern
missionary era of a Catholic church built in
Sino-Vietnamese style, an approach commonly
seen today in contemporary Vietnamese churches
(figs. 9.7–10).29 Built by Vietnamese diocesan
priest Père Six (Trần Lục, 1825–1899) for a
Vietnamese congregation, it was begun while
Tonkin was still independent and completed six
years after the foundation of the French Protect-
orate. One of the largest Catholic architectural
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
campuses in Asia at 22 hectares, it includes the
cathedral (74 metres long by 21 wide) with three
towers at the entrance, five freestanding chapels,
four gates, the founder’s tomb, and a monumental
bell tower and gatehouse preceding the cath-
edral (25 metres high by 24 long and 17 wide).
It is bounded on the north by a trio of artificial
mountains, two of them containing grottoes
(representing Lourdes and Bethlehem), and the
third a Golgotha (fig. 9.10). The placement of the
ecclesiastical buildings between a triple mountain
333
the architecture of empire
9.7 Cathedral, Phát Diệm (Vietnam), 1876–92.
Photograph courtesy Le Huu Phuoc.
9.8 (oppoSiTe ) Cathedral, Phát Diệm. Interior of nave.
Photograph courtesy Le Huu Phuoc.
and a body of water is in keeping with feng shui
geomancy, as is the south-north orientation,
which contrasts with the usual west-east orien-
tation of French colonial churches; as Laurent
334
Burel has noted, the layout of the complex closely
recalls that of the Văn Miếu Temple in Hanoi
(1070), which similarly faces south and is pre-
ceded by a reflecting pool and monumental gate
and tower.30 The buildings at Phát Diệm are all of
stone (granite and marble) with columns, truss-
work, and panelling of lim wood (Erythrophleum
fordii, also known as limewood), and the roofs
are tiled. The spacious rectangular reflecting pool
to the south has an artificial island in the centre
bearing a statue of Jesus.
Unfortunately, we do not have an unfiltered
non-European description of the complex and its
use as we do with Ananda’s house in Pondicherry.
Everything we know about its construction comes
from the hagiographic 1941 biography of Père Six
by Armand Olichon (1878–1936), the head of the
Union missionnaire du clergé de France. Since
Olichon’s aim is to demonstrate the miraculous
nature of the building we must take what he says
with a grain of salt; however, there is no denying
that it was a gargantuan undertaking. None of
the building materials except bamboo were local
and ten-ton limewood trunks and 30-cubic-
metre pieces of stone were hauled over a distance
of 150 and 30 kilometres respectively by a small
army of “coolies,” with the help of water buffalo
and Chinese junks.31 Six- to seven-ton blocks of
marble were hoisted up to a height of 12 metres by
hand, and since they lacked scaffolding, builders
buried the walls of the buildings in earth during
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
335
construction so that they could work on top of
them. All that Olichon tells us about the builders
is that Six’s Christians travelled “to the four cor-
ners of Tonkin” to recruit “hundreds” of pit saw-
yers and carpenters, and that ten teams worked on
the cathedral, one on each bay.32 Of the sculptors
he says nothing, except that the sculptor of the
main portal of the wooden chapel of the Sacred
Heart would not let the Résident-supérieur of
Huế send it to Paris for the 1889 world exposition.
The complex made a deep impression on many
visitors, including an unnamed early twentieth-
century tourist who remarked that Père Six “knew
how to combine the style of his country with the
space and elevation requirements of Christian
worship,” and that “the sculptures offered the
most curious example of this communion of two
styles.”33 Olichon commented that Six “wanted
nothing less for his house of God than to rival the
royal palaces that he had earlier admired at Hué,”
and that “[t]he style is that of Roman basilicas
or rather of Chinese palaces” – the latter a rather
curious remark, given that they have nothing in
common other than perhaps their size.34 Phát
Diệm Cathedral made a deep impression on
Hébrard during his time in Indochina and was
one of the inspirations for his style indochinois,
prompting his famous remark deriding French
priests for building only gothic-style churches (see
chapter 8) (fig. 9.11). He wrote: “The cathedral
of this important Catholic centre was built by
native craftsmen: it is an innovative, well-arranged
building adorned with elements taken from
Sino-Annamese architecture.”35 9.9 (oppoSiTe Top ) Cathedral, Phát Diệm, relief carving
The blending of styles is indeed subtle and of an angel in granite. Photograph courtesy Renaud
sophisticated – more so than the pastiches we d’Avout d’Auerstaedt.
have seen in the last chapter where Sino-Viet- 9.10 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Cathedral, Phát Diệm. Plan by
namese features were simply grafted onto an Le Huu Phuoc.
essentially European structure. Except for the
9.11 (ABove ) Cathedral of Saint Joseph, Diên Khánh,
compound’s neoclassical gates, the buildings Vietnam, 1917.
are constructed and decorated entirely in the

337
 manner of Buddhist temple architecture – only
the basilican plan and position of the towers recall
European churches. The earliest structure is the
so-called “stone church” of the Immaculate Heart
of Mary (1888), a little three-aisled building to the
northwest of the cathedral with a pair of steeples
modelled on the five-storey Tháp Bút tower in
Hanoi (1865).36 All of the columns, carving, and
roof brackets (which in this case are stone) are
adopted from Sino-Vietnamese architecture, an
experiment that encouraged Père Six to employ
it on a grand scale with the cathedral. The gate
tower, which contains a bronze drum on the
lower level and a bell on the upper level, has a
high central tower and four towers on the corners,
each surmounted by a pavilion with two superim-
posed roofs with upturned corners. The gate has
three entrances to match those of the cathedral
and smaller chapels. It combines two structures
found in Buddhist temples: a phương đình (square
pavilion between the principal entrance and main
prayer hall) and a gác chuông (belltower).37
The cathedral, completed in 1891 (figs. 9.7–8),
is nine bays long, with a nave flanked by pairs of
aisles, its roof supported by six rows of lim wood
columns (forty-eight in total) in three different
heights, and the sides composed of wooden panels
that open to the outside and can be removed for
overflow congregations.38 The columns range
from 90 centimetres to one metre in diameter
and the ones in the nave are 10 metres high.39 The
sweeping two-tiered roof, with sloping roofs over
the architecture of empire
the aisles and a pitched roof over the nave, also
follow the precepts of Buddhist temple architec-
ture, specifically the mái kép (a multi-tiered re-
ceding roof ) as Le Huu Phuoc notes, except that
a low clerestory with windows has been inserted
between the two roof levels.40 The massive eave
brackets above the nave and side aisles are richly
carved with Sino-Vietnamese floral and foliate
motifs. The high altar, while maintaining the
338
red-and-gold colour scheme of Buddhist temples,
also appears to be adapted from the Portuguese
carved wooden altarpiece, or retábulo, which is
not surprising given the centuries-long presence
of Portuguese merchants and missionaries in Đại
Việt (in fact early modern đình churches like the
one at Pulucambi probably had similar altars). It
is certainly not French: a central niche contains
a sculpture of the Virgin Mary while thirty-two
panels around the niche, containing paintings of
saints, form a receding proscenium, with seven
larger paintings of Christ and six Vietnamese
martyrs above it and a painting of the Virgin and
child in the pediment held by sculpted angels.
The whole structure is richly carved and gilded
with Chinese cloud motifs, blossoms, and foliage.
Graham Greene, who set part of The Quiet Amer-
ican in the cathedral, remarked that “the scarlet
lacquer work of the altar” was “more Buddhist
than Christian.”41
One of the most striking things about the
complex is the exquisite stone carving that covers
nearly all the facades, and the stone and wood
carving on the interiors: on the bracketing, pan-
elling, doorways, and grilles (fig. 9.8). The figural
imagery, both relief and in the round, includes
scenes of Christ’s Passion, saints, and angels, many
of which likely derive from European engravings,
particularly the narrative scenes. However, the fig-
ures and costume are rendered in a purely Chinese
style, with bevelled edges to the drapery, which is
often gathered at the waist as in Buddhist sculp-
ture, and they display East Asian physiognomy,
some of them with long mandarin moustaches.
The angels (fig. 9.9) float in Chinese-style clouds
with cloud wings and crowns more suitable to a
Bodhisattva, and the lavish ornamentation in the
central part of the facade is full of smaller cherubs
who look more like Buddhist apsaras figures than
anything Christian. Most figures wear Chinese
costume – indeed they look so Chinese that the
Latin inscriptions seem jarringly out of place. The
rest of the surface ornament is densely carved with
Chinese cloud motifs, phoenixes, chrysanthe-
mums, lotuses, prunus, and other blossoms. The
sculpture recalls the more famous granite facade
of Saint Paul’s in Macau (also known as Madre de
Deus, 1601–44, and carved by Chinese sculptors),
both in the drapery and vegetal decoration, and in
the apsaras-like angels.42 There can be no doubt,
given the style and level of skill of both the archi-
tecture and the carving, that the team responsible
for this monument comprised professional temple
architects and sculptors of the highest quality.
There is no reason to suppose that they were
even Christian, but they were quite flexible in
adapting to the spatial and iconographic needs of
their patron.
The patron remains a controversial figure. Père
Six was sympathetic with the French cause during
the conquest of Tonkin – he maintained close
ties with Captain Joseph Joffre (1852–1931) and
Commander Hubert Lyautey (1854–1934) in the
1870s and 1880s – and he was celebrated in his
lifetime and throughout the colonial period as a
symbol of Franco-Vietnamese co-operation and of
the success of the politics of association.43 He was
even made a chevalier of the Legion of Honour
in 1884, at the height of the Tonkin Campaign,
and the Huế court made him Baron of Phát Diệm
(posthumously), honorary minister of rites of
the Court of Annam, and viceroy of Annam.44
Olichon wrote in 1941 that he was the ideal
“collaborator” and a model for steering Indochina
out of its current crisis, and Vietnamese Catholic
writers in the 1930s were sympathetic with him
and tried to rehabilitate his memory. Nguyễn Văn
Thích (1891–1978) wrote in 1937 that the Phát
Diệm Cathedral demonstrated that “the people
of the invaded nation could show that they lacked
nothing that Western Catholics had,” while others
such as Joseph Trần, one of his first Vietnamese
biographers, and the young priest Hoàng Quỳnh,
either could not explain his assistance to France
and its Vietnamese supporters or believed that
he did not have a choice and therefore acted with
diplomacy to protect Vietnamese Catholicism –
which in the end was more important to Quỳnh
than was Vietnamese nationalism.45
Whether one considers him to be a traitor
or hero to the Tonkinese cause, Père Six firmly
believed that a Tonkinese Catholic Church must
draw upon Tonkinese traditions. In fact the style
and layout of the cathedral complex amount
to a rejection of European style: not simply an
“attempt to assimilate foreign architecture” and
“lessen the Christians’ alienation among the
Vietnamese population,” but, in its profound
integration with Buddhist temple architecture,
an affirmation of the indigeneity of Vietnamese
Catholicism, a religion that had flourished in
Đại Việt/Đại Nam since 1615 – only seventeen
years after Roman Catholicism became the state
religion of France.46 If Ananda Ranga Pillai’s
Franco-Dravidian house was a symbol of its
owner’s dual role as French courtier and Tamil
community leader, Father Six’s complex aban-
doned any association with France, maintaining
only what the liturgy required in the basic shape
of the cathedral and chapels, and in the con-
centration of imagery in the high altar retable.
If the earlier structure was an expression of one
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
person’s ego, this later complex was as anonymous
as a monastic community. Six may have been a
friend to the French, but he was no puppet of the
colonial regime: his community came first, and he
did what he needed to do to protect them.
Caodaist Cathedral (Holy See), Tây Ninh
Province (1933–1955)
The Cathedral, or Holy See, of the syncretic
monotheistic Caodaist faith (Cao Đài),
339

the architecture of empire
9.12 Phạm Công Tắc and others, Caodaist Cathedral,
or Holy See, Tây Ninh Province (Vietnam). 1933–55.
Photograph courtesy Le Huu Phuoc.
9.13 (oppoSiTe ) Caodaist Cathedral, or Holy See, Tây
Ninh Province, interior. Photograph courtesy Le Huu
Phuoc.
completed half a century later in Tây Ninh
Province northwest of Saigon (1933–55), was also
made famous by Graham Greene (figs. 9.12–13).
340
Caodaism was founded in the 1920s by a civil
servant named Ngô Văn Chiêu (1878–1932), who
witnessed revelations from the Highest Lord
(Cao Đài, literally “High Palace”) instructing
him to unite Buddhism, Confucianism, Daoism,
Hinduism, Christianity, Islam, and other faiths
into a single religion of peace.47 The Caodaist pan-
theon includes religious leaders such as Buddha,
Confucius, Jesus, and Muhammad, but also
historical figures like Victor Hugo, Joan of Arc,
Louis Pasteur, and Sun Yat-sen, and its hierarchy
is modelled after that of the Catholic church, with
a pope, cardinals, bishops, and priests – although
men and women can both assume these positions.
The faith is based on yin-yang duality, particularly
the division between the male and female prin-
ciples, which has an immediate impact on archi-
tecture, with the left side of the temple dedicated
to the female principle and the right the male
principle: women and men enter from opposite
sides of the building and worship on the left and
right respectively, and both sides have their own
gendered subsidiary altar.48
The first pope of Caodaism was Lê Văn Trung
(1875–1934), a former civil servant who signed
its manifesto on 29 September 1926, and on
7 October he sent a petition to the governor of
Cochinchina to recognize the new religion.49
French authorities would not accept the petition
until “Caodaism proved to be a genuine religion”
and province chiefs were ordered to “keep an
eye on the Caodaist activists and their action.”50
Their temple in Tây Ninh was built with funds
estimated at 30,000 piastres donated by Madame
Lâm Thị Thanh, a businesswoman from Mỹ Tho
who was elected as the first woman to hold high
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
341
 office in the Caodaist hierarchy (figs. 9.12–13).
Workers cleared 96 mẫu (477,120 square metres)
of forest for the Holy See complex and a tempor-
ary wooden temple was erected in three months.
Three years later they sought an architect to build
a larger, permanent temple. The fascinating thing
is that they did not go to a Vietnamese architect
but to Auguste Delaval, author of the Musée
Blanchard-de-la-Brosse (fig. 8.3) and Temple du
Souvenir Annamite (fig. 8.5). Lê Văn Trung pre-
sumably chose Delaval because he believed that
the latter’s version of the “style indochinois” was a
satisfactory reflection of the group’s need to com-
bine European and Vietnamese forms to express
the syncretic nature of their religion, and of their
desire to have a modern building.
Lê Văn Trung’s letter written at Tây Ninh
to the directeur général des Travaux Publics de
l’Indochine in Saigon asking for permission to
hire Delaval (19 September 1929) has never been
published. It is a fascinating document for what it
says about the specific style they wanted and the
way in which it reflected their goals:
Mr Director General, As a result of the
interview I had with you on Saturday Sep-
tember 14, I have the honour to inform you
that an Annamite Committee, set up for the
construction of a temple of Religion known
as Dai-Dao-Tam-Ky-Phô-Dô or renovated
Buddhism in Tâyninh (Cochinchina), asked
Mr. delaval , Architect in Hanoi, to pro-
the architecture of empire
vide this committee with: 1. – architectural
studies necessary for the construction of
this Temple following the general directives
given by the representatives of the Reli-
gion and in an Far Eastern style where the
Sino-Annamite note should dominate. This
construction will have both a monumental
and religious character. 2. – studies of a
complete avant-projet and the supply of an
342
overall plan to the scale of 0m01 to a metre,
including all the drawings necessary to
comprehend the monument both from the
point of view of layout and from the point
of view of decoration and mode of construc-
tion, structure, etc ... 3. – the supply of a
general plan at 0m005 to a metre indicating
the general layout of the Temple with its
annexes and the landscaping of the sur-
rounding land, for the enhancement of the
projected Temple. 4. – detailed execution
plans, calculations of strength. 5. – the con-
struction of a model and the parts necessary
for the drafting of a lump sum contract with
the contractor appointed to do all this work.
etc ... etc ... Allow me to open a parenthesis
here to explain to you why the Committee,
of which I am the Chairman, and I designed
this vast construction project. Since Octo-
ber 6, 1926 we have propagated in Cochin-
china the renovated Indochinese Buddhism
called Caodaism. We send you in this envel-
ope: 1. – our declaration to the Government
of Cochinchina, declaration signed by
officials, notabilities and native owners (Ex-
hibit N. 1). 2. – copy of the authorization to
open the Caodaist oratories, including that
of Tâyninh (exhibit No. 2) where the future
Great Temple will be built. Renovated
Indochinese Buddhism or Caodaism is also
indicated in the Green Book of the Colonial
Council of Cochinchina, of 1928–1929 and
1929–1939. In less than 3 years we now have
over a million enthusiastic adherents. You
can thus realize that the Annamites thirst
for a renewed religion unifying the existing
religions. This religion will bring together
all beliefs and will help us, from a spiritual
point of view, to have a sincere Franco-
Annamese harmony. Our elder brothers, the
French who have been in this country for a
 long time, who have a deep understanding
of the Annamese religious soul as well as
the habits and customs of the natives, will
certainly help us realize this noble ideal. The
future great Caodaist Temple will manifest
our religious feelings. It should combine
both a religious style according to our
indications and modern French comfort;
its construction of a new genre will require
long and serious studies. We were advised
to submit the project plan to a competition,
but we want the credit for these studies to
go to a French architect, which is why we
chose Mr. delaval . We ask you, therefore,
to follow up our proposal and authorize
Mr. delaval as soon as possible to work,
during the hours he is not working for the
Administration, to provide us with studies,
plans, estimates, details, etc. … necessary
for the construction of this great religious
building. Please accept, Mr. Director Gen-
eral, the assurance of our respectful and de-
voted sentiments. signed: le-van-trung
(le-van-trung at the Caodaist Temple
of tayninh ).51
Although, as noted in the last chapter, Delaval
was not allowed to accept this commission, the
letter is very revealing about what the group
wanted in a building and why. Like Père Six
they wanted something predominantly in the
Sino-Vietnamese style but unlike their Catholic
predecessor they wanted it to be designed by
a Frenchman and to be built to contemporary
European standards of comfort. Such concerns
resemble those of Hébrard’s style indochinois,
but they may have preferred Delaval because
his buildings were more decorative, which,
judging by the interior of the executed temple
(fig. 9.13), was more to their taste. If Phát Diệm
Cathedral was a demonstration of the essentially
Vietnamese nature of Catholicism, the Caodaist
Holy See was an outward declaration of alliance
and harmony with the French aimed at gaining
the colony’s recognition, which the government
grudgingly granted in 1936.52 Nevertheless their
apparent sympathy with France was an alliance of
convenience. The movement was fundamentally
anti-colonial and the Caodaists (who had their
own army) joined the cause of the Viet Minh
Independence movement in 1945, siding with
the French only two years later after suffering
persecution from the communists. But even then,
they only did so on the condition of a “‘peaceful
decolonization’ under French leadership within a
“French Union,” and not a return to the colonial
status quo.53
Not successful with their overture to Delaval,
the Caodaists turned to their own faithful to
build the cathedral, which was constructed
over a twenty-two-year, devastatingly disruptive
period that witnessed the Japanese invasion, the
Franco–Viet Minh war, and, finally, Independ-
ence.54 The architect was Pope Phạm Công Tắc
(1890–1959), who received instructions in spirit
séances from the “Invisible Pope” Lý Thái Bạch,
the sixth-century Daoist poet Li Bái, and builders
and workers contributed their labour as “religious
service” (công quả), using materials donated by
Vietnamese rubber plantation owners.55 It was
as anonymous a procedure as that which built
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
the Cathedral of Phát Diệm. Commentators
frequently say that the exterior of this 22 metre
by 97.5 metre cathedral is Gothic, and indeed, as
Le Huu Phuoc suggests, it was likely designed as a
Vietnamese response to the Cathedral of Notre-
Dame in Saigon (1877–80) by Jules Bourard
(fig. 9.14).56 However, gothic it is not: as at Phát
Diệm it merely echoes the shape of a French
cathedral, with the 36-metre-high twin towers
at the facade (the left one containing a bell, the
right one a Buddhist-style drum); the long nave
343

9.14 Jules Bourard, Cathedral of Notre-Dame, Saigon,
1877–80, steeples 1895.
and side aisles; a hexagonal apse; groin vaults
in the interior (figs. 9.12, 9.13); and the tower
over the crossing, which replaces the flèche in a
the architecture of empire
French gothic church. Scholars have maintained
that the tower over the apse is an Asian feature,
but it is only Asian in its design, not its location:
such towers are commonly found in Vietnamese
churches, such as the Tân Định church in Saigon
(1896–98; 1928–29).57 The Caodaist Holy See is
also oriented to the East like a Catholic church,
unlike the Phát Diệm Cathedral, which, as we
have seen, follows traditional Chinese geomancy.
344
Although a highly eclectic structure, the building
exclusively uses Asian forms and motifs, even if
they come from a variety of sources.
The dragon columns of the rounded porch and
nave interior (they represent Judgment Day, or
the “Dragon Flower Assembly”) are a Sino-
Vietnamese feature that appear for example at the
Palace of Supreme Harmony at Huế (1833 and
later), the throne hall of the Nguyễn dynasty. The
scalloped arches resemble Indo-Islamic architec-
ture, a source never used by any European archi-
tects of association in Indochina. The towers take
the form of Chinese pagodas, with multiple roofs
with upturned corners and finials, and the central
pavilion over the main entrance also recalls Bud-
dhist temple architecture. The building features
dramatically sloping Sino-Vietnamese temple
roofs on three tiers with prominent extending
eaves and concrete imitation terracotta tiles. The
tower in the middle is plain and essentially mod-
ernist, with porthole windows and a half-globe-
shaped cupola (it is not an Islamic “onion dome,”
as Janet Hoskins proposes), and the octagonal
tower at the back (adorned with sculptures of
the Hindu deities Brahma, Krishna, Vishnu, and
Shiva) is like a Chinese pagoda – in fact it is a
taller and narrower version of Delaval’s octagonal
dome over the Musée Blanchard-de-la-Brosse and
may well have been inspired by it (fig. 8.4).58 The
globe is a symbol of the religion’s global reach
(a globe is the centrepiece of the interior as well,
surrounded by columns). Instead of windows,
the side walls have open latticework screens
bearing the Left Eye of God motif surrounded by
lotus flowers.
The abundantly decorated interior (fig. 9.13)
is dominated by the dragon columns, the groin
vaults painted like the sky with naturalistic
clouds and stars, and fanciful ceiling bosses. It
also includes a traditional bao lam, an intricately
carved polychrome screen between two columns
9.15 Chinese temple on Nguyễn Thái Học Street, Hội An
(Vietnam), late nineteenth or early twentieth century.
that appears in Buddhist temples (although here
it is made of concrete instead of wood) over the
entrance to the main altar, carved with reliefs of
Laozi, Buddha, Confucius, and Jesus. The floor
level rises progressively from the entrance to the
altar to represent the rank and level of spiritual at-
tainment of the Caodaist followers who worship
in those sections of the temple.59 Although it has
gone unremarked in the literature, the most im-
mediately striking feature about this building – its
lively colour scheme – also echoes Asian religious
architecture, particularly southern Chinese-style
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
temple architecture, as in the polychrome gates
and roof ornaments of Buddhist temples in Hôi
An (fig. 9.15) or the entrance to the Vĩnh Tràng
Pagoda (fig. 9.16).
Norman Lewis and Graham Greene ridiculed
the Tây Ninh Cathedral for what they considered
to be the poor taste of its decoration and the
amateurish and artificial nature of its design,
adhering to a colonialist view that the appropria-
tion of European religious figures or architectural
styles by non-Europeans amounted to what Janet
345
 Hoskins has perceptively called “visual blas-
phemy.”60 Lewis wrote in 1951:
From a distance this structure could have
been dismissed as the monstrous result of a
marriage between a pagoda and a Southern
baroque church, but at close range the
vulgarity of the building was so impressive
that mild antipathy gave way to fascinated
horror. This cathedral must be the most
outrageously vulgar building ever to have
been erected with serious intent. It was a
palace in candy from a coloured fantasy by
Disney; an example of funfair architecture
in extreme form. […] But the question was,
what had been Pham-Cong-Tac’s intention
in producing a house for this petrified
forest of pink dragons, this huggermugger of
symbolism, this pawnbroker’s collection
of cult objects? Was he consciously catering
to the debased and credulous tastes of
his flock? Or could it be that visible
manifestations of religious energy on the
part of men who have lived lives entirely
divorced from art must always assume these
grotesque forms?61
Lewis supported the latter theory, that the
Caodaist founders were mostly low-level civil
servants who had no time to appreciate fine art.
Greene, who was inspired to visit Vietnam after
editing Lewis’s text, revived the Disney topos
the architecture of empire
(which neither of them had invented; it had been
circulating among French colonists well before
Lewis arrived), deriding the sculptures of: “Christ
and Buddha looking down from the roof of the
Cathedral on a Walt Disney fantasia of the East,
dragons and snakes in technicolour,” and mocked
the building’s “play-acting” and “trickery.”62
Hoskins has argued that these disparaging
comments were provoked by the way Caodaism
346
and its architecture presented themselves “as
an inversion of European ways of looking.”63
Whereas it was acceptable for Europeans like
Hébrard or Groslier to appropriate and make
pastiches of Asian styles, it was not suitable to
writers like Lewis and Greene – indeed it was
subversive – for Asians to interpret European
practices and styles. Furthermore, by incorporat-
ing Christian and European figures ( Jesus, Victor
Hugo) and architectural forms (the twin-tower
cathedral) into a primarily Asian pantheon, the
Caodaists went against the ingrained prejudice,
which we have witnessed for instance in Groslier’s
writings, that Asian culture was tradition-bound
and moribund:
Caodai teachings challenged Orientalist
ideas of Asian passivity by asserting that
Eastern philosophies were dynamic, pro-
gressive and positive. […] the teachings of
Asian sages were presented as encompassing
and preceding Christian teachings, but
also fundamentally compatible with them.
It combined a move to reconcile opposing
sides by healing the wounds of colonialism
and an assertion that Asian peoples deserved
the right of self-determination.64
Ridiculing the Tây Ninh Cathedral and the faith
itself was a way of neutralizing what was in fact
a challenge to colonialism. The use of European
forms and figures was not meant to glorify them,
but to place them in a subsidiary position within
a larger Asian world of past and present “while
sounding the death knells for Western imperial
rule.”65 The French (and other uneasy European
visitors) were all too aware of the movement’s
ties with the independence movement and
their formidable armies, and the Caodaists built
a following in the same places as did the Com-
munist Party.
 Interestingly, the pastiche design of the Cao-
daist Cathedral derives directly from the same
culture of international expositions that gener-
ated the hybridities of Groslier, Hébrard, and
Delaval. The future Caodaist political leader and
army commander Trần Quang Vinh (1897–1975)
served as the “secrétaire indigène” for the 1931
Colonial Exposition in Paris and spent more than
nine months in the city, where he participated
in mounting the Indochinese pavilion (includ-
ing the life-sized Angkor Wat replica) (fig. 7.7)
and took the opportunity to meet with French
spiritualists, Freemasons, and other intellectuals.
As Hoskins comments: “Vinh’s trip to Paris and
his participation in mounting the 1931 Exposition
had important consequences not only for the
political future of Caodaism, but also for its visual
presentation.”66 The cathedral also stayed true to
Lê Văn Trung’s original intentions. Everyone who
ridiculed it missed the essential point about the
building, that it was modern. The use of grates
instead of glass windows demonstrates a concern
for comfort in a tropical climate, and the inter-
ior is spacious, cool, and – despite the prolific
decor – remarkably unobstructed. It was also one
of the first religious buildings to make full use of
reinforced concrete, although the column cores
were reinforced by bamboo poles rather than
steel rods.67
Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda, Mỹ Tho (1907–1933) and
Sala Thammavihan, Wat Khili Monastery,
Luang Prabang (1935–1945)
The next two buildings, both in Buddhist mon-
asteries, paradoxically adopt European architec-
tural features much more obviously than do the
Catholic and Caodaist cathedrals we have just
looked at: in fact, they could both be mistaken
for French colonial villas. The Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda
(1907–33), near Mỹ Tho in the Mekong Delta
south of Saigon, is built in a Beaux-Arts baroque
eclectic style that is both profusely decorated
and polychromatic (figs. 9.16–19), whereas the
Wat Khili monastic residence in Luang Prabang,
Laos (1930–45), is constructed in an austere,
whitewashed neoclassical style that only reveals
its Buddhist identity in the roof and the statues
on the porch (figs. 9.20–2). There is no scholarly
literature on either of these buildings although
both are on the tourist circuit and the latter is
listed as part of a unesco World Heritage Site
(inscribed 1995).
The Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda is a long, rectangular
structure oriented north-south and consisting of
four consecutive pavilions (entry hall, main hall,
ancestral hall, and back house), measuring 70 by
20 metres. It contains two courtyards, a plainer
neoclassical northern courtyard at the rear and a
copiously decorated southern one adjoining the
main hall (fig. 9.18). It is one of several monaster-
ies built during French rule that incorporate Euro-
pean architectural motifs into the exterior but
remain determinedly Sino-Vietnamese on the in-
teriors (except, in this case the courtyards, which
can be construed as exterior space).68 The first
monastery at Vĩnh Tràng was a humble, thatched
wooden structure built in the early nineteenth
century by the layman Bùi Công Đạt, which was
replaced by a larger structure with the present
name in 1849 by the abbot Huệ Đăng (r. 1849–
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
64) from the Giác Lâm temple in Saigon. The
new monastery was heavily damaged during the
French conquest and later abandoned. In the
1890s abbot Chánh Hậu (r. 1890–1923) rebuilt
the monastery only to have it destroyed in a trop-
ical storm in 1904; in 1907 he began the present
structure, which was completed by his successor
Minh Đàn (r. 1923–39), who was also responsible
9.16 (overLeAf ) Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda, Mỹ Tho (Vietnam),
1907–33. Entrance gate.
347
 9.17 (previouS pAge Top ) Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda, facade.
9.18 (previouS pAge BoTTom ) Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda, front
(south) courtyard.
9.19 (ABove ) Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda, interior.
for the main triple gate of 1933 (fig. 9.16). Minh
Đàn brought in builders and craftsmen from Huế
the architecture of empire
to work on the gate, which has the typical broken
crockery mosaics of the Huế Citadel and also
buildings in Hội An (fig. 9.15). The gate is a trad-
itional southern Vietnamese Buddhist temple gate
(tam quan) but built of reinforced concrete. It is
decorated with subjects such as the Four Grati-
fying Pastimes (tứ lạc) and Four Sacred Animals
(tứ linh), and with prominent dragon and qilin
finials, but it also has four European pilasters in
350
the aedicule containing the Buddha statue which
demarcate a triple arch motif that will reappear on
the temple facade.69
The main temple building, when viewed from
the south (main) entrance, appears at first glance
to be entirely European in style but the Asian
features become apparent upon closer inspection
(fig. 9.17). The principal motif of the facade is a
modified Palladian motif with a wide, central, seg-
mented arch flanked by two narrower arches, rest-
ing on Ionic columns. However, the columns are
dragon columns, like those of the Tây Ninh Holy
See (fig. 9.13), and the metal grilles enclosing the
arches on the main facade are ornamented with
lotuses and other Buddhist motifs. These triple
arches are joined together to form a continuous
five-bay arcade across the facade and also appear
on the fronts and sides of the two projecting end
pavilions. Superimposed onto this lower order is
a giant order of Ionic pilasters that divide each
bay and articulate the corners of the wings. On
top of these pilasters is a bulky projecting cornice,
which in turn supports an attic with a balustrade
of latticework panels and finial piers. A second
attic rests on the pavilions and central bay, which
are surmounted by latticework Chinese charac-
ters within baroque broken pediments with
volute cornices, the two on the pavilions flanked
by a pair of urns on plinths. Broken pediments
enclosing urns also rest on the balustrade on the
outer two bays of the central section of the facade.
The facade is enlivened by polychrome Japanese
tiles, especially on the architrave and pilasters. In
front is a narrow forecourt containing a double
staircase at the centre with banisters and newel
posts and surmounted by fleur-de-lys finials; a
balustrade with baluster columns and latticework
grilles runs along the bottom of the arcade. Two
smaller staircases at the ends of the forecourt
give access to the projecting pavilions. The tile
roofs are accented with prefabricated ridges and
crowned by finials of the sort commonly found
in domestic architecture in Saigon, most promin-
ently in the central cupola and its lower flanking
gable-end roof extensions. Except for the accre-
tion of ornamentation above the roof, the struc-
ture has the basic profile and ground plan of a
French chateau of the early Louis XV period, with
a cour d’honneur, a long-low facade, projecting
end wings, a cupola at the centre and cornices
over the pavilions, and either a flat or mansard
roof (fig. 1.3).
Although the side walls are much simpler,
repeating only the giant-order pilasters and the
upper balustrade with cartouche finials and urns,
the courtyard reprises the scheme of the facade,
with the triple-arch motif, giant-order pilasters,
and the upper and lower balustrades (fig. 9.18).
The upper balustrade is crowned by broken cor-
nices containing single urns, cartouches, and urns
on plinths. This courtyard could be in a baroque
monastery in Latin America if it were not for the
prominent Hòn Non Bộ, or island-mountain
landscape, in the centre: an artificial concrete
mountain with its Buddha cave, pagoda, sacred
animals (such as the phoenix), Confucianist and
Daoist figurines, temple, and bridge. However,
it is in the interior of the temple that we find
the greatest contrast with the baroque exterior
(fig. 9.19). Once visitors pass through the arch-
ways of the courtyard into the two parallel halls
that make up the main sanctuary, the entire
atmosphere changes: in place of brightly coloured
concrete, stucco, and tiles they are presented
with dark wooden walls with smooth engaged
Sino-Vietnamese wooden columns, a pitched roof
on triangular trusses in the Huế style, and a series
of lavishly carved gilt wood altar recesses flanked
by dragon columns and surrounded with high
reliefs of figures and animals (such as the Eight
Immortals, phoenixes, and dragons) suspended
in Chinese cloud motifs.70 Most of the colour is
provided by gilding, whether on the Buddhas,
bodhisattvas, arhats, and other statues and spirit
tablets, or the Chinese characters on the horizon-
tal and wooden placards over the altars and on
the columns.
The smooth lines and whitewashed walls of
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
the Sala Thammavihan (1930–45), a kuti (monks’
residence) at the Wat (Vat) Khili (Suvannakhili)
monastery in Luang Prabang, are a world apart
from the Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda with its polychromy
and baroque details (figs. 9.20–2). The “Monas-
tery of the Mountain of Gold” is located on rue
Sakhaline, a street of whitewashed neoclassical
buildings in the northeastern part of the city
(fig. 9.23). It was founded in ca 1775, allegedly by
people from the Phouane Plateau in the former
kingdom of Xieng Khouang in memory of the
351
soldiers who fell during the battle with the Burm-
ese, and also to commemorate the alliance with
the kingdom of Luang Prabang.71 The ordination
hall (sim) is typical of Luang Prabang’s traditional
religious architecture, with its layered, telescope
roof, prominent naga finials, and eave brackets
(kaen nang), as at the sim at the Wat Xieng Thong
(fig. 8.9), and also of traditional Siamese temple
architecture (fig. 3.14), to which the temples of
Laos have a close affinity, notably in the ground
plan and peacock motif, which derive from the
Chiang Mai region.
The brick and stucco kuti, directly aligned with
the sim to the east so that the two roof lines are
on the same axis, was designed by Abbot-architect
Pha Khamfan Silasangvaro (1901–87; ordained
1921) (figs. 9.20–2). Silasangvaro was educated
in Bangkok (1920–21; 1923–30), where in addi-
tion to studying the Dhamma he graduated
from the Fine Arts school Saraphatchang before
accepting the position of abbot at Wat Khili in
1931, when he was also elevated to Chao Khana
(chief monk) of the Northern Group of Monas-
teries of Luang Prabang and then Chao Khana
Khoueng (chief monk of the Buddhist Sangha)
of Luang Prabang Province by King Sisavang
Vong in 1936.72 Silasangvaro was an accomplished 9.20 (oppoSiTe Top ) Pha Khamfan Silasangvaro,
photographer, painter, draftsman, sculptor, and Sala Thammavihan (kuti), Wat Khili monastery, Luang
carpenter who travelled widely to Buddhist Prabang (Laos), 1935–45.
conferences in Rangoon, Sri Lanka, and India.

iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962

However, his main architectural agenda was to
create regionally inflected contemporary mon-
astic architecture in Luang Prabang and villages
in the surrounding countryside, resulting in the
construction under his direction of ordination
halls in ten rural temples.73 In 1943 he prepared
a book of his plans for monastic buildings in
Luang Prabang province for its Department of
Religious Affairs, presumably to serve as models
for future projects. Silasangvaro also made at least
twenty-nine concrete moulds for floral motifs
9.21 (oppoSiTe BoTTom LefT ) Sala Thammavihan,
detail of porch.
9.22 (oppoSiTe BoTTom righT ) Sala Thammavihan,
detail of eave brackets.
9.23 (ABove ) Wat Khili monastery, Luang Prabang,
ca 1775. Detail of sim roof.
to make the plaster and cement decorations for
his buildings, which survive in the monastery
collections.74 His architectural campaign in the
province prioritized simple elegance and unity of

353
 9.24 Crown Prince Vong Savang Residence, Luang
Prabang, 1930–35.
design, and his preference for modern buildings
with traditional features, particularly the way he
placed a regional roof on a European substructure
at the Sala Thammavihan, was in line with French
associationism and Vietnamese experiments with
the architecture of empire
hybridity. Indeed, his use of moulds recalls Grosli-
er’s and Batteur’s methods of reproducing archi-
tectural motifs in their ateliers in Phnom Penh
and Hanoi. Silasangvaro also wanted prototypes
that could be easily reproduced: he lent his plans
for the Sala Thammavihan to two other monaster-
ies, Wat Pha Nom and Wat Xiang Ngoen.75 There
was a clear pedagogical component to Silasvan-
garo’s arts and architectural program: he taught
354
students painting and sculpture at the Wat Khili
and he advised other Buddhist leaders in their
own building or reconstruction efforts, as when
he guided fellow abbot Sathu Nyai Khamchan
(1920–2007) in the use of decorative details in his
reconstruction of the sim at Vat Saen Sukharam
in Luang Prabang in the late 1950s.76
The lower part of the Sala Thammavihan is a
two-storey rectangular structure with a prom-
inent porch on the street (north) facade. Below
the roofline there is little indication that this
is not just another of the French-style villas or
neoclassical Chinese shophouses that are char-
acteristic of rue Sakhaline, such as the Crown
Prince Vong Savang Residence (1930–35), begun
the same year, which has a similar arrangement
of main building, porch, and arcade, but with
less refined decorative details (fig. 9.24). The
tripartite street facade of the Sala Thammavihan
is six bays wide, the bays equally divided among
the porch and two wings (fig. 9.20). The porch
takes the form of a double loggia with paired
arches on both storeys of the north side rest-
ing on plain Tuscan piers and adorned at the
top with a blossom on the upper storey and a
blossom and inverted fleur-de-lys motif on the
ground floor. Narrow pilasters in the same order
are surmounted onto the inner piers, rising to a
cornice at the arch jambs and then proceeding
upward to join the cornice atop the upper arches
and entablature. On both storeys the pilasters
rest on plinths and larger rectangular panels are
set between the plinths to form a dado. The east
and west sides of the porch are identical except
that instead of a double arch they use a modified
Palladian motif with a wider central arch flanked
by two narrower arches (fig. 9.21). The receding
wings are simpler, with only the pilasters and
cornice separating the storeys, and with plain
rectangular windows over sunken rectangular
panels, the windows on the ground floor decor-
ated with cursory cornices and the blossom
and fleur-de-lys motifs. This scheme continues
for only the northern bay of the side walls of
the building, which also contain doors, while
the wider southern bay lacks pilasters, as if the
architect cared only about decorating the side that
faced the street.
The building expresses its Lao identity in the
roof, which, while not dramatically telescoping
like the triple roof of the sim (fig. 9.23), has two
tiers and similar attenuated naga finials on the
gables and lower corners of the pediments, and
sharp naga spines on the gable profiles (fig. 9.20).
It also uses delicate, gold-painted eave brackets
shaped like abstracted naga figures of a type
commonly seen both in Siamese and Lao religious
architecture (fig. 9.22). The western pediment is
unadorned but the ones facing the street and the
sim feature rich kranok scrolls with deva figures
on two tiers, all gilded on a red background in a
manner like the main facade of the sim. Again,
the architect may have chosen to decorate only the
north and east pediments because they are the
ones most likely to be seen. Although the roof is
Lao rather than Siamese, it is possible that Sila-
sangvaro was inspired to juxtapose East and West
this way by the Phra Thiang Chakri Maha Prasat
at the Grand Palace in Bangkok, which as we have
seen was given a Siamese roof for the same reason,
to align with other buildings with traditional
roofs (fig. 7.3). He also would have been familiar
with Siamese Buddhist monastic buildings built
entirely in Western styles, such as those of the Wat
Bowonniwet Vihara in Bangkok (ca 1870s) or
Wat Niwet Thammaprawat in Ayutthaya (1876,
by Trieste architect Gioachino Grassi), both of
which had gothic- or Beaux-Arts-style buildings.77
In fact, between 1919 and 1930 Silasangvaro lived
at the Wat Pho on Rattanakosin Island, directly
south of the Grand Palace and across the street
from the European-style Maha Rat Road Market
(1865–1910).78
Although the Sala Thammavihan’s features are
predominantly French, Siamese, and Lao, it is very
likely that this building was constructed at least
partly by Vietnamese builders (although under
French supervisors), as the Saigon Bâtiments civils
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
built colonial Luang Prabang and established its
unique styles.79 Urbanization began relatively
late in Luang Prabang, after the king asked the
French to develop the royal city on a grid plan of
streets, and it was executed mostly between 1909
and 1925 with some buildings looking identical
to the “travaux publics” style of civic architecture
seen in Vietnam and Cambodia (for instance the
Customs Office, 1932) while others adopted the
whitewashed brick neoclassicism that is unique
to Luang Prabang and not found even in the
355
 Protectorate capital of Vientiane. The building
campaign was led by the Bâtiments civils office
in Saigon, and many of the Vietnamese builders
who were sent to the city remained in Luang
Prabang and made a tidy profit building villas and
shophouses for Lao and Chinese families, as well
as monastic buildings, in the 1930s and 1940s.80
When Silasangvaro returned from Bangkok,
rue Sakhaline and many other parts of the city
were bustling construction sites, with armies of
masons and carpenters at work. Silasangvaro
would have designed the roof himself and the bas
relief decorative details of the walls – which is
why his building is more refined than the others
on the street – but he likely hired Vietnamese
builders to design and build the main structure
as it is so like others in the city. The building has a
distinctly Vietnamese accent: the central porch
with a double loggia and the modified Palladian
motif appears in some domestic architecture in
Vietnam, such as the Hoàng Yến Chao Palace
in Tonkin (1914–21), and we have seen a sim-
ilar Palladian motif at the Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda
(figs. 9.17–18).81
Unfortunately, Silasangvaro did not leave a
written record of his architectural philosophy;
however he was clearly proud of his building.
Among his over 900 surviving photographs, many
depict the Sala Thammavihan (including views
of the Wat from the residence and vice versa).
He regularly took portraits of visitors with the
building in the background, and he had himself
the architecture of empire
photographed sitting on its porch.82 Europeans
are conspicuously absent in his hundreds of
photographs of Buddhist figures and ceremon-
ies. He was an ardent defender of international
Buddhism, making pilgrimages to Sri Lanka and
India and, in the 1960s, photographing temples in
Laos destroyed by US bombs. There is no evi-
dence that Silasangvaro’s decision to use Western
elements in his building derived from an interest
in Western culture.
356
The main question about both the Vĩnh
Tràng Pagoda and the Sala Thammavihan is:
what motivated Buddhist communities under
French rule to construct their monastic buildings
in a style that would seem to borrow so much
from that of the colonizer? Was it because they
wanted to keep a low profile? Was it – as it was
for the Caodaists – an attempt to syncretize
European Christian features into Buddhist ones,
since Buddhism in Southeast Asia was already
syncretic, embracing Confucianist and Daoist
beliefs, as in China (the so-called “Three Teach-
ings,” san jiao in Chinese and cộng đồng tam giáo
in Vietnamese), but also incorporating indigenous
spirit veneration?83 I do not believe that these
monasteries were concerned about persecutions
from the French, who were in fact tolerant of
Buddhism by this time and (under the efeo ’s
leadership) were even restoring Buddhist temples
in Laos and Vietnam, as we have seen in chap-
ter 7. I also do not think that it is an attempt to
syncretize Christian beliefs as there is not a single
Christian image or symbol in either building.
I believe that the principal motivation behind
these hybridities was a straightforward desire to
unite regional forms with materials and styles
deemed modern and progressive. As Khamvone
Boulyaphonh writes about Sathu Nyai Kham-
chan’s renovation (with Silasangvaro’s help) of the
sim at the Wat Saen Sukhakham, “he used both
traditional and modern materials, as it was his
goal to find combinations of materials that would
be elegant, stable and long-lasting.”84 We should
not fool ourselves that their love for eclectic
forms of neoclassicism and baroque amounts to
an admiration for the French or for European
culture. Although Silasangvaro trained in Bang-
kok surrounded by palace and temple buildings
in Euro-Siamese or Western styles, there is no
reason to suppose that he thought of the West-
ern element as particularly Western; to his mind
they more likely reflected contemporary trends in
Siamese architecture. When he returned to Laos,
he subtly adjusted Siamese taste to that of Luang
Prabang, with a traditional Lao roof and a build-
ing in the prevailing whitewashed neoclassicism
of that city.
It was the same for abbots Chánh Hậu and
Minh Đàn; however, in the case of the Vĩnh
Tràng Pagoda, far away from Siamese influence,
the Western elements were likely registered as
Chinese. European forms had been associated
with Chinese architecture in Southeast Asia
since the early nineteenth century, particularly
neoclassicism and, at the turn of the twentieth
century, polychrome baroque facades like that of
the Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda.85 European styles were
first employed in Chinese shophouses, merchants’
offices, and warehouses in early nineteenth-
century Singapore and Guangzhou, and with
the subsequent dissemination of these forms
throughout Southeast Asia these styles became
associated not with Europe but with the so-called
“sojourning Chinese,” mostly Southern Chinese
merchant families who settled across Southeast
Asia and were the economic engine of many com-
munities. Shophouses were combination retail
businesses and private dwellings with narrow
shop fronts facing the street and long narrow lots
juxtaposing interior space with courtyards, with
the living quarters in the rear or over the shop,
all arranged according to feng shui geomancy.
They shared their sparse, whitewashed classicism
with larger-scale Chinese mercantile architecture
in what is now referred to as the “compradoric”
style, in Hong Kong, Macau, and Southeast Asia,
a “free classic” neoclassical style characterized by
multi-storey arcades to provide shelter from the
sun (in French Indochina, as we have seen, the
term “style comprador” did not refer to what we
mean as “compradoric” today, but to the Indo-
chinese “travaux publics” style).86 In chapter 7
I have already discussed an important example in
Indochina: the Maison Wang Tai, a compradoric
Chinese mansion, complete with a triple loggia:
two storeys of arcades, and an upper-storey colon-
nade of piers.87
The earliest shophouse designs were white-
washed neoclassical structures that were not very
different from that of the Sala Thammavihan.
During the late nineteenth and especially the
first half of the twentieth century, like their
counterparts in Singapore and Malaya, shophouse
designs in Hanoi, Saigon, and especially Hội An
(fig. 9.25), Battambang (fig. 9.26), Savannakhet,
and Kampot became increasingly ornamental,
acquiring baroque scrolls and volutes, rococo
cartouches, and polychrome tiles.88 Even today
many contemporary mansions and condomin-
ium developments in Southeast Asia are built in
a Chinese neo-baroque style, sometimes even
in the ochre-on-white colonial colour scheme of
French Indochina. The Chinese communities in
Southeast Asia, Macau, and Hong Kong appro-
priated European styles – including, in the 1930s,
art deco – to such a degree that their European
associations had long ago been forgotten (or at
least had become irrelevant).
By the 1920s and ’30s, when the Vĩnh Tràng
Pagoda was being built, many luxury villas were
being constructed for Chinese and Vietnamese
landowners in Cochinchina in the same style,
complete with the tile polychromy and the
modified Palladian motif (fig. 9.27).89 As with the
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
temple these exteriors contrasted with interiors
and plans that reflected Sino-Vietnamese trad-
itions. Europeans derided these hybrid Eurasian
villas in much the same way that Greene and
Lewis would attack the Caodaist Holy See, and
likely for the same reason: because they found
them to be subversive and believed, to paraphrase
Homi Bhabha, that they were using mimicry to
mock European culture (see chapter 1). Typical
is the geographer Pierre Gourou (1900–1999),
who in 1936 criticized the villas of Cochinchina
for “lacking style and originality,” and for being
357
9.25 (oppoSiTe Top ) Hội An, shophouse, first quarter
twentieth century.
9.26 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) Battambang (Cambodia),
Shophouse, first quarter twentieth century.
9.27 (ABove ) House of Lê Công Phước (1901–1950), Mỹ
Tho, 1925–26.
“bastardized” and too open to European forms.90
Travel writer Hilda Arnhold (1904–1988), writing
about similar buildings in Tonkin in 1944, was
even more acerbic: “It is also to be regretted that
most of the wealthy Annamese who are building
these days have found nothing better to replace
the prescriptions or the fantasies of the geoman-
cer with than to seek inspiration in the most un-
sightly buildings in the Côte d’Azur style, baroque
inventions of a deplorable taste, without any ori-
ginality except extravagance. And while contem-
plating certain modern residences where pergolas,
portholes, glass windows and stoops are mixed
up in the most annoying way in the world, one is
entitled to wonder if the superstitions which pre-
side over the arrangement of some beautiful old
residences were not preferable to these monstros-
ities whose countryside they dishonour.”91
In fact neoclassicism and neo-baroque had
been claimed by several Asian countries in the
late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries –
as Siam had done – as the style of resistance to
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
Western imperialism and as a signal that these
nations had entered the global stage and were
opening up to modern ideas.92 Independent
Asian nations that adopted those styles included
Republican China and Korea, but especially Meiji
Japan (1868–1912), whose program of moderniz-
ation through Westernization, beginning in the
1880s, involved inviting around 3,000 European
specialists (otayoi) to the country, of whom the
largest majority by far were engineers and archi-
tects working under the Ministry of Construc-
tion.93 Monumental stone buildings such as the
359
 spare neoclassical Hall for Instrumental Music
(Sōgakudō, 1889–90), the neo-baroque Akasaka
Detached Palace (1898–1909), and the art deco–
inflected neoclassical Imperial Diet (1920–36), all
in Tokyo, are typical of the Westernized buildings
of this period.94 However, just as in Siam, Japan
was not adopting Western styles out of a feeling of
cultural inferiority but as a way of declaring that
they could stand up to the West: “The Meiji lead-
ers also embraced Western architectural styles,
not to deny their Japanese cultural identity but,
rather, to assert that their identity now needed
to be firmly rooted in modernity. Western styles
projected a contemporary yet dignified image and
were tangible expressions of these aspirations.”95
The stripped-down classicism of the late Meiji
and early Shōwa (1926–89) periods, unspecific
enough that it was no longer explicitly European
but transnational, and which used the latest
construction methods such as steel and reinforced
concrete, became the trademark of the resurgent
Japanese empire – the very one that, with its
motto of “Asia for the Asians,” would help motiv-
ate Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and the British and
Dutch colonies in Asia finally to throw off the
colonial yoke after the Second World War.
Rangoon City Hall (Municipal Offices,
1925–1935)
This book has examined several instances in
which the idea of placing an indigenous roof on
the architecture of empire
a generically neoclassical or art deco substruc-
ture – an idea developed by French associationists
and their counterparts in the Netherlands East
Indies but with older Siamese precedents – was
employed by various Asian groups to create
regional modernist styles. Although the young
Vietnamese architects of ebai in the 1930s and
1940s were increasingly nationalistic in their
assertion of Tonkinese style, there is no example
360
in France’s former colonies where the decision
to combine forms in this way was as explicitly
political – and publicized – as with Rangoon City
Hall, in the British colony of Burma. The British
were in Burma from 1824 to 1948, encroaching
upon Burmese territory from south to north
during the three Anglo-Burmese Wars (1824–26;
1852–53; 1885), and finally making it a province of
British India in 1886, with its capital at Rangoon
(Yangon).96 Burma was thus not only brutally
colonized but also stripped of its cultural identity,
a mere subsidiary of the British Raj, with an influx
of Indian immigrants dominating the commercial
life of the city and forming the majority of the
skilled builders, carvers, and stucco workers who
worked under British architects and engineers
(the Burmans provided the labour). The British
annexation of Burma was a major incentive for
the French to take Indochina, with Siam in the
middle as a buffer state. As in the Dutch East
Indies and French Indochina, the occupation of
Burma by the Japanese during the Second World
War inspired a swift struggle for independence,
which was achieved on 4 January 1948.97
Architecturally Burma stood apart from British
India in that no attempt was made stylistically
to indigenize buildings as had happened with the
Indo-Saracenic style of the late nineteenth century
(fig. 7.9); and in contrast with French associationism
in Indochina, Burmese style was simply ignored in
the public and mercantile architecture of the
colony. Even today, the impression one has walk-
ing through the streets of Yangon is of a trans-
ported, if dilapidated, Strand in London (in fact
one of the streets is still called the Strand) with
government buildings, banks, and department
9.28 (oppoSiTe Top ) Sithu U Tin and A.G. Bray, City Hall,
Rangoon (Yangon), Burma (Myanmar), 1925–35.
9.29 (oppoSiTe BoTTom ) City Hall, Rangoon, detail.
 stores in the style of Regent Street, or generic
late Victorian brick structures that could just as
easily be in Colombo or Madras. When Wil-
liam Somerset Maugham visited in 1922, he was
astonished at the city’s lack of Asian features: “a
drive in an American car through busy streets of
business houses, concrete and iron like the streets,
good heavens! of Honolulu, Shanghai, Singapore
or Alexandria.”98 Writing in 1951 Norman Lewis
astutely remarked that Rangoon had been “built
by people who refused to compromise with the
East.”99 The most important exception, which
Maugham would not have known because it was
later, is City Hall (then called the Municipal Of-
fices), built in an art deco style underneath with
Burmese (and other Asian) surface ornamentation
and crowned with roofs and turrets in a sumptu-
ously indigenous style derived from pagoda and
palace architecture (figs. 9.28–9).
The building has a long and protracted history
and was never intended to reflect a hybrid style.
The municipality purchased the property in 1886,
turning the stalwart neoclassical Ripon Dance
Hall into the headquarters of the Municipal
Corporation of Rangoon. The “Corporation,” as
it was called, quickly outgrew its new home, and
was compelled to rent space in a nearby depart-
ment store. After acquiring a loan in 1912 for
1,247,000 rupees for thirty years, the Municipal
Corporation held a competition for the design
of a new building the following year, “for which,”
as Sara Rooney puts it, “it set the oddly humble
the architecture of empire
mandate of a building with ‘some pretentions
to architectural beauty.’”100 The jury, which was
chaired by the then consulting architect to the
government of Burma, Henry Seton-Morris
(1869–1915), selected L.A. McClumpha’s design,
about which he wrote, “I have no hesitation in
awarding this design the first place. It stands alone
in its grasp of the ventilation problem which
362
has baffled the authors of so many fine designs.
In proportion, in restraint, in dignity, the Mu-
nicipal Offices and Public Hall when built will
be the finest group of architectural buildings in
Burma.”101 The Great War and financial challenges
put a stop to the project, which was not resumed
until 1925, by which time the project was awarded
to Arthur G. Bray, who completed the building
to his own design in December 1928, when it was
inaugurated by Governor Sir Harcourt Butler
(1869–1938).102 His monumental three-storey
structure on a rusticated basement and featuring
long colonnades was a near twin of the War Office
(1906) or Treasury Buildings (1898–1917) in
Whitehall, although adjusted to the climate: The
Architect and Building News (28 June 1929) noted
that “in the plan here reproduced the offices are
necessarily arranged in very large compartments
so that the very maximum of ventilation may be
secured. […] All the offices, with the exception
of those facing north, have verandahs on both
sides.”103 However the article proudly goes on
to note that the building made no compromises
with indigenous style and was resolutely British
and classical:
While the plan itself is extraordinarily well
adapted both to its purpose and to the
climactic conditions of the locality, the
elevations are also distinguished. No conces-
sions whatsoever appear to have been made
to the native style of architecture, for this is
the Classic style of the type which has been
developed in England. The composition of
the main front containing the entrance por-
tico is admirable, and it is no exaggeration to
say that it would bear comparison with
that of any English public building erected
during the last fifty years […] Moreover, the
terrace over the portico is well suited for
 the making of public pronouncements. The
columnar style, which originally developed
in the south, has proved itself on this occa-
sion to be quite capable of being adapted for
the architecture of a tropical climate.
For British commentators, classicism was con-
sidered significantly “southern” for a tropical
climate – no further lessons needed to be learned
from the local built environment.
Criticism came swiftly, first from New Zea-
land architect Basil Ward (1902–1976), an early
proponent of British modernism, who delivered
a scathing indictment of Rangoon’s architecture
at the Rotary Club in January 1930, echoing the
derisive remarks about Belle Époque Saigon
Hébrard would make five years later. Ward re-
ferred to the European style buildings in the city
as “amazing encrustations of Architectural motifs
of a dozen dead styles,” and as being completely
unsuitable for the climate.104 His speech appeared
in the nationalist newspaper New Burma on
19 January 1930, where it caught the attention
of politician and legislative council member
U Ba Pe, an “ardent national spirit” who aimed
to “fight out the country’s freedom” according to
one contemporary, and who had helped found (in
1906) the “Young Men’s Buddhist Association,”
the only Burmese political association allowed
in the colony at the time (later the General Coun-
cil of Burmese Association), as well as Thuriya,
the first unambiguously political newspaper.105
Responding to British efforts to slow down the
process of granting Burma self-government Ba Pe
declared at the London Round Table: “Fitness
for self-government … is a matter of opinion …
Burma was a great power in the East until 50 years
ago when it was conquered by Britain. Why, then,
he inquired, should not Burma be able to run its
own affairs again?”106
Exactly what happened next with the Munici-
pal Offices has been obscured by the secondary
literature, mostly out of imprecision in its use of
primary sources (the same goes for the chronol-
ogy of the building, as all scholars claim that it
was still unfinished in 1930). In a speech to the
Legislative Council of Burma on 18 February 1930
Ba Pe asked that government make a policy of
incorporating features from Burmese structures
such as the temples of the ancient city of Pagan
into future large-scale government projects,
noting that he had already prevailed over oppos-
ition at the Municipal Council to have Bray’s
building radically amended by Burmese archi-
tect Sithu U Tin (1882–1972). I will discuss this
speech shortly. Except for a recent article by Pedro
Guedes (2020) which has referred back to the
original speech, all of the sources repeat the ver-
sion of events published by Sarah Rooney (2012),
who was the first to quote Ba Pe’s rejoinder to the
criticism that incorporating features from Burm-
ese temple architecture was inappropriate: “No
civic architecture in the world can be found that is
not founded on either ecclesiastical, monumental
or other religious architecture in other countries
from religious, monumental or royal edifices.”107
This quotation, which she misdates to 1925, is
repeated by Su Lin Lewis (2012, 2016), who cor-
rects the year (but gives the date as 20 January),
as well as Jayde Lin Roberts (2017, 2017), and
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
Guedes (2020), and all of them state that it was
during this meeting that U Tin convinced the
municipality to transform the building.108
However, as just noted, Ba Pe’s speech was
made after he had already won the concession
from the Municipal Council to hire U Tin to re-
design the Municipal Offices, and its main thrust
was therefore not to persuade the council to
agree to the change but to encourage it to incor-
porate Burmese features into major government
363
 buildings and to protect heritage structures. Also,
significantly, he received more criticism from
other Burman council members than he did from
Europeans – something never discussed in the
literature, which exclusively blames Europeans for
opposing the politician’s plans.
The speech is indeed fascinating and deserves
to be quoted at length. He begins by criticiz-
ing the Western-style architecture of his city:
“Everyone knows that in every country which
has architecture of its own, the Government of
that country tries to preserve it and to improve it
to its utmost ability. But here in Burma, looking
round, take for instance, Rangoon town itself, the
Government House, the Secretariat buildings, the
Port Commissioners’ buildings, the Municipal
building, Law Courts, the High Court, in fact,
everywhere you go, all the important buildings do
not incorporate any features of Burmese archi-
tecture.”109 He mentions that he consulted with
Ward directly (although not giving his name) and
that Ward pointed out that Western neoclassical
architecture was based on the religious architec-
ture of Greece, whereupon he made his famous
quote cited above, going on to remark, “So if it
is possible to develop civic architecture in other
countries from religious, monumental, or royal
foundations, why should it not be possible in
Burma also?”110 In justifying his program of archi-
tectural indigenization he referred specifically to
the Indo-Saracenic architecture of India, noting
that Burma had no such thing:
the architecture of empire
I want it to be the policy of Government
to incorporate Burmese architecture in all
important public buildings. […] I do not
see why there should be any objection to it.
They have the museum buildings in Bombay
with features of Indian architecture, and
the Great Indian Peninsular Railway Of-
fices. There is also a School of Art with a
364
Department for Architecture in Bombay.
Then, again, the great architect, Sir Edward
Luteyns [sic], has incorporated features of
Indian architecture into the Viceregal Lodge
and other buildings that are springing up in
New Delhi. That is the accepted policy of
the Government of Bombay and of India. I
want the Government of Burma to have the
same policy to incorporate Burmese archi-
tecture in all important Government build-
ings in the future. […] such a policy will
come into line with national sentiment.111
He allays any financial concerns by reporting
that the Burma Society of Architects was will-
ing to assist in this scheme gratis, and that they
even offered to host architectural competitions:
“when a building is to be erected by the Govern-
ment – I mean an important building, I am not
concerned with minor buildings – Government
should issue an advertisement calling for competi-
tive designs from architects, either in Burma or
outside Burma, stating very carefully and specif-
ically that the building should contain important
features of Burmese architecture. That will cause
a large number of architects all the world over to
come or to send in their designs, and the Society
of Architecture in Burma will be very glad to
co-operate with Government free of charge to
secure that end. […] It is up to the Government
now to formulate a policy that will admit of grad-
ual development of Burmese architecture on lines
suitable for modern requirements.”112 Perhaps
the most interesting part of this idea is that Ba
Pe had no issue with non-Burmans taking part in
the concours; indeed, he hoped that by bringing
in foreigners he would introduce the wonders of
Burmese architecture to the wider world.
U Tin, who had apprenticed to a Bombay
engineering firm and worked in the Rangoon
Public Works Department, was an ideal choice
for the overhaul of Bray’s structure. He was widely
praised for his design for the Burma Pavilion at
the 1921 British Empire Exhibition at Wembley,
London, significantly its “superstructure of high
and distinctive character.”113 One local news-
paper wrote at the time of the exhibition: “It is
safe to say that Burma will be one of the greatest
favourites among all the Overseas Pavilions. With
its wealth of brown teak-wood carving straight
from Burma and its delicate gilded pinnacles
hung with bells, which tinkle perpetually in the
wind, it is full of the enchantment of the East.”114
By the time Ba Pe was extolling U Tin’s archi-
tecture in Rangoon this “real thing in Burmese
architecture, having been sent all the way from
Rangoon to Wembley at a cost of £80,000,” was
shipped to Sydney in 1927, where it had a strange
afterlife as a Schweppes soda stand at the Sydney
Agricultural Showground.115 Despite all of the
praise won by this extraordinary pavilion, none of
the British or Australian newspapers – like their
counterparts in French Cambodia – mentioned
the architect by name.
Ba Pe spoke about U Tin and his design at
the February meeting, noting his success at the
British Empire Exhibition and stressing the
subtle ways in which his design linked the general
structure of a neoclassical building with Burmese
architecture. Perhaps to appease his opponents
he spoke modestly of U Tin’s design, but he held
the plan in his hands while he spoke (it had been
published in the Rangoon Times) and was clearly
proud of it:
At the Wembley Exhibition, Burmese archi-
tecture was admired and commented on
very favourably. That was the feeling I had
when I moved the Rangoon Corporation to
incorporate features of Burmese architecture
into the new extension. The Corporation
accepted my motion by a very substantial
majority, and they have asked a Burman
Engineer, by name U Tin, to produce suit-
able designs to meet modern requirements,
at the same time incorporating features of
Burmese architecture. It took him three
months to produce a design; I don’t say it is
the best in the world, yet it shows that, given
opportunity and encouragement, Burmese
architecture can be adapted to modern
requirements without in the least lessening
the beautiful effect of Burmese architecture.
This is the design (holds the design in his
hand), the perspective view of the design
produced by U Tin. At first sight, it looks as
if we are following the classical style: but if
hon’ble members will examine it carefully,
they will find that what are known as pylons
are not the reproduction of classical style,
but are copied from Pagan architecture.
Similarly, other features here in the design,
at first sight, resemble classical architecture,
but in effect it is pure and simple Burmese
and found in architecture which existed
in Pagan, Prome or Mandalay at present.
Sir, here in effect a Burman Engineer has
produced what is possible with Burmese
architecture. So the objection that it is not
possible to adapt Burmese architecture
to suit modern requirements is not well
founded. Architecture, as is well known, is
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
a science which is found only with people
when they have made certain advances in
civilization. […] Burma has, peculiar to
itself, special architecture; and it would be a
very sad thing to see that beautiful architec-
ture disappear from this country.116
His remark about modern requirements echoes
the concerns of many of the patrons and archi-
tects in this and the previous two chapters. It is
remarkable that the Municipal Council so readily
365
agreed to the change since Bray’s building had
already been completed and was the object of
such patriotic praise in the British press. U Tin’s
formidable challenge was to transform an existing
structure into one with an entirely different ap-
pearance. Judging by the plans and photographs
of the 1928 building, U Tin appears to have
encased the classical structure in an envelope of
new revetments, preserving the massing (central
portico, wings, plan) and even the spacing of the
columns, but meticulously concealing all traces
of European classicism except for the north (rear)
facade, which preserves Bray’s design. The lower
part of the building was now in a generic art deco
style with some Burmese and pan-Asian elements,
but it is dominated by smooth lines and wide ex-
panses of wall to offset the ornateness of the roof.
The primary innovation was the massive new
central roof structure over the main entrance
and turrets over the wings, which were placed
directly on top of Bray’s raised attics. They take
the form of a three-tier pyatthat, a form used in
Burmese temple and palace architecture com-
prising a multi-storey wooden roof of pyramidal
shape but rectangular plan with box-like sections
between the roofs and crowned with a spire.117
As it happens, a pyatthat roof was also the most
prominent feature of U Tin’s Wembley pavilion:
yet again the design for a hybrid building was
first tested out in an international exposition.
Although Ba Pe had wanted references to the
buildings of Pagan, such roofs could be found
directly across the street from City Hall, at the
ancient Sule Pagoda (begun fifth century bc , but
mostly nineteenth–twentieth century), which
the first British city planners had turned into a
roundabout and the focus of the Rangoon’s grid
of streets (fig. 9.30). Other Burmese features, such
9.30 (oppoSiTe ) Detail of a pyatthat roof, Sule Pagoda,
Rangoon, probably nineteenth century.
as peacocks and nagas, were added to the lower
part of the building as decorative accents. The
Rangoon Municipal Commission reported in
1935 that “The New City Hall is the first public
building of importance in which features of
Burmese architecture have been incorporated
with striking success. The building is worthy of
the metropolis and inaugurates a new era in secu-
lar Burmese Architecture.”118
City Hall is built on a rectangular plan with
a spacious central courtyard and three pavilions
on the south wing. The central one, the main
entrance, is crowned with the largest of the triple
pyatthat roofs flanked by four smaller pyatthat
turrets (figs. 9.28–9). The two pavilions at the cor-
ners, canted at a 45-degree angle, are flanked by a
pair of the same turrets, and there are two more at
the corners of the north wing. The principal motif
of the lower part of the building is a tall lancet
arch, which may have been inspired by multifoil
arches of ancient Pagan (e.g., on the Dham-
mayangyi Temple, late twelfth century) but their
subtler points suggest instead a Mughal source
(U Tin did work in India, after all).119 Three of
these stand over the main entrance marquee (they
are the grandest, with coved frames to give an
exaggerated sensation of depth), and three more
adorn the pavilion facing the Sula Pagoda to the
southwest, but the other corners have only a single
arch. Nine additional arches appear on the sides
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
of the building, and there are five more on either
side of the south portal, all crowned with attic
windows (not part of Bray’s design) flanked by
lotus panels and surmounted with a stylized lotus
band. High and narrow latticework panels with
scrolling foliate bands provide ventilation to the
main entrance, and similar latticework appears in
the spandrels of all but the three main arches. As
Roberts has pointed out, there is nothing about
the building below the roof to ameliorate the
“foreign quality” of this building.120 However the
367

9.31 Sithu U Tin, Central Railway Station, Rangoon,
1947–54.
pyatthat roof and turrets over the entrance pavil-
the architecture of empire
ions are striking in their complexity, their eaves
and gables shimmering with tiny tongues of flame
and their sinewy naga finials hearkening back to
a centuries-old tradition of decorating Buddhist
buildings in Southeast Asia. They also respond
very effectively to those in the Sula Pagoda oppos-
ite – in gilded wood instead of concrete – grace-
fully drawing together the sacred and secular hubs
of the city (fig. 9.30). U Tin’s roof is a dramatic
368
and original use of an ancient Burmese symbol
both of sanctity and of monarchical power, and it
demonstrates how well hybridity can function for
the colonized.
The proof of the effectiveness of U Tin’s
achievement was that his style survived independ-
ence and was used in the first buildings commis-
sioned by the new Burmese government. U Tin
was chosen to build the new Central Railway
Station (1947–54), independent Burma’s trans-
port hub which replaced its British antecedent
(1877), destroyed by retreating British troops in
1942.121 The largest building project in independ-
ent Burma at the time, and one of great strategic
importance, the Central Railway Station features
four lofty towers crowned with concrete pyat-
that turrets inspired by those at City Hall, but
this time brilliantly gilded like those at the Sula
Pagoda (fig. 9.31).122 Alfred Birnbaum, of the My-
anmar Historical Trust, describes the two build-
ings as “the most inspired examples of a syncretic
Myanmar style.”123 With its multiple towers,
higher turrets, and festive atmosphere (although
lacking the rich wood carving), the railway station
more faithfully resembles the Wembley pavilion
than did City Hall, which was, after all, a refit of
an earlier project. U Tin went on to design the
independence obelisk (1948) in the former Fytche
Square (now Mahabandula Garden), replacing
a statue of Queen Victoria, which was returned
to Britain. While the soaring, sword-like mod-
ernist structure makes no reference to traditional
Burmese architecture it does demonstrate that
the architect had come to embody the spirit of
independent Burma. Ba Pe’s success in radically
changing the outward appearance of the Rangoon
City Hall is the most pronounced example in
Southeast Asia of an indigenous community using
associationism to demand recognition of their
cultural identity: like a weapon developed by one
country only to be seized by its rival, the architec-
tural hybridity of newly independent Burma was
the fruit of nearly a century of attempts by col-
onial powers to repress Asian peoples by dressing
up colonialism in indigenous forms.
The End of an Empire
The French colonial empire dissolved quickly, as
did those of its European rivals, with the conclu-
sion of the Second World War. French Indochina,
which never lived to see its centenary, broke apart
in September 1945 after the unconditional sur-
render of the Japanese forces who had occupied
Vietnam since 1940. Although the Japanese had
initially left the French administration in place as
Vichy France was an Axis power, they were the de
facto rulers and finally overthrew the Indochinese
colonial administration in April 1945, granting
a token “independence” to Annam-Tonkin,
Cambodia, and Laos.124 The Free French forces
had declared in 1944 that they would reinstate
their empire in Asia, that “without an empire,
France was only a liberated country, but with its
empire, it would once again be a great power,”
even though France no longer had the means to
do so and Indochina’s economy had collapsed.125
Within hours of the Japanese surrender, the
communist leader Ho Chi Minh (1890–1969)
declared independence in North Vietnam, now
the Democratic Republic of Vietnam, leading
to the First Indochina War (1946–54). At first,
French officials convinced Ho to sign an agree-
ment (1946) to allow Vietnam to become a “Free
State” within an Indochinese Federation inte-
grated into the French Union, and they granted
the Lao and Cambodian monarchies, who were
antagonistic toward Vietnam, autonomy within
the Federation with the French as their pro-
tectors.126 However after a shooting incident in
Haiphong the French bombed and then occupied
the city as a prelude to conquering Tonkin in
December 1946 and war with the Viet Minh, the
army of North Vietnam, commenced.
Although France gained some territory in
Tonkin and Annam and won the alliance of the
Caodaists and of Phát Diệm and other Christian
enclaves as defence units, they failed to divide the
Viet Minh, who fought an increasingly effective
guerrilla war, particularly with the help of Com-
munist China after 1949. In 1950 the United
States became involved as part of their global
campaign against communism, granting France
military aid in their fight against the Viet Minh
(by 1953 they were supplying 40 per cent of all
military expenses), thus beginning their own long
involvement in Vietnam.127 But the Vietnam-
ese were moving beyond guerrilla warfare: the
reorganized People’s Army of Vietnam was now
able to fight a conventional war against outnum-
bered and insufficiently armed French exped-
itionary corps who were neglected by successive
French governments between 1950 and 1954 who
only helped them in a “piecemeal” fashion.128
French forces suffered a disastrous retreat from
Cao Bằng in 1950 and then a devastating defeat
at Điện Biên Phủ, near the Lao border, in 1954.
The latter ended the French colony of Indochina:
the Geneva Conference that same year divided
Vietnam into two zones along the seventeenth
parallel, the southern one now an independent
South Vietnam. Laos was divided in half between
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
the royal government and the Pathet Lao, who
were allied with Vietnam, and Cambodia alone
maintained its territorial integrity (including the
slice of Siam retroceded in 1907). Half a million
people died in the First Indochina War, but worse
was yet to come as the United States’ military
assistance to the South Vietnamese government
led to the Second Indochina War, better known as
the Vietnam War (1955–75).129
France lost its Indian possessions at
Pondicherry, Karikal, Mahé, Yanaon, and
369
 Chandernagore the same year. Pondicherry was
a shadow of its former self, and its main con-
tribution to empire was as a stop for the liners
that passed between Saigon and Marseille, the
Messageries Maritimes. Still, Pondicherry was
prosperous, owing to its textile mills, lax laws, and
flourishing smuggling trade in gold and precious
gems. However, the political situation became
“explosive” at the dawn of the Great War.130
Following the Third Republic’s reforms, inspired
by abolitionist Victor Schoelcher (1804–1893),
the “old” French territories, including India,
were given the right to vote as French citizens
but within the colonial government. Although
French India now had universal male suffrage, the
decades that followed were characterized by mas-
sive electoral fraud and violence between the two
electoral colleges, the “French” party and “Indian”
party. The seeming impossibility of applying
universal suffrage onto the caste system led France
just before the war to consider handing over its
Indian possessions to the British in exchange for
The Gambia or Nigeria.
France’s Indian colonies were also politically
active. French authorities granted refuge to
Indian independence fighters, particularly in
Chandernagore, which became a base for “ter-
rorist” activities within British Calcutta begin-
ning in 1907.131 Many of these freedom fighters
were inspired by Calcutta-born intellectual and
nationalist Sri Aurobindo (1872–1950), who fled
to Chandernagore in 1910 and then, in 1914, to
the architecture of empire
Pondicherry, where he spent the rest of his life.
In 1918 the French governor refused to hand him
over to Britain, largely because the government
had no control over their Indian fellow citizens.
Other revolutionaries and nationalists, such as the
poet Bharathidasan (1891–1964), took refuge in
Pondicherry, and Mahatma Gandhi (1869–1948)
visited in 1934. When in 1936 a strike at Savana
Mills was savagely suppressed by the French
370
regime, resulting in twelve deaths and dozens of
wounded, what had been a struggle for reforms
within the French system became an independ-
ence movement.132 After the Second World War,
during which French India remained, uniquely,
in the hands of the Free French, authorities began
reforms and even planned to hand the colonies
over to India. However, the First Indochinese
War changed everything as Pondicherry suddenly
became strategically vital to the campaign. The
government tried to assuage their Indian citizens
with electoral reforms, by making French India
part of the French Union, by creating a French
Indian Representative Assembly, and by renaming
the Governor as the Commissioner of the Repub-
lic.133 As a ploy to stay in power France tried to
hold a referendum on independence, but Indian
prime minister Jawaharlal Nehru (1889–1964),
who wanted “integration pure and simple,”
responded with a total blockade of Pondicherry
between 1949 and 1954, surrounding the enclave
with two rows of barbed wire and machine gun
emplacements, blocking bridges, and rendering
the postal service useless.134 Chandernagore had
already been handed back in 1951 and Yanaon
and Mahé were seized by Indian troops in 1954.
France relinquished its Indian colonies at the
same 1954 Geneva Conference that ended French
Indochina, with a de facto transfer of control that
year and a de jure prolongation of French admin-
istration until 1962.135
Monument to Cambodian Independence,
Phnom Penh (1962)
The same year that France relinquished its de
jure administration over its last Asian colony, the
Cambodian government inaugurated with great
fanfare a monument to Cambodian independence
in a roundabout at the crossing of two main thor-
oughfares in central Phnom Penh. Although built
by an independent nation that had just thrown
off the colonial yoke, the structure bore striking
similarities to the buildings we have examined in
the last three chapters and bore Groslier’s imprint.
It also recalls the Rangoon City Hall and Railway
Station in its combination of an indigenous-style
superstructure with a modernist substructure and
as a symbol of decolonization. And once again,
the monument owes a profound debt to the
pavilions made to represent the former protect-
orate at European international expositions, not
only stylistically and structurally, but – more
important still – ideologically. Its main architect,
Kampot-born Beaux-Arts graduate Vann Moly-
vann (1926–2017), like U Tin, was committed to
a regionally inflected modernism for Cambodia,
which he called “New Khmer Architecture” (La
nouvelle architecture khmère), although instead
of the by now outdated art deco forms of his
Burman colleague he championed international
modernism. Whereas U Tin had emulated the
pagodas of Pagan, Vann returned to the temples
in the Angkor Wat archaeological park – the very
monuments that had motivated France’s mania
for appropriating historic monuments in Indo-
china; the focus of the restoration activities of
efeo; the justification used for France’s land grab
of Siamese territory in 1907; the model for the
“pure” Khmer style taught in Groslier’s school;
and the most repeatedly replicated structures in
the Paris and Marseille expositions (fig. 7.6). No
complex of ancient monuments in French Asian
territories carried such an entangled web of ideo-
logical baggage.
Vann wrote his architectural manifesto early
on, while studying in Paris and living with the
radical Khmer Student Association in Paris (later
called the Khmer Rouge) – and while the French
were still in his country. In an Essai sur la culture
Khmère (1949), making a clear criticism of Gros-
lier’s reign over Cambodian arts production, he
declared: “It is not the question here to be satis-
fied with the imitation of existing forms through
their progressively rough stylization. And should
the Khmer continue to live its proper life by
voluntarily ignoring all the conditions of progress
and modern civilisation? A non-adaptation sig-
nifies, on the contrary, a certain death of culture.
We need a will for adaptation and predominantly
for creation … Khmer culture can reform itself by
combining existing with Occidental culture in all
its vitality.”136 His approach to Khmer antiquity,
which impacted so many of his buildings, was
not to preserve it in aspic as did Groslier and his
ilk but to seek a fusion between it and vernacu-
lar wooden pagoda and domestic architecture
(precisely the sort of structures Groslier despised)
on one hand, and Western architectural and
technological advances on the other, “a modern
interpretation of Angkor’s built legacy.”137 His
most celebrated works did just that: using clean
lines, expanses of glass, and unadorned reinforced
concrete walls, commissions such as the Chakto-
muk Conference Hall (1961) and National Sports
Complex (1963) in Phnom Penh drew upon
Angkor’s juxtaposition of negative (water) and
positive (earthen) volumes and between larger
well-lit halls and smaller, darker rooms, and they
made subtle references to earlier structures such
as the staircases of Pre Rup and the spires of the
Royal Palace.138
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
Although his most famous work, the In-
dependence Monument (1957–62), is in fact
the least characteristic of his New Khmer style
because it does not engage with international
modernism but instead with the generic art
deco of his predecessors. Vann had to follow the
directives of prime minister and former king
Norodom Sihanouk (1922–2012), for whom the
monument was the most important expression of
his propaganda campaign – he presented himself
as a present-day Suryavarman II (ad 1113–1150),
371
the mastermind of Angkor Wat – and the design
was a group effort among different architects and
craftsmen. Soon after Vann’s return to Cambodia
in 1956 (when he married the daughter of Henri
Marchal, the efeo conservator of Angkor Wat),
Vann was anointed as Sihanouk’s “state and
star architect,” with the rank of Grand croix de
l’ordre royal du Cambodge. In keeping with his
government’s program of linking itself to ancient
Angkor, Sihanouk declared that Vann was “as
worthy a builder as our Angkorian ancestors.”139
As Michael Falser has shown, Vann’s use of
Angkorian motifs and structures in his work
turns the “classic ‘salvage paradigm’” of the French
upside down, reclaiming Angkor as Cambodian
patrimony.140
Located at the crossing of Norodom and
Sihanouk boulevards, the monument was one
of Vann’s earliest commissions upon returning
to Cambodia (fig. 9.32). Although the building
is usually attributed to him alone and he was the
chief architect during most of its construction,
the monument involved many different design-
ers, sculptors, engineers, and builders, reflecting
a kind of collaborative approach akin to that of
the colonial pavilions at French international
expositions.141 In fact the basic outlines of the
project were first developed by Tan Veut, the
Battambang-born architect of the Khmer-style
funerary stupas in the Royal Palace (1961), whose
plans and elevations from January 1957, discov-
ered by Michael Falser, show a classical Khmer-
style tower (prasat) on a square base supported by
four massive piers on a stepped platform.142 Other
builders included the Vietnamese Du Ngoc Anh
from Saigon and Ing Kieth, both of them engin-
eers working for the Department of Bridges and
9.32 (oppoSiTe ) Tan Veut, Vann Molyvann, and others,
Monument to Cambodian Independence, Phnom Penh,
completed 1962. Photograph courtesy Michael Falser.
Roads, Seng Suntheng, and U Som Ol, the latter
a palace architect. Tan Veut worked in the official
capacity of a decorative sculptor, together with
Chieng Suon. Vann took over the project early in
1959. Although the monument had been begun
four years after independence, construction was
delayed because of unstable soil on the work site.
The Independence Monument immediately
recalls the French Angkor Wat replicas at the
colonial expositions, and although it is not an
ephemeral structure it is not as solid as it appears.
Like the Angkor replicas it is built over an inner
structural skeleton (of reinforced concrete instead
of the wood framework of the French pavilions)
and is faced with Chinese marble revetments
(as opposed to the pavilions’ lightweight fibre
mouldings).143 The tower looks like it is made of
stone, but the illusion was achieved by adhering
crushed blood-red marble to the exterior (to
give it the same colour as its classical models), a
decision explicitly requested by Sihanouk, who
paid close personal attention to this commission.
In another similarity to the exposition facsimiles,
it combines elements from different structures in
a pastiche. The stepped platform and entablatures
dividing the tiers of the tower are richly carved
with Khmer decorative motifs from Banteay Srei
(like their French predecessors Veut and his team
took moulds on site), and the five stepped levels
of the tower are decorated each with twenty naga
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
snake figures divided into groups of five. The main
tower emulates another ancient Khmer model,
the ninth-century Bakong Temple in Rolous
near Angkor. It adheres quite closely to Veut’s
project, although the lotus finial at the top has
been altered and the European-style balustrade
has been removed. The four piers are superim-
posed by plain pilasters that project forward to
meet the rectangular openings at each side, and in
fact the way the heavily decorated superstructure
contrasts with clean lines below – not to mention
373
 the colour of the walls – recalls the Musée Al-
bert-Sarraut, which is only 1.5 kilometres away.
Norodom Boulevard, running north from the
Independence Monument, ends at Wat Phnom,
allowing for a direct juxtaposition of Cambodia’s
ancient past with its future.
In what is perhaps the greatest irony of all,
this statement of Cambodian identity was also
inspired – as Vann openly admitted in an inter-
view – by the Arc de Triomphe in Paris (begun
1806), another monumental arch-like structure in
a roundabout with radiating boulevards, but, as a
manifestation of France’s imperial ambitions, an
odd choice indeed for a structure specifically built
to celebrate Cambodia’s freedom from French
imperialism.144 The Independence Monument
was Sihanouk’s showcase. It became the focus of
the ceremonial life of his regime, especially his
spectacular annual processions on Independence
Day, it was regularly featured on the covers of
propagandistic publications, and foreign digni-
taries of all stripes were inevitably taken there
for photographic opportunities, from Charles
de Gaulle to Marshal Tito.145 The monument
survived the coup d’état of 1970 and the devas-
tation of the Khmer Rouge and continues to be
a required tourist stop and favourite location for
photo portraits today – although instead of world
leaders it mainly attracts Cambodian graduation
parties or Chinese visitors taking “selfies” – but
the once-dominant structure, once the highest
structure in the neighbourhood, is now dwarfed
the architecture of empire
by twenty-first-century high-rise buildings dis-
playing distracting led displays day and night in
this rapidly expanding city that seems determined
to forget its past.
If there is one thing the heterogeneous buildings
surveyed in this book demonstrate, it is the
inadequacy of the term “colonial architecture” in
the context of French activities in India and
374
Southeast Asia in the early modern and modern
eras. This is true even in a study such as this
one that focuses primarily on large-scale public
architecture, precisely the buildings that we
would expect to represent most unequivocally
the goals of French overseas imperialism. In my
book on French architecture in the Atlantic
empire – which admittedly encompassed seventy-
two fewer years – there was a remarkable unity in
the projects designed and built in the colonies:
a persistently stubborn refusal to adapt to in-
digenous forms and a consistently ancien-régime
classical baroque style that characterized most
public architecture, gardens, and urban schemes
in North America, the Circum-Caribbean, and
West Africa. This unity was possible mostly –
although not completely – because, unlike in
most Asian colonies, French military engineers
designed most of the buildings. In Asia, while
French colonial agents attempted the same thing
at certain times – as in seventeenth-century
Chandernagore, eighteenth-century Pondicherry,
and Belle Époque Indochina – they did not have
the same capacity overall to impose French forms
onto their colonies and protectorates, not to
mention the diplomatic and Catholic missions
that operated outside French zones in Siam, Surat,
and Đại Việt. Architectural hybridity, whether
generated by non-Europeans or engineered by
colonial architects, was far more prevalent than
in France’s Western Hemisphere colonies. Indeed,
the architecture in this book represents a verit-
able hothouse of hybridities, arguably an even
wider variety than I have encountered in decades
of work on colonial Latin America and Portu-
guese Asia.
In fact in the late nineteenth and early twen-
tieth centuries French colonies in Asia were less
successful in promoting a unified French archi-
tectural style – or in replicating the experience of
being in Paris – than were independent nations
in other parts of the non-European world. It is in-
structive to compare even the most overtly French
architecture in Asia, such as that of turn-of-the-
century Saigon, Hanoi, and Haiphong, with that
of the wealthy young republics of South America,
the opera houses of which I have already discussed
in chapter 6. Countries such as Argentina, Chile,
Brazil, and Peru all championed a French Beaux-
Arts style, and hired French Beaux-Arts graduates
straight out of school, the same sort of architect
who might have chosen instead to work in a
French colony and for similar reasons: a lack of
opportunity at home, a personal need to depart
France, or simply a taste for adventure. Indeed,
France’s Asian colonies and Latin America were
already entangled in a network of globe-trotting
Beaux-Arts graduates – one might even charac-
terize these men as being among France’s most
successful export commodities. Some we have
met in this book, such as Eugène Carpezat or
Eugène Ferret, both of whom gained or sought
contracts in French colonies and Latin America
alike (in Brazil and Cuba, respectively). Others,
like Ernest-Amédeé Guichard of the Théâtre de
Saigon, belonged to prominent French immigrant
communities in Latin America who considered it
the greatest privilege to send one of their own to
study at the Beaux-Arts in Paris. Fifteen years after
Guichard left Peru, another French Beaux-Arts
graduate, Claude-Antoine Sahut (1883–1932),
from Montpellier, travelled in the opposite
direction. Arriving in Lima in 1905, he helped
transform new suburbs such as La Colmena into
a network of wide Parisian boulevards lined with
Second Empire–style mansions.146 9.33 (Top ) Louis Martin and Jules Dormal, Palacio
However, Argentina and Chile took galliciz- Pareda, Buenos Aires (Argentina), 1917–24.
ation to a new level, commissioning gargantuan 9.34 (BoTTom ) Miguel Angel de la Cruz Labarca, Palacio
private residences (appropriately called “palacios”) Subercaseaux, Santiago (Chile), 1901.
like the Palacio Pareda (1917–24) (fig. 9.33)
by Parisian architect Léonard-Louis Martin
(1867–1941) and his Belgian Beaux-Arts colleague

375
 Jules Dormal (1846–1924) and the Palacio Ortiz
Basualdo (1912–18) by Dijon architect Paul Pater
(1879–1966), both in Buenos Aires. The latter is
now, appropriately, the French embassy.147 Santi-
ago’s signature example of Beaux-Arts opulence is
Henault’s Teatro Municipal (fig. 6.17), and such
buildings proliferated at the turn of the century
with the grand French-style railway station, the
Estación Mapocho (1905), and the Museo de
Bellas Artes (begun 1901), both by Franco-
Chilean architect and Beaux-Arts graduate Émile
Jéquier (1866–1949) – another scion of a French
immigrant family. The greatest of all is the Palacio
Subercaseaux (1901), a fifteen-bay behemoth
across the square from the theatre, built in an
eclectic Louis XV style, with a lofty mansard
roof and rococo ornament by Miguel Ángel de
la Cruz Labarca, a Chilean Beaux-Arts graduate
(fig. 9.34).148 Chile also boasted several metal
frame buildings that had been manufactured
entirely in France, including the Edificio Edwards
(1892) in Santiago by Eugène Joannon (1860–
1938) and the Cathedral of San Marcos (1875)
and Customs House in Arica (1871–74), both
prefabricated in Paris by Eiffel & Company.149
Like the Beaux-Arts graduates, Gustave Eiffel’s
prefabricated structures enjoyed a global impact,
and were found in Latin America and French
Indochina alike (for instance, Eiffel & Company
designed the grand Pont des Messageries Mari-
times in Saigon in 1882 and restored the Trường
Tiền Bridge in Huế in 1939).150
the architecture of empire
In Buenos Aires and its Argentine rival Ros-
ario, these buildings were incorporated into
Parisian-inspired streetscapes, with grand boule-
vards such as Buenos Aires’s Avenida de Mayo or
9 de Julio (at 140 metres the widest avenue in the
world) or Rosario’s five-kilometre-long Bulevar
Oroño, as well as ronds-points with diagonally
radiating streets, and obelisks. Owing to the scale
and sheer abundance of such buildings, these
376
South American cities did a better job of emu-
lating the grandeur of Belle-Époque Paris and
promoting the French “brand” than did Saigon or
Hanoi, which retained a provincial air despite all
the bluster of the municipal councils. Saigon may
have amused anglophone critics with its similar-
ity to a small French seaside city – or indeed to a
group of exposition pavilions – but Buenos Aires
continues to astonish visitors with the degree
to which certain neighbourhoods replicate the
experience of being in Paris, its broad avenues
lined with five- to nine-storey Haussmann-style
buildings (although more recent demolition and
new construction have radically changed the
appearance of some areas). Even the French were
impressed: a patriotic article from 1920 in the
architectural journal La Construction moderne
had nothing but praise for Gallic Buenos Aires,
It is a beautiful city, of which the streets are
drawn in a straight line, paved and bor-
dered by wide sidewalks. Without counting
the gardens and the promenades planted
with trees, the city has a magnificent park,
Palermo, by the sea, on the road that leads to
the rich villas of the buenos-airienne suburb.
The Argentine [...] is [...] very sensitive to all
manifestations of art, particularly French
art. We have the good fortune to reproduce
[…] buildings recently built in Buenos-Aires.
The author, Mr. Luis Martin [sic], a talented
architect, was inspired by our great styles
of the 18th century and knew how to make
excellent use of them.151
Walking the streets of Buenos Aires, one might
even conclude that France was doing a better job
colonizing the built environment of independent
nations through its architectural school, archi-
tects, and prefabricated structures than it was
doing in its own colonies, further complicating
our definition of “colonial architecture.”152
Colbert’s ghost – the former minister was always
more interested in exporting French products and
style than in colonization – would have been very
pleased indeed.
As we have seen throughout this book, the
buildings of the French colonies in Asia also
differed dramatically according to the era and
place in which they were constructed. There were
commonalities between certain episodes in the
old and new empires (and, at times, between the
ancien régime Western and Eastern hemisphere
empires), but they are outnumbered by differ-
ences – not simply distinctions between the early
modern and modern period but even within each
epoch. The divergences do not just relate to what-
ever style happened to be in fashion in Paris and
Versailles at the time the monuments were built
but, more importantly, to the kind and degree
of hybridity that so many of them manifested,
from invisible hybridities in which a completely
French-looking building hosted Asian ceremonial
and court culture or vice versa to the strategic
hybridities of associationism and the extraordin-
ary variety of Asian-driven hybridities, from the
seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Siamese
temple pediments of chapter 3 to the multiple
cultural fusions surveyed in this chapter – includ-
ing ones in which the “French” elements were read
as being Siamese, Chinese, or simply modern.
European neoclassicism siphoned through Siam
became Siamese and the neoclassicism and art
deco of the domestic architecture of Chinese
communities in Southeast Asia were claimed as
Chinese. Vollait has remarked about a similar
interaction of forms in Belle Epoque and modern-
ist architecture in Egypt: “Something simultan-
eously familiar but alien to European architecture
and familiar but alien to traditional architecture,
had been born at the intersection of local aspir-
ations to European modernity and the social
requirements of late Ottoman domesticity.”153 The
architecture of the French empire in Asia when
viewed on the ground was a world apart from the
impression colonial authorities projected in the
metropole and that was entertained by the French
public – the universal expositions are a sharp re-
minder of this difference, all patriotic boosterism
and unity in France, but papering over a fractured,
violent reality, as embodied by the quotation from
the Indochinese section of the 1900 Paris Univer-
sal Exposition in chapter 1.
Nevertheless, as we have seen repeatedly in
the second half of this book, modern indigenous
architectural hybridities developed precisely in
the celebratory environment of the international
expositions and their pavilions, where they were
paradoxically embraced by Asian groups and
individuals (some of whom had been employed
to design and build those very pavilions) as an
assertion of self-identity and anti-colonialism.
In particular the juxtaposition of an Asian roof
with modern substructures became, in Southeast
and East Asia, a prototypical challenge to Euro-
pean perceived superiority and exceptionalism,
whether in late nineteenth-century Siam (which
had participated in international expositions
since the 1870s), or through the designs of the
graduates of the École des Beaux-Arts de Hanoi,
U Tin’s transformation of City Hall in Burma,
Vann Molyvann’s New Khmer Architecture, or
iNDiA AND SouTheAST ASiA 1738–1962
the Bunriha Kenchikukai, all of whom claimed
universal contemporary architecture – variously
neoclassicism and baroque revival, art deco, or
modernism – for themselves. The architecture
of the French empire in Asia has as much to do
with the colonized as the colonizer: as Roger Ben-
jamin writes about North African painters who
participated in the twentieth-century Orientalist
movement, “A visual technology like painting, im-
planted in a colonial situation, becomes available
to users other than those who imported it. Like
377
 language, it can talk back to the colonizer.”154 The
same is true of architecture.
Above all, the monuments in this book are the
product of individuals, of the people who com-
missioned, designed, built, and used them. I have
focused on the lives of the architects and builders
because we cannot fully appreciate the buildings
without getting to know them. This field has
been particularly hampered by anonymity: with
few exceptions these buildings have been treated
as if they were simply a product of monolithic
institutions, whether the cio or the Indochinese
municipalities – and of faceless surnames. But, as
we have seen, knowing the architect can be very
revealing. The Beaux-Arts opulence of the Théâtre
de Saigon certainly reflects the taste of the city
government, but it is also quite personal: Eugène
Ferret favoured an overblown “Côte d’Azur” style
(to borrow Arnhold’s term) and may even have
taken the commission in the hope that the Indo-
chinese building could serve as a calling card for
what he really wanted to do, which was to build
casinos in the Riviera. Auguste Delaval’s Musée
Blanchard-de-la-Brosse in Saigon would not have
looked the way it did if he did not have a sincere,
if romanticized, appreciation for Vietnamese
architecture, as demonstrated by the playfulness
of the building’s ornamentation and his substan-
tial legacy of watercolours of Vietnamese scenes
and buildings now at Hennebont – and perhaps
even by sympathies for Caodaism, which might
be another reason Lê Văn Trung contacted him.
The ArchiTecTure of empire
Phaulkon’s ambassadors’ residence and Chapel
of Notre-Dame-de-Lorette in Lopburi were an
378
expression of his place at the axis of Franco-
Siamese diplomacy and of his hope that France
would protect him, and Ananda’s autobiograph-
ical house in Pondicherry similarly proclaimed
the indispensability of his position within the
colonial system. Khuôn Nguyen Van – French-
trained, half-Vietnamese, and Catholic but
steeped in Cambodian palace culture – created
a building that combined modern engineering
with local identity. The list goes on: King Narai,
Nguyễn Ánh, Charles Batteur, Père Six, Phạm
Công Tắc, Chánh Hậu, Pha Khamfan Silasang-
varo, and Oknha Tep Nimit Mak all imposed
their personalities on their buildings, whether as
patron, designer, or executing architect.
Just as empires involved people from every
walk of life – colonizers and colonized, elites and
workers, metropolitans and settlers, missionaries
and merchants, loyalists and rebels – the architec-
ture they commissioned, created, or used reflected
the multiplicity of goals and aspirations of these
actors even within one time and place (think
of N. Tô’s call for a less alienating hybridization
than Hébrard’s or Tha Sơn’s alternative vision for
Vietnamese architecture from that of the ebai ).
It is precisely their uses of style, including a wide
spectrum of intersecting, at time conflicting,
but – in the case of so many of the buildings in
this book – extraordinarily original and creative
hybridities, that make these structures such
fascinating examples of cross-cultural dialogue
that deserve to be acknowledged alongside their
better-known counterparts in Latin America and
elsewhere in Asia.
 notes

c hA pTer o N e

1 Only one is dated, by Dumont, and only two are signed, one by Dumont
and the other by Fonbrun. The seven presentation drawings are: Archives
Nationales d’Outre-Mer, Aix-en-Provence (hereafter anom ), 26dfc 78c ,
“Façades du gouvernement de Pondichery du côté de l’entrée” (signed
“fait Champia de Fonbrun sous-lieutenant d’infant”); its companion
26dfc 79b , “Plan du gouvernement de Pondichery”; 26dfc 80a (here
attributed to Fonbrun); “Plan et élévation du gouvernement de Pondi-
chéry” (inscribed “1755”; here attributed to Dumont); 26dfc 81a , “Plan
et élévation du gouvernement de Pondichéry” (signed “Dumont 1755”);
26dfc 84a , “Arrière façade du gouvernement de Pondichéry” (here
attributed to Fonbrun); 26dfc 85a , “Coupe et arrière-façade du gou-
vernement de Pondichéry” (here attributed to Dumont); and 26dfc 87a ,
“Coupe et arrière façade du gouvernement de Pondichéry” (here attrib-
uted to Dumont).
2 “Une des plus belles que les Européens ayent jamais bâti dans l’Inde …
[le] gouvernement … sera très beau si on l’achève.” Anonymous mémoire
in Société de l’histoire de l’Inde française, Publications de la Société, 2–3.
On the Gouvernement see: Steiner, Building the French Empire, 55–7;
Malangin, Pondicherry That Was Once French India, 42; Deloche, “Pon-
dichéry, un urbanisme raisonné,” 168–70; Luengo, “Arquitecturas para
un poder lejano,” 479–94; Deloche, introduction to Pondicherry Past and
Present, 4; Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 70–6; Lafont, Chitra, 80–3;
Baig et al., Reminiscences, 31; Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry,
25–36; Ramaswami, History of Pondicherry, 68; Labernadie, Le vieux Pon-
dichéry 1673–1815, 196–200; Alfred Martineau, Dupleix et l’Inde française,
1722–1749 II (Paris 1920), 84–6.
3 For full biographies of these men, see chapter 4.
4 No projects by the royal engineers working for the French government
had their work immortalized in engravings, unlike civic architects. See
Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 148.
5 Ibid., 162–72. On French Royal Engineers see Blanchard, Les ingénieurs
du “Roy,” 181–213; Robinet, “L’École royale du Génie de Mézières,”
267–70.
 6 The two plans by Gerbaud are inscribed “fait à
Pondichery le 15. Janvier 1738. Pour copie Gerbaud.”
anom, 26dfc21b , “Plan au rez-de-chaussée du
gouvernement projetté”; and 26dfc 22b , “Plan du
premier, ou bel étage, du gouvernement projetté.”
Gerbaud was born and died in Pondicherry but
served in Île de France (Mauritius) in 1731–32 as
“inspecteur des travaux de l’Isle de France,” marrying
second wife Marie Magdelaine Martin on 11 June
1732. anom , Île de France, Saint-Louis, “Extraits du
regître des baptêmes, mariages et sépultures (1732),”
f.6b (second marriage). His first wife, Françoise
Elizabeth Severin, died sometime before that
date, probably in Île de France since their daugh-
ter Elizabeth remained on the island, marrying in
1743. anom , Île de France, Saint-Louis, “Extraits
du regître des baptêmes, mariages et sépultures”
(1743), 29b (14 November 1743). Gerbaud married
his third wife, the fourteen-year-old Louise Bressy
from Quimper in 1744, two years before his death.
anom, “Doubles des registres des Mariages faits
dans l’Eglise paroissiale de Notre Dame des Anges de
Pondichéry de l’année 1719 jusqu’à 1748,” f.127. Ger-
baud’s father was in the service of the Compagnie
des Indes and his mother an Indian convert from
Hinduism “fille de père et mères gentils” who was
“fille de chambre de Mad. la généralle” (a domestic
in the household of the wife of Governor François
Martin). I have been unable to find Gerbaud’s
birth record, only that of his sister Marianne, born
28 October 1710. anom , “Double du Registre des
Mariages de la Chapelle et de l’Eglise de St Lasare
et de Notre Dame des Anges des R. P. Capucins
de Pondichéry depuis l’an 1687: Jusqu’au 1719,” f.2
(parents’ marriage); anom , “Double du Registre
de Baptême de la chapelle et de l’Eglise de St. Lasare
des R.P. Capucins de Pondichery depus l’an 1676
jusqu’en 1718,” f.27 (sister’s birth). Gerbaud fils wit-
nessed marriages in Pondicherry in 1723, 1725, and
NoTeS To pAge 5
1736. anom , “Doubles des registres des Mariages
faits dans l’Eglise paroissiale de Notre Dame des
Anges de Pondichéry de l’année 1719 jusqu’à 1748,”
ff.8, 11, 62; anom , “Double du registre des enter-
rements de l’église paroissiale de Notre Dame des
Anges de Pondicherry de l’année 1746 jusqu’à 1748,
f.26 (death notice). On Gerbaud’s time in Île de
380
France see also Bechet, Les défricheurs de l’Île de
France, 89.
7 Le Bozecq (also Boisecq, Boizec, Bozec) does not
appear in the secondary literature. He was born
in Saint-Armel, near the naval port of Lorient
(Brittany), on 15 August 1694 and reached Pondi-
cherry sometime before 11 January 1723, when he
married Marie Royer (d. 1731), at which time he
was described as “charpentier du Fort Louis.” In
the birth certificate of their daughter Marie Madel-
aine (9 November 1723) he is called a “maître
charpentier”; at the birth of his daughter Louise
(9 September 1728) he is titled “charpentier de la
Compagnie”; and by the time Marie Madelaine was
married (18 November 1737) he had been promoted
to a “Lieutenant de port,” the same title he held at
the time of his daughter Françoise’s marriage on
17 May 1742, the last time his name appears in the
archives. Archives de Morbihan, Ploemeur bap-
têmes, mariages, sépultures 1690–1697, 28b; anom ,
“Double de registre des enterrements de l’Eglise
paroissiale de Notre Dame des Anges de Pondichéry
de l’année 1719 jusqu’à 1748,” 7, 27, 73, 108.
8 Neither Abeille nor Jean Roze dit Du Frêne (see next
note) appears in the secondary literature. Jean-
Joseph Abeille was the second son of Joseph Abeille
(b. 1703), author of a plan for the Canal de Bour-
gogne and nominated ingénieur en chef in the recon-
struction of Rennes following a fire that devastated
the city. His older brother Louis-Paul (b. 1717) was
a member of the parliament and inspector-general
of commerce and manufactures; he was ennobled
in 1787. Jean-Joseph arrived in Pondicherry in 1742,
and in 1750 he married Pondicherry native Bri-
gitte Lerride, who was fifteen at the time. After the
restoration he became a counsellor in the Superior
Council but was made redundant in 1772 because
of budget cuts. His brother, writing to the Ministry
of the Marine to have him reinstated (unsuccess-
fully), wrote this about him: “Il connait très-bien le
Commerce & l’administration de l’Inde. Fils d’un
ingénieur du Roi, l’architecture civile, les fortifica-
tions, l’art de l’attaque & de la défense des places ne
soit point pur lui des matières étrangères.” anom ,
col e1, “Abeille, Jean-Joseph, Conseilleur au Con-
seil supérieure de Pondichéry 1769/72,” letter written
 from Paris on 2 February 1772. Abeille’s marriage
register, from 21 August 1750 is in anom , “Doubles
du registre des mariages de l’Eglise paroissiale notre
dame des anges de Pondichéry des rr.pp . Capucins
pour l’année 1750,” f.2b. For more on Abeille’s and
his brother’s background see d’Est-Ange, Diction-
naire des familles françaises, 2.
9 On Jean Roze dit Du Frêne, from La Haye-d’Ectot
(Manche), see the same document, f.90 (his marriage
of 21 September 1740, when he was styled “maitre
menuisier de la Compagnie”); and f.162 (when
he was a witness at a marriage of 10 June 1748 and
called “maitre charpentier de la Compagnie”). On
20 February 1753, his daughter Michelle married,
at which time Roze was again called “maitre char-
pentier de la Compagnie.” His last appearance in
the archives before the completion of the palace was
on 6 May 1754, when he was a witness at a wedding.
anom, “Doubles du registre des mariages de l’Eglise
paroissiale notre dame des anges de Pondichéry des
rr.pp. Capucins pour l’année 1753,” f.1b; “Doubles
du registre des mariages de l’Eglise paroissiale notre
dame des anges de Pondichéry des rr.pp . Capucins
pour l’année 1754,” f.3a. See also anom , col e 359,
“Roze, Jean, maître charpentier à Pondichéry, sa
succession (1760/1777).” Jacques Hernault was born
2 July 1712 in Pondicherry to a French father and
Indian Christian mother and married a woman from
Madras on 17 July 1742, when he was described as
a “menuisier.” The wedding was witnessed by Jean
Roze. anom , “Doubles du registre des baptêmes de
l’Eglise paroissiale notre dame des anges de Pondi-
chéry des rr.pp . Capucins pour l’année 1712,” f.35;
anom, “Doubles du registre des mariages de l’Eglise
paroissiale notre dame des anges de Pondichéry des
rr.pp. Capucins pour l’année 1719 jusqu’à l’année
1748,” f.109.
10 On Fort St George, which was founded in 1695, see
Kalpana and Schiffer, Madras, 25–35.
11 Deloche, “Pondichéry, un urbanisme raisonné,” 169.
12 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 33.
13 In 1720 there were 117,411 enslaved people in Saint-
Domingue, a number that rose to 709,642 in 1791.
Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 96.
14 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 238.
15 Beasley, Versailles Meets the Taj Mahal, 32.
16 Malangin, Pondicherry That Was Once French
India, 22.
17 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 287–97
18 Ibid., 346, 375, 465.
19 Le Brusq, Vietnam à travers de l’architecture coloniale,
49.
20 Le Monde illustré, 23 February 1884, 118.
21 Davies, “Achille-Antoine Hermitte,” 201–16; Le
Brusq, Vietnam, 49; Delaire, Les architectes élèves de
l’Ecole des beaux-arts, 293.
22 “Tous les travaux autres que les ouvrages artistiques
seraient exécutes par les ouvriers du pays, mais ceux
tels que sculptures, peinture de décors, dorures devai-
ent faits par les ouvriers et artistes que l’entrepreneur
serait tenu de prendre en France.” Ho Chi Minh
City, Vietnam National Archives Centre Number
2 (hereafter vnac 2), 3510, Governor’s Palace of
Cochinhina, “Étude pour la construction du Palais
du Gouvernement a Saigon, Mémoire” (25 February
1866), 2a.
23 Le Monde illustré, 23 February 1884, 118.
24 I arrived at this calculation by converting the
amount in francs to pounds sterling according to
its rate in 1880, when the franc was pegged at 25
to the pound, which came to £200,000 pounds
(Irene Finel-Honigman, Cultural History of Finance
[Milton Park, 2010], 115). Then, using the National
Archives’ historic currency converter website
(https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/currency-
converter), which only calculates sterling, I
converted £200,000 in 1880s currency to its value
today (actually, 2017, the most recent year of the
site). It came to £13,236,940. Then I used Oanda’s
currency converter (https://www1.oanda.com/
currency/converter/) to translate that amount into
euros, which gave me the figure of €15,534,000 for
5 August 2021. All websites were accessed 5 August
2021.
NoTeS To pAgeS 5–12
25 Davies, “Achille-Antoine Hermitte,” 210.
26 The first nine sculptures are explained in this letter
dated 15 June 1869 from Minister of the Interior
Jean-Michel Siquet: “Monsieur le Gouverneur,
Monsieur le Chef du Service des Bâtiments civils
vient de m’accuser un projet de construction pour
le grand Salon de Réception du nouveau palais du
Gouvernement. Cet Architecte pense que le seul
381
 moyen d’orner convenablement cette immense salle
en lui donnant toute la grandeur que comporte
l’ensemble de l’édifice, est d’y placer des bustes en
marbre blanc. La disposition de la Salle permettait
d’en orner neuf. Les six places du fond servent
naturellement retrouvés ces membres de la famille
Impériale, et les autres devenait je crois de occupées
par les trois hommes qui ont le plus contribués à
doter la patrie de cette belle colonie de Cochin-
chine: je veux parler de Son Excellence l’Amiral
Régault, qui a la gloire de l’avoir découverte et d’y
avoir planté le premier, le pavillon de la France; de
l’Amiral Charner qui l’a ouverte à notre civilisation
après une série d’actions d’éclat; enfin, de S. Excel-
lence le Marquis de Chasseloup Laubat, qui, dans
les conseils du Gouvernement, la soutienne avec une
énergie et un dénouement dont elle lui garde
une profonde reconnaissance. […] M. l’Architecte
estime la dépense a environ 50000 francs. Je suis
avec profond respect Monsieur le Gouverneur, votre
très-obéissant serviteur: le Ministre de l’Intérieur.”
(signed Jean-Michel Siquet). vnac 2, 3510, Govern-
or’s Palace of Cochinhina.
27 Taboulet, “Les bustes en marbre,” 26–9.
28 Paris Exposition, 1900, 328–9.
29 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism.
30 On these “zone[s] of non aedificandi,” pioneered in
Morocco and not only separating “old” and “new”
parts of town and different races but also serving
a military function to allow rapid mobilization of
French troops, see Wright, “Tradition in the Service
of Modernity,” 301.
31 For the literature on urbanism in French Asia see, in
particular: Bảo, Kiến trúc, 7–36; Herbelin, Archi-
tectures; Drummond, “Colonial Hanoi”; Labbé et
al., “Domesticating the Suburbs”; Jennings, Im-
perial Heights; Askew et al., Vientiane; Manguin,
Le patrimoine indochinois; Deloche, Origins of the
NoTeS To pAgeS 12–23
Urban Development; Deloche, Le papier terrier; Van
Ky, “The French Model”; Cooper, “Urban Planning
and Architecture”; Le Brusq, Vietnam à travers
l’architecture colonial; Logan, Hanoi; Wright, The
Politics of Design.
32 To give just two examples, both by intach :
Architectural Heritage of Pondicherry and the
as-yet-unpublished “Pondicherry Listing Book,”
382
2 vols. Similar in nature is Hervé Desbenoit’s survey
of heritage architecture in Ho Chi Minh City:
Patrimoine architectural d’Ho Chi Minh Ville.
33 Herbelin, Architectures; Herbelin, “Construire”; Le
Brusq, Vietnam à travers l’architecture colonial.
34 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 7. See also
Agmon, A Colonial Affair, 5.
35 Darwin, Unfinished Empire, xi–xii.
36 Herbelin, “Construire,” 173.
37 Comprador, or compradoric style, derived from Chi-
nese mercantile architecture and was plain, practical,
and predominantly neoclassical in style. See chapter
9. However, when Henri Coucherousset uses the
term “style comprador” he refers to the work of the
Indochinese Service des bâtiments civils. Coucher-
ousset, “L’École des Beaux Arts.”
38 Chafee, “The Teaching of Architecture,” 61.
39 On the École des Ponts-et-Chausées see Day, Schools
and Work, 8, 23, 34, 160–5; Sutcliffe, Paris, 103.
For a discussion of foreign students who studied
at the École Centrale, see Martykánová, “Global
Engineers.”
40 Vollait, “Provincializing Colonial Architecture.”
41 On the Service des bâtiments civils and the ebai , see
Coucherousset, “L’École des Beaux Arts,” 6. On the
École des travaux publics, see Herbelin, Architectures,
243. On ebai see Herbelin, Architectures, 85–106,
and chapters 8 and 9 of the present book.
42 For a notable exception, an eighteenth-century
marble tomb built in Marseille by the sculptor
Dominique Fossati and erected in Port-au-Prince,
see Bailey, “The Tomb of the Marquis d’Ennery.”
43 Jürgen Osterhammel’s claim that “[t]here was no
such thing as plantation slavery in Asia” is simply not
true (Osterhammel, Unfabling the East, 401–2). On
domestic slavery and slave raiders targeting low-caste
South Indians from villages in the interior to work
the plantations in Île de France and Île Bourbon,
shipping them out of Pondicherry, see More, Pondi-
cherry, 143; Agmon, A Colonial Affair, 177n51.
44 Benjamin, “Grandville, or the World Exhibitions.”
45 For the most thorough and up-to-date bibliography
of French world expositions and their relationship to
colonialism in Southeast Asia see Falser, Angkor Wat,
2:577–621. See also Benjamin, Orientalist Aesthet-
ics, 105–27; Morton: Hybrid Modernities; Norindr,
 Phantasmatic Indochina, esp. 14–33; Williams, 71 Ibid., 92–3.
Dream Worlds; and, more generally, Rydell, World of 72 Ibid., 104.
Fairs; Benedict, The Anthropology of World’s Fairs. 73 Ibid., 93, 155.
46 Morton, Hybrid Modernities, 17. 74 Young, Colonial Desire, 5.
47 See Boetsch et al., Human Zoos; Deroo et al., 75 For a good discussion of the use of “hybridity” in
Human Zoos. scientific racism see Kraidy, Hybridity, 48–9; and
48 Eight towns in Saint-Domingue (Haiti) alone had Young, Colonial Desire, 5–18. See also Pieterse,
theatres and the main one, the Comédie or Salle des Globalization, 88–91; Acheraïou, Questioning Hy-
Spectacles at Cap-François (Cap-Haitien), opened bridity, 88.
in 1764 with a performance of a play by Molière. See 76 Young, Colonial Desire, 5, 25.
McClellan, Colonialism and Science, 94–5. The the- 77 Brah and Coombes, “Introduction: The Conundrum
atre in Saint-Pierre, Martinique (1786; destroyed in of ‘Mixing,’” in Hybridity and Its Discontents, 3.
the 1902 volcanic eruption), was the grandest struc- 78 Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 102.
ture in town, in the neoclassical style with a sweeping 79 Benjamin, Orientalist Aesthetics, 21.
double staircase (which survives today). See Fonda- 80 Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 88.
tion Clément, Le patrimoine des communes, 334. 81 Ibid., 179.
49 Some of this “Siamese” music has been pre- 82 On the adoption of certain Aztec forms in early mis-
served in the two Siamese airs in Michel-Richard sionary churches of New Spain see Edgerton, The-
Delalande’s ninth Symphonie pour les soupers du Roy atres of Conversion; McAndrew, Open-Air Churches;
(1686–87). Baird, The Churches of Mexico.
50 Bhabha, The Location of Culture, 161–5. 83 Kraidy, Hybridity, 53–4.
51 Ibid., 162, 165. 84 Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 110.
52 Friedman, “The Hybridization of Roots,” esp. 230–7; 85 Ibid., 117.
Ahmad, In Theory; Dirlik, “The Postcolonial Aura.” 86 Quoted in ibid., 146. In the same book Sardar
53 Acharaïou, Questioning Hybridity; Pieterse, comments: “Thus postmodernism takes the civil-
Globalization. ising mission of the west to render the Other in
54 Pieterse, Globalization, 81. its own image, into new arenas of oppression and
55 Ibid., 106. subjugation … the west continues the proceedings
56 Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 1. of colonialism and modernity, pushing the project
57 Pieterse, Globalization, x, 82. to ‘humanise’ the Other towards its postmodern
58 Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 1. endgame: to absorb and consume the Other.” Sardar,
59 Ibid., 1, 104. Postmodernism and the Other, 15–16.
60 Pieterse, Globalization, 82. 87 See my extended discussion of this debate in The
61 Ibid., 86, 88, 110. Andean Hybrid Baroque, 15–44.
62 Ibid., 111. 88 Guido, Fusión hispano-indígena, 33, 57; Guido, “El
63 Ibid., 96. estilo mestizo”; and Guido, Redescubrimiento de
64 Ibid., 77. América, esp. 91–6. For Gruzinski’s definition, see
65 Ibid., 73–4; see also 80. The Mestizo Mind, 31.

NoTeS To pAgeS 23–30

66 Friedman, “Hybridization,” 249–51, quoted in 89 The term was first used in this context in Moreno,
Pieterse, Globalization, 95. La escultura colonial mexicana, 16. See also Vargas
67 Pieterse, Globalization, 96. Lugo, “Sobre el concepto tequitqui.”
68 Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, 106 (first quota- 90 Macera, La pintura mural andina, 59. For a notable
tion), 117 (second quotation), 7 (last quotation). critique of “mestizaje” see Stutzmann, “El Mestizaje.”
69 Ibid., 157. 91 Stanfield-Mazzi, Clothing the New World Church,
70 Ibid., 7. First quote is from 10. e.g., p. 3; Mundy, “The Emergence of Alphabetic

383
 Writing,” 365–6, 378, 398, 400–1; Suarez, Heaven, Vietnam colonial.” See also her “Construire le style
Hell, 10, 114; Stanfield-Mazzi, Object and Apparition, indochinois.”
54, 97; Wake, Framing the Sacred, 190, 207. 110 Herbelin, Architectures, 18.
92 Dean and Liebsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discon- 111 Ibid.
tents.” Although unacknowledged, the article seems 112 Ibid., 19.
to have borrowed its title from Brah and Coombes, 113 Herbelin, “Construire,” 188.
Hybridity and Its Discontents, although the book is 114 Ibid., 171, 173.
not mentioned in their notes or bibliography. 115 Ibid., 188.
93 Dean and Liebsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discon- 116 Bailey, The Andean Hybrid Baroque; Bailey, Art on
tents,” 6. the Jesuit Missions, 144–82; Bailey, Architecture and
94 Bailey, Andean Hybrid Baroque, 17–25; Dean and Urbanism, 287–97, 471–80; Bailey, “Style in the
Liebsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discontents,” 10. Slave Castles.”
95 Dean and Liebsohn, “Hybridity and Its Discon- 117 Bailey, “Rococo in Eighteenth-Century Beijing”;
tents,” 21, 24. Bailey, “In the Manner.”
96 Ibid., 8. 118 Bailey, “The Dynamics of Chinoiserie”; Bailey, “The
97 Ibid., 26–7. Stimulus” and “The Response II ”; Bailey, “Incarnate
98 Ibid., 12. Images.” On Chinese ceramics on the Swahili coast,
99 Ibid., 5. see chapter 3.
100 The examples are as follows (the emphases are my 119 “O fatalitté de nostre nation! A peinne nous françois
own), “Yet this bipartite characterization of the se tirent vers un estat de pouvoir faire quelque
hybrid ignores and sometimes disguises the mul- progres que les Commencerent a ressentir le malheur
tiple hybridities of many colonial creations” (13); ordinaire du natturel françois: je veux dire, les dis-
“Cultural hybridity … should be understood as a cordes, les brouilles, la disobeissance, et des violences
perhaps obvious subaltern strategy for coping with les uns contre les autres […] Mais ! O malheur ! O
dominant and dominating cultures. It should also be nature violent du françois ! O nation etrange qui
understood as a perhaps obvious strategy utilized by ne puis souffrir ni commencer ta splendeur et ta
dominant cultures to incorporate subalterns” (24); gloire dans le pays etranges ! Ah point dhonneur !”
“In this essay it has been our contention that the Bibliothèque Nationale de France (hereafter bnf ),
hybridity of colonial culture is far more profound Français 13981, “Progrez des François en Orient”
and difficult than appearances might suggest” (28); (ca 1672), 5, 27.
“It has been our claim that, in focusing on the visible 120 Ames, Colbert, 17.
mix – in making that the problem – we cause other 121 Haudrère, “Premiers pas français,” 24; Ames,
hybridities to be ignored and reveal a need to erase or Colbert, xii.
at least deny colonialism’s force and legacy” (28). 122 Crowley, Conquerors, 14.
101 Morton, Hybrid Modernities; Harvey, Hybrids of 123 Sharman, Empires of the Weak, 72–87.
Modernity. 124 Ames, Colbert, 9.
102 Morton, Hybrid Modernities, 13. 125 Sharman, Empires of the Weak, 82–94.
103 Ibid., 195. 126 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 225.
NoTeS To pAgeS 30–5

104 Capanema et al., Du transfert culturel au métissage. 127 Haudrère, “Premiers pas français,” 21.
105 Silvia Capanema et al., “Introduction. Oscillations,” 128 See Michel Mollat and Jacques Habert, Giovanni
in ibid., 13–15. et Girolamo Verrazano, navigateurs de François Ier:
106 Ibid., 53. dossiers de voyages (Paris, 1982).
107 Ibid., 55. 129 Haudrère, “Premiers pas français,” 21; Haudrère,
108 Ibid., 56. “Présences françaises,” 226.
109 Herbelin, Architectures. Her article in the Capanema 130 Haudrère, “Premiers pas français,” 21; Haudrère,
volume is “Architecture et métissages dans le “Présences françaises,” 226.

384
 131 See Schefer, ed., Le discours de la navigation.
132 Hooper, Feeding Globalization, 41; Haudrère,
“Premiers pas français,” 21; Haudrère, “Présences
françaises,” 226; Cruysse, Siam and the West, 97;
Malotet, Étienne de Flacourt, 35.
133 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 97.
134 Schefer, Le discours, 117–38.
135 Ibid., 118.
136 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 25–6.
137 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 226–7; Haudrère,
“Premiers pas français,” 23.
138 Lach and Van Kley, Asia in the Making of
Europe, 393.
139 Ames, Colbert, 7; Malotet, Étienne de Flacourt, 36.
140 Pyrard, Voyage, 2–3.
141 Ibid., 1.
142 Ames, Colbert, 6; Ménard-Jacob, La première
Compagnie, 27.
143 Haudrère, “Premiers pas français,” 23.
144 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 191, 226–7;
Haudrère, “Premiers pas français,” 23; Ray, “French
Colonial Policy,” 82; Ames, Colbert, 7; Kaeppelin, La
Compagnie, 2; Malotet, Étienne de Flacourt, 38–9.
145 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 227; Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 98; Piat, Mauritius on the Spice Route,
49; Ames, Colbert, 7.
146 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 227; Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 98; Ames, Colbert, 7.
147 Hooper, Feeding Globalization, 41; Haudrère,
“Premiers pas français,” 23–4; Piat, Mauritius, 49;
Ray, “French Colonial Policy,” 83; Kaeppelin, La
Compagnie, 2–3; Malotet, Étienne de Flacourt, 40–1.
The Dutch thought the king spoke Spanish but
Hooper believes it was more likely Portuguese, given
their presence in East Africa.
148 Boucher, France and the American Tropics, 89; Eccles,
The French in North America, 36.
149 Galibert, À l’angle de la grande maison, 32; Ames,
Colbert, 21.
150 Hooper, Feeding Globalization, 41; Malotet, Étienne
de Flacourt, 44–5.
151 Lespagnol, “La Compagnie des Indes Orientales,”
42; Ames, Colbert, 21.
152 Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 4. See also Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 101; Howard, War in European History,
52; Boulle, “French Mercantilism,” 100–1.
153 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 25; Ames,
Colbert, 13.
154 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 113.
155 Lespagnol, “La Compagnie,” 46.
156 Ibid., 42; Ames, Colbert, 19–27.
157 Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 4–5; Boulle, “French
Mercantilism,” 106.
158 Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 5.
159 Haudrère, “Premiers pas français,” 24; Lespagnol,
“La Compagnie,” 42–3.
160 For a detailed account of the Amsterdam Exchange,
or Beurs, see Swan, Rarities, 74–81.
161 Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 6.
162 Bouëdec, “Préface,” iii; Ménard-Jacob, La première
Compagnie, 53–6; 70–1, 76, 217–18.
163 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 53–6.
164 Ibid., 15–16.
165 Gilmour, The British in India, 222–3.
166 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 30.
167 Ames, Colbert, 11; Ménard-Jacob, La première
Compagnie, 30–1.
168 Mallory, Fortunes à faire, 22.
169 Desbarats, “Revisiting John Law,” 593–4.
170 Bourdat, Les grandes pages, 25.
ch A pT e r T wo
1 Agmon, A Colonial Affair, 8.
2 Manning, Fortunes à faire, 21.
3 Pearson, The Indian Ocean, 152.
4 The term gloire, one to which Louis openly aspired
as the true sign of divinely appointed kingship, was
used specifically by Colbert to denote architecture’s
role in representing royal authority in 1663. Sabatier,
“La gloire du roi,” 527–60; Berger, A Royal Passion, 5.
On Colbert and the construction of French culture,
see also Mukerji, Territorial Ambitions, 98–106,
115–24.
NoTeS To pAgeS 35–44
5 Quoted in Chaline, “A King and His Gardens,” 30.
See also Berger, A Royal Passion, 20–3; Blunt, Art
and Architecture in France, 215–18; Lefaivre and
Tzonis, The Emergence of Modern Architecture,
18–21.
6 For two excellent recent studies of Louis XIV
see Mansel, King of the World, and Wilkinson,
Louis XIV.
385
 7 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 171–203, 327–9,
413–16.
8 Ibid., 334–5.
9 “L’Ille de Madagascard est cause de la ruine des
projets des françoises en orient.” bnf , Français 13981,
679. The comment was made in 1671.
10 Dellon, A Voyage to the East-Indies, 17, 19. The French
first edition was published in 1685. See also Hooper,
Feeding Globalization, 41.
11 Hooper, Feeding Globalization, 42; Galibert, Les
Lazaristes, 32.
12 Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 7–8, 13; Malotet, Étienne
de Flacourt, 47.
13 Sobocinski, “The Travails of Madagascar,” 101–2.
14 Bonnichon, “Étienne de Flacourt,” 228; Ray, “French
Colonial Policy,” 86.
15 On Jacques Pronis, see Froidevaux, “Jacques Pronis.”
16 Cohen, The French Encounter, 46; Malotet, Étienne
de Flacourt, 48–9; Froidevaux, “Jacques Pronis,”
272–3.
17 Ray, “French Colonial Policy,” 83. The Catholics
were particularly hostile to Pronis as he was a
Protestant.
18 Malotet, Étienne de Flacourt, 42.
19 Flacourt, Histoire. See Kay, “Etienne de Flacourt”;
Bonnichon, “Les Français et la connaissance de
Madagascar,” 367; Bonnichon, “Étienne de Flacourt,”
228; Galibert, Les Lazaristes, 23; Malotet, Étienne de
Flacourt, 100–1.
20 Flacourt, Histoire, ii. See also Malotet, Étienne de
Flacourt, 107–11.
21 Pasfield Oliver, “Introduction,” in Du Bois, The Voya-
ges Made, xx.
22 Bonnichon, “Étienne de Flacourt,” 228; Bonnichon,
“Les Français,” 371.
23 Bonnichon, “Les Français,” 372.
24 Froidevaux, “Pronis,” 285; Flacourt, Histoire, 410.
25 Bonnichon, “Etienne de Flacourt,” 229; Bonnichon,
NoTeS To pAgeS 44–50
“Les Français,” 373; Ray, “French Colonial Policy,”
84.
26 Sobocinski, “The Travails of Madagascar,” 100.
27 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 230; Hooper, Feed-
ing Globalization, 43; Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 7;
Pasfield Oliver, “Introduction,” xix.
28 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 33, 79.
386
29 Ames, Colbert, 22; Sobocinski, “The Travails of
Madagascar,” 97.
30 Galibert, Les Lazaristes, 23; Sobocinski, “The Tra-
vails of Madagascar,” 103. See also Ray, “French Col-
onial Policy,” 85–6, 90; Cruysse, Siam and the West,
104–5; Ames, Colbert, 13, Kaeppelin, La Compagnie,
10; Rennefort, Relation du premier voyage, 66–7, 90.
31 Ames, Colbert, 34–5; Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 12;
Pasfield Oliver, “Introduction,” xx.
32 Sobocinski, “The Travails of Madagascar,” 105.
33 Dellon, A Voyage to the East-Indies, 17, 19.
34 Kaeppelin, La Compagnie, 25; Cruysse, Siam and the
West, 108 (source of quote).
35 “Mr. Le Mareschal de La Meilleraye poucé d’un
noble dessin d’ouvrir le chemin de ces grandes
negoces encore incognues de France. Fut un des
premiers qui envoya des navires et du monde a
l’Isle de Madagascar dans l’esperance d’y faire des
merveilles; fondé sur des relations chymeriques qui
meritteroint plustost chastiment que des louanges …
En suitte sur ces mesmes fondements s’est formeé
nostre Royalle Compagnie de France qui envoya
au dit Madagascar une flotte considerable sous le
commandement de Mr. Demont vergue de qualitté
de Viceroy.” bnf , Français 13981, f.3–4.
36 Ray, “French Colonial Policy,” 81–2; Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 108; Ames, Colbert, 28; Malleson, Hist-
ory, 15.
37 ‘La flotte de Sa Majesté après avoir demeuré noeuf
mois au fort Dauphin sans y avoir rien faict de
considerable se resolut en fin de partir pour les Indes
orientalles; et s’estant mis a la toille vers la fin du
mois de juillet 1671.’ bnf , Français 13981, f.20.
38 Haudrère, “Présences françaises,” 229–31; Galibert,
Les Lazaristes, 22–3; Ray, “French Colonial Policy,”
97. The Abbé Carré called Surat “la premiere fond-
ement de la Royalle Compagnie dans ces pays d’ori-
ent; oi il establit le premier comptoir.” bnf , Français
13981, 4.
39 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 188. See also
38–42, 86–92, 218–21, 287–97.
40 Galibert, Les Lazaristes, 123.
41 Flacourt, Histoire, 413.
42 Charpentier, Wealthward Ho!, 55.
43 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 120–6.
44 Charpentier, Relation de l’établissement, 80–1.
45 “Du côté de la mer, il est naturellement fortifié,
car il est bâti sur un rocher, couvert de sable et de
broussailles, dont la base est soutenue par un mur en
pierres, haut de quatre à cinq pieds, afin d’empêcher
le glissement du sable et son ravinement par la
pluie; de ce côté, il est tout en briques.” “Rapport
de Jacques de Bollan et de Michael Jordis dur
Madagascar, en 1661,” in Grandidier et al., Collection,
3:290.
46 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 68–70, 214–15;
Hooper, Feeding Globalization, 42–3.
47 Flacourt, Histoire, 413.
48 “Second voyage de Frédéric Verburg du Cap de
Bonne-Esperance à Antongil, en 1655–1657,” in
Grandidier et al., Collection, 3:283–4.
49 Ibid., 3:290–1.
50 Ibid., 3:290–2.
51 Rennefort, Relation, 73.
52 Ibid., 220–1.
53 Ibid., 76.
54 Abbé Antoine-François Prévost, Histoire générale des
voyages (The Hague, 1755): 11:217–18. Glenn Ames
bluntly refers to the “overgrown, decaying remains of
Fort Dauphin.” Ames, Colbert, 33.
55 Grandidier, Collection, 3:291–2.
56 Rennefort, Relation, 75.
57 Pieper, “The Iconography of the Royal Baroque
Stern Façade.”
58 Bailey, “The Jesuits in North America,” 367.
59 Toussaint Bourdaise writing to Vincent de Paul,
10 January 1656. Galibert, Les Lazaristes, 313–14; see
also 175. On the chapel see also Malotet, Étienne de
Flacourt, 236.
60 “toute la chapelle était pleine.” Galibert, Les
Lazaristes, 433.
61 Charpentier, Wealthward Ho!, 75, 97.
62 Rennefort, Relation, 74, 76.
63 “Relâche du R. P. Navarrette à L’Île Mascarene
[Bourbon] et à Madagascar [Fort Dauphin], en
1671,” in Grandidier, Collection, 3:352–3.
64 Ames, Colbert, 36.
65 “Tous les passagers travaillerent a se bastir des cases
a la mode du pais pour se mettre a couvert … L’on
commenca a faire travaille les collones chargez selon
leur mestier mais principalement a defricher et faire
un chemin pour monter les marchandises, travailler
a la pierre, faire de la brique et la chaux, charroyer de
la Terre a fin de bastir et plusieurs autres choses. bnf ,
Moreau 841 (LVII , 1–34), Collection de Fevret de Fon-
tette, Relations de voyages, “Un Vaisseau la Mazarinne
en Rade du fort Dauphin de L’isle Dauphinne ditte
de Madagascar le 27. fevrier 1668,” ff.188b–189a.
66 Dellon, Voyage, 15. See also Malotet, Étienne de Fla-
court, 154.
67 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 55–66, 86–7.
68 Moogk, Building a House in New France, 21–2.
69 “Elles sont basties de perches de sapins, jointes les
unes contre les autres entre les quelles ils mettent de
la mousse pour en boucher le vide.” anom , 3dfc 80,
6, “Mémoire sur l’Ile de Terre Neuve, Description de
Plaisance” (after 1696), f.12a.
70 Quoted in Berthelot and Gaumé, Kaz Antiyé, 50.
71 “dans le peu de temps que je demeure au dit fort
Dauphin [j’ai reconnu] que ce n’estoit pas sans raison
que les premiers Européens qui y avoient passez,
n’ont jamais voulu laisser des marques de leurs
demeures.” bnf , Français 13981, f.14.
72 “Description des Côtes … de Tout l’Océan Oriental,
à Partir du Cap de Bonne-Esperance,” by Thornton,
1703, in Grandidier, Collection, 3:441.
73 Bouëdec, “Préface,” i. See also Agmon, A Colonial
Affair, 7–8; Keller, “Surat,” 8–9.
74 Ames, Colbert, 28–9. On Caron see Ménard-Jacob,
La première Compagnie, 34–8.
75 Ames, Colbert, 40.
76 Agmon, Colonial Affair, 8; Bouëdec, “Préface,” iii;
Gressieux, “Les établissements,” 269; Lafont, “Pol-
itics and Architecture.”
77 Arasaratnam, Merchants, 96.
78 Pearson, The Indian Ocean, 113–14. The literature
on the Indian Ocean trade networks, particularly
between South Asian merchant communities, and
NoTeS To pAgeS 50–7
European agents, is extensive. Classic works include
Furber, John Company at Work; Gupta, Malabar in
Asian Trade; Chaudhuri, The Trading World of Asia;
and Arasaratnam, Merchants.
79 Chandra, “Social and Attitudinal Change,” 33.
80 Seshan, “Intersections,” 113.
81 Ibid., 114.
387
 82 Ibid., 113–14; Pearson, The Indian Ocean, 118; Man-
ning, Fortunes à faire, 6.
83 Seshan, Trade and Politics, 85. See also Seshan,
“Intersections,” 114.
84 On Akbar’s visit see: Abu’l-Fazl ‘Allami, Akbarnāma,
3:37, 207; Judice Biker, Colleccão de Tratatos, 25–6;
Du Jarric, Akbar and the Jesuits, 219n12.
85 Arasaratnam, “India and the Indian Ocean,” 99.
86 Pearson, The Indian Ocean, 133; Manning, Fortunes à
faire, 13.
87 Seshan, “Intersections,” 114. See also Ames, Col-
bert, 39.
88 Gressieux, “Les établissements français,” 268.
89 Bouëdec, “Préface,” iv. See also Johnson, Enemy of All
Mankind, 45–8.
90 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 111.
91 Ibid., 169.
92 Bailey, “Architectural Relics”; Bailey, “The Catholic
Shrines of Agra.”
93 Keller, “Surat,” 8–9.
94 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 279–322.
95 Manning, Fortunes à faire, x.
96 Ames, Colbert, 43.
97 Keller, “Surat,” 8; Ménard-Jacob, La première Com-
pagnie, 111; Ramaswamy, History of Pondicherry, 63;
Manning, Fortunes à faire, 9.
98 More, Pondicherry, 31–48; Ménard-Jacob, La
première Compagnie, 38–42, 97–8.
99 Arasaratnam, Merchants, 24.
100 Malangin, Pondicherry, 22; Haudrère, “Présences
françaises,” 231; Gressieux, “Les établissements,” 269;
Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 11–13; Duval, Pon-
dichéry, 30; Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondi-
cherry, 1–5; Ramaswami, History of Pondicherry, 59;
Arasaratnam, Merchants, 92; Labernadie, Le vieux
Pondichéry, 1–4; Froidevaux, “François Martin.”
101 Muthu, “Urbanisation of Pondicherry,” 304.
102 The earliest depiction of the building’s elevation, a
NoTeS To pAgeS 60–6
painting from ca 1650 and now in Skokloster Palace
in Sweden, demonstrates that the building has hardly
changed at all since that time. See Brimmes, Indien,
95. I was shown two other paintings of the Dansborg
in the Danish Royal Archives, executed from the
ship Grev Laurvig in August and September 1726,
which also show the fort much as it looks today.
388
Rigsarkivet, 5402, “Skibsjournal for Grev Laurig”
(1726).
103 Ramaswami, History of Pondicherry, 60; Malleson,
History, 26–7.
104 Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie, 121;
Arasaratnam, Merchants, 92; Labernadie, Le vieux
Pondichéry, 39.
105 Malangan, Pondicherry, 29. See also Muthu, “Urbani-
sation,” 308–9. There is some disagreement among
the sources about the date of the firman allowing
the French to fortify the site, some saying 1688 and
others, like Muthu, 1689 (9 January).
106 Deloche, Origins of the Urban Development, 25;
Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 23; Duval, Pondichéry,
52; Labernadie, Le vieux Pondichéry, 39–40.
107 Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 18; Duval, Pondi-
chéry, 52.
108 More, Pondicherry, 35; Weber, Les relations, 5;
Labernadie, Le vieux Pondichéry, 43–4.
109 Labernadie, Le vieux Pondichéry, 43.
110 Ibid., 44. See also More, Pondicherry, 41; Deloche,
Le vieux Pondichéry, 21–2; Bourdat, Eighteenth-
Century Pondicherry, 1–5.
111 Writing during the Dutch Siege of Pondicherry,
Superior Guy Tachard remarks about the architect
that “le F. André habile architecte seroit extreme-
ment utile pendant tout le siege.” bnf , Français
19030, “Relation de voyages dans les Indes, par un
Père de la Compagnie de Jésus (1690–1699),” ff.85–6.
112 More, Pondicherry, 43–4. The Capuchins’ 1707
church was too small and in poor condition, so
on 7 August 1739 the Conseil Supérieur agreed to
contribute to the construction of a larger one and
to move the site 100 toises further from the fort for
reasons of security: “L’Eglise des Révérends Pères
Capucins, qui sert de Paroisse dans la ville, étant
trop petite et menaçant ruine de tous les costés, ces
Révérends Pères se sont détermines a en rebâtir une
autre et même à appliquer à sa construction les deux
mille pagodes que la Compagnie leur a fait payer
pour le rétablissement de leur hospice, qui tombe
pareillement en ruine, se confiant, pour le restant des
fonds qui leur sont nécessaires tant pour l’édification
de leur Eglise que pour celle de leur maison, dans
les libéralités de la Compagnie et autres charités des
 paroissiens, qui doivent contribuer autant qu’il est
en leur pouvoir a la bâtisse de l’Eglise paroissiale, qui
leur est absolument nécessaire, mais ne convenant
point que cet édifice soit aussi près du fort que l’an-
cienne Eglise qui n’est distante de l’angle du bastion
appelé de Bretagne au côté H. que de quatre-vingt
toises.” Gaudart, Procès-verbaux, 3:230–1.
113 An anonymous mémoire from around 1731 notes
that Deslandes funded it “dans le dessein d’en faire
uniquement un lieu de sépulture pour sa famille.”
[ANOM , COL F 5 A 49/1, “Mémoire au sujet de
l’aumônerie de Chandernagor” (ca 1732), f.29b]. For
more on the church see also Launay, Histoire des
missions de l’Inde, Pondichéry, Maïssour, Coïmbatour,
1:462–3.
114 “Usages de Siam.” bnf , département Estampes et
photographie, pet fol-od -59. The cahier is dated
1688 on the frontispiece; however since dates in
the 1690s are mentioned in the captions either it is
incorrect or the ms was added to over time. These
paintings may have been executed by the “domestics
we had brought from France and who were necessary
to us to draw and paint from nature the plants and
strange animals” who came with Tachard with the
1687 embassy. Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 35.
115 “Maison des Jesuites a Chandernagor sur le Gange.
Cette Maison est celle des Jesuites François dans le
Royaume de Bengale qui est proche du Gange, ils
sont curez des François a Chandernagor ou est leur
comptoir … Les Jesuites ont la une petite Eglise, mais
fort jolie, un dome dans le milieu & trois Autels
entresle, leur Jardin est aussi tres beau ; ce qu’on voit
au au dessus sont nuées de sauterelles qui passerent
sur le Bengale en 1696 ce qui dura plus de huit jours
… C’est le frontispiece de l’Eglise des Jesuites de
Bengale sur le Gange bastie de Brique avec tous les
ornemens qu’on voit.” bnf , pet fol-od -59, 24–5.
Elsewhere, in an entry for the year 1696 Tachard
writes about the Jesuit establishment in Chander-
nagore “Nous avions etabli dans nostre maison un
petit seminaire ou nous elevions à la pieté et aux
belles lettres plusieurs enfans des francois et des
Portuguais qui y demuroient auxquels on apprenoit
encore a lire, à ecrire et à chifrer. D’ailleurs comme
nous etions chargez de l’Eglise de Chandenagor, on
y faisoit le Service et on y preschoit aux francois avec
beaucoup de fruit qu’on doit attribuer aprez la grace
de Dieu aux bons exemples des chefs de la nation et à
la sage conduite des francois qui demuroient dans ce
comptoir.” bnf , Français 19030, “Relation de voyages
dans les Indes, par un Père de la Compagnie de Jésus.
(1690–1699),” 34.
116 Missionary Jacques Liot wrote in a letter to fellow
MEP Claude-François Letondal on 8 January
1791 about the new church in Bangkok: “Nous
avons bâti a Bangkok dans la nouvelle ville une
maison ou petite église parmi les Tonquinois et les
Cochin[chinois] dont je vous ai parlé l’an passé.”
Institut de recherche France-Asie (hereafter IRFA ),
801, 337.
117 Malangin, Pondicherry, 25.
118 Ibid.; Ramaswamy, History of Pondicherry, 61–3;
Haig and Burn, The Cambridge History of India, 290;
Labernadie, Le vieux Pondichéry, 28, 49–50.
119 Deloche, Origins, 36–41.
120 More disagrees with Deloche and believes that the
French created the grid pattern; however he does not
provide convincing evidence and the maps demon-
strate that the grid was not there prior to the Dutch
takeover in 1693. More, Pondicherry, 47.
121 Bertrand, “1686 Siam.”
122 See Kisluk-Grosheide and Rondot, Visitors to
Versailles, 152–4; Martin, “History Repeats Itself ”;
Bruckbauer, “Ambassadors and Missionaries,” 22;
Zorach, “An Idolatry of the Letter,” 148.
123 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 219.
124 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 123.
125 See, in particular, Dirk van der Cruysse’s entertain-
ing but frustrating Siam and the West.
126 Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 14.
127 Smith, Creolization and Diaspora, 278; Love, “Mon-
archs, Merchants, and Missionaries,” 4–5; Lanier,
Étude historique, 11.
128 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 47–9.
NoTeS To pAgeS 66–77
129 Wirth, “La stratégie d’Evangélisation,” 2:4–5.
130 Smith, Creolization and Diaspora, 282; Lanier, Étude
historique, 11–12.
131 See Bikker, “Sweerts’s Life and Career,” 32–3.
132 Jansen, Michael Sweerts, 158–60.
133 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 123; Wirth,
“La stratégie,” 2:39–40; Love, “Monarchs, Mer-
chants, and Missionaries,” 6.
389
 134 Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 37; Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 172; Love, “Monarchs, Merchants, and
Missionaries,” 7.
135 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:22–3.
136 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 259.
137 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:24–5.
138 Smith, Creolization and Diaspora, 278–80;
Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 124.
139 Smith, Creolization and Diaspora, 286; Love,
“Monarchs, Merchants, and Missionaries,” 5–6.
140 Smith, Creolization and Diaspora, 279.
141 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 123–4.
142 Ibid., 125; Cruysse, Siam and the West, 220–1;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 62–3; Lanier,
Étude historique, 33–6.
143 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 197.
144 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 260; Ruangslip,
Dutch East India Company, 123–4; Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 193–204.
145 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 127.
146 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 194.
147 Ibid., 197.
148 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 136. See also:
Love, “Monarchs, Merchants, and Missionaries,”
10–18; Smithies and Bressan, Siam and the Vatican,
32–48; Lanier, Étude historique, 15–17.
149 Smithies, Three Military Accounts, 182; Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 207; Love, “Monarchs, Merchants,
and Missionaries,” 21–2. On Boureau-Deslandes and
Baron, see Ménard-Jacob, La première Compagnie,
42–8.
150 Irving, “Lully in Siam,” 394; Jacq-Hergoualc’h,
L’Europe et le Siam, 61–2; Lanier, Étude historique,
24–5.
151 Bertrand, “Siam, A Missed Opportunity,” 372;
Cruysse, Siam and the West, 210–15; Love, “Mon-
archs, Merchants, and Missionaries,” 22; Lanier,
Étude historique, 25–6.
NoTeS To pAgeS 77–82
152 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 238–9; Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 68–71; Lanier,
Étude historique, 40–4.
153 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 136; Smith-
ies, Three Military Accounts, 183; Love, “Rituals of
Majesty,” 179; Lanier, Étude historique, 42–3.
154 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 123.
390
155 Love, “Monarchs, Merchants, and Missionaries,”
12–13.
156 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 238–42; Love, “Rituals
of Majesty,” 176; Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le
Siam, 68–9. Laneau placed particular emphasis on
the importance of the order for mirrors in a letter of
7 January 1684.
157 Irving, “Lully in Siam,” 396. See also: Cruysse, Siam
and the West, 251–2; Love, “Rituals of Majesty,” 176.
This was actually the second time they were invited
to attend Roland: the first time, they were so in-
sulted by being seated in the lower part of the theatre
that they walked out.
158 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 71; Lanier,
Étude historique, 42–5.
159 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 245. Choisy was or-
dained as a priest in the mep seminary in Ayutthaya
in 1685. Cruysse, Siam and the West, 343.
160 Finlay, Henri Bertin, 8–9; Cruysse, Siam and the
West, 251–2, 257–8.
161 Love, “Monarchs, Merchants, and Mission-
aries,” 24–5.
162 “Louis XIV envoya au roy de Siam une célèbre
ambassade: par son ordre 4 jésuites accompagnèrent
l’ambassadeur: ils étoient recommandés a titre de
mathématicien, mais l’objet principal de l’ambassade
étoit la conversion du roy, et du royaume de Siam.”
anom, col f5a45, “Memoire sur la mission de
l’Inde,” f.2a. Abbé Vernet’s letter, written in Pondi-
cherry, is dated 28 June 1776.
163 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 260–4.
164 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 81–2; Smith-
ies and Bressan, Siam and the Vatican, 61.
165 Smithies, “The Abbé de Chaila,” 211.
166 Ibid.
167 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 265; Jacq-Hergoualc’h,
L’Europe et le Siam, 73–4; Lanier, Étude historique,
51–2. Of these sources Jacq-Hergoualc’h is the most
precise. On this embassy, see also Ruangslip, Dutch
East India Company, 136; Love, “Rituals of Majesty,”
180–1.
168 Martin, “Mirror Reflections,” 659; Irving, “Lully in
Siam,” 398; Love, “Rituals of Majesty,” 175, 182–7;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 76–7; Lanier,
Étude historique, 61.
169 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 343, 350; Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 78–9; Lanier,
Étude historique, 72.
170 Bertrand, “Siam: A Missed Opportunity,” 373;
Philippe Bonnichon, “Les Français au Siam au XVII e
Siècle,” in Bonnichon, Présences françaises, 282;
Martin, “Mirror Reflections,” 663–4; Love, “Rituals
of Majesty,” 187–8.
171 See Thomas, “Yuanming Yuan/Versailles.”
172 Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company, 136.
173 Correspondingly, as early as 1665 Laneau referred
to the royal palace at Ayutthaya as a “Louvre.” Love,
“Monarchs, Merchants, and Missionaries,” 15. On
Lopburi as “Versailles” see also Martin, “Mirror
Reflections,” 655.
174 Lanier, Étude historique, 85.
175 Bertrand, “Siam: A Missed Opportunity,” 370.
176 The literature is immense: see in particular Bruck-
bauer, “Ambassadors and Missionaries”; Martin,
“Mirror Reflections,” 656–62; Thépaut-Cabasset,
“Fashion Encounters”; Zorach, “An Idolatry of the
Letter,” 447–79; Benson, “European Wonders”;
Castelluccio, “La Galerie des Glaces”; Love, “Rituals
of Majesty”; Cruysse, Siam and the West, 238–70;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 84–6; Lach
and Van Kley, Asia in the Making of Europe, 3:3, 1189;
Lanier, Étude historique, 76–86. For a recent synop-
sis see Martin, “Special Embassies,” 110–11.
177 Cruysse et al., The Diary of Kosa Pan. See also
Pooput, “Le premier ambassadeur.”
178 Martin, “Special Embassies,” 117; Irving, “Lully in
Siam,” 403; Cruysse, Siam and the West, 369–76;
Lanier, Étude historique, 79–80. Saint-Gobain
was especially important as it was the mirror
manufactory.
179 Love, “Rituals of Majesty,” 173.
180 On the Le Brun drawing see Prat, Le dessin en France
au XVIIe siècle, 315. An engraving entitled La royalle
reception des ambassadeurs du Roy de Siam par sa
maieste a Versailles le 1er Septembre 1686 was pub-
lished by François Jollain (Paris, 1687). It is repro-
duced in Zorach, “An Idolatry,” 464.
181 Martin, “Mirror Reflections,” 662. See also Martin,
“History Repeats Itself ”; Martin, “Staging China.”
See also Kisluk-Gorsheide, Visitors to Versailles, 152.
182 Recent scholarship by Jittapim Yamprai suggests
that Lalande’s first Siamese air is a transcription of
the piece played at the 1686 reception. See Yamprai,
“Michel-Richard de Lalande”; Irving, “Lully in
Siam”; Love, “Rituals of Majesty,” 174.
183 Irving, “Lully in Siam,” 400; Love, “Rituals of
Majesty,” 194.
184 Love, “Rituals of Majesty,” 171, 173. See also, Martin,
“Mirror Reflections,” 660; Zorach, “An Idolatry of
the Letter,” 148.
185 Love, “The Making of an Oriental Despot”; Love,
“Rituals of Majesty,” 174.
186 It was a key element of Louis XIV’s concept of king-
ship that he was a visible monarch, what Norman
Bryson calls the “legible body.” See Bryson, Word
and Image.
187 Martin, “Special Embassies,” 111; Kisluk-Grosheide,
Visitors to Versailles, cat. no. 65; Lanier, Étude
historique, 82–3.
188 Irving, “Lully in Siam,” 406; Cruysse, Siam and the
West, 381–2. The complete itemized list of the gifts is
published in Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam,
87–101.
189 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 345; Smithies and Bres-
san, Siam and the Vatican, 67–8.
190 Irving, “Lully in Siam,” 405; Smithies, Mission
Made Impossible, 261; Ruangslip, Dutch East India
Company, 128; Van der Cruysse, Siam and the West,
386–7; Love, “Monarchs, Merchants, and Mission-
aries,” 25–6; Lach and Van Kley, Asia in the Making
of Europe, 255; Lanier, Étude historique, 87–98.
191 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 387. See also Smithies,
Three Military Accounts, 183.
192 Irving, “Lully in Siam,” 393, 405. Destouches
returned with the 1688 mission. Cruysse, Siam and
the West, 421. See also Auclair, L’Opéra de Paris,
26–7.
193 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 105–6.
NoTeS To pAgeS 82–5
194 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 261. Smithies,
Three Military Accounts, 183.
195 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 107.
196 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 419–20; Smithies, Three
Military Accounts, 183; Smithies and Bressan, Siam
and the Vatican, 83–100; Lanier, Étude historique,
138–43.
391
 197 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 261; Cruysse,
Siam and the West, 444–50; Jacq-Hergoualc’h,
L’Europe et le Siam, 108.
198 Smithies and Bressan, Siam and the Vatican, 120–5.
199 Bertrand, “Siam: A Missed Opportunity,” 375;
Smithies, Three Military Accounts, 185.
200 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 262; Smithies,
“Tachard’s Last Appearance,” 67–78; Smithies, Three
Military Accounts, 185; see also Smithies and Bres-
san, Siam and the Vatican, 124. Tachard’s peripatetic
life was complicated: he was in Pondicherry from
1690–94; Europe from 1694–96; back in India
(Surat, Chandernagore, Pondicherry) and Siam in
1696–1700; back to France 1700–01; and finally
India (Surat, Calicut 1701; Pondicherry 1702–10;
and Chandernagore 1710–12). While in Pondicherry
he was superior of the Jesuits and involved in L’Af-
faire Nayiniyappa (see chapter 4).
c hApT er Th r ee
1 Kerlogue, Arts of Southeast Asia, 118; Chularatana,
“Indo-Persian Influence.”
2 Baker and Phongpaichit, A History of Ayutthaya, 123,
162–3; Satow, “Notes on the Intercourse.”
3 Chularatana, “Indo-Persian Influence,” 46–7; Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 234–6; Listopad,
“Art and Architecture,” 9, 94–5. For Tachard’
description of the mirrors at Lopburi see Smithies,
Mission Made Impossible, 35. For more on the Persian
embassies see Ruangslip, Dutch East India Company,
134–5; and especially Cruysse, Siam and the West,
271–86. The ogival window was also previously
misidentified as a European (gothic)–inspired motif.
4 Martin, “Mirror Reflections,” 662–3; Ruangslip,
Dutch East India Company, 141; Koch, Mughal
Architecture, 114–15; Listopad, “Art and Architec-
ture,” 77.
NoTeS To pAgeS 85–93
5 Martin, “Louis XIV,” 663. Mirrors have much wider
associations in Islamic tradition than this, particu-
larly in Sufism, and mirrors – real or in poetical
inscriptions – were used in Mughal palaces as a
symbol of the heavenly realm. See Bailey, “Counter
Reformation Symbolism,” 224–5.
6 Baker and Phongpaichit, A History of Ayutthaya,
133–4; Love, “Monarchs, Merchants,” 6. On the
392
Dutch factory see: Ruangslip, Dutch East India
Company, 41–9; Pombeijra, Court, Company, 44–59.
7 La Loubère, Du royaume de Siam, 1:337.
8 Gervaise, The Natural and Political History, 179.
9 Smith, Creolization and Diaspora, 129; Carvalho, “La
présence Portugaise,” 91; Smithies and Bressan, Siam
and the Vatican, 24; Forest, Les missionnaires français,
1:167; Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 42;
Listopad, “The Art and Architecture,” 10.
10 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 148. Tara
Alberts has the Dominicans arriving in Siam in 1567.
Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 25.
11 Tachard, Second voyage, 240. On the early history
of the Portuguese Jesuits in Siam, see Cerutti and
O’Brien, “Tailandia”; Wirth, “La stratégie,” 1:61–2;
Hutchinson, Adventurers, 23. Bourges mentions the
two churches but gives no other information (1665).
Smithies, “Jacques de Bourges,” 121. On the Domin-
icans see also Smith, Creolization, 161–4.
12 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 42.
13 Smith, Creolization, 161; Mattoso, Portuguese
Heritage, 426–7; Kasetsiri and Wright, Discovering
Ayutthaya, 164–5; Kaempfer, Description, 52; Pum-
pongphaet, “Les fouilles.”
14 Smith, Creolization, 164–5; Wirth, “La stratégie,”
2:18; Pumpongphaet, “Les fouilles,” 25; there were
only two Franciscans there when the seminarians
arrived in 1662. See also Carvalho, “Présence portu-
gaise,” 93.
15 Smith, Creolization, 134–5, 158; Smithies and Bres-
san, Siam and the Vatican, 25; Cerutti and O’Brien,
“Tailandia,” 3877; Ruiz-de-Medina, “Valguarnera,
Tommaso”; Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam,
45–6. He is most likely the Italian mentioned by
Gervaise who worked with a Frenchman on the
king’s palace in Lop Buri (see below). Gervaise,
Natural and Political History, 44. See also Forest,
Missionnaires, 1:168; Wood, A History of Siam,
190. In French documents Valguarnera is called
“Valgrenier.”
16 Smith, Creolization, 129–30. See also Wirth, “La
stratégie,” 1:63; Carvalho, “Présence portugaise,”
92; Ayutthaya – The Former Thai Capital, 6. Dutch
traveller Jeremias van Vliet wrote in 1638 that there
were around 400 to 450 temples in the city “which
are very well built with many towers and pyramids,
 of which almost every one is gilded.” Baker et al., Van
Vliet’s Siam, 13.
17 Smith, Creolization, 153. Valguarnera himself ad-
mitted that the College of São Salvador was “a very
modest school.” Wirth, “La stratégie,” 1:62.
18 Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 63–4.
19 Quoted, variously, in Wirth, “La stratégie, 2:23;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 44; Launay,
Histoire de la Mission, 1:12.
20 Quoted in Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:23; and Launay,
Histoire, 1:12. The last two quotations are from 1663.
21 Tachard, Voyage de Siam, 256–7. On ephemeral
events at the Dominican church see also Smith,
Creolization, 162–3; Ruangslip, Dutch East India
Company, 127.
22 See Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 45, 126.
23 Carvalho, “Présence portugaise,” 93.
24 Ibid.; Pumpongphaet, “Les fouilles,” 25–6.
25 From a “Catalogue des prisonniers ecclésiastiques
et laïques (1690) quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:248.
Cruysse mentions Lepie; however his translator
translates “ménuisier” as “carpenter” whereas it is
more correctly translated as a “joiner,” one respon-
sible for finer carpentry and furniture making.
Cruysse, Siam and the West, 461. On the donné
in Canada see: Moogk, “The Craftsmen of New
France,” 215; Moogk, La Nouvelle France, 28–9.
26 “Après qu’il aurait fait cet ouvrage pendant sa pre-
miere ferveur, s’il voulait il pourroit se marier comme
les autres; on ne l’en empêcheroit pas.” irfa , 859, 201
(16 January 1684). Quoted (with errors) in Launay,
Histoire, 1:75.
27 On his anti-mep remarks in a letter to Pope Inno-
cent XI, see Smithies and Bressan, Siam and the
Vatican, 101–7.
28 Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 37; Love, “Mon-
archs, Merchants,” 7.
29 Cruysse, Siam and the West, 125–6.
30 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:40.
31 Quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:17. See Wirth, “La
stratégie,” 2:54; Forest, Missionnaires, 1:186; Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 47, 48.
32 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:54; Forest, Missionnaires,
1:186; Love, “Monarchs, Merchants,” 8.
33 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 48.
34 The exact wording is unclear but given the gender it
would seem to be referring to buildings (bâtiments)
rather than churches (églises), “il a ordonné qu’on
lui traçât un plan des plus beaux, sans avoir égard à
la dépense qu’il y faudra faire.” Quoted in Launay,
Histoire, 1:51. See also Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et
le Siam, 51.
35 The words are Lambert’s in a letter addressed to the
Missions-Étrangères in Paris dated 3 December 1673
and quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:51.
36 The letter adds that the missionaries even sent it to
Paris to be engraved, satisfying “the curiosity and de-
voutness of the public,” although there is no evidence
that it ever was and no plan survives in Paris. From
the same letter, quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:52.
37 Duchesne’s letter is quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:118
and Pallu’s in Lettres de Monseigneur Pallu, 380.
38 ANOM , COL C 1 22, “Lettre à Colbert écrite de Siam
par l’évêque d’Héliopolis” (29 December 1682). The
letter is published in Pallu, Lettres, 699. See also
Launay, Histoire, 1:116; Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et
le Siam, 130.
39 First quote is in Launay, Histoire, 1:129; second
quote by Claude de L’Isle, who never visited Siam
himself, is cited in Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le
Siam, 47.
40 Quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:75.
41 Bailey, “Rococo in Eighteenth-Century Beijing.”
42 “Contient une Eglise des plus belles qu’on fasse com-
munément en Europe, L’Eglise a trois nefs et deux
grosses tours quarrées au devant, sa longueur, avec la
sacristie, qui est de mesme hauteur et structure que
l’Eglise, est de 22 brasses, elle est faitte en croix, et
la croisée a quatre brasses de large et douze et demy
de long, le corps de l’Eglise a dix brasses de large
en œuvre et la hauteur des murs est de six brasses
et demye, il y a des piliers de brique dans l’Eglise
octogones, de deux en deux brasses, qui séparent
NoTeS To pAgeS 93–5
les nefs qui ont une demy brasse de diametre, tout
autour du toict regne un balustre et des goutieres de
plomb pour recevoir l’eau du toict, qui se dechargent
au dehors par des canaux de plomb qui avancent, le
dedans sera bien lambrissé et bien doré ainsy que les
piliers.” irfa , 878, 201 (13 November 1682). See also
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 130.
393
 43 See Sthapitanonda and Merten, Architecture of Thai-
land, 164–5, fig. E.
44 Alberts, Conversion and Conflict, 96; Forest, Mission-
naires, 1:210–11. The Jesuits did not take his advice
and dressed as they would in Europe.
45 On the corvée labour system, see Baker and Phong-
paichit, Ayutthaya, 190–1.
46 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 131.
47 “Comme nostre eglise que le roy fait bastir s’avance
de jour en jour, il m’est venue en penser que si vous
pouviez nous envoyer, je n’ose pas dire un peintre,
mas un bon barbouilleur pour y peindre en dedans
tous les mysteres de la religion, ce serait un grand
avantage pour notre mission, parce que cela vaudroit
mieux que dix prédicateurs, et elle sera assé grande
pour y contenir toutes les histoires tant de l’ancien
que du nouveau testament. […] Mais, on dit que les
pinceaux d’icy ne valent rien, pour les couleurs il y en
a assé mais ou les peintres de ces pays icy ne scavent
pas s’en servir, ou elles ne sont guère bonnes. Il y
a du cinnabar en quantité, du minium, du verd de
gris assé cher, du bleu point trop beau, de la gomme
gutte en quantité, et de l’indigo, de la ceruse assé
chère, voilà, ce me semble, à peu près qu’il y a; celles
qui manqueroient, il faudrait les apporter, pourvu
qu’elles ne coutassent pas beaucoup, car pourvu que
cela ayt un peu d’éclat et que les couleurs soient bien
vivres, cela content plus que les beaux portraits de
Michel lange et du Poussin: Ainsy, par parenthèse,
s’il se pouvait faire que les images que vous envoyez
fussent enluminées, cela serait beaucoup plus estimé
que toutes les plus belles tailles douces. […] Il serait
à propos qu’il sût dorer les cuirs, comme on fait
en Italie, et nos missionnaires souhaiteroient aussi
extrêmement que l’on pût avoir quelques vitres pour
le choeur.” irfa , 859, 284–5 (16 January 1684).
Quoted (with errors) in Launay, Histoire, 1:75. See
NoTeS To pAgeS 96–100
also Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 131–2.
48 Tachard, Second voyage, 240.
49 “le 2e gr[an]d autel.” irfa , 106, 147 (December
1682). Transcribed differently in Pallu, Lettres,
380; quoted in Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le
Siam, 131.
50 This is according to a 1696 report. Jacq-Hergoualc’h,
L’Europe et le Siam, 134.
51 Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 114–18, 122–7.
394
52 Ibid., 89–91, 114–18, 122–7.
53 Finlay, Henri Bertin, 19–21; Smentek, “Chinoiseries.”
54 In early modern French “pilastre” could refer either
to a pier or to an engaged pilaster, the only correct
definition in English. Chamfort et al., Le grand
vocabulaire, 153.
55 Aumont’s original text appears in Launay, Histoire,
1:76. Dirk van der Cruysse’s English paraphrase
translates windows as “crossings,” which makes no
sense. Cruysse, Siam and the West, 178.
56 Launay, Histoire, 1:76–7.
57 Quoted in Cruysse, Siam and the West, 178; Smithies
and Bressan, Siam and the Vatican, 106; Chappoulie,
Aux origines d’une Église, 1:318.
58 “C’est ici la récompense qu’un tel, roi de Siam, a
donnée à un tel et à ses successeurs.” Launay, Histoire,
1:159.
59 Tachard, Voyage de Siam, 181.
60 “Ces beaux et magnifiques séminaires que l’on nous
bastit ici par les bontez d’un très grand Roy qui nous
considère au-delà de ce l’on peut s’imaginer aussi
bien que son illustre ministre qui a pour nous des
soins.” bnf , Français 15476, “Relations de la France
avec le Siam, sous Louis XIV,” letter by Henri Dollu
from Siam, 31 December 1687, entitled “besoins des
missions de Siam,” f.1a–b. The next day he urged his
superior to send missionaries to fill the seminaries:
“Il faut que V.R. achève ce qu’elle a commencé et
qu’elle second les bonnes intentions du Roy de Siam
et de son ministre en nous envoyant de fervents mis-
sionnaires pour remplir les séminaires qu’il nous fait
bastir V.R.” bnf , Français 15476, letter from Siam,
1 January 1688, f.35a.
61 “Les faveurs que ce prince fait a Mgres les Evesques
françois vicaires du St. Siege en ces pays sont tres
particulieres, il leur fait batir une grande Eglize
proche le beau seminaire que leur fit contruire il y a
quelques années.” bnf , Français 15476, “Relations de
la France avec le Siam, sous Louis XIV,” by Boureau-
Deslandes, 8 Nov 1683, to his brother-in-law
Collinet, f.85a.
62 Kaempfer, Description, 52.
63 From a letter from M. Pinto to M. L’Abbé de
Cabanès (15 Jan. 1696), “même le roy depuis peu
gratifia Mgr l’évêque d’une somme considérable
d’argent, qu’on employa à réparer l’église bâtie par le
 défunt roy, et qui est un des plus beaux édifices de
Siam, quoique encore imparfait. On y a commencé
à célébrer publiquement le service divin le jour
de Noel.” Launay, Histoire, 1:289. See also Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 128–34.
64 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 130–40. On
Petracha’s policy toward the mep see Smith, Creoliz-
ation, 287.
65 Quoted in Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam,
136.
66 Ibid., 126.
67 Alberts, Conflict and Conversions, 45.
68 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:46. See also Wood, A History
of Siam, 197. The seminary also supervised a female
lay religious community called the Votaries of the
Cross.
69 Institut de France, Dictionnaire, 1:407.
70 Smith, Creolization, 153; Smithies and Bressan, Siam
and the Vatican, 108; Forest, Missionnaires, 1:230–2;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 140–1.
71 Tachard, Second voyage, 240; Wirth, “La stratégie,”
2:90. In a letter Tachard remarked: “Ce fut lui
qui fonda a Messieurs des Missions etrangeres un
College dans la ville de Siam, ou l’on voit voyait sur
la porte ecrit en gros caracteres Collegium Constan-
tinianum auquel il donnoit revenu trez considerable
en ce pays la et qui fut payé jusqu’à sa mort.” bnf ,
Français 19030, “Relation de voyages dans les Indes,
par un Père de la Compagnie de Jésus (1690–1699),”
f.23.
72 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:90; Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Eur-
ope et le Siam, 142.
73 Forest, Missionnaires, 1:189.
74 Launay, Histoire, 1:75n1.
75 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 142, 145.
76 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 161–2.
77 The important seventeenth-century Paris churches
of Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet, Saint-Sulpice, and
Saint-Roch also had ambulatories, a nave and side
aisles, and a Latin cross plan. Hautecœur, Histoire,
2:724–5.
78 Ibid., 1:650–1.
79 Deutsch, Jean Marot, 117–23. On Tachard’s sojourns
in Chandernagore, see Smithies, Mission Made Im-
possible, 2–3.
80 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 399.
81 Kerlogue, Arts of Southeast Asia, 116; Punjabhan and
Nakhonphanom, The Art of Thai Wood Carving, 31.
82 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 133.
83 For all of these terms, see: Lall, The Golden Lands,
216–20, 271–6; Sthapitanond and Mertens, Archi-
tecture of Thailand, 92–5, 102–03, 250–1; Punjabhan
and Nakhonphanom, The Art of Thai Wood Carving,
29. See also Kerlogue, Arts of Southeast Asia, 115–18;
Matics, Thai Mural, 91–8.
84 Listopad, “Art and Architecture,” 100–13.
85 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, “L’influence occidentale”;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 166; Charoen-
suphakul, “L’architecture Thai,” 60; Hutchinson,
“Phaulkon’s House.”
86 Quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:118. On this building
see also Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 162–3.
87 “Le Roi de Siam s’attend que sa Majesté lui envoyera
des ambassadeurs, quand les sien de reviendront, il
fait batir une maison, que l’on peut nommer mani-
fique pour le pais pour les recevoir, et defrayer, et
fait faire toutes les ustancilles à la manière d’Europe,
necessaires pour la meubler.” bnf , Français 15476,
“Relations de la France avec le Siam, sous Louis XIV,”
letter of André Boureau-Deslandes to his brother-in-
law Collinet (8 November 1683), f.85a.
88 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 33; Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 169; Tachard,
Second Voyage, 204; Choisy, Journal du voyage,
262–3.
89 Charoensuphakul, “L’architecture Thai,” 60;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 233–41.
90 Hutchinson, “Phaulkon’s House,” 6.
91 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 33; Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 168.
92 Listopad, “Art and Architecture,” 105. His evidence
is based largely on a reading of printed historical and
contemporary maps (he is unaware of Lamare’s 1687
manuscript). However his readings are unreliable
NoTeS To pAgeS 100–7
as he even confuses the cardinal directions when re-
ferring to buildings’ relationships to each other. For
example, in his discussion of his Map 3 (p. 105) he
writes at one point that the Wat Pun temple is to the
east of the ambassadors’ residence (it is to the west),
and that the Phra Klang residence is to the south of
it (it is to the east).
93 Listopad, “Art and Architecture,” 112.
395
 94 Tachard, Second Voyage, 203–4. My translation
differs slightly from that of Smithies, who translates
“auprès de” as “just after” rather than “next to”:
“He had prepared for them a very fine house which
he had built two years previously just after that he
had built for the previous mission in which the
ambassador was housed.” Smithies, Mission Made
Impossible, 33.
95 Smithies, Mission Made Impossible, 148.
96 Hutchinson, “Phaulkon’s House,” 5.
97 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 175–6.
98 Tachard, Second voyage, 213.
99 Listopad, “Art and Architecture,” 100.
100 Ibid., 109–10. On belltowers, see Sthapitanonda and
Mertens, Architecture of Thailand, 100–1.
101 Hutchinson, “Phaulkon’s House,” 3, 6. See also
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 178–90.
102 Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 60–72.
103 Tachard, Second Voyage, 210–11.
104 On “telescopic” roofs see Lall, The Golden Lands,
198, 221; Sthapitanond and Mertens, Architecture of
Thailand, 136–9.
105 Kaempfer, Description, 47.
106 Such wall niches can be found at the Wat Phra Si
Rattanamahathat in Lopburi (17th century). See
Chularatana, “Indo-Persian Influence,” fig. 4.
107 See Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 81.
108 Sthapitanonda and Mertens, Architecture of Thai-
land, 162–9; Matics, Introduction, 2.
109 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:131.
110 “Et depuis peu de jours, il leur a fait demander le
modele d’une autre eglize, qu’il leur veut faire batir a
Lavau, qui est une ville ou il fait son sejour pendant
sept a huit mois de l’année, et qui est eloignée de
Siam de 15 a 16 lieues.” bnf , Français 15476, “Re-
lations de la France avec le Siam, sous Louis XIV,”
letter by André Boureau-Deslandes to his brother-in-
NoTeS To pAgeS 107–13
law Collinet (Ayutthaya, 8 Nov 1683), f.85a.
111 “La maison and l’observatoire qu’il fait préparer à
Levan seront prettes pour les recevoir à la fin de
l’année prochaine. Venez donc, mes Pères, et quittez
un College Royal de la France pour venir ici dans un
autre Collège Royal enseigner vos sciences.” bnf ,
Français 15476, “Relations de la France avec le Siam,
sous Louis XIV,” Father Colusson to the Rector of
396
the Paris College of the Society of Jesus (1 November
1686), f.62a.
112 Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 106–7.
113 Letter of Pallu and Lambert quoted in Alberts, Con-
flict and Conversion, 108. On Jesuit scientists at the
Cochinchinese court, see Li, Nguyễn Cochinchina,
72–3.
114 “C’est passer notre établissement à Louvo, cette
fondation est jointe à cent esclaves que le Roy attache
à nôtre service avec tous leurs descendants, et il
promet au Roy par la lettre qu’on va bâtir une autre
nouvelle maison à Siam pour les jésuites, et il a déjà
marqué à Siam et à Merguy dans le plus bel endroit
de ces deux villes un fort grande emplacement
pour nous y loger.” bnf , Français 15476, “Relations
de la France avec le Siam, sous Louis XIV,” letter
by Tachard, written at Brest (26 July 1687), f.75b.
115 Tachard, Voyage de Siam, 247–8.
116 “Et je trouve mesme qu’il [Constance] a mieux valu
de n’avoir pas elevé d’abord ces bastimens, parce que
le College que nos peres mesmes ont tracé a Louvo,
s’il eut esté achevé selon le dessin commencé, il eut
esté tres incommode et peu capable, et maintenant
on y a apporté le remede necessaire, et les autres edi-
fices qui se feront dans en l’avant seront encore plus
commodes et plus ajuster aux desires des Mission-
naires. Quant a moi je souhaiterois qu’on ne fit pas
tant de maisons, mais que les couvents des Talapois
nous pourroient aussi moyennant leur conversion,
nous servir de demeure et d’Eglise, et c’est ce qu’il
faut entreprendre avec l’aide de Dieu. Si on ne con-
verti les Talapois, la conversion du peuple sera fort
difficile, mais l’une et l’autre se peut esperer avec la
conversion du Roy.” bnf , Français 15476, “Relations
de la France avec le Siam, sous Louis XIV,” letter
by J.B. Maldonade to R.P. La Chaise, Ayutthaya,
17 December 1687.
117 Tachard, Second voyage, 240–1. See also Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 151.
118 On Maldonado’s divided loyalties, see: Smith,
Creolization, 297–8; Ruiz-de-Medina, “Jean-Baptiste
Maldonado.”
119 bnf, département Estampes et photographie, pet
fol-od -59, “Usages de Siam” (undated), plate 13.
See Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 151, fig. 10.
120 “Maison que le Roy de Siam avoit fait bastir aux
Jesuites mathematiciens du Roy, il y avoit un grand
corps de logis à deux estages avec deux aisles et une
grosse tour octogone de 60 pieds de diametre et à
trois estages le tout en terrasses plombées … Le croix
que l’on voit est l’Eglise commencé qui est six pieds
hors de terre.”
121 Smith, Creolization, 132–3; Smithies, Mission Made
Impossible, 164; Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le
Siam, 151.
122 “Le Seminaire des Messieurs des Missions etrangeres
est retabli et l’Eglise est achevée.” bnf , Français
19030, “Relation de voyages dans les Indes, par un
Père de la Compagnie de Jésus (1690–1699),” f.37.
See also Cruysse, Siam and the West, 474; Vongsura-
vatana, “New Investigations,” 99. The Greek Temple
appears in a “Veüe en perspective dudit Temple,
où les Colonnes et les Voutes sont ôtées pour faire
voir les dedans.” Daniel and Jean Marot, Architecture
Français, pl. 11.
123 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:133.
124 Smithies, “Jacques de Bourges,” 121; Bailey, Art on the
Jesuit Missions, 100.
125 Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:126.
126 Ibid., 2:117.
127 Tachard, Second voyage, 126; Launay, Histoire,
1:56, 237; Wirth, “La stratégie,” 2:68, 123, 136, 129;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 56; Smithies,
“Jacques de Bourges,” 128; Forest, Missionnaires,
1:209.
128 Quoted in Launay, Histoire, 1:176.
129 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 147–9.
130 Smithies, Three Military Accounts, 87; Jacq-
Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 181, 199–200.
131 Kaempfer, A Description, 31.
132 Gervaise, Natural and Political History, 44.
133 Hutchinson, Adventurers in Siam, 8.
134 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 182.
135 See ibid., 182–9, figs. 24–6.
136 Ibid., fig. 54.
137 The project is published in ibid., fig. 51. On similar
projects for Cayenne from 1696 and the 1750s and
1760s see Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 200,
225, 226–7.
138 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 190–9,
figs. 41, 44.
139 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 11.
140 Barros et al., Vaubin, 87; Parent and Verroust,
Vauban, 15.
141 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 202.
142 Archives Nationales de France, Paris (hereafter anf )
3 jj 368, carton 97, no. 8 (13 December 1687). Cited in
Smithies, Three Military Accounts, 87.
143 Smithies, Three Military Accounts, 87–8; anf 3 jj
368, carton 97, no. 8.
144 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 205–6.
145 Ibid., 241.
146 Ibid., 208, 213–14.
147 Smithies, Three Military Accounts, 138, fig. 9; Smith-
ies, “A Stormy Relationship,” 151.
148 Smithies, Three Military Accounts, 130–1;
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, figs 30–2, 47.
149 Service Historique de la Défense (hereafter shd ),
Recueils 62, nos. 59–64.
150 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, figs. 47–9.
151 Book IV , plate 26, On Bélidor, see Bailey, Architec-
ture and Urbanism, 158–62; Langins, Conserving the
Enlightenment, 224–34.
152 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, fig. 50;
Langins, Conserving the Enlightenment, 65.
153 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 153–5, fig. 12.
It is attributable to Vollant on stylistic grounds.
154 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 154.
155 Charoensuphakul, “L’architecture Thai.”
156 Sthapitanond and Mertens, Architecture of Thailand,
146; Punjabhan and Nakhonphanom, The Art of
Thai Wood Carving, 32–3.
157 Charoensuphakul, “L’architecture Thai,” 59.
158 Sthapitanond and Mertens, Architecture of Thailand,
202–4; Punjabhan and Nakhonphanom, The Art of
Thai Wood Carving, 32–3.
159 Kranok (sometimes spelled Kranock or Kanok) are
usually formed of three flame-like leaf scrolls that
NoTeS To pAgeS 113–20
curl backward from a serpentine stem. Some scholars
have in fact traced them back to ancient acanthus
forms. Taylor, Beasts, Birds, 106–7. See also Sthap-
itanond and Mertens, Architecture of Thailand, 52,
142, 146, 188, and 189; Punjabhan and Nakhonph-
anom, The Art of Thai Wood Carving, 12–15.
160 The signs on the site, by the 3rd Regional Office of
the Fine Arts Department, call it a “palace” be-
cause of its similarity to palace architecture, but the
397
 precise function of the building remains in doubt.
Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 242.
161 Kisluk-Grosheide and Rondot, Visitors to Ver-
sailles, 158–9; Listopad, “Art and Architecture,”
231; Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 242;
Charoensuphakul, “L’architecture Thai,” 63.
162 There is a copy of this rare book in the Bibliothèque
de l’Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, collections
Jacques Doucet, shelf number num 4 res 78. See
Guilmard, Les maîtres ornemanistes, 1:89.
163 Matics, Thai Mural, 3; Punjabhan and Nakhon-
phanom, The Art of Thai Wood Carving, 22.
164 Listopad, “Art and Architecture,” 236–7.
165 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 242. The
author claims that the tevada was still there some
fifteen years before the book was published, which
would be around 1978.
166 Guilmard, Les maîtres ornemanistes, 89–92.
167 Listopad, Art and Architecture, 234.
168 Jacq-Hergoualc’h, L’Europe et le Siam, 242;
Charoensuphakul, “L’architecture Thai,” 61.
169 Bailey, “The Stimulus” and “The Response II”;
Bailey, “The Dynamics of Chinoiserie”; Golombek
and Wilber, The Timurid Architecture.
170 Phillips, Yoga, Karma, 254.
171 Diskul, The Lacquer Pavilion; Taylor, Beasts, Birds,
40n13. Scholars disagree about the date of the pavil-
ion, but it is likely during the late Ayutthaya–early
Ratanakosin era.
172 Taylor, Beasts, Birds, 46.
173 Charoensuphakul, “L’architecture Thai,” 62.
174 Ornament prints by Paul Androuet Du Cerceau
and Jean Le Pautre were widely copied in Britain,
Germany, and the Netherlands by the likes of John
Overton (Victoria and Albert Museum [VandA],
19340), Susanna Maria von Sandrart (VandA,
E.248–1950). The title of the Overton series is A New
NoTeS To pAgeS 120–31
Book of Fries Work Invt. by J. Le Pautre (London,
1676). On Dutch trade with Ayutthaya in the 1750s,
see: Brummelhuis, Merchant, Courtier, 40–1, 49–50;
Smith, The Dutch, 41. On British trade see Baker and
Phongpaichit, History, 160–1.
175 Baumanova, “Pillar Tombs”; Kirkman, Men and
Monuments, 34; Kirkman, The Arab City.
176 Meier, “Chinese Porcelain”; Meier, “Hybrid Herit-
age”; Horton and Middleton, The Swahili; Bailey,
398
“The Stimulus,” 10–11; Kirkman, Gedi, 4–11; Allen,
“Swahili Ornament”; Duyvendak, “The True Dates.”
My research in Kenya and Tanzania was under the
auspices of the Royal Ontario Museum and I worked
at the British Institute in Eastern Africa (Nairobi),
the National Museum of Tanzania (Dar es Salaam),
and on-site at excavated medieval Swahili towns in
Kenya and Tanzania. I identified significant num-
bers of porcelain remains from the late Yuan and
Early Ming period of surprisingly high quality. I am
particularly grateful to Dr Fidelis Masao for his in-
valuable assistance while I was working in Tanzania.
177 Meier, “Chinese Porcelain,” 715.
178 Sthapitanonda and Mertens, Architecture of Thai-
land, 146.
179 Lafaye, Quetzalcóatl and Guadalupe, 301.
c h A pTe r f o ur
1 La Font de Saint-Yenne, L’Ombre du grand Col-
bert, iv.
2 Ibid., iv. On this book and the nostalgia for the era
of Colbert see also Wittman, Architecture, 86–7.
3 La Font de Saint-Yenne, L’Ombre du grand Col-
bert, 107.
4 Chowdhury, “An Imperial Mughal Tent,” 670,
677. See also Chandra, Parties and Politics, 273. In
the mid-eighteenth century the Maratha peshwa’s
Brahmin minister Nana Fadnavis travelled to
Delhi, where he purchased Mughal miniature paint-
ings, which he pasted into an album, including an
image of Emperor Muhammad Shah on a palanquin.
See Shaffer, “Take All of Them,” 64.
5 Schaffer, Eclecticism, 65–6.
6 Dadlani, From Stone to Paper, 115; Chawdhury, “An
Imperial Mughal Tent,” 670–2.
7 Bailey, “Architectural Relics,” 145; Bailey, “The Cath-
olic Shrines of Agra,” 136–7; Sharma, “European
Sepulchral Architecture”; Nath, “Hessing’s Tomb.”
8 Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 28. Red
was a colour associated with Mughal rulership, for
instance in the Imperial Lal dera, or “red tent” used
when the court was on the move. Chowdhury, “An
Imperial Mughal Tent,” 670.
9 “J’ai obtenu la permission de fraper des Roupies a
Pondichery au coin de l’Empereur Mogol, c’est un
 des plus Grandes avantages qui ait jamais été accordé
a la Nation dans l’Inde, ce privilege donnera cent mil
Piastres de Benefice annuel a la Compagnie.” anom ,
col e 153, “Dumas, Pierre Benoît, dit Benoît-
Dumas, commandant général des établissements
français aux Indes et gouverneur de Pondichéry
(1724/1742),” f.94a]
10 Dadlani, From Stone to Paper, 128–9. It could not
have been Dumont’s plan, as she proposes, as it was
in Paris, but it could have been one by Champia de
Fonbrun.
11 Malleson, History of the French in India, 97.
12 Ananda Ranga Pillai, Diary, 9:3, 123, 323, 317.
13 Ibid., 1:187.
14 Ibid., 9:338–9.
15 Untracht, Traditional Jewelry of India, 381.
16 Russo, The Untranslatable Image, 248.
17 Agmon, A Colonial Affair, 127.
18 The term is Agmon’s. See Agmon, A Colonial
Affair, 4.
19 More, Pondicherry, 45.
20 Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 18–19.
21 More, Pondicherry, 34.
22 Ibid., 74–92; Agmon, A Colonial Affair, 52–6,
93–120; Olagnier, Les Jésuites à Pondichéry, 42–65.
23 More, Pondicherry, 64.
24 Ibid., 85.
25 Oliver, Art, Trade, 161–84; Shulman, “Cowherd
or King?”; Sathyanarayanan, “Ānantaraṅgavijaya
Campū”; Raghavan, Ānanda Raṅga Vijaya Campū.
26 Shulman, “Cowherd or King?,” 175.
27 Oliver, Art, Trade, and Imperialism, 162.
28 Ibid., 194–5. A similar incident took place in 1705.
More, Pondicherry, 54.
29 Martineau, Correspondence, 1:10, 30. Pondicherry
was called “la colonie” but Chandernagore was also
referred to as the “colonie de Chandernagor.”
30 See Deloche, Pondichéry, 36, 41–6, 58, 61, fig. 7;
Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 25–7. On
Vauban see Barros et al., Vauban; Parent and Ver-
roust, Vauban. On Vauban and the colonies see also
Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 148–62.
31 There is an excellent reconstruction of the fort in
Malangin, Pondicherry, 28–9.
32 A letter from the court of Louis XV upon the occa-
sion of his 1714 elevation to the Order of Saint-Louis
commented “en 1700 il passa a Pondichery ou il a
fait batir une Citadelle et les fortifications dont les
plans ont été envoyés en France et trouvés tres par-
faits” (5 February 1714). anom , col e 324, “Nyon,
Denis de, chevalier de Saint-Louis, gouverneur et
ingénieur en chef à l’île de France (1700/1726),” n.f.
I found the reference to his wedding to Catherine
Bain (his first wife was Anne-Louis Hiron of Saint-
Roch parish) in the entry for Pierre Bain in the
so-called “Fichier Laborde” manuscript in the bnf :
Léon de Laborde, “Répertoire alphabétique de noms
d’artistes et artisans.” bnf , Département des manu-
scrits, naf 12042, f.1819. On Nyon see also Ménard-
Jacob, La première Compagnie, 123.
33 There are also five maps of Île-de-France and
Île-Bourbon with plans of fortifications by Nyon
(signed “Le Chev. Denyon”) in the Bibliothèque
nationale de France, département Cartes et plans:
ge sh 18 pf 218 div 2p13 (1723); ge sh 18 pf 219
div 2p7 (1722) and div 2p7/1 (1722) and div 2 p 8
(1725); ge sh 18 pf 221 div 1 p 10d (1725). Nyon is
also mentioned as being in Île-de-France in a letter of
M. Le Noir, Director General of the Compagnie des
Indes to M. L’Abbé Raguet (Pondicherry, 2 October
1726). col f 5a 39/4, “Correspondance avec le gou-
verneur de Pondichéry, Pierre-Christophe Lenoir”
(1726/1730), f.349.
34 “Elevation de la porte royalle du fort Louis de Pondi-
chéry.” Signed “A Pondichery le 15. fevrier 1709. De
Nyon.” anom , 26dfc 10terc .
35 Quoted in Gady, Jules Hardouin-Mansart, 546; and
Mignot, “Vauban,” 257. For illustrations of the por-
tals see Berger, A Royal Passion, 170–3; Hautecœur,
Histoire de l’architecture, 2:505–10.
36 Glenn Ames describes the arms of the cio as “set
in a round shield with a golden fleur-de-lys on an
azure background enclosed by two branches, one an
olive branch, the other a palm frond, meeting at the
NoTeS To pAgeS 131–6
top and supporting another golden fleur-de-lys with
the motto Florebo quocumque ferar, ‘I will blossom
withersoever I am carried.’ The supporting figures on
the shield were Peace on one side and Plenty on the
other.” Ames, Colbert, 22.
37 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 266–7.
38 The three views are in the Aix archives: “Profil
d’élévation du frontispice ou portail de l’église du
399
 fort Louïs de Pondichéry faite dans l’an 1722” (note
on left side notes: “modules de l’Ordre Ionique”),
anom, 26dfc18b; “Plan de l’Eglise du fort Louïs de
Pondichery bâtie dans l’an 1722,” anom , 26dfc 16b ;
‘Profil d’élévation et de coupe de toute la longueur
intérieure de l’église du fort Louis de Pondichéry
bâtie dans l’an 1722” (again with a note referring to
“modules de l’Ordre Ionique”), anom , 26dfc 17b .
The two Capuchin chaplains (aumôniers) are briefly
mentioned in a note of 1725 on the state of mission-
aries in the colony. anom , col f 5a 37/3, “État des
missionnaires” (1725), f.1a.
39 For a brief description of the church see Deloche,
Pondichéry, 49.
40 “Il n’y a pas longtems que le clocher que M. Dupleix
avoit fait élever sur le portail de la Chapelle du fort
est tombé un beau matin, faute de précaution on
devoit y placer un très grand horloge qu’il avoit
ordonné au Sr. Mouginot, et pour lequel il a reçu
des avances” (19 November 1754), bnf , Français 383,
“Journal du voyage de M. [Charles] Godeheu, fait
en 1754,” f.271a; “La Chapelle du Fort, dont les murs
se séparent par l’effort d’un édifice qu’on avoit élevé
sur son extrémité, pour y mettre une horloge, & qui
tomba il y a deux mois. C’est le sieur Mougenot qui
a fait cette horloge; il n’en est pas payé.” Letter by
Charles Godeheu, Feb 1755, in Lesueur de Petiville,
“Réfutation des faits imputés au sieur Godeheu par
le sieur Dupleix” (Paris, 1765), “pièces justificatifs,”
p. 18.
41 On 17 October 1738 a letter from the Superior
Council of Pondicherry notes: “l’hôtel commencé
en 1734,” but it may simply be an error. Gaudart,
Procès-verbaux, 3:121. The description of its decrepit
predecessor is dated 19 April 1731 [Procès-verbaux des
délibérations du Conseil souverain de la Compagnie
des Indes (Pondichéry 1913–14), 2:296]. The earliest
NoTeS To pAgeS 138–48
map calls the earlier building the “Maison et jardin
de l’ingenieur.” anom , 26dfc 15b , “Plan du projet
des fortifications proposées des villes hautes et basses
de Pontichéry” (1721).
42 The maps showing the completed structure are as
follows: anom , 26dfc 20bisb , “Plan des ville et cita-
delle (le fort Louis) de Pondichéry” (1733); anom ,
26dfc 29a , “Plan de Pondichéry”, ca 1743); and an
engraving entitled “Plan de la ville de Pondichéry
400
dedié à la memoire de Mr Dupleix,” 1748 (anom ,
26dfc 32a ). The building does not appear on maps
from 1721 (anom , 26dfc 15b , “ Plan du projet des
fortifications proposées des villes hautes et basses
de Pontichery [sic]”) or ca after 1724 (anom ,
26dfc 13a , “Plan de Pondichéry” [after 1724]).
intach has dated the building precisely to 1733,
presumably on the evidence of the map of that date.
intach, “Pondicherry Listing Book: Volume 1
French Town” (second draft, 2019), 6–7.
43 The first project, inked in red, includes a full ground
floor plan and a fragmentary first floor plan, showing
only the corps de logis. “Plan of the Ground Floor
of the Building of Messieurs the Directors of Sales,”
anom, 26dfc633a; “First Floor, 1st Project,”
anom, 26dfc634c. The second project, in pen and
ink only, includes two versions of a ground floor but
no first floor has survived. “Building of Messieurs
the Directors of Sales,” anom , 26dfc 635b ; and an
untitled second version: anom , 26dfc 635b .
44 Lawrence, Trade Castles, 95.
45 Louis Didier, “ingénieur du Roy,” was godfather of
the daughter of carpenter Jean Le Bozecq. anom ,
Doubles des registres de Baptême de l’Eglise Paroissiale
de notre dame des Anges de Pondichery depuis l’an
1719 jusqu’à 1729 et 1729 jusqu’à 1745, f.63. Jean Henry
de Larche is described as “capitaine d’infanterie de
cette garnison” when he married his first wife, a
creole from Pondicherry on 12 February 1719, and as
an “ingénieur et capitaine de cette garnison” when
he married his second wife, a woman from “Meguy”
(Mergui?) on 30 June 1723. anom , Doubles des
registres de Baptême de l’Eglise Paroissiale de notre
dame des Anges de Pondichery depuis l’an 1719 jusqu’à
1729 et 1729 jusqu’à 1745, ff.8, 38. A Sieur de Larche
also served as a councillor in the Conseil Supérieur
de Pondichéry from 1752 to 1769. anom , col e
255, “Larche, de, conseiller au Conseil supérieur de
Pondichéry (1752/1769).”
46 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 156–7.
47 Luengo, Arquitecturas, 488; Sundararajan, Pondi-
cherry, 151–2. On Blondel in the Atlantic Empire, see
Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 358–65.
48 The plan is illustrated in Mariette, L’architecture
françoise, vol. 3 (unpaginated). On the Hôtel
Desmarets, see Kalnein, Architecture in France, 36.
49 Boffrand, Book of Architecture, plates XXVII and
XXVIII; Kalnein, Architecture in France, 40–1;
Hautecœur, Architecture classique, 3:127–8.
50 Kalnein, Architecture in France, 45; Hautecœur,
Architecture classique, 3:i, 149; Lance, Encyclopédie
d’architecture, pl. 570.
51 “en travaillant à Élever l’Édifice de la Grandeur
françoise en Asie.” anom , col e 159, “Précis des
services du Sieur Dupleix,” 1775, f.11b.
52 Gaudart, Procès-verbaux, 3:177. The reference is in a
letter of 15 December 1738. On the use of “coolies”
in building and demolition projects under Gerbaud’s
direction in Dupleix’s time, see Labernadie, Le vieux
Pondichéry, 180. See also Steiner, Building the French
Empire, 60.
53 anom , “Doubles du registre des mariages de l’Eglise
paroissiale notre dame des anges de Pondichéry des
RR.PP. Capucins pour l’année 1719 jusqu’à l’année
1748,” f.79 (21 July 1738).
54 anom , col e 158, “Du Passage, Bernard, cheva-
lier, capitaine et ingénieur en chef à Pondichéry
(1736/1762).”
55 He was a witness at Gerbaud’s third marriage in
1744, anom , “Doubles des registres des Mariages
faits dans l’Eglise paroissiale de Notre Dame des
Anges de Pondichéry de l’année 1719 jusqu’à 1748,”
f.127.
56 Paradis, who had served in Île-Bourbon and Île-de-
France before coming to India, wrote a summary of
his achievements in his petition to be granted the
Military Order of Saint-Louis (which took place in
1747). anom , col e 328, “Paradis, ingénieur aux
îles de France et de Bourbon, ingénieur en chef à
Mahé, Karikal et Pondichéry, commandant à Karikal
(1740/1747),” letter of 20 October 1747. His death
record calls him the “Commandant de Karikal” and
says that he was “âgé d’environ quarante sept ans.”
anom, “Double du Régistre des Enterrements de
l’Eglise paroissiale notre dame des anges des RR .
PP. Capucins de Pondichery pour l’année 1748,”
91. See also Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 66–70;
Gabriel Duval, Pondichéry, 63; Martineau, Dupleix et
l’Inde française, 2:84–6. A 1742 plan of the hospital
signed by Paradis exists but no elevation. anom ,
26dfc 24b , “Plan de l’hôpital de Pondichéry”
(30 January 1742).
57 anom , 26dfc 20B , “Plan des ville et citadelle de
Pondichéry” (1733).
58 “Par délibération du 29 Octobre, nous avons arrêté
de faire démolir le gouvernement, qui menaçoit
ruine de tout costé et de louer la maison de M.
Febvrier pour 240 Pagodes par an jusqu’à ce que
le nouveau gouvernement, dont nous remettons
ci-joint le plan a la Compagnie, soit bâti. Nous en
faisons actuellement jeter les fondements et en pres-
serons l’ouvrage parce que M. Febvrier doit revenir
dans 18 mois et qu’il n’y a dans le fort aucun apparte-
ment convenable pour la Chambre du Conseil et
pour le bureau du greffe et secrétariat.” Martineau,
Correspondance du Conseil Supérieur et de la Com-
pagnie, 2:96–7; see also 11, 115–16.
59 The inventory includes: “41. Plan du nouveau Gou-
vernement de Pondichéry; 42. Plan de l’hôpital de
Pondichéry.” Gaudart, Procès-verbaux, 3:121. See also
Martineau, Correspondence du Conseil Supérieur et de
la Compagnie, 3:147–8; Deloche, Le vieux Pondi-
chéry, 70.
60 Gaudart, Procès-verbaux des délibérations du Conseil
supérieur, 3:137.
61 “Il convient absolument d’achever quand on pourra
l’enceinte de la ville du costé de la mer; on continue
à travailler au nouveau gouvernement et à achever
l’hôpital commencé en 1734.” Gaudart, Procès-
verbaux, 3:121.
62 Martineau, Correspondence, 3:340, 397.
63 Ibid., 3:397.
64 The building reports of 18 October 1744, 11 February
1745, and 11 January 1746, make no mention of the
Gouvernement. Martineau, Correspondence, 4:21, 89,
136.
65 Société de l’histoire de l’Inde française, Pondichéry en
1747, 3.
66 Martineau, Correspondence, 4:280.
NoTeS To pAgeS 148–51
67 “carreaux de verre nécessaires pour le nouveau gou-
vernement.” Martineau, Correspondence du Conseil
Supérieure avec le Conseil, 218. Ananda’s diary entry
for 23 April 1750 appears in The Private Diary of
Ananda Ranga Pillai, Dubash to Joseph François
Dupleix, Knight of the Order of St. Michael, and
Governor of Pondichery, ed. and trans. J. Frederick
Price and K. Rangachari (Madras, 1904), 7:69. His
diary entries for 11 July, 22 August, and 20 December
401
 1752 are in ibid., 8:137, 178, 264. On the delays in
construction, see also Martineau, Dupleix et l’Inde
française, 86.
68 “appliqué dès son enfance à l’étude de l’architecture
civile & militaire il s’en occupé dans l’Inde de l’un
& de l’autre objet, & les soins ont été d’une utilité
marquée dans les bâtiments publics de l’ancienne
ville de Pondichéry, & dans leur reconstruction.”
anom, col e1, “Abeille, Jean-Joseph, Conseilleur
au Conseil supérieure de Pondichéry 1769/72,” letter
from Paris, dated 9 February 1772.
69 The term is Gerbaud’s. anom , 26dfc 21b .
70 Martineau, Dupleix et l’Inde française, 2:84–6. On
the scarcity of wood in the region, see Gaudart,
Procès-verbaux, 3:31.
71 The pioneer of the ground plan in which rooms
flank a central corridor, which became the norm
in the first half of the eighteenth century, was Jules
Hardouin-Mansart’s Chateau at Meudon (1698–
1704). Gady, Jules Hardouin Mansart, 369–73;
Hautecœur, Architecture classique, 2:624–8.
72 Generally the positioning of doors and windows is
more even in the Fonbrun/Dumont plans; also small
staircases have been added to access the back court-
yards; the stairs leading to the stair hall are narrower
so as not to impede movement in the corridor; two
extra enclosed staircases have been added to the rear;
the terrace has been added to the right end; and two
massive, thick-walled caves have been added at the
back, presumably for storage, since their original
role was to have been parking for palanquins. The
changes were already in place in 1747 as they appear
in a detailed map of that year. bnf , département
Cartes et plans, ge c -3485, Plan de Pondichéry
(1747).
73 On the conceit of exterior decoration on the interior,
see Whitehead, French Interiors, 81; and Hautecœur,
Architecture classique, 3:276–7.
NoTeS To pAgeS 151–8
74 Dupleix showed Pillai the Sculptures on 11 July 1752:
“He then pointed out four figures for which places
are being made ready in the new Gouvernement in
the Fort, – one holding scales in its hand, another
looking into a mirror, the third reading a book,
and the fourth caressing a serpent in its hand. He
asked if I knew what they were. I replied, ‘No’; so he
explained that the figure with the scales was Justitia;
402
that with a book was Commercium; that holding
a mirror was Veritas and the last with a serpent was
Prudentia. There is another figure with a staff on
the steps leading upstairs; this is called [ ].” Pillai,
The Private Diary of Ananda Ranga Pillai, 8:137. He
later calls this last sculpture “a figure with a staff in
its hand like a watchman” but never gets around to
identifying it. On this quotation see also Bourdat,
Les grandes pages, 87–9. On Ananda Ranga Pillai, see
Oliver, Art, Trade, 153–84.
75 Labernadie calls one of them a triton but does not
give her source. Labernadie, Pondichéry, 198–9. On
dolphins as royal symbols in public architecture in
France and the Atlantic colonies see Bailey, Architec-
ture and Urbanism, 179, 270, 275.
76 Fissabre, “From Ship to Land.” The Vestibule of the
Château D’Issy is illustrated in Jean Mariette, Nou-
veaux bâtimens (Paris, 1740), pl. 6.
77 Quoted in Whitehead, French Interiors, 81. The
quote is from his 1737–38 Traité de l’architecture dans
le goût moderne.
78 Hautecœur, Architecture classique, 2:292–3.
79 Such tables were typical of salons and larger recep-
tion rooms. See Wilson and Hess, Summary Cata-
logue, 43–5.
80 Kalnein, Architecture in France, 64–5. Both were
illustrated in Mariette’s Architecture françoise.
81 Summerson, The Classical Language, 15.
82 Pillai, Private Diary, 18:264–5. Allegedly Dupleix
and his wife Jeanne spent much time supervising
decorators personally during the last years of
construction. Deloche, Pondichéry, 70; Duval,
Pondichéry, Histoire d’un comptoir, 63; Labernadie,
Pondichéry, 196–200.
83 Pillai, Private Diary, 9:217–18. The entry is dated
27 March 1755.
84 Oliver, Art, Trade, and Imperialism, 176–8; Shulman,
“Cowherd or King?,” 178; Raghavan, Ananda, 48–9.
85 The translation is by Dr Sathyanarayanan, “Ānant-
araṅgavijaya Campū,” 184–5. I am extremely grateful
for permission to excerpt his translation, which has
not yet been published, and to Margherita Trento,
for obtaining this text and permission on my behalf.
86 Ananda wrote on 29 June 1752 that “The Euro-
peans said tonight that Madame Pompadour, the
concubine of the French king, had sent by this ship
 an enamelled gold watch set with brilliants and of
wonderful workmanship, together with a finely-
worked golden case for scissors, a knife, etc. – two
articles in all – worth 1,000 pagodas.” Pillai, Diary,
8:124. See also Labernadie, Pondichéry, 200.
87 Lafont, for example, calls it the “Governor’s Palace”
and claims that it was where the governor lived.
Lafont, Chitra, 82.
88 Whitehead, French Interiors, 90–1; Kalnein, Archi-
tecture in France, 4.
89 Deloche, Pondichéry, 77; Bourdat, Pondicherry, 3;
Martineau, Dupleix et l’Inde française, 2:84–6.
90 Gerbaud identified the functions of the rooms on
both storeys, and although we have no plan of the
final bel étage we can assume that the layout was
similar to that of the original plan (fig. 4.15).
91 Pillai, Private Diary, 18:352. The entry is from
6 June 1753.
92 Ananda, Diary, 9:87.
93 Most have suggested that he consulted Blondel’s
L’Architecture françois, but it was published too
late for this building. I believe he turned again to
Mariette’s Architecture françoise.
94 Pérouse de Montclos, L’Art de France, 419–20;
Kalnein, Architecture, 138; Chevallier, “Jean-Michel
Chevotet,” 56–63.
95 Kalnein, Architecture, 147–9; Petzet, Claude Per-
rault, 304, 329; Hautecœur, Architecture classique,
3:570–1.
96 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 355–7.
97 Company merchant Jean Dumont (d. 1767) was ap-
pointed to the Conseil supérieur in 1752 and moved
to Negapatnam in 1761, where he spent the remain-
der of his life. anom , col e 155, “Dumont, con-
seiller au Conseil supérieur de Pondichéry (1752),”
f.1a. See also Gaudart, Catalogue, 51, 62, 68, 71. Jean
Dumont the “merchant” (he was really a bootlegger,
doing business on the sly with the Dutch) was buried
in the church of Notre-Dame-des-Anges in Pondi-
cherrry in 1767. Inde, Pondichéry, ‘Double du régistre
des enterments de l’eglise paroissiale de Notre Dame des
Anges (1767), 7a.
98 The staircase study is in the Archives of the École
nationale supérieure des beaux-arts, Paris (ensba ),
pra-15. The Morgan Library drawing shelf number
is 1986.21.
99 On Dumont, see: Dubin, Futures and Ruins, 30–1;
Gordon, “Subverting the Secret,” 45; Barrier, Les
architectes européens, 112; Garric, Recueils d’Italie,
78–9; Gallet, Les architectes parisiens, 202–3; Haute-
coeur, Architecture classique, 3:594–5.
100 Dumont, Détails des plus intéressantes.
101 anom , col e 69, “Champia de Fonbrun, lieuten-
ant d’artillerie au service de la Compagnie des Indes
(1772),” ff.2a–5a; anom , Guadeloupe, Grand-Bourg
(Marie-Galante), tous actes (1773), 248b.
102 Jeaurat, Connoissance des temps, 241–53.
103 Fonbrun was an excellent draughtsman as well. The
only differences between the two artists’ copies is the
degree of shading (sometimes Dumont uses deeper
shading, sometimes Fonbrun) and in Fonbrun’s use
of straightforward print-like titles in capital letters
(unlike Dumont’s more artistic fonts). Dumont has
also left out a staircase on the side terrace leading to
the garden, which appears in Fonbrun’s 26dfc 84a
and in McClean’s drawing after the demolition
(fig. 20) but not in Dumont’s versions.
104 (1) Vüe de Pondichéry dans les Indes Orientales by
Huquier (Bibliothèque nationale de France, départe-
ment Cartes et plans, ge d -17254 and département
Estampes et photographie, reserve qb- 370 7-ft
4); by Daumont (bnf , département Estampes et
photographie, li -72 (8)-fol ; Rijksmuseum rp-
p -1921-724); by Chéreau (private collection; the
caption includes identification as “No. 257” in the
series). (2) Vüe Perspective du Berceau merveilleux
qui est dans le Jardins du Gouverneur a Pondichery
Ville des Indes Orientales sur la côte de Coromandel
by Huquier (Rijksmuseum, rp-p -1925-1372.2); by
Daumont (Rijksmuseum, rp-p -1921-724).
105 Vüe des Magasins de la Compagnie des Indes à Pon-
dichéry, de l’Amirauté et de la maison du Gouverneur
by Chéreau (British Library, p 282; Musée du Quai
NoTeS To pAgeS 158–62
Branly, 88-001179-02.2).
106 One of the most complete sets is in the Rijks-
museum: rp-p -1921-727, 728, 735, 743, 747, 749, 759,
772, 789, 791, 792, 795; rp-p -1925-1163, 1166, 1167,
1170, 1175, 1177, 1197, 1204, 1239, 1243, 1248, 1255,
1259, 1260, 1276, 1278, 1284, 1293, 1294, 1297, 1300,
1301, 1305, 1306, 1307, 1316, 1318, 1324, 1327, 1333, 1372,
1375, 1378, rp-p -1960-571. On the vue d’optique, see
Stafford, Devices of Wonder, 193.
403
 107 On Van Ryne see McAleer, Picturing India, 17;
Lowe, Vestiges of Old Madras, 2:95. The British
Library holds an entire set: Maps K. Top.115.46.g;
115.58.c; 115.79.a; 116.48.c; 117.116.b; 117.131.b.
108 There are several copies in the British Library, for
example p 462:1754.
109 For instance: “In spite of the fact that Jan van Ryne
(c. 1712 – c. 1760), who settled in London about
1750, had not visited any of the places in his series,
his view of Fort William appears to be largely accur-
ate.” India Office Library & Records, 10.
110 Francis Swaine, Fort William, Calcutta, oil on canvas,
ca 1763 (British Library f 318). On Swaine, one of
Britain’s leading marine draughtsmen and painters
during the time of the Seven Years War and immedi-
ately after, see: Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism,
298–9; Parent, Entre empire et nation, 67; Radford,
Island to Empire, 122; Joël, Charles Brooking, 72;
Cordingly, Marine Painting, 85–6.
111 Baig, Reminiscences, 29, 33.
112 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 279–322.
113 Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 33.
114 bnf , Département cartes et plans, ge c -3485, “Plan
de Pondichéry” (1747).
115 “Je suis très curieux de belles Estamples l’on dit qu’il
s’en trouve un beau Recueil chez Mr. de Julienne
aux Gobelins en quatre Volumes contenant plus de
six cens estamples tu me serois plaissir de faire en
sorte de les avoir, les quatre volumes qui ne doivent
pas être de pareilles coutent 800 L. Donnes ordre
aux Cousens que tu as chez toi de faire Recherche
d’autres Belles Estamples différentes de celle que j’ay
déjà reçu et des Livres nouveaux qui passent pour
bons. J’en vois les Mercures remplis tous les mois
n’oubliez pas les vins de Champagne, de Bourgogne,
et de Cotte notre que je te Demande non plus que
les Liqueurs surtout le parfait amour et du tabac,
enfin tout ce que je te Demande … Je serois Curieux
NoTeS To pAgeS 163–8
d’avoir les oeuvres de M. de Réaumur sur les Insectes,
ainsi que le Recueil des Machines approuvez de l’ac-
cademie des Sciences et sont dit–on des oeuvres très
fascinants.” bnf , Français 8982, “Registre de lettres
écrites de Chandernagor, par Dupleix (1731–1740).
Tome IV . Années 1739–1740,” Chandernagore, to his
brother 15 Jan 1739, f.16b. On the four-volume set of
404
Watteau engravings, known as the Recueil Jullienne,
see Salut and Raymond, Antoine Watteau, 35–9.
The scientific works were René-Antoine Réaumur’s
Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire des insectes (Paris,
1734) and Machines et inventions approuvées par
l’Académie royale des sciences (Paris 1732).
116 Macaulay, Macaulay’s Essay on Clive, 22. Among
Dupleix’s many honours was the marquisate he
received from Madame de Pompadour in 1753. See
ANOM, COL E159, Letter from Dupleix to the synd-
ics of the CIO , Pondicherry, 16 October 1753.
117 Ibid., 17, 22.
118 “Il avoit les qualités d’âme, et d’esprit, qui peuvent le
mettre au Rang des grands hommes, une ambition
noble, des sentiments d’honneur, un désir extrême
soutenir la gloire du nom françois, et une passion de
faire respecter les armes du Roy, et de la Compagnie
… il porte aussitôt services à l’agrandissement des
Possessions de la Compagnie … Pondichery … devint
bientôt une ville florissante.” bnf , Français 12088,
“Histoire des révolutions des Indes orientales, depuis
l’arrivée de M. le comte Lally jusqu’à la reddition de
Pondichéry, de la perte de toutes les concessions de la
Compagnie et la ruine universelle de toute la nation
françoise dans les dittes Indes (1761),” f.3a.
119 “On sait maintenant par tout l’univers, comment
la ville de Pondichéry a été renversée de fond en
comble, et qu’elle est devenue le repair des animaux
sauvages,” bnf , Français 12088, f.144.
120 Osterhammel, Unfabling the East, 369–70.
121 British Library, wd 1293.
122 For a recent work on Piranesi and his reception in
Britain and (to a lesser degree) France, see Miller,
Marblemania, esp. 93–136.
123 Dubin, Futures and Ruins, 6.
124 Quoted in ibid., 5–6.
125 Quoted in ibid., 5.
126 “Pondicherry Listing Book: Volume 1 French
Town” (second draft, 2019), 6–7; Deloche, Vieux
Pondichéry, 91–2. Maps that clearly depict the new
building include: “Carte particulière de la ville de
Pondichéry et de ses environs, ou est marqués [sic]
les attaques des Anglais du mois d’aoust de 1778 et
l’état où était la ville lorsqu’elle [sic] a été assiégée”
(ca 1788), anom , 26dfc 557A ; “Plan de Pondichéry
 tel qu’il est en octobre 1774” (1774), 26dfc 413a ;
“Plan de Pondichéry” (1774), 26dfc 488a .
127 “Tous les Batiments qui ont été relevés, l’ont été sur
leurs anciens fondements que l’on a trouvé très sains
les murs ayant été sappés par le bas lorsqu’on les a
détruits.” anom , 26dfc 152b.
128 The plans and elevations signed by Bourcet include:
“Vieux Gouvernement” (October 1765), signed
“Bourcet,” anom , 26dfc 121b ; “Plan du gou-
vernement” (15 October 1766), signed “Bourcet,”
26dfc 152b ; “Profil et élévation de la façade du Gou-
vernement pris sur la ligne a.b.c.” (15 October 1766),
signed “Bourcet,” 26dfc 153c ; “Gouvernement”
(28 February 1768), signed “Bourcet,” 26dfc 213a ;
“Façade du Gouvernement” (28 February 1768),
signed “Bourcet,” 26dfc 214c . For more on Bourcet
and this building see: Deloche, “Introduction,” 5;
Labernadie, Le vieux Pondichéry, 326–7.
129 anom, Mémoires 102, vol. 421, “Memoire a Mon-
seigneur de Sartine Ministre et Secrétaire d’Etat au
département de la Marine,” f.52.
130 anom, Double du Régistre des Mariages de l’Eglise
Paroissiale Notre Dame des Anges des R.P. Capucins
de Pondichéry pour l’année 1773, “Mariage de S
Bourcet et Dlle. Deveaux” (10 January 1773), no
folio number; Double du Registre des Baptêmes de
l’Eglise Paroissialle Notre Dame des Anges des RR .PP .
Capucins de Pondichery pour l’année 1775, “Suplément
des cérémonies de baptême Pierre Jean Bourcet”
(6 November 1775), ff.13–14.
131 anom, col e 345, “Ranger, Gilbert de, capitaine
à la suite des troupes de l’Inde, ingénieur à Pondi-
chéry (1769/1791),” document d ; anom , col e
151, “Dulac, Claude, ancien commandant du Génie
à Pondichéry, retiré lieutenant-colonel d’infanterie
(1758/1780).” See also Labernadie, Le vieux Pondi-
chéry, 327.
132 See Ollagnier, Petites maisons.
133 Although the presentation drawing of the facade is
dated 1768, a map dated 17 November 1767 already
notes that the Gouvernement was “rebati à l’Etage.”
anom, 26dfc231c, “Projet de distribution pour
l’emplacement du fort de Pondichéry” (17 November
1767).
134 “Le bas de ce batiment est destine pour les bureaux.”
anom, 26dfc213a.
135 “Pendal qui a été bâti a la hate pour loger M. Larr a
son arrivé, servant aujourd’hui de hale pour la visite
des toiles.” anom , 26dfc 152b.
136 For basic descriptions of this house see; intach ,
“Pondicherry Listing Book” 1, 82; Deloche,
introduction to Pondicherry Past and Present, 8;
Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 110–11; Bourdat,
Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 108–10. A plan of
the house appears in Deloche, Le papier terrier, 56.
137 Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 108–9.
Bourdat gives the incorrect date of the marriage as
1773 and mistakenly calls her father a surgeon. The
wedding record is preserved in the Aix archives:
anom, Double du register des actes de mariages des
rrpp Capucins de l’Eglise paroissiale de notre dame
des anges de Pondichery pour l’année 1772, “Mariage
de Mr Simon Lagrenée et de Mad. La veuve du Saus-
say,” f.9. On Lagrenée, see also Deloche, Le papier
terrier, 36.
138 His birth register is in anom , Extrait des registres de
batemes mariages et sepultures de la paroisse de Saint
Paul Isle de Bourbon [1730], f.74. His death register is
in anom , Double du register des actes de mariages des
rrpp Capucins de l’Eglise paroissiale de Notre Dame
des Anges de Pondichery pour l’année 1800, “Enterre-
ment du Sieur Simon Lagrene,” n.f.
139 Guilmard, Les maîtres ornemanistes, 188–91, 248–9.
140 Madras and Pondicherry were intimately entwined.
Indian traders in Pondicherry also maintained close
ties with Madras throughout the colonial era, and
Pondicherry owed much of its prosperity to this
connection. In fact, Nayiniyappa came from Madras,
and Ananda retained close ties with merchants and
manufacturers in that city. See Agmon, A Colonial
Affair, 128–9.
141 Kalpana and Schiffer, Madras, 61, 198–9, 323, 326–7.
142 omnipotentis sub tutela /Frustra
NoTeS To pAgeS 168–77
laborabunt qui oppugnabunt eadem/
pondichereos supplices colonos/
benignè exaudiens/millesimi
septingentesimi quadragesimi quinti/
anni salutis spatio/ad securitatem nec
non ad decorem/maritimas has-ce [sic]
arces, moeniaque fundavit, curavit,
perfecit; pro francorum rege ludovico
xv/et eiusdem regni pro indiarum
405
 societate gubernator vigilantissimus/
josephus franciscus dupleix. The
translation is from Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century
Pondicherry, 22.
143 ad utilitatem populi salutemque/
Non laborabunt hostes ad evertendum eadem/
pondichereos supplices colonos/
benigne exaudiens/millesimo
octocentesimo seagesimo segundo/
anno salutis in medio spatio/ ubi
prius steterunt fortiora castella/a
martino guberatore erecta/salubres
aquas urbi dedit/pro francorum
imperatore napoleone iii/ in eiusdem
imperii indiarum partibus/gubernator
vigilantissimus/alexander durand
d’ubraye. The translation is my own.
144 “Plaise à la divine providence que le rétablissement
de cette nation dans l’inde lui soit aussi favorable,
que sa chute lui a été funeste et épouvantable.” bnf ,
Français 12088, f.144.
145 Metman, Documents sur la sculpture, 202; The Art
Journal Illustrated Catalogue, lviii, lv, 48, 172, 324.
146 “Sous le règne de Napoléon III Empereur des
Français/L’Amiral Rigault de Genouilly/étant
ministre de la marine et des colonies/Cette Statue
a été érigée à Pondichéry a la mémoire du/Marquis
Dupleix.” With the conquest of Saigon Marine
Minister Chasseloup-Laubat declared in 1861: “Vous
mettez ici vos pieds dans ceux de Dupleix.” Bertrand,
Indochine, 186.
chA pT er f iv e
1 Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 52–81.
2 His name is also spelled Pigneau; however Frédéric
Mantienne has demonstrated that Pigneaux spelled
NoTeS To pAgeS 177–85
his name with an “x” in his signatures. See Man-
tienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 14.
3 Daughton, An Empire Divided, 62.
4 Ibid., 99–104. On the inauguration of the statue see
Annales 27, 1–7.
5 Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 62–3.
6 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 11.
7 Daughton, An Empire Divided, 61; Ramsay, Manda-
rins and Martyrs, 68–91.
406
8 Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 23; Tran, “The Histori-
ography of the Jesuits”; Brocheux and Hémery, Indo-
china, 4, 404n4; Alberts, “Missions to Vietnam”;
Forest, Missionnaires, 2:7–12.
9 To avoid confusion this book will use the terms
“Tonkin” to refer to the north and “Cochinchina” to
refer to the south; after the French conquest a third
entity was carved out in the middle, with its capital
at Hué, which the French called “Annam.” This book
will also use quốc ngữ orthography with all Vietnam-
ese proper names (unless they are taken from early
sources, in which case I use the spelling and accents
in the source), all place names (except ones familiar
to English readers such as Vietnam, Hanoi, Saigon,
Da Nang), and all Vietnamese terms.
10 Cooke, “Early Christian Conversion,” 33.
11 Alberts, “Missions to Vietnam,” 271; Cooke, “Early
Christian Conversion,” 30–1.
12 Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 77.
13 Tran, “Historiography,” n.p.; Alberts, “Missions to
Vietnam,” 272; Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 78;
Cooke, “Early Christian Conversion,” 40.
14 Tran, “Historiography,” n.p.
15 Alberts, “Priests of a Foreign God,” 87. On the im-
portance of indigenous lay catechists for missions in
the Pondicherry area see Agmon, A Colonial Affair,
76–9.
16 Cooke, “Early Christian Conversion,” 37.
17 Tran, “Historiography,” n.p.; Mantienne, Pierre
Pigneaux, 23.
18 Alberts, “Priests of a Foreign God,” 86–7.
19 Ibid., 89; Forest, Missionnaires, 2:125.
20 Forest, Missionnaires, 2:126.
21 Tran, “Historiography,” n.p.; Forest, Missionnaires,
2:145.
22 Alberts, “Missions in Vietnam,” 274; Alberts, “Priests
of a Foreign God,” 85, 109; Forest, Missionnaires,
2:154–5.
23 Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 45, 46; Alberts,
“Priests of a Foreign God,” 106.
24 Ramsay, Mandarins and Martyrs, 19.
25 Ibid., 44; Cooke, “Early Christian Conversion,” 49;
Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 58.
26 Forest, Missionnaires, 2:156.
27 Ramsey, Mandarins and Martyrs, 19.
28 Ibid., 20; Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 46.
29 Malleret, “Le Séminaire de Virampatnam,” 82.
30 The Jesuit mission in Vietnam was funded by the de-
funct Japan mission through agricultural properties
such as (among many others) a coconut plantation
in Candolim, which was itemized in 1772. Goa State
Archives, Panjim (hereafter gsa ), 4514, “Contas dos
Devedores, Administradores e outros Depositarios a
quem foi engregue o dinhero que deveriam o seques-
tro dos Bens da Provincia de Japão da Companhia
de Jesus (1772), f.17b. See also gsa , 859, “Bens dos
Padres Jesuitas, Procuratura & Casa de Japão.”
31 Tran, “Historiography,” n.p.
32 Higashibaba, Christianity in Early Modern Japan,
19–20; Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 63; Ross,
A Vision Betrayed, 64; Moran, The Japanese and
the Jesuits, 56. The original Portuguese text, with
an Italian translation, can be found in Valignano,
Il ceremoniale.
33 Valignano, Il ceremoniale, 270.
34 Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 44, 138, 152;
Alberts, “Priests of a Foreign God,” 97.
35 Rhodes, Divers voyages, 70. On Minh Đức, see
Nguyễn, Asian Catholic Women, 119–20.
36 Rhodes, Divers voyages, 178.
37 Alberts, “Priests of a Foreign God,” 97.
38 Rhodes, Divers voyages, 134–5.
39 “L’en a desja parlé de Madame Lucie … cette bonne
Chrestienne … avoit chez elle une fort belle esglise
et elle entrenoit onze filles qui viverient en com-
munauté sous le titre des amantes de la Croix.” bnf ,
Français 15466, “Remarques sur la vie de Mr Mahot
Evesque de Bide & Vicaire Apostolique de Cochin-
chine,” f.64.
40 Forest, Missionnaires, 147.
41 Cooke, “Early Christian Conversion,” 43; Lall, The
Golden Lands, 102.
42 Rhodes, Divers voyages, 68
43 bnf , naf 9377, “Journal de l’expédition commerciale
de Pierre Poivre, agent de la Compagnie des Indes, à
la Cochinchine et aux Moluques (1748–1755),” f.25a.
44 Rhodes, Divers voyages, 70.
45 Alberts, Conflict and Conversion, 81–2.
46 Borri and Baron, Views, 140, 179.
47 Here is what Rhodes has to say about one church: “Ie
m’en allay donc à Basbam … J’y trouvay une fort belle
& grande Eglise.” Rhodes, Divers voyages, 136.
48 Borri and Baron, Views, 150.
49 Rhodes, Histoire du royaume, 172–4. See also
Rhodes, Divers voyages, 95.
50 Vinh, “Frame Structure,” 372–3.
51 Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 62–3, 67; Kerlogue,
Arts of Southeast Asia, 167.
52 Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 53–5.
53 Launay, Histoire de la mission, 2:285.
54 Malleret, “Le Séminaire de Virampatnam,” 87.
55 “Comme la Compagnie des Indes l’a ci-devant
accordée aux Révérends pères jésuites et capucins
pour les terreins qu’elle leur a concédé près cette
dite ville dans les Aldées d’Oulgaret et d’Arian-
coupan et comme le sont même tous les maniams
dépendant des chauderies et des pagodes.” irfa ,
994, 633 (24 November 1770); ANOM , COL F 5 A
52/1, “Extrait des registres du Conseil Souverain de
Pondichéry,” f.1b. See also Launay, Histoire, 2:281–2;
Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 208–14.
56 Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 53; Malleret, “Le
Séminaire de Virampatnam,” 82. On Chaudries, see
Bourdat, Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 72–80.
57 “les réparations et les augmentations que les dits
missionnaires sont obligés de faire à la dite maison et
au dit jardin pour les rendre propres a leurs exercices
[...] La permission d’acquérir en forme la maison et le
jardin susdits comportants environ neuf canis, dont
la moitié n’est qu’un sable aride.” irfa , 994, 633;
ANOM, COL F5 A 52/1, “Extrait des registres du Con-
seil Souverain de Pondichéry,” f.1b. See also Launay,
Histoire, 2:281–2.
58 “sept canis et demi sur lequel est un commencement
de bâtiment godon, [illegible] et colombier.” irfa ,
994, 647 (16 March 1771). Signed by Denoual,
notary public, Pondicherry, 16 March 1771. See also
Launay, Histoire, 2:283.
59 “S’obligeant le suppliant du dit nom, comme l’in-
NoTeS To pAgeS 185–93
tention des dites missions n’est de se prévaloir de ces
bienfaits qu’autant que le dit collège restera au dit
lieu de Virampatnam, de revendre le dit terrain, afin
que le public ne s’imagine pas que le dit Séminaire
veuille faire des acquisitions dans cette colonie qui
pourroient tourner au désavantage d’icelle.” irfa ,
994, 633; ANOM , COL F 5 A 52/1, ff.1b–2a. See also
Launay, Histoire, 2:282.
60 Ibid., 2:281.
407
 61 Ibid., 2:286.
62 Quoted in Malleret, “Le Séminaire de Virampat-
nam,” 83, and in Launay, Histoire des missions, 1:10.
63 On the Maison de Marihaure, see Deloche, Le vieux
Pondichéry, 107–8.
64 Malleret, “Le Séminaire de Virampatnam,” 89.
65 Ibid., plates XIII –XVII . See also Mantienne, Pierre
Pigneaux, pl. 6.
66 Malleret, “Le Séminaire de Virampatnam,” 88.
67 Launay, Histoire, 2:304–05.
68 M. Letondal to M. Chaumont (Macao, 17 December
1806). Launay, Histoire, 2:377–8.
69 Malleret, “Le Séminaire de Virampatnam,” 88;
Launay, Histoire, 1:10; Launay, Histoire, 5: pl. XV .
70 Letter by Pigneau to the directors of the mep in
Paris (Virampatnam, 23 January 1773) Launay,
Histoire, 2:286.
71 Mantienne, Pigneaux, 87.
72 Khuê, Vua Gia Long Và Người Pháp, 269–86;
Mantienne, “Transfer,” 523.
73 Ramsay, Mandarins and Martyrs, 47.
74 Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 72–4; Mantienne,
“Transfer,” 520–1.
75 Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 74–9; Brocheux and
Hémery, Indochina, 17; Mantienne, “Transfer,” 520.
76 See especially Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 103–7.
77 Kisluk-Grosheide and Rondot, Visitors to Ver-
sailles, 172.
78 irfa , 801, 155–9, “Traité entre le Roi et le Roi de la
Cochinchine” (Versailles, 28 November 1787).
79 “La Cour de France, après de belles promesses à
contremandé l’expédition de Cochinchine, mais
nous croyons qu’elle a été trompée. Au reste quelques
particuliers de Pondichery et de l’Isle de France se
sont ouverts à donner quelques vaisseaux armés et
on les attend sans peu de semaines.” irfa , 801, 275,
letter from Port Saint-Jacques by Boisserand. For
Conway’s decision, see Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux,
NoTeS To pAgeS 193–9
87–110.
80 Mantienne, “Transfer,” 521.
81 Ibid.
82 Ibid., 525.
83 Bertrand, Indochine, 36–7, 176; Malleret, Éléments,
35–6; Cosserat, “Notes biographiques,” 174–6; Faure,
Les Français, 193, 199–200, 242.
408
84 Faure, Les Français, 200.
85 “Joseph Victor Alexius Cyriacus Olivier. Anno
quo supra, et die octava Augusti, praesente Rd.
Dno. Audin Parocho, baptisavi Joseph Victorem
Alexium Cyriacum, filium naturalem, et legitimum
Nob. Dni. Augustini Raymundi Olivier Cancellarii
suprema Curia Comitatus Venaissini, Advocati in
Supremo Senatu aquarum sextiarum, nec non S.
Ordinis Jerosolimitani Secretarii, et Dna. Francisca
Ludovica Vitalis Conuugum: natum hodië hora
quinta matutinam: Patrini fuere Dnus. Hyacinthus
Joseph Ignatius Martinus Olivier frater baptisati, et
Dna. Theresia Josepha Gabriella Vitalis.” Archives de
Vaucluse (hereafter av ), gg 20 Baptêmes (1761–
1770), 158.
86 Borricand, Les hôtels particuliers, 233.
87 Augustin-Raymond’s birth record is in av , gg 17
Baptêmes 1720–1733, No. 119, f.236. His marriage
record (29 October 1752) calls him a “notary.” av ,
gg29 “Mariages 1738–66,” 139a, 153b. His death
record describes the 73-year-old former noble simply
as “M. Augustin Raymond Olivier propriétaire”
(landowner). av , Etat Civil, Décès an XIII , no. 62
(24 frimière XIII , 13 December 1804).
88 irfa , 801, 271–3, letter signed by Olivier, Saigon,
13 May 1795.
89 Bulletin des lois, 570.
90 Albert Joseph Augustin d’Olivier de Petzet’s birth
record appears in av , cc 23, Baptêmes et naissances
1790–93, 61a. For more on his father’s career see
Feller, Biographie universelle, 6:319. His birth
certificate is hv , gg 22, Baptêmes 1775–89, f.246a.
For more about their request for a nobilary par-
ticle, see Gazette nationale ou le Moniteur universel
(24 June 1818), 1. See also Buffin, Dictionnaire des
familles, 90.
91 irfa , 801, 261, letter from Le Labrousse to Létondal,
Saigon, 15 June 1789.
92 Faure, Les Français, 200–1.
93 Cosserat, “Notes biographiques,” 173–4; Malleret,
Éléments, 36; Schreiner, Abrégé, 104; Faure, Les
Français, 206.
94 Thụy Khuê, Vua Gia Long, 269–70.
95 Faure, Les Français, 214–15. See also Mantienne,
“The Transfer,” 522; Malleret, Éléments, 35. The letter
is dated 29 December 1791.
 96 Letter of 20 February 1792 reproduced in Nouvelles
lettres édifiantes, 7:170–1.
97 “et même il n’ira pas à la guerre cette année, il a fait 112
construire ici une ville assez forte à l’européenne.” 113
irfa, 801, 306, letter from Boisserand to mep proc- 114
urator general Létondal, 27 May, 1790. See Man- 115
tienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 128.
98 Cadière, “Documents relatifs,” 33. 116
99 “Le Roy, après avoir levé le siège de devant la capitale
de son ennemi, vint se retrancher dans une province 117
voisine. M. Olivier de Carpentras officier à son ser-
vice, lui fit un fort a l’européenne.” irfa , 746, 473–4,
letter from Labrousse to Boiret, 13 May 1795. The
passage is also quoted in Nouvelles lettres édifiantes, 118
7:285. See also Mantienne, Pierre Pigneaux, 128, who 119
gives the incorrect folio number. Missionary Pierre
Lavoué (d. 1796) referred to Diên Khánh citadel as 120
“une ville que le Roi a fait batir à l’Européene.” irfa , 121
746, 525 (Saigon, 6 August 1796). 122
100 bnf , département Cartes et plans, ge sh 18 pf 180
div 2 p 7 d, n.f.
101 Mantienne, “Transfer,” 523. 123
102 On Bélidor see Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism,
158–63. 124
103 Mantienne, “Transfer,” 528; Võ Liêm, “La cap- 125
itale,” 279. 126
104 Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 92–3.
105 White, A Voyage to Cochin China, 225, 220; Man- 127
tienne, “Transfer,” 524; Malleret, Éléments, 68–71.
106 Mantienne, “Transfer,” 528; Võ Liêm, “La cap- 128
itale,” 279.
107 Mantienne, “Transfer,” 523–24; Malleret, Éléments, 129
56. See also Công, “Hệ thống phòng thủ Vauban ở 130
Việt Nam trường hợp thành Hà Nội,” 38.
108 White wrote of the walls that they were “of brick and
earth, about twenty feet high, and of immense thick- 131
ness enclos[ing] a quadrilateral area, of nearly three
al., Vauban, 87. See also: Sanger, “La ville ex nihilo,”
37–41; Berger, A Royal Passion, 169.
Mantienne, “Transfer,” 524; Malleret, Éléments, 63–5.
Mantienne, “Transfer,” 524.
White, A Voyage to Cochin China, 224–5.
Mantienne, “Transfer,” 528. See also Phuoc, Vietnam-
ese Architecture, 88–9.
Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 200–1, 224–5;
Bùi, Old Citadels, 98–9.
Bùi, Old Citadels, 98–9; Nguyễn Lục Gia, “Cuộc
công thủ thành Diên Khánh trong chiến tranh
Nguyễn,” 2; Lê Quang Định, Hoàng Việt nhất thống
dư địa chí, 52–3.
Mantienne, “Transfer,” 525–6.
Ibid., 527. Công, “Hệ thống phòng thủ Vauban ở
Việt Nam trường hợp thành Hà Nội,” 37–41.
Salles, “J-B Chaigneau,” 77–8.
Martin, “History Repeats Itself,” 101.
In Cochinchina alone there were 80,000 Christians
by the late 1820s. Ramsay, Mandarins and Mar-
tyrs, 28.
Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 18–20; Cooper,
France in Indochina, 12–13.
Ramsay, Mandarins and Martyrs, 45–51, 137–8.
Daughton, An Empire Divided, 59–69.
Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 20–4; Cooper,
France in Indochina, 13.
Bertrand, Indochine, 186; Brocheux and Hémery,
Indochina, 25; Cooper, France in Indochina, 13–14.
Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 28; Thompson,
French Indo-China, 265–6.
Thompson, French Indo-China, 59.
Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 40–8; Cooper,
France in Indochina, 16–17; Thompson, French
Indo-China, 62–9.
Cadeau and Klein, “Conquêtes et résistances,”
28–34; Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 48–64.

NoTeS To pAgeS 202–10

quarters of a mile in extent, on each side.” White, A 132 Cooper, France in Indochina, 16.
Voyage to Cochin China, 220. 133 Ibid., 25.
109 Malleret, “Éléments,” 45–6. 134 Thompson, French Indo-China, 425.
110 White, A Voyage to Cochin China, 220. 135 Ibid., 62.
111 Mantienne, “Transfer,” 524. For seventeenth- and 136 Wright, The Politics of Design, 181.
eighteenth-century citadel plans in the Circum- 137 Bertrand, Indochine, 211; Brocheux and Hémery,
Caribbean and Guiana see Bailey, Architecture and Indochina, 80–97.
Urbanism, 205–6. For the Lille plan see Barros et 138 Jennings, Imperial Heights, 19.

409
 139 Cooper, France in Indochina, 29–30.
140 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 219–29; Cooper,
France in Indochina, 21–3.
141 Cooper, France in Indochina, 39.
142 On the Vietnamese village community see: Trần and
Nguyễn, “Reframing the ‘Traditional,’” 61–88.
143 Cherry, Down and Out, 4–5.
144 Wright, Politics of Design, 182–3.
145 Edwards, Saigon, 91.
146 See Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 241–78.
c hApT er Si X
1 Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism, 276; Fondation
Clément, Le patrimoine, 334; McClellan, Coloni-
alism and Science, 95; Médéric-Louis-Élie Moreau
de Saint-Méry, Description topographique, physique,
civile, politique et historique de la partie française de
l’isle Saint-Domingue (Philadelphia, 1797), 1:360–4.
William Henry attended a performance in 1783.
2 Camier, “Les spectacles musicaux,” 10.
3 Macdonald, Saint-Saëns and the Stage, 250; Irving,
“Lully in Siam,” 407.
4 On the Oran opera house, see Wylie, “The Import-
ance,” 172, 174; on the Constantine opera house see
Hautecœur, Histoire de l’architecture, 7:195–6. See
also Lepagnot, “Les théâtres.”
5 Camus, The Plague, 201.
6 Wright, The Politics of Design, 161. See also Cooper,
“Urban Planning and Architecture.”
7 yamono, “Global Currents,” 60; Gilmour, The British
in India, 448.
8 On the struggle between Catholic missionaries
and the secularist colonial government in French
Indochina and elsewhere, see Daughton, An Empire
Divided, 6–13. On the secularist missionary program
of the French Republic, particularly under Jules
NoTeS To pAgeS 210–20
Ferry, see Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:190–1; Bancel et al.,
La République coloniale, 34–45.
9 Krautheimer, “Introduction.” On the Altötting and
Loreto shrines see Bailey, “A Bavarian Pilgrimage
Shrine”; Vélez, The Miraculous Flying House.
10 Quoted by Nicola Cooper (who mistakenly identi-
fies him as “J. Brébion”), in her France in Indochina,
45 (translation from the French is my own). The
quotation appears in Bouchet, “La naissance,” 100.
410
11 His birth certificate is included in his Beaux-Arts
dossier: inha , École Nationale et Spéciale des Beaux-
Arts, No 1162 de Registre Matricule (28 January 1897),
document 166.
12 Bảo et al., Kiến trúc và Quy hoạch Hà Nội thời kỳ
Pháp thuộc, 41–3; Herbelin, Architectures, 284–91;
Le Brusq, Vietnam, 163–5. Herbelin aptly compares
it to the city hall of a large provincial city in France.
13 The street and garden facade and plans of the ground
and first floors were published in La construction
moderne 25 (1920): 410 (plates 205–8), which also
notes that Lichtenfelder won a bronze medal for this
building in the last salon.
14 “Les dispositions architecturales d’ensemble &
de détail de l’hôtel de ville donnent lieu à des
critiques de la part de la Commission qui estime
que la décoration vise trop à l’effet & présente des
complications d’un goût douteux que ne comportent
nullement les matériaux employés, briques &
enduits. […] Si l’on devait se maintenir dans le chiffre
prévu, il conviendrait de concevoir un monument
beaucoup plus sobre; cela pourrait d’ailleurs être
obtenu sans nuire à l’aspect du monument auquel
le caractère architectural adopte ne convient pas.”
anom, 94 col 4tp7, “Examen de travaux de
bâtiments et de voirie pour les villes de Hanoï et
Saïgon.” (Séance du 10 juin 1899), ff.191a–192a.
15 “Au point de vue artistique, les constructions
projetés semblent, en général, avoir été conçues
pour être édifiées dans une ville quelconque de la
Métropole avec une surcharge excessive de mou-
lures et d’ornementation; on peut regretter que les
conditions climatériques et techniques spéciales
a la région n’aient pas provoqué la création d’une
sorte de style local plus diffèrent de celui des édifices
similaires de nos pays.” anom , 4tp 1, Registre no 4.
Séances du 30 novembre 1895 au 5 septembre 1896,
“Examen des dossiers des bâtiments civils à réaliser
au Tonkin. Séance du 2 décembre 1895,” ff.42b–43a.
For the first project, which would have cost almost
1,600,000 piastres (16,000,000 francs), see anom ,
1tp 578, “Hôtel du gouvernement général: Plans,
élévations, coupes (1/200). Devis descriptif. Estima-
tion sommaire des dépenses” (1895). I am basing my
calculation on the piastre to franc rate of 2.45 (1898).
Bulletin économique de l’Indochine, 1 July 1898, 46.
16 Kleinen, “Théâtre et Empire,” 438–40. 48 Baudrit, Extraits, 1:343.
17 Baudrit, Extraits des registres, 1:47. 49 Ibid., 344.
18 Spies, Opera, State and Society, 175. 50 Les colonies françaises, 3:52–3.
19 Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:194. 51McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 166.
20 Baudrit, Extraits, 1:47. 52 Baudrit, Extraits, 1:345, 347.
21 Kleinen, “Théâtre et Empire,” 435, 437; McClellan, 53 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 77.
“Performing Empire,” 136–7, 165. 54 Baudrit, Extraits, 1:348. First names are not given
22 yamono, “Global Currents,” 70. in the Extraits; however, Antoine Genet was the in-
23 Quoted in Cherry, Down and Out, 130. spector general of the Bâtiments civils de la Cochin-
24 Maugham, The Gentleman in the Parlour, 172. chine in 1900 and Louis-Constantin Bergé was
25 Lewis, A Dragon Apparent, 21. listed as an “architecte-voyer” in 1893 and “architecte
26 Greene, The Quiet American, 155. à Saigon” and member of the Société des Études
27 Sitwell, Escape with Me!, 51. See also Cherry, Down Indo-Chinoises in 1899. Delaire, Les architects élèves,
and Out, 156. 273; Roux, Les colonies françaises, 136; Annuaire de
28 Sitwell, Escape with Me!, 51–2. On the 1925 Expos- l’Indo-Chine, 131. In 1898 Genet also designed the
ition des arts décoratifs in Paris, see Falser, Angkor “Villa Blanche,” the residence of Governor-General
Wat, 1:281–3. Paul Doumer at Cap Saint-Jacques (Vung Tàu). Le
29 Sitwell, Escape with Me!, 52. Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 223. Bergé’s life dates and
30 Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:238, 281–323. other information about his career are in his 1925 file
31 Ibid., 201–2, 238. as a chevalier in the Legion of Honour. Archives na-
32 yamono, “Global Currents,” 54–74; Kleinen, tionales de France; site de Fontainebleau (hereafter
“Théâtre et Empire,” 435–42; McClellan, “Per- anff), 19800035/195/25398 (38ff ). The life dates for
forming Empire,” 135–66. both architects are given here for the first time.
33 Fulcher, The Nation’s Image, 49, 202–3. 55 Exposition théâtre et de la musique, Palais de l’indust-
34 McLellan, “Performing Empire,” 144–6; yamono, rie, 2:175. Audouin was the “architecte de la com-
“Global Currents,” 61–5. mune d’Azeffoun (Algérie)” and designed the hôtel
35 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 161; yamono, de ville in Aumale (now Sour El-Ghozlane) in 1895.
“Global Currents,” 60. La construction moderne (Paris), 11 January 1895, 180.
36 Kleinen, “Théâtre et Empire,” 442. His 1903 marriage certificate to Josephine Vanhan-
37 Grey, “Opera and Music Drama,” 1:393. See also denhoven shows that both his parents had lived
Locke, “Cutthroats and Casbah Dancers,” 124. and died in Algeria (in 1890 and 1895 respectively)
38 Cherry, Down and Out, 19. although Georges was born in Caillebourg
39 “Recueil factice progr. extr. de presse et doc. sur le (Charente-Inférieure) on 17 March 1860. Dainville,
Théâtre à Saigon (1901–1902).” bnf , 8-rf -81053. Archives de Pas-de-Calais (hereafter ap dc ), Etat
40 bnf, 8-rf-81053, f.1b. civil, Mariages (1903), 3e 193a /221, no 513. According
41 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 142. to a newspaper report of 1903 Ardouin took a public
42 Ferrière, L’Indo-Chine, 13. course in pattern-making organized by the city of
43 Wright, The Politics of Design, 185. Paris, winning a prize that year in a design compe-

NoTeS To pAgeS 220–8

44 Cooper, “Urban Planning,” 77. See also Cooper,
France in Indochina, 46.
45 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 77, 235.
46 Baudrit, Extraits, 1:46. For instance the work of
Jacques Offenbach was performed in the ballroom
of the governor’s mansion. Le Brusq and Selva, Viet-
nam, 77.
47 Cussinet, “Influence de l’architecture,” 40.
tition. Le XIX e siècle: journal quotidien politique et
littéraire (17 February, 1903). Ardouin’s obituary
appeared in L’Echo d’Alger: journal républicain du
matin, 16 August 1920. Ardouin’s full name life dates
are given here for the first time. I am grateful to
Mme Brigitte Denis for Genet’s burial record, which
appears in her family’s private archives in Var.
56 Baudrit, Extraits, 1:349.

411
 57 On 18 March 1896, there was discussion about
which wood to use. Teak was the better wood (and
preferred by the military) but was imported (pre-
sumably from British Burma) and more expensive,
whereas “bois de Sao” was almost as good and local,
Baudrit, Extraits, 1:353.
58 Ibid., 349.
59 Ibid., 352.
60 Ibid.
61 L’Évènement (16 November 1895). The same story
appears in Le Gaulois, 17 October 1895, 3.
62 “En 1897–1898 – Architecte correspondant de
la Ville de saïgon pour les travaux du nouveau
Théâtre municipal édifié sur ses plans.” anff ,
19800035/751/85208, “Légion d’honneur: Ollivier,
Félix-Louis-Jean-Marie.”
63 “J’ai été en 1897–1898 l’Architecte correspondant
de la Ville de Saïgon (Cochinchine Française) pour
les travaux du nouveau Théâtre Municipal qui ont
été exécutés d’après mes plans et sous ma direction
en tant que : sculpture ornementale et statuaire,
peinture décorative, machinerie, décors, alors que
Monsieur Paul doumer était Gouverneur de
l’Indochine.” Letter to General Dubail, Grand
Chancellor of the Legion of Honour, Paris, 4 May
1927, anff , 19800035/751/85208.
64 The tender was awarded on 15 January 1897. Baudrit,
Extraits, 1:356. The firm and its offices were listed in
The Chronicle & Directory, 362.
65 Baudrit, Extraits, 1:357.
66 Ibid., 1:358. This source does not identify Bruder;
however he is mentioned in a book on theatrical
special effects as the chief machinist at the Opéra.
Moynet, Trucs et décors, 42.
67 On Deglane, see Epron, Comprendre l’éclectisme, 326;
Drexler, Architecture, 457. On Roume see Olivier,
“Nécrologie,” 253–8.
NoTeS To pAgeS 228–32
68 “Ville de Saigon: Le programme des travaux projetés
comprend l’achèvement du théâtre, la construction
de magasins & ateliers pour la voirie & d’un hôtel de
ville, et l’agrandissement de l’abattoir. Aucune
justification n’est donnée à l’appui des propositions
faites. En ce qui concerne le théâtre, M. Deglane fait
observer que le dossier n’indique pas l’état d’avance-
ment de ce monument; il est donc impossible de
412
se rendre compte si la somme de 1.019.700 fr sera
suffisante pour son achèvement. M. Pontzen est
d’avis que le projet de théâtre, sur lequel il n’y a plus à
revenir puisqu’il est en cours de construction, donne
lieu à des observations qu’il lui parait néanmoins
utile d’indiquer afin que l’on ne puisse considérer
l’avis émis par le Comité comme impliquant une
approbation des dispositions projetées. En ce qui
le concerne, il estime que le théâtre, qui ne sera pas
fréquenté par les indigènes, est beaucoup trop grand,
en égard à la population européenne de Saigon. Les
dispositions d’ensemble & de détail, qui seraient très
convenables dans un grand théâtre de province, ne
tiennent aucun compte des conditions climatériques
& locales de la Colonie. M. Roume fait observer que
Saigon est une grande & belle ville & que le nombre
des européens qui y résident ou y sont de passage
justifie la construction d’un grand théâtre européen.
M. Deglane indique que le cube d’air par spectateur
est environ le double de celui que comportent les
théâtres de France; la ventilation est bien assurée: on
a donc à ce point de vue tenu compte des conditions
spéciales du climat de Saigon. Le Président résumant
la discussion, propose au Comité d’émettre l’avis que
les justifications jointes au dossier ne permettent
pas de se rendre compte si la somme prévue sera
suffisante pour achever un monument, dont l’état
d’avancement n’est même pas indiqué. Le Comité
adopte cette conclusion.” anom , 94 col 4tp 7,
“Examen de travaux de bâtiments et de voirie pour
les villes de Hanoï et Saïgon” (Séance du 10 juin
1899): ff.188b–189b.
69 Letter of 2 October 1899. Baudrit, Extraits, 1:360.
70 Ibid., 361–2.
71 Ibid., 358.
72 Le Figaro, 24 December 1900, 5. The same article
appeared in Le Ménestrel: journal de musique (Paris,
30 December 1900): 415.
73 Ferrière et al., L’Indo-Chine, 13.
74 Cherry, Down and Out in Saigon, 18; Ferrière,
L’Indo-Chine, 13.
75 Bert, “Nos colonies,” 578.
76 Le Temps, 15 December 1902.
77 Cochinchine française: session extraordinaire de
1903, 42.
78 Le Quinzaine Coloniale, 25 April 1907, 300. See also
Wright, Politics of Design, 185.
79 Drexler, Architecture, 455–7.
80 Girveau, Charles Garnier, 246–7; Drexler, Architec-
ture, 432–41.
81 For its appearance when the facade had been
stripped of all its relief sculpture see Desbenoit,
Patrimoine architectural, 87.
82 Le Brusque and Selva, Vietnam, 77.
83 For the dimensions of the Saigon theatre, see Le Huu
Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 146. For the dimen-
sions of the Palais Garnier, see Nuitter, Le nouvel
opéra, 249–50.
84 Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 146; Cooper, France
in Indochina, 46; Wright, Politics of Design, 185. On
the capacity of the Garnier Opéra see Nuitter, Le
nouvel opéra, 248.
85 Bassalo, Art Nouveau em Belém, 89–96; Duarte,
Manaus, 1:66–69. Hoos, El Teatro Colón; Álvarez
Hernández, Ópera en Chile; Affron and Affron,
Grand Opera, 24–75, 231; Beauvert, Opera Houses
of the World, 132, 192. The Santiago theatre is a near
twin of that of Hanoi, perhaps because it was also
built by a Frenchman: Beaux-Arts graduate Lucien-
Ambroise Henault (1823–1908). On Henault see
Delaire, Les architectes, 291.
86 “Hanoi Opera House,” http://luutruquocgia1.org.
vn/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/1-a-ggg.jpg (ac-
cessed 27 January 2020).
87 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 149–51.
88 Bảo, Kiến trúc, 48; Lê et al., Traits d’architecture, 104;
“Hanoi Opera House,” http://luutruquocgia1.org.
vn/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/1-a-ggg.jpg
(accessed 27 January 2020); Logan, Hanoi, 93;
Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 147.
89 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 24 May 1906, 1. I have deter-
mined the exchange rate based on reports in news
stories of the time: it was approximately 2.30 francs
to the piastre.
90 Ibid. See also Gouvernement général, 71, which
places the concours in 1899. Knosp had lived in
Hanoi since 1890, became a French citizen in 1891,
wrote for the L’Indépendance tonkinoise, and was
editor of Le Tonkin before winning the Hanoi
theatre competition. For more on Knosp see
Pasler, “Music Criticism,” 203; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
29 January 1887, 6; and Bulletin officiel de l’Indochine
française (1891), 412. In the marriage certificate of his
son Gaston-Henri-Raoul, a composer, Knosp père’s
profession is given as a “pianiste.” anom , Gouverne-
ment Général de L’Indo-Chine, Résidence-Mairie de
Hanoi (Tonkin), Registre des Actes de l’État Civil,
Mariages 1903, No 3.
91 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 24 May 1906, 1.
92 The Parisian music magazine Le Ménestral quoted
the total price as $80,000, or 200,000 francs, Le
Ménestral, 26 November 1899, 383.
93 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 24 May 1906, 2. Knosp tried
unsuccessfully to sue the city.
94 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 24 May 1906, 2. E. Bourrin
claims that Harlay was hired on 30 March 1901.
Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1.
95 Bourdeaud’s first name, life dates, and biographical
material are published here for the first time (see
below: “Architects of the Théâtre de Saigon and
Théâtre municipale de Hanoi”). His name is often
spelled incorrectly in the press, especially as “Bourde-
and” and “Bourdaud.”
96 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 1 November 1900, 1.
97 Bourrin gives the amount as 240,000 piastres.
Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1. I am grateful
to Khieu Anh Nguyen for drawing these plans to my
attention and for providing me with an HD scan.
98 The 1902–03 Exposition d’Hanoï, also known as the
Exposition des produits agricoles et industriels et des
oeuvres d’art de la France, des colonies françaises et
de pays de l’Extrême-Orient, included representa-
tions from all the French colonies as well as the
British and Dutch East Indies, China, Japan, Siam,
and the Philippines. Falser, Angkor Wat, 239n18.
99 “Avis du Résident Maire: Le Conseil Municipal vient
de consacrer 1e vote émis déjà, le 26 Juin dernier,
par sa commission des travaux et du budget. Il a
NoTeS To pAgeS 232–7
approuvé pleinement les plans aujourd’hui réalisés
du projet de théâtre que cette commission avait
adopté en principe et voté leur mise à exécution
immédiate. Les efforts les plus grands vont être
tentés pour que selon le désir de M. le Gouverneur
Général, la construction soit, si possible, achevée
pour l’Exposition de 1902. La dépense totale y
413
 compris la somme à valoir, est estimée après sérieux
établissement des devis a 800.000 francs. Le Conseil
Municipal a émis le vœu que le Gouvernement de la
Colonie voulut bien pour une œuvre qui a vraiment
un caractère d’utilité générale, surtout à la veille
de l’Exposition, prêter son bienveillant concours
à la ville en lui en avançant sur la somme ci-dessus
indiquée celle de 500.000 francs que celle-ci lui
rembourserait en 10 ans par exemple par des annuités
régulières inscrites d’office a ses budgets. Cette
combinaison, en substituant le Gouvernement de
la Colonie aux entrepreneurs comme créancier de la
ville aurait l’avantage très appréciable de permettre à
la Municipalité de ne pas contracter avec ces derniers
des engagements à long terme et naturellement très
onéreux, étant donné le taux de l’intérêt dans ce pays.
Il y a quelques années déjà, le Protectorat a, par une
combinaison analogue, permis à a ville d’opérer le
rachat des marchés qui constituent aujourd’hui un
des meilleurs et plus riches éléments de son budget.
La Municipalité avec une régularité absolue, a
achevé aujourd’hui de rembourser la somme prêtée
et cette régularité même, jointe au développement
régulier et incessant de ses ressources doit sembler au
Gouvernement la plus sûre garantie pour l’avenir. M.
le Gouverneur Général a bien voulu donner son ap-
probation personnelle a ces plans du nouveau théâtre
et se montrer très satisfait de la méthode d’après
laquelle ils ont été conçue Lui-même, avec beaucoup
de bienveillance, a spontanément émis l’idée d’une
combination financière qui en faciliterait pour la
ville l’exécution. Je serais infiniment reconnaissant
à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur, s’il voulait bien,
au nom des considérations que je viens d’exposer et
des intérêts municipaux, appuyer auprès de M. le
Gouverneur Général le vœu émis par le Conseil Mu-
nicipal et que je recommande à toute sa bienveillance
NoTeS To pAgeS 237–41
personnelle./. Le Résident-Maire. Signé: Baille”
(Hanoi, 10 January 1901). Hanoi, Vietnam National
Archives Centre Number 1 (hereafter vnac 1), r.s.t.
r 62 21 571, “Ville de Hanoi, Conseil Municipal,
Extrait du Procès-Verbal de la séance extraordinaire
du 7 Janvier 1901,” f.85.
100 “Construction d’un théâtre municipal à Hanoï”
(25 April 1901), vnac 1, r 62 127, ff.34–5, 62. See
414
also Annuaire général (1905), 694; Gouvernement
général de l’Indochine, Ville de Hanoï, 71; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 24 May 1906, 2. On Charavy and Sava-
lon, see The Directory & Chronicle, 513.
101 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 18/19 March 1901, 2; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 15 December 1901, 2.
102 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 30 July 1902, 2.
103 “Théâtre municipal de Hanoi, élévation latérale”
(1 December 1905) and “Théâtre municipal de
Hanoi, élévation postérieure,” vnac 1, kt 567-3.
104 “Nhà hát Lớn Hà Nội, chuyện bây giờ mới kể”
(“Hanoi Opera House, the Story Is Now Told”)
(22 December 2017) https://www.nguoiduatin.vn/
nha-hat-lon-ha-noi-chuyen-bay-gio-moi-ke-
a352389.html (accessed 1 February 2020).
105 Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1.
106 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6–7 March 1905.
107 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 148.
108 “arrêté : Art. Ier. – Il est fait cession à titre gratuit
à la Ville de Hanoi, pour la construction d’un théâtre
et pour l’ouverture de voies aux abords de théâtre, de
cinq parcelles de terrain d’une superficie totale de 235
arcs 55 (deux cent trente-cinq acres cinquante-cinq
centiares) appartenant au Domaine Colonial. Les-
dites parcelles figurent teintées en rose sur le plan ci-
annexé, dressé le 11 Mars 1901 par l’Architecte-Voyer
Chef du Service de la Voirie de Hanoi. Art 2. – La
Ville de Hanoi entrera en possession et jouissance de
ces terrains, à compter du jour de la notification qui
lui sera faite du présent arrêté, sans recours possible
pour cause de troubles évictions, revendications de
toute nature qui pourraient survenir à leur sujet. Art
3. – La cession est faite, a la charge pour la Ville de
Hanoi, de faire procéder à l’édification du théâtre
projeté et à l’ouverture des voies aux abords. […]
signé: J. Fourès Directeur général des Travaux Pub-
lics” (Hanoi, 22 April 1901), vnac 1, r.s.t. r 62 21
571, ff.89a–89b.
109 Gouvernement général de l’Indochine, 71; Annuaire
général, 694. L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6–7 March 1905,
gives the number of posts as 32,000.
110 “Cahier des charges pour les travaux de couverture,
fermes métalliques, plomberie, ringage, menuiseries,
serrurerie et vitrerie” (29 March 1901), vnac 1,
r62 127, ff.49–60; “Travaux de construction 1er
 lot. Cahier des charges pour travaux de terrasse-
ments, maçonneries et charpente métallique ou bois
pour plancher” (29 March 1901), vnac 1, R 62 127,
ff.35–45.
111 Gouvernement général, 71.
112 vnac1, r62 127, ff.34–5. See also Gouvernement
général, 74. For Morin’s full name and title, see An-
nuaire général de l’Indochine (1909), 527.
113 “Rôle des journées des ouvriers employés du 1er au
30e Novembre 1911,” vnac 1, rst r 62 21 571, f.18. In
nineteenth- and twentieth-century Indochina many
women made an independent living as head of their
households making soup and selling it in mobile
stands on the street. See Cherry, Down and Out, 30.
114 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 18 May 1902, 3. For Fraipoint’s
full name and profession see L’Avenir du Tonkin,
1 November 1906. On Vollet, see Lobstein, Défense et
illustration, 80. On Duvent, see Benjamin, Oriental-
ist Aesthetics, 124.
115 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 27 May 1906, 2; Gouvernement
général, 73–4.
116 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 27 May 1906, 2.
117 Ibid.
118 Ibid.
119 “Marché passé entre la ville de Hanoï et M. Vola
pour la fourniture et pose de marches d’escaliers
et dalles en pierre nécessaires au nouveau théâtre
de Hanoï” (1904), vnac 1, r.s.t. r 62 21 574. I am
grateful to Arnauld Le Brusq for pointing me toward
this document. For the reference to Delarouzée see
Gouvernement général, 73; for Delarouzée’s full name
see Annuaire général de l’Indochine (1909), 522. For
Vola’s full name see ibid., 530.
120 Gouvernement général, 74–5.
121 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 153.
122 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 4 November 1906, 3.
123 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 21 November 1906, 2.
124 Ibid., 2–3.
125 “Les membres du Conseil municipal se sont réunis
en commission hier, dans l’après-midi pour entendre
le rapport de M. Bossard, architecte diplômé du
Gouvernement, sur les travaux projetés en vue de
l’achèvement du théâtre et examiner les desseins
des projets. – Les conseillers municipaux ont eu
également à se prononcer sur les moyens financiers
auxquels il serait le plus économique d’avoir recours.”
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 28 December 1906, 2.
126 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 29 December 1906, 2.
127 Ibid.
128 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 28 July 1906, 2.
129 “Extrait du Procès-Verbal de la séance extraordin-
aire du 14 Janvier 1907,” vnac 1, Archives 3e Bureau,
44, ff.83–6. See also L’Avenir du Tonkin, 1 January
1907, 2.
130 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 153.
131 “Achever ceux qui ne sont pas complets et les simpli-
fier si possible,” vnac 1, h 565, h 51, 1t 1, b 1, “Ville de
Hanoï. Achèvement du Theatre Municipal. Rapport
de l’Architecte des Bâtiments civils” (30 September
1908), f.1.
132 “Ville de Hanoi – Théâtre Municipal, façade
principale” (15 April 1909). The cover letter, en-
titled “Achèvement du Théâtre Municipal: travaux
extérieurs. Modification des façades,” bears Lagis-
quet’s signature. vnac 1, kt 566-2. Bourrin made the
remarks about the inspiration behind Lagisquet’s
project. Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1.
133 vanc1, “Ville de Hanoi. Achèvement du Théâtre
Municipal. Récapitulation des détails estimatifs des
travaux” (30 April 1909).
134 vanc1, “Ville de Hanoï, Achèvement du Théâtre
Municipal 2e Lot. Décompte provisoire N. 5 des
ouvrages exécutés et des dépenses faites à la date de
20 juillet 1910 par M. Labaye Entrepreneur” (20 July
1910), f.1a.
135 Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1.
136 Ibid.
137 “Hanoi, le 24 Octobre 1910. Installation provisoire
du Théâtre Municipal. Rapport de l’Architecte
Auxiliaire des Bâtiments Civils chargé des Travaux.
Conformément aux instructions de M. L’Adminis-
trateur Maire de la Ville de Hanoi, nous avons dressé
le projet adjoint pour l’Exploitation provisoire du
NoTeS To pAgeS 241–4
nouveau Théâtre. Nous exposons succinctement
les conditions dans lesquelles pourra se faire cette
installation: 1o vestibule d ’entree . – Le
vestibule du rez-de-chaussée sera ménagé pour per-
mettre l’accès aux escaliers conduisant aux fauteuils
d’orchestre et à ceux des 2èmes Galeries desservant
également les loges des 1ères Galeries. L’escalier
415
 central dit escalier d’honneur ne sera pas exécuté.
2o foyer de l ’etage . – La construction du Foyer
de l’étage sera réservée. Le public aura la disposition
des deux salons à droite et à gauche du Foyer, des
deux terrasses sur façades latérales et de la loggia du
1er étage donnant sur la façade principale.” vanc 1,
4 2/3, “Rapport du 24 Octobre 1910 de l’Architecte
auxiliaire des Bâtiments civils chargé des Travaux
sur l’achevement proviso ire du Théâtre municipal
de la ville de Hanoï.” See also Rapports au Conseil de
gouvernement, 32.
138 Brieux, Voyage aux Indes, 37–8.
139 Among the many volumes of such tenders in the
Vietnam National Archives Number 1 are “Ville
de Hanoi, Achèvement du Théâtre Municipal.
Construction de la Machinerie de Scène 2e Lot.
Cahier des Charges” (22 November 1910); “Eclairage
électrique du Nouveau Théâtre Cahier des Charges”
(19 February 1911); and “Ville de Hanoi. Service
de Travaux. Objet : Travaux d’aménagement du
Théâtre municipal (près à la rue Paul Bert) 1er lot:
Maçonnerie, charpente en fer et en bois, quincaillerie
et menuiserie. […] Procès-verbal d’adjudication”
(28 février 1911), which notes that “Monsieur Lagis-
quet architecte auxiliaire des Bâtiments civils chargé
des travaux assiste à la séance.” vanc 1, 17 53, 66.
140 Tarling, Orientalism, 37.
141 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 156.
142 “Ville de Hanoï. Travaux par Régie. Achèvement du
Theatre Municipal. Mémoire de fournitures faites
par M. Vuong-vinh Tuy commercant demeurant
a Hanoï” (7 October 1912), vanc 1, 25, f.1a;
“Procès-verbal de réception définitive du 17 Janvier
1913 sur l’achèvement du Théâtre municipal, 3e lot:
travaux de peinture, vitrerie et ameublement,”
vanc1, rs h7 79.203; “Ville de Hanoï. Théâtre
Municipal, détail de l’escalier coupes A, B, et C, D”
NoTeS To pAgeS 244–51
(20 December 1913), vanc 1, h 566, 30 (3); “Ville
de Hanoï. Théâtre Municipal. Détail des mosaïques
des paliers d’escalier,” signed Adolphe Bussy (1914),
vanc1, h565, 13 (22). On Bussy and the Grand
Palais in Hanoi, see LeBrusq, Vietnam, 196, 233.
The palace had a 100-metre-long facade featuring
a monumental colonnade and false dome at the
centre. It was destroyed by a US aerial bombardment
during the Second World War. On the Résidence
416
supérieure, see Bảo, Kiến trúc, 43–6; Le Brusq,
Vietnam, 165–6. Vương Vĩnh Tuy also provided
furnishings for the Tonkinese section of the Indo-
china pavilion in the 1925 decorative arts exhibition
in Paris. See L’Art et les Artistes 11 (March–July 1925):
360–1; L’Éveil économique de l’Indochine (11 October
1925): 11.
143 Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1.
144 Le Brusq, Vietnam à travers l’architecture coloni-
ale, 193.
145 Gouvernement général de l’Indochine, Ville de
Hanoï, 72.
146 Le Brusq, Vietnam, 193.
147 These were already described in the 1905 account.
Gouvernment général de l’Indochine, 72.
148 Ibid.
149 Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1.
150 vanc1, rst r62 44772, “Ville de Hanoï – Théâtre
Municipal. Plan du 1er Etage” (1911).
151 vanc1, h 566 b32, “Ville de Hanoï – Achèvement
du Theatre municipal – Portes d’entree escaliers
latéraux de dégagement” (10 March 1910, signed
Lagisquet).
152 Quoted in Zanten, “Architectural Compos-
ition,” 261.
153 Gouvernment général de l’Indochine, 72.
154 vanc1, h566 30 (3) 49, “Ville de Hanoï – Théâtre
municipal – Détail achèvement du Foyer” (1913).
155 vanc1, h566 30 (3) 49, “Ville de Hanoï – Théâtre
municipal – Détail de l’escalier coupes AB et CD ”
(1913).
156 Bảo, Kiến trúc, 48.
157 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 154; Bourrin, “Un
monument Garnier,” 1.
158 I am grateful to Khieu Anh Nguyen for drawing this
plan to my attention.
159 Gouvernment général de l’Indochine, 72.
160 Brieux, Voyage, 38. See also Tarling, Orientalism, 37;
Wright, The Politics of Design, 162.
161 Brieux, Voyage, 38; italics in original.
162 Bourrin, “Un monument Garnier,” 1.
163 McClellan, “Performing Empire,” 159.
164 His full name appears in Cote de la Bourse et de la
banque, 15 November 1906, 4. For the announce-
ment of his election to the Legion of Honour, see
L’Écho de Paris, 22 January 1933, 2.
165 École Polytechnique: Livre du centenaire, 1794–1894
(Paris, 1894), 3:226.
166 anff , 19800035/146/18647, “Légion d’honneur:
Ferret, Eugène Alexandre Nicolas” (21 May 1933).
There is no evidence to suggest that he was related
to Pierre-Raphaël Ferret, a student at the Beaux-Arts
from Bordeaux who was born in 1877 and contrib-
uted a pavilion to the Exposition universelle of 1900.
Delaire, Les architects. 259.
167 Although he won first prize in the concours and his
Legion of Honour dossier claims that he built it,
the neo-Renaissance structure that was constructed
(demolished in 1964), is attributed to Auguste
Depire (1845–1916). See Allgemeines Künstlerlexikon,
31:48–50; Delattre et al., Roubaix, 107.
168 Cote de la Bourse et de la banque, 10 January 1884,
4. See also La Loi, 7 January 1884, 3. The other two
investors were the local painter Paul-Félix Vallois
(1845–1906), and the hotel proprietor Gustave-
Thomas Aroux from nearby Froberville.
169 Dubosc, Trois Normands, 241.
170 anff , 19800035/146/18647, “Légion d’honneur:
Ferret, Eugène Alexandre Nicolas” (21 May 1933);
Cote de la Bourse et de la banque, 12 March 1890, 3.
171 That very year, on 12 June 1886, a sixty-five-year
concession was announced for a railway line between
Hanoi and Bac-Ninh. La construction moderne,
12 June 1886, 432.
172 anff , 19800035/146/18647, 3; Le Gaulois: “littéraire
et politique,” 17 October 1895, 1.
173 For more on these orders, see Gillingham, Notes on
the Decorations.
174 anff , 19800035/146/18647, f.3.
175 Park, “The Chosŏn Industrial Exposition,” 68; Kim,
20th Century Korean Art, 52–5; Kim, “The Appear-
ance of Korean Architecture,” 352–4; Kane, “Display
at Empire’s End,” 57.
176 Le Figaro, 26 June 1900, 2–3. For descriptions of the
pavilion see: Paris Exposition, 1900, 313; Guide illustré
du Bon Marché, 108.
177 Archives Municipales de la Ville de Cannes (here-
after amvc ), 4d 10, “Contentieux Ville c/De
Fallois – Fournier – Ferret pour inexécution d’un
traité passé pour la concession du casino municipal”
(1899–1923).
178 Drexler, Architecture, 442–3; Hautecoeur, Histoire,
196–7.
179 amvc , 4f i31, “Ville de Cannes – Projet de casino
municipal. Elévation principale” (1904–05), signed
A. Capron, de Ruhl, C. Mari, approved by the Pre-
fect, Nice, 7 November 1905.
180 Conti et al., Sanremo tra due secoli, 227–8.
181 Ibid., 188.
182 Cote de la Bourse et de la banque, 15 November
1906, 4
183 anff , 19800035/146/18647, f.3.
184 “Motifs de la Proposition: m. ferret , Ingénieur
Architecte Diplômé, âgé de 80 ans est arrivé
en Cochinchine en 1886. Il a pris une part très
importante et très efficace au développement
économique de la Colonie comme Concessionnaire
des Tramways et Chemins de fer sur route de
Saigon à Cholon, et de Saigon a Govap; fondateur
de a Cie française des Tramways de l’Indochine;
Concessionnaire par voie de concours, de l’éclairage
électrique de la ville de Saigon; constructeur
du Théâtre municipal de Saigon et nombre
d’autres entreprises d’intérêt public. A participé à
l’Exposition coloniale internationale de 1931 comme
Membre du Comité d’Admission de la Section de
l’Indochine.” anff , 19800035/146/18647, f.3.
185 “1121 Ferret. Le quatorze Novembre mil neuf cent
trente-six, six heures quinze, est décédé en son
domicile, 35 rue Notre Dame de Lorette, Eugène
Alexandre Nicolas ferret , né à Paris, le vingt-six
avril mil huit cent cinquante-un, architecte, Cheva-
lier de la Légion d’Honneur, fils de Eugène Alexis **
ferret, et de Marie Jeanne flety, époux décédés.
Divorcé en premières noces de Mathilde den-
uelle . Epoux en secondes noces de Marie Désirée
Joseph becaert . Dressé le quatorze Novembre
écurant, * quatorze heures dix, sur la déclaration
de Roger barbudaux , vingt-deux ans, employé,
NoTeS To pAgeS 251–5
7, rue Drouot qui, lecture faite, a signé avec Nous,
Georges Hector bihourd , Adjoint au Maire du
IXe Arrondissement de Paris.” Archives de Paris
(hereafter ap ), 9d 154, État civile, 9ème arrondisse-
ment (1936), Décès No 1121.
186 Delaire, Les architects, 362. His birth certificate
is included in his dossier when he was made
417
 chevalier of the Legion of Honour. anff ,
19800035/751/85208, “Légion d’honneur: Ollivier,
Félix-Louis-Jean-Marie.”
187 Lucan, Composition, non-composition, 118. See also
Sutcliffe, Paris, 107; Zanten, “Architectural Compos-
ition,” 306–7.
188 Ollivier, Félix-Louis-Jean-Marie, Clôture à jour pour
une salle dans un musée des arts décoratifs. Elève
de l’Ecole. Dessin scolaire d’architecture. ensba ,
god 48.
189 On Guadet see Zanten, “Architectural Compos-
ition,” 254–5.
190 Delaire, Les architects, 362.
191 “Son projet pour le théâtre de Saïgon, aussitôt
exécuté, avait attiré sur lui l’attention de tous.” anff ,
19800035/751/85208, letter of 27 June 1934 written in
Paris by A. Tournaire, president, to the minister of
the interior.
192 Indeed Bénézit lists him only as a painter. Bénézit,
Dictionnaire critique, 3:389.
193 Delaire, Les architects, 362.
194 anff, 19800035/751/85208, “Légion d’honneur:
Ollivier, Félix-Louis-Jean-Marie.”
195 anf, aj/52/377, dossier d’élève, “Ollivier, Felix, Louis,
Jean, Marie.”
196 Personal communication from Lesly Rivera
Tremolada, Guichard’s great-niece, on 27 August
2021.
197 Delaire, Les architects, 285; La construction moderne
(Paris), 28 March 1896, 312. His name is consistently
given as Ernest-André in the literature when his
marriage and death certificate show it was Ernest-
Amédée (see below). His address is given in his voter
registration card of 1920. ap , Ville de Paris Liste de
1921 d 4 m 2 409 (1921).
198 Guichard, Ernest-André, Fragment d’architecture
(1890). ensba , C Hist arch 2ocl 26. On the dif-
ference between an esquisse and rendu see Arthur
NoTeS To pAgeS 255–8
Drexler, “Preface and Acknowledgments,” in Drexler,
Architecture, 8.
199 La construction moderne (Paris), 28 March 1896, 312.
200 Ernest-André Guichard, “Projet rendu concours
d’émulation de 1ère Classe” (1895). ensba , pj 2381.
201 Zanten, “Architectural Composition,” 290–1.
202 In 1896 the partnership “Garnier-Guichard” received
honourable mention for a contest for the Caserne de
418
Sapeurs-Pompiers. La construction moderne, 6 June
1896, 432.
203 ap, 6m 184, mariages, No 431, “Guichard et Marc”
(11 June 1904); ap , Préfecture de la eine, Mairie du
6 Arrondissement, Extrait des Minutes des Actes de
Décès, année 1953 265/763, No 380268, “Guichard,
Ernest, 1 – 10 – 58.”
204 Bénézit, Dictionnaire, 2:122.
205 ensba, orn 81, “Vase à l’antique” (1874 or 1876);
ensba, orn 75, “Cratere a Campagna” (1876). See
Schwartz, ed., Gods and Heroes, cat. 116, p. 145.
206 ensba, orn 99, “Torchère” (1876).
207 Kerviler, Répertoire général, 1:218.
208 Bapst, Essai sur l’histoire, 617–18. The maquettes of
his designs for acts I and II of Thaïs (1894) are in the
Bibliothèque nationale de France, which also has
many other maquettes by the artist. Département
Bibliothèque-musée de l’opéra, maq -263-64.
209 John-Diéterle, “Les décorateurs,” 50; Girard,
“L’évolution stylistique”; Wild, Décors et costumes,
2:291; D’Amico et al., Enciclopedia dello spettacolo,
3:94. For his dossier at the Legion of Honour, which
includes his birth certificate and list of major works,
see anf , lh /432/76, “Carpezat, Eugène-Louis”
(1889).
210 Those designed solely by Carpezat include: BNF ,
département Bibliothèque-musée de l’opéra,
maq 181, 182, 201, 208, 235, 256, 263, 264, 272, 280,
401, 404.
211 Bassalo, Art Nouveau em Belém, 93–5.
212 John-Diéterle, “L’Opéra,” 50.
213 Le Petit Marseillais (14 July 1984), 2; Annuaire
général de l’Indochine (1909), 1001; L’Echo annamite,
3 January 1929, 6. See his obituary in Les Annales
coloniales, 3 August 1929, 3. His military records
are in the Archives départementales du Vaucluse in
Avignon, av , ad 84 r 1223, Matricules, No 661.
214 Archives de Paris (hereafter ap ), État civile, 9ème
arrondissement, Naissances, v 4e 3517 7/136, No
695, 765 (15 April 1875). On his professional life,
see Delaire, Les architectes, 188–9. On the Prix
Deschaumes, see ibid., 146.
215 Bossard, Jean-Isidore, Hôtel d’ambassade française
à l’étranger, “1904” (Dessin scolaire d’architecture,
Projet rendu concours d’émulation de 1ère Classe.
ensba, PJ 2497.
216 The marriage took place on 6 July 1905: “L’an mil
neuf cent cinq le six juillet a onze heures et un quart
du matin, acte de mariage de Jean Isidore Bossard né
à Paris le onze avril mil huit-cent soixante-quinze,
architecte, domicilié à Paris rue Mérimée 11, fils
majeur de Jean Baptiste Bossard, monteur en bronze,
domicilié à Paris rue des Pyrénées 229, consentant
aux termes d’un acte reçue le vingt-six Juin dernier
par l’officier de l’Etat civil du vingtième arrondisse-
ment de Paris et de Zénobie Mechineau son épouse
décédée, d’une part. Et de Marianne Israël née à Paris
le deux avril mil huit cent quatre-
vingt-un, sans profession, domicilié à Paris Rue
Mérimée 11, fille majeure de Hirsch Israël orfèvre
et de Henriette Simon son épouse, sans profession,
domiciliés à Paris, rue Château Landon 8.” ap ,
16m 141, État civile, 16ème arrondissement, Mariages,
No 696 (6 July 1905)]. The spouse’s brother was
a publicist named Simon Israel who was also a
chevalier of the Legion of Honour. The divorce was
finalized on 10 November 1911: “L’an mil neuf cent
onze, le dix novembre, à dix heures du matin. Nous,
Edgard Berthemet, adjoint au maire, officier de l’état
civil du seizième arrondissement de Paris, vu: 1. La
signification a nous faite le six novembre courant de
la grosse d’un jugement du Tribunal civil de Hanoï
(Tonkin) en date du dix-huit juin, mil neuf cent
dix rendu par défaut entre Marianne Bossard, d’une
part. Et Jean Bossard, d’autre part. 2. La grosse du dit
jugement. 3. Le certificat de maitre Dubreuilh, avocat
défenseur à Hanoï, constatant que le dit jugement a
été signifié le huit juillet mil neuf cent dix au sieur
Bossard. 4. D’une ordonnance du Président du
Tribunal civil de Hanoï ordonnant l’insertion du dit
jugement dans le journal officiel de l’Indo Chine et
le journal d’Indo-Chinois, la signification n’ayant pu
être faite à la personne même du défaillant de deux
exemplaires des journaux précisés portant la date
du quatorze juillet, mil neuf cent dix et contenant
insertion du jugement dont il s’agit. 6. Du certificat
de non-opposition ni appel délivré le quatorze mai
dernier par le Greffier du Tribunal civil de Hanoï,
les dites pièces par nous paraphées et annexées, a
l’exception de l’ordonnance et des exemplaires des
journaux sus misés, donnés en communication et par
Nous rendus a Maitre Arnoul huissier à Paris chargé
de la signification du dit jugement. Avons entrait du
dit jugement et transcrit littéralement ce qui suit:
Le Tribunal … par ces motifs, donne défaut faute
de comparaitre contre Bossard. Déclare les époux
Bossard divorcés aux torts et griefs du mari; confie
les enfants issus de leur union a la garde de la dame
Bossard … ainsi fait jugé et prononcé … En consé-
quence (suit la formule exécutoire) L’officier de l’état
civil. (signed Edgard Berthemet)” ap , 16m 179, État
civile, 16ème arrondissement, Mariages (31 Octo-
ber–18 November 1911), No 1408.
217 The marriage took place on 18 May 1922: “Le dix-
huit mai mil neuf cent vingt-deux, a onze heurs
vingt devant nous, ont comparais publiquement en
la maison commune Jean Isidore Bossard, archi-
tecte, né à Paris, neuvième arrondissement le onze
avril mil huit cent soixante-quinze, quarante-sept
ans, domicilié à Paris, 203 Boulevard Raspail; fils de
Jean-Baptiste Bossard et de Zénobie Mechineau […]
décédés; divorcé de Marianne Israël depuis le dix
novembre mil neuf cent onze […] et Marie Armande
Clémentine Rongier, sans profession, née a Blaye,
Gironde, le trente janvier mil huit cent soixante-
dix-neuf, quarante-trois ans, domiciliée a Paris.” ap ,
14m 276, État civil, 14ème arrondissement, Mariages
(4 May – 23 May 1922), no 912. The divorce, finalized
in Orléans on 13 July 1926, is noted in the margin.
218 Pallini, “The Draining and the Competition,” 60–1.
219 L’Écho d’Alger, 7 June 1940, 2.
220 Most of the documents are in the Archives départe-
mentales du Nord in Lille (hereafter ADN ). His
parents’ wedding took place on 25 November 1897 in
Cantaing-sur-Escaut, where his father François-
Hermand-Victor Harlay was described as an “in-
stituteur public.” ADN , ec 464 ad 4, “Canton de
Marcoing, Cantaing, Naissances, Mariages, Decès,”
no 51. His birth certificate calls his father an “institu-
teur communal” and his mother Laure Desirée (née
NoTeS To pAgeS 258–9
Taloppe) a “menagère.” ADN , 5mi 002 r 016, Floyon/
nmd, “An. 1865, Département du nord, Arrondisse-
ment d’Avesnes,” no 6. His marriage was celebrated in
his wife’s birthplace of Cambrai on 17 January 1897
when Harlay was described as “domicilé à Hanoï
(Tonkin)” but “resident à Lille.” ADN , 3e 6499,
“L’état civil du Nord Cambrai, 1897–98,” no 155. The
birth certificate of his son, Jacques Sydney Emile,
419
 from 26 September 1898, is in anom , “Registre des
Actes de l’État Civil, Naissance” (1897–98), No 48.
221 Annuaire général de l’Indo-Chine française
(1906), 385.
222 His name does not appear in Delair, Les architectes
élèves de l’École des beaux-arts, nor in Anne
Lacourte, “Liste générale des élèves du corps et
des élèves civils de l’École des ponts et chaussées
1744–1930” (2020), http://www.enpc.fr/sites/
enpc.fr/files/documents/eleves_corps_civils_
libres_courspreparatoires_1744_1930_fusionnee_
maj16.01.2020.pdf (accessed 15 March 2020).
223 Kruft, A History of Architectural Theory, 281. Haute-
coeur, Histoire, 7:417–19. The Opéra Garnier is
illustrated in Reynaud, Traité d’architecture, 2:64–5.
224 Gouvernement général de l’Indo-Chine, Ville de
Hanoï, 50; Annuaire général de l’Indochine (1909),
524 (the reference to Bossard is on page 520); An-
nuaire général de l’Indo-Chine (1910), 58; Annuaire
général de l’Indo-Chine (1911), 59.
225 and, 1r3397, “Classe 1918: Cambrai, repertoire,”
no 812. Himself a draughtsman and painter, Jacques
exhibited at a 1928 salon and died in the city in 1961.
Jacques Harlay produced posters for exhibitions and
advertised in the Second Annual Exposition of the
Amis des arts in Cambrai in 1928, a retrospective
of the work of the sculptor E. Jh. Charlier. Amis des
Arts, 67. That same year he exhibited some posters
and paintings of women called Lisière de Forêt and
Baigneuses in Septentrion: revue des marches du Nord
(March 1928): 56.
226 His father Alphè was “employé au télégraphe” and
his mother Pauline Massa was a “couturière.” Nice,
Archives départementales des Alpes-Maritimes
(hereafter adam ), État civil, “Commune de Ville-
franche, Année 1864, Naissances,” no 5.
227 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 25 April 1936, 6.
NoTeS To pAgeS 259–66
228 ap, v4e 5480, État civile, 2ème arrondissement,
Mariages, No 674 (29 October 1890); anom ,
“Registre des Actes de l’État Civil, Naissance” (1898–
99), No 26. Suzanne died in Nice in 1991. Léonie
Blanche Bouderghem was born on 10 March 1870,
in the 20th Arrondissement, daughter of a mechanic
and a milliner. ap , v 4e 2473, État civile, 20ème arron-
dissement, Naissances, No 628 (10 March 1870).
420
229 The obituary claims that he retired in 1913 but his
file with the Legion of Honour gives the date of his
retirement as 8 July 1912. anf , lh /1441/46, “Légion
d’honneur: Lagisquet, François Charles.”
230 Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:243.
231 Annuaire général de l’Indochine (1909), 525.
232 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 25 April 1936, 6.
233 Most of this information derives from his death
record. Orléans, Archives municipales et commun-
autaires (hereafter oamc ), 2e 385, Décès (1910),
no 1112 (12 October 1910), f.371b. The reference to
his business in Ivry-sur-Seine is in the Annuaire-
almanach du commerce, 3124. The announcement
that it passed onto his son was made in the Journal
du Loiret, 18 January 1911.
234 oamc , 2e 234, Décès (1868), no 334 (27 March
1868), f.112b; 2e 259, Mariages (1876), no 216 (20 July
1876), f.219b. The funeral of his first wife, Marie
Catherine Incoul, in 1876 was attended by the wid-
ower’s uncle, also called Jean Bourdeaud, who was a
paver.
235 Revue indochinoise illustrée (26 November 1900),
24. The announcement of his arrival on the ship
Colombo was made in L’Avenir du Tonkin, 8 April
1896.
c hA pT e r S e v eN
1 Wright, The Politics of Design, 76.
2 Lê, “Une architecture métissée”; Herbelin, Archi-
tectures du Vietnam, 61–110; Herbelin, “Construire
le style,” 178; Cooper, France in Indochina, 47–52;
Wright, The Politics of Design, 60–6, 202–33; Yia-
koumis et al., Ernest Hébrard; Le Brusq and Selva,
Vietnam, 42–6, 154–9, 180–99; Rabinow, “Savoir et
pouvoir,” 26–43.
3 Cooper, France in Indochina, 48.
4 Le Brusq, “Les musées de l’Indochine,” 107–8.
5 Benjamin, Orientalist Aesthetics, 249.
6 Metcalf, An Imperial Vision, 96–7.
7 Herbelin, Architectures, 245.
8 La construction moderne, 15 January 1898, 188;
12 March 1898, 280; 25 June 1898, 462; 13 November
1897, 77–8, pl. 15.
9 La construction moderne, 15 January 1898, 188.
10 Coucherousset, “L’École des Beaux Arts,” 6. For the
use of the term “style comprador” by a Vietnamese
critic of the period, see Tha Sơn, “Đi tìm một lối
kiến trúc ‘Annam,’” 1.
11 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 286.
12 Martin, “Staging China,” 137–43; Piazzardi, Italians
at the Court of Siam; Noonbanjong, “Power, Iden-
tity,” 106–16.
13 Piazzardi, Italians at the Court of Siam, 16–22.
14 Suksri, The Grand Palace, 108–9.
15 Lewis, Cities in Motion, 91.
16 Martin, “Staging China,” 137. Martin is referring here
specifically to Siam’s decision to participate in the
Paris Exposition of 1867; however the quotation is
appropriate for their adoption of European architec-
tural styles.
17 Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:57–124.
18 Ibid., 1:95.
19 Ibid., 1:22–3.
20 Le Brusq, “Musées,” 101.
21 Falser, Angkor, 1:241; Wright, Politics of Design,
193–4.
22 Cooper, France in Indochina, 70.
23 Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 1–2.
24 Falser, Angkor, 1:337. See also Le Brusq, “Musées,”
100; Morton, Hybrid Modernities, 35–9.
25 Falser, Angkor, 1:332.
26 Cooper, France in Indochina, 93. On the uprising, see
Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 315–16.
27 Falser, Angkor, 1:201–2, 238–9.
28 Herbelin, “Construire,” 172.
29 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 62.
30 Wright, Politics of Design, 75; Betts, Assimilation and
Association, vii.
31 Cooper, France in Indochina, 19.
32 Benjamin, Orientalist Aesthetics, 191–219.
33 Cooper, France in Indochina, 29, 31–2.
39 Metcalf, Imperial Vision, 57–62.
40 Ibid., 228–39.
41 Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial, 28.
42 Ibid., 34. See also Falser, Angkor, 2:71.
43 Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial, 39. See also Passchier,
Bowen in Indonesië, 109–11.
44 Passchier, Bowen, 111; Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial,
43–5.
45 Kusno, Behind the Postcolonial, 25–6; Morton,
Hybrid Modernities, 60–2.
46 Herbelin, Architectures; Herbelin, “Construire,”
171–88; Abbe, “Decadence and Revival”; Abbe, “Le
Développement”; Le Brusq, Vietnam.
47 Lê, “Une architecture métissée,” 252; Herbelin,
Architectures, 43; Le Brusq, Vietnam, 83–4.
48 Herbelin, Architectures, 27, fig. 2.
49 Doling, Exploring, 104.
50 See, for example, Clémentin-Ojha and Manguin, Un
siècle pour l’Asie, 222.
51 Muan, “Citing Angkor”; Abbe, “Decadence and
Revival”; Abbe, “Développement.”
52 anom, Protectorat Français au Cambodge: registre
des actes de l’état civil, 1874–1887. Singararayan is
in the volume for 1887, number 1. On the French
citizenship enjoyed by Franco-Indochinese Eurasians
and the “French from India,” see Brocheux and
Hémery, Indochina, 190–1.
53 anom, Protectorat Français au Cambodge: registre
des actes de l’état civil, 1886, No 6. The family moved
back to Marseille, where Paul got married in 1913 and
he died there in 1966.
54 ap, d4r 1 1412, “Groslier, Georges, Matricule 3792.”
55 Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:384; Abbe, “Decadence,” 124;
Herbelin, “Construire,” 176. Abbe mentions the
Second Prix de Rome but does not give a source.
56 Maignan’s obituary does not mention the École des
Beaux-Arts. La République française (30 September

NoTeS To pAgeS 266–79

34 Herbelin, “Construire,” 175–6. See also Lê, “Une 1908), 1. See also Alémany et al., Albert Maignan;
architecture métissée,” 253; Herbelin, Architectures, Mallet, “Albert Maignan.”
48–9; “Association” in Dulucq, Klein, and Stora, Les 57 ap, d4r 1 1412.
mots, 25; Morlat, “Projets coloniaux.” 58 Anonymous, “Le ‘Salon.’”
35 Herbelin, Architectures, 49–52. 59 ap, d4r 1 1412.
36 Metcalf, Imperial Vision, 55–7. 60 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 230. See Abbe,
37 Ibid., 56. “Decadence and Revival,” 124.
38 Falser, Angkor, 1:52, 152–3. 61 Falser, Angkor Wat, 2:224.

421
 62 ap , d 4r 1 1412.
63 On the history of the flying corps in France in the
First World War, see Auer-Véran, Archives de l’Aéro-
nautique militaire, 9–44; on the 19th Squadron and
Fifth Aerodrome see also 116, 219.
64 anom , Protectorat Français au Cambodge: registre
des actes de l’état civil, 1887, No 2; ap , 2m 190 b , 1916
Mariages, 02, No 169.
65 ap , d 4r 1 1412.
66 Abbe, “Decadence and Revival,” 124–5; Abbe,
“Développement,” 11–12.
67 Falser, Angkor, 2:104
68 Abbe, “Decadence,” 128.
69 Falser, Angkor, 2:384; Abbe, “Decadence,” 125–6.
70 Benjamin, Oriental Aesthetics, 198–210.
71 Muan, “Citing Angkor,” i, 10.
72 He was only a corresponding member and never
had an official role in the General Government. See
Le Brusq, “Les musées,” 101. The quotation is from
Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 18–19.
73 Herbelin, “Construire,” 178.
74 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 213. See also Hen-
ning and Koditek, Architectural Guide, 203–4.
75 Foucher, “Appendice.” See also Falser, Angkor Wat,
2:104.
76 Abbe, “Decadence,” 133; Le Brusq, “Les musées de
l’Indochine,” 101; Anonymous, “Documents admin-
istratifs: 17 août 1905,” 509. His birth date has never
been published and is approximate; I explain below
how I arrived at it.
77 Abbe, “Decadence,” 132; Abbe, “Développement,” 11.
78 Falser, Angkor, 2:15.
79 Clémentin-Ojha and Manguin, Un siècle, 101;
Delaire, Les architectes, 365.
80 Falser, Angkor, 1:241; Falser, Angkor, 2:16.
81 Muan, “Cambodian Art,” 51.
82 Pierre-Yves Manguin kindly drew my attention to
this unpublished drawing.
NoTeS To pAgeS 280–3
83 Anonymous, “Chronique de l’année 1907,” 422. For
a discussion of the École and its foreign students
(although none of them from Cambodia), see
Martykánová, “Global Engineers.”
84 Aberdam, “Élites cambodgiennes.”
85 This is the first time that the life dates and full
name of Khuôn have been published. The surname
Nguyen Van comes from his entries in the archives
422
of the École Centrale de Paris in Châtenay-Malabry
(hereafter aecp ), 2154 f 4, Annuaires de l’Associ-
ation Amicale des Anciens Élèves de l’École Centrale
des Arts et Manufactures, Annuaires de 1887, 1889,
1906, 1931, 1954. I am extremely grateful to archivist
Fabienne Jolly for locating these dossiers for me. The
1931 annuaire is the last time he is listed as being
alive (resident in Phnom Penh), and he is deceased
by 1954. In colonial documents Cambodians and
other Asians are referred to by their first name
(Khuôn) rather than their surnames; see Aberdam,
“Élites cambodgiennes,” 561. The surname Nguyen
Van appears only in the annuaires.
86 Aberdam, “Élites cambodgiennes,” 281, 448, 462.
87 Répertoire alphabétique, 2:99; Bulletin officiel de
l’Indochine française (1898), 1365; Le Matin, 2 Octo-
ber 1900, 1; Bulletin officiel de l’Indochine française
(1905), 280.
88 Julien, Lettres d’un précurseur, 66–7, 79–81, 90–3, 95,
141; Le Matin, 12 October 1900, 1; Le Pays, 14 Octo-
ber 1900, 1.
89 Bulletin officiel de l’Annam et du Tonkin, 404.
90 Julien, Lettres d’un précurseur, 91.
91 The case was reviewed on 23–4 December 1885.
Cochinchine Française: Procès-Verbaux (Session Or-
dinaire 1886–86), 108.
92 Delmas, Histoire du Lycée de Marseille, 46, 87–8.
93 aecp, 2154 f4, Annuaires de l’Association Amicale
des Anciens Élèves de l’École Centrale des Arts et
Manufactures, Annuaire de 1887.
94 Ibid. On the history of the rue Volta neighbour-
hood, see Hemmler, Énigmes, légendes, 48. Penny
Edwards writes that “Khun” studied at the Lycée St
Louis beginning in 1883, but this must be a mistake.
Edwards, Cambodge, 275n55.
95 Coussot and Ruel, Douze mois, 33. Sawmills were
prized possessions, not only as a primary business
but because they allowed plantation owners to sup-
plement their income by selling lumber when their
land could not produce enough cash crops to keep
them solvent. See Forest, Le Cambodge, 260–2.
96 Le Rappel, 4 September 1905, 1.
97 Aberdam, “Élites cambodgiennes,” 463.
98 Le Matin, 2 October 1900, 1.
99 Nicolas, Notices sur l’Indo-Chine, 19.
100 Falser, Angkor, 1:221; Hale, Races on Display, 76–7.
 101 Anonymous, “Chronique de l’année 1907,” 422. See
also Le Brusq, “Les musées,” 101; Lévi, Indochine,
192–3.
102 Abbe, “Développement,” 8–9; Abbe, “Decadence,” 120
142. 121
103 Moura, “Etat actuel,” 2:407. 122
104 Gamonet, “Le Ramayana,” 111.
105 Ibid., 114–16; Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 49–51, 73;
Groslier, “Soixante-seize dessins,” 332.
106 Giteau, “Un court traité,” 126.
107 Groslier, “Soixante-seize dessins,” 332.
108 Gamonet, “Le Ramayana,” 114–15.
109 Giteau, “Note sur les peintures,” 28. 123
110 Ibid., 30.
111 The orthography is “M. Mak (Oknha-Tép-Nimit).” 124
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 22 May 1912, 3. 125
112 Gamonet, “Le Ramayana,” 117. The date of Mak’s
induction into the Legion of Honour has never 126
been published before. Although as a foreigner he 127
did not have a dossier as such, there is a record of his 128
admittance as chevalier in an alphabetical file kept 129
at the Grand Chancellery of the Legion of Honour. 130
I am very grateful to Christine Minjollet, curatorial 131
assistant at the Musée de la Légion d’honneur et des 132
ordres de chevalerie in Paris, for looking up Mak’s 133
name at my request.
113 Groslier, “Soixante-seize dessins,” 332. 134
114 Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 148.
115 These names appear on a 1915 postcard of the throne
room celebrating its completion that was auctioned
at Morand & Morand (Paris), Numismatique, 135
philatélie & cartes postales anciennes (22 May 2013),
lot 130. 136
116 Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 56–8. For more on Papa and 137
Richaud see Martykánová, “Global Engineers,” 96.
On Vila, see Delaire, Les architectes, 425. 138
117 Henning and Koditek, Architectural Guide, 171–7;
Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 19.
118 Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 62. 139
119 “Until recently, the Annamite knew only a tiny
number of tools. Our European tools are made for
men of a given size, musculature, strength, size,
[and] span and the Annamite does not find them 140
convenient as Europeans do. […] The Annamite does
not know how to use our machines.” Henri Couch-
erousset, “La main d’œuvre en Indochine: quelques 141
observations pour server de base à une enquête,”
L’Éveil économique de l’Indochine 636 (25 August
1929), 4.
Herbelin, Architectures, 115–16.
Ibid., 61.
Ibid., 68. As Muan remarks: “This statement is curi-
ous since Groslier came to work closely with Oknha
Tep Nimit Mak from 1918–24 at the School. Either
Mak himself considered his input into the build-
ings as less than ‘involvement,’ or Groslier simply
wrote out the anonymous Cambodian workers who
labored to actually make the planned structures.”
See his remarks, for instance, about Mak and Mao:
Groslier, “Soixante-seize dessins,” 332.
Giteau, “Un court traité,” 27.
See Sthapitanonda and Mertens, Architecture of
Thailand, 158–9.
Abbe, “Développement,” 8–9.
Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 48, 73.
Abbe, “Decadence,” 133.
Ibid., 131.
Ibid., 124.
Quoted in Abbe, “Développement,” 24.
Ibid., 24–5.
Anonymous, “Documents administratifs”
(1920), 242.
Groslier’s letter to the résident supérieur (19 Decem-
ber 1917) is quoted in Abbe, “Decadence,” 135. On
the conscious campaign to rid Angkor of its associ-
ations with Buddhism, see Falser, Angkor, 1:337.
Groslier, “Le Musée Albert Sarraut”; see also Gros-
lier, “Les collections khmères,” 13.
Groslier, “Soixante-seize dessins,” fig. 90.
See Sthapitandonda and Mertens, Architecture of
Thailand, 100–1.
Henning and Koditek, Architectural Guide, 204–5;
Abbe, “Decadence,” 137; Groslier, “Le Musée Albert
NoTeS To pAgeS 283–92
Sarraut,” 39; Groslier, “Les collections khmères,” 13.
Quoted in Henning and Koditek, Architectural
Guide, 206. For multiple examples in the Atlan-
tic empire see Bailey, Architecture and Urbanism,
204–64.
Groslier, “Le Musée Albert Sarraut,” 39; Groslier,
“Les collections khmères,” 13; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
19 August 1922, 2.
Groslier, “L’enseignement,” 11.
423
 142 Abbe, “Développement,” 16–17. 10 Wright, Politics of Design, 60. The design was pub-
143 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 19 August 1922, 2. lished: Hébrard and Zeiler, Spalato.
144 Edwards, Cambodge, 149. 11 anf , lh /1275/64, f.12.
145 Muan, “Citing Angkor,” 3. 12 Wright, Politics of Design, 202; Hébrard, “L’urban-
146 Abbe, “Decadence,” 129, 140–2; Muan, “Citing isme,” 72.
Angkor,” 48. See also Gamonet, “Le Ramayana,” 13 Herbelin, Architectures, 69.
115–16. 14 Ibid., 74; Wright, Politics of Design, 108.
147 Edwards, Cambodge, 150. 15 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 42.
148 Abbe, “Développement,” 18. 16 Wright, Politics of Design, 79; Abu-Lughod, Rabat,
149 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 29 December 1922, 3. 131–49.
150 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 19 August 1922, 2. 17 Benjamin’s quote refers not to his own opinion but
151 Ibid. to that of Wright, who dismisses the idea of racial
152 Falser, Angkor, 1:307–13. See also Morton, Hybrid segregation. Benjamin, Oriental Aesthetics, 201;
Identities, 38–9. Wright, Politics of Design, 147–9.
153 Abbe, “Développement,” 25. 18 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 44.
154 Falser, Angkor, 1:313, figs. FII .24a, b. See also Cooper, 19 Benjamin, Orientalist Aesthetics, 192–3.
France in Indochina, 75. 20 Wright, Politics of Design, 108.
155 Le Brusq, “Les musées,” 101. 21 Bảo, Kiến trúc, 22–4; Logan, Hanoi, 99–100.
156 Herbelin, “Construire,” 180. 22 Henning and Koditek, Architectural Guide, 68–9;
Herbelin, Architectures, 73; Le Brusq and Selva,
chA pTer e ig hT Vietnam, 69–71, 154–7, 168–70, 187–91, 195–200.
23 Herbelin, “Construire,” 180.
1 Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:373–4. See Njoh, French 24 ap , v 4e 3925, État civile, 11ème arrondissement (1875),
Urbanism, 106–7; Wright, The Politics of Design, Naissances No 4123; anf , lh /1275/64, “Hébrard,
188–233. Ernest Michel”; ap , 6d 234, État civile, 6ème arron-
2 Herbelin, Architectures, 44–7; Herbelin, “Constru- dissement (1933), Décès No 444.
ire,” 174, 186–7; Boca, “Constructions civiles.” 25 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 4 April 1933, 2.
3 Herbelin, Architectures, 68–71. 26 Lê, “Une architecture métissée,” 261–2; Herbelin,
4 Hébrard, “L’architecture locale,” 100–1; see also Architectures, 76; Bảo, Kiến trúc, 93–4; Le Brusq and
Hébrard, “L’urbanisme,” 72. Selva, Vietnam, 168–9; Wright, Politics of Design,
5 Hébrard, “L’architecture locale,” 101. 228–9.
6 Ibid., 100. 27 Bảo, Kiến trúc, 93–4.
7 ap , v 4e 3925, État civile, 11ème arrondissement 28 Ibid., 93.
(1875), Naissances No 4123. His dossier from the 29 Herbelin, Architectures, 78; Herbelin, “Construire,”
Beaux-Arts is in the Archives nationales de France, 179.
aj/52/406, “École nationale et spéciale des beaux- 30 Archives départementales de la Nièvre (hereafter
arts 7231 du registre matricule, Hébrard, Ernest adn), 2 Mi ec358 Nevers (1874–1870), No 111. The
NoTeS To pAgeS 292–300

Michel; as is his dossier with the Legion of Honour:
anf, lh/1275/64, “Hébrard, Ernest Michel.”
8 Delaire, Les architects élèves, 290. An extensive dos-
sier on Hébrard by Marie-Laure Crosnier Leconte
is available on the website of the Institut national de
l’histoire de l’art: https://agorha.inha.fr/inhaprod/
ark:/54721/00278037 (accessed 20 April 2020).
9 Wright, Politics of Design, 85–160; Wright,
“Tradition.”
most thorough work on Delaval is Jacques Guilchet,
Auguste Delaval, 1875–1962 (Hennebont, 2011). I
am very grateful to Michael Falser for drawing my
attention to this source. See also Le Brusq and Selva,
Vietnam, 233.
31 adn , r 236 Bureau de Nevers, classe 1895, fiche
matricule No 889 (14 April 1922). See also Boissy,
Le 81e régiment, 99; L’Ouest-Éclair, 6 December
1909, 4.

424
32 an , aj /52/403, École nationale et spéciale des beaux-
arts 4695 du registre matricule, Delaval, Auguste,
Emile, Joseph. See also Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:22–3;
Delaire, Les architectes, 235.
33 Guilchet, Auguste Delaval. In 1909 he was awarded
a third-class medal from the Salon of that year by
the Société des artistes françaises. See also Société
académique du Nivernais, Mémoires, 83.
34 “Saïgon, le 6 Mars 1905. Monsieur le Secrétaire de
l’Ecole Nationale des Beaux-Arts – Paris. Monsieur,
J’ai l’honneur de vous demander un petit service qui
aura pour moi une importance considérable. Je suis
élève de l’Ecole des Bx Arts Lecture d’Architecture,
atelier Blondel, Scellier de Gisors, Defrasse. Actu-
ellement je suis en Indo-Chine, incorporé dans le
Service des Bâtiments Civils au titre de Sous-
Inspecteur. Ce service des Bâtiments Civils est
reparti en 3 catégories: 1e Parti – Architectes de 1e, 2e
et 3e Classe. 2e – Inspecteurs de 1e, 2e, 3e et 4e classe.
Le poste de Sous-Inspecteur ne correspond pas aux
aptitudes de tout élève ayant terminé les études à
l’Ecole des Bx Arts et, pour être nommé Inspecteur,
je serai forcé de passer un examen correspondant
à ceux passés dans le cours de mes études à l’Ecole
étant donné que j’ai terminé toutes mes valeurs. Cet
examen peut me faire perdre un an ou deux à mon
plus grand préjudice, car j’ai actuellement 30 ans. En
France, au Ministère des Colonies, où j’ai mal été
renseigné on m’affirmait que le Diplôme de l’Ecole
ne donnait aucun droit, c’est pourquoi j’avais remis
la présentation de mon diplôme, dont le programme
est déposé depuis longtemps, à mon prochain congé
c’est-à-dire dans 3 ans. Ici, j’apprends que ce diplôme
pouvait me faire nommer Inspecteur de 2e ou 3e
classe dès mon arrivée. La Direction ignore de quelle
façon se font des études à l’Ecole des Bx Arts et exige
un examen pour passer Inspecteurs. Je vous serai
donc très reconnaissant, Monsieur le Secrétaire, de
faire adresser à Monsieur Guillemoto, Directeur
général des travaux Publics en Indo-Chine, une
note me concernant et indiquant le détail précis des
examens auxquels j’ai satisfait ainsi que les valeurs
obtenues par moi en insistant sur ce point que je suis
diplômable et qu’il est inutile de me faire perdre un
temps trop précieux pour moi à préparer à nouveau
ces examens. Une lettre faite dans ce sens et venant
de vous aura plus de frais que feuille de valeurs à
laquelle le Directeur n’attachera pas assez d’import-
ance. En vous remerciant d’avance veuillez agréer,
Monsieur le Secrétaire, l’expression de mes senti-
ments les plus dévoltées et les plus respectueux. Aug.
Delaval.” an , aj /52/403, École nationale et spéciale
des beaux-arts 4695 du registre matricule, Delaval,
Auguste, Emile, Joseph.
35 anom, ggi 36/673, Dossier Auguste Delaval, “État
général des services de M. Delaval, August, Emile,
Joseph” (31 July 1931). I am extremely grateful to
Caroline Herbelin for sharing her scans of this
document with me. See also Guilchet, Auguste
Delaval, 33, 87; Delaire, Les architectes, 235; Touring
Club de France, Revue mensuelle, January 1908,
48; Les Annales colonials, 14 October 1909, n.p.;
Sous-secrétariat des colonies, Bulletin officiel, 555;
L’Echo annamite, 1 October 1928, 2.
36 Direction générale de l’instruction publique, Trois
écoles, 22; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 24 November 1928, 2.
On the École building, designed by Charles Lacol-
longe, see Hà Vă Huề, Traits d’architecture, 98–9.
37 Guilchet, Auguste Delaval, 76–8; La Revue de l’art
ancien et moderne, June 1923, 112.
38 anom, ggi 36/673, Dossier Auguste Delaval, letter
from Royaume, Inspector-General of the Travaux
Publics to the Governor General, Hanoi, 31 January
1931.
39 His official title was “Chef du Service d’architecture
du Commissariat Général de l’Indochine à l’Expos-
ition Coloniale de Marseille.” anom , ggi 36/673,
Dossier Auguste Delaval, Letter of 5 October 1922
by the Commissariat Général de L’Indochine to
the Résident Supérieur, Commissaire Général de
L’Indochine. See also Falser, Angkor, 1:23, 255–79;
Guilchet, Auguste Delaval, 59–60; Congrès de l’outill-
age colonial, 67. His military records note that he
was “actuellement détaché à l’exposition coloniale de
NoTeS To pAgeS 300–3
Marseille pour une durée indéterminée.” and , r 236
“Bureau de Nevers, classe 1895, fiche matricule No
889” (14 April 1922).
40 Le Journal, 7 May 1925, 2; Le Droit d’auteur,
15 August 1925, 95–6; Le Droit d’auteur, 15 March
1926, 32; Le Matin, 18 January 1927, 4; Candide,
30 August 1931, 1.
41 Le Droit d’auteur, 15 August 1925, 95.
425
 42 Falser, Angkor, 1:257–9.
43 Ibid., 283.
44 “le Palais de l’Indo-Chine édifié à l’Exposition
Coloniale de 1931 n’était qu’un démarquage, pour
ne pas dire une copie, du Palais édifié sur ses plans à
Marseille. Il [i.e., Delaval] a été très froissé de ne pas
être désigné pour la construction du bâtiment qui
devait figurer à l’Exposition Coloniale de Paris et a
le sentiment très net d’avoir été cruellement lésé Pen-
dant les huit années consécutives qu’il a consacrées
à préparer l’Exposition de Marseille et l’Exposition
des Arts Décoratifs de 1925.” anom , ggi 36/673,
Dossier Auguste Delaval, letter by Jean Locquin
to the Governor-General of Indochina from Paris,
29 December 1931.
45 anom , ggi 36/673, Dossier Auguste Delaval, letter
of Governor-General P Pasquier to M. Locquin
Deputy of the Lièvre Chamber of Deputies (Hanoi,
14 March 1932); and letter of M. Locquin to Pasquier
(Paris, 29 December 1931).
46 anom , ggi 36/673, Dossier Auguste Delaval. For
a discussion of Delaval’s other building projects
see Herbelin, Architectures, 84; Guilchet, Auguste
Delaval, 88–9; Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 119.
47 Quoted in Anonymous, “Chronique de l’année
1936,” 592. See also Le Brusq, “Les musées de l’Indo-
chine,” 103.
48 “Il ne semble pas opportun, au moment même où
l’Administration prend à l’égard du Caodaïsme
diverses mesures en vue d’entraver son influence,
d’autoriser les représentants de cette secte à utiliser
ouvertement les services d’un fonctionnaire pour
l’édification d’un ‘grand temple’ destiné, par son
caractère monumental, a impressionner les foules.”
anom, ggi 36/673, Dossier Auguste Delaval,
letter from the Governor of Cochinchina to the
Governor-General (Saigon, 1 December 1929). See
also Guilchet, Auguste Delaval, 97–8. The letter from
NoTeS To pAgeS 303–8
Royaume, also in the Dossier Auguste Delaval, is
dated Hanoi, 29 October 1929.
49 Guilchet, Auguste Delaval, 91–3; Doling, Exploring
Ho Chi Minh City, 140–1; Le Conseil des recherches
scientifiques de l’Indochine, Indochine française, 31.
50 Le Brusq, “Les musées de l’Indochine,” 110; Le Brusq
and Selva, Vietnam, 78; Le Brusq, “Échange d’art,”
114–16; Malleret, Musée, 13.
426
51 Malleret, Musée, 15.
52 Baudrit, Extraits, 2:45.
53 Malleret, Musée, 15–16.
54 Ibid., 17.
55 Baudrit, Extraits, 2:47–9.
56 Ibid., 45–6.
57 Ibid., 51–2.
58 Malleret, Musée, 19; Lévi, Indochine, 194.
59 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 78–9; Malleret,
Musée, 20.
60 Malleret, Musée, 21. The full decree is published in
Anonymous, “Documents administratifs” (1927),
529–31.
61 Procès-verbaux du Conseil colonial (1924), 120; La
Tribune de Marseille et la Provence, September
1927, 3. See also Tan-Dan, “Au Gouvernement de la
Cochinchine,” 2; Le Temps, 18 August 1927, 2.
62 République française, 20 December 1923, 4; Bulletin
de l’Agence générale, 418. One hundred thousand
piastres had already been spent on the Musée
économique by November 1925. Procès-verbaux du
Conseil colonial (1925), 302.
63 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 77–8.
64 “Il manque à l’Indochine quelque chose d’analogue
à ce qu’on voit à Paris, au Trocadéro, un Musée
ethnographique, où, dans de vastes salles, on puisse
retrouver, dans les gestes de leur vie quotidienne,
les diverses races qui peuplent l’Indochine, avec leur
habitat, leur ambiance, leurs costumes, leurs mo-
biliers, toute la documentation historique qui les
concerne, les collections des faunes et des flores
locales et les collections de nos richesses économi-
ques. Voilà une institution qui serait tout à fait à sa
place à Saigon.” vnac 1, igtp (Inspection générale
des travaux publics) h 7 r 61 815, “Session du Conseil
supérieur de la Cochinchine” (16 November 1917).
Excerpted in Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 78; Le
Brusq, “Échanges,” 115. I am extremely grateful to Ar-
nauld Le Brusq for informing me about this dossier
and for kindly sharing his archival notes with me.
His notes, some of them unpublished, are a critical
source for the first competition for the building and
Groslier’s and the municipality’s goals.
65 L’Homme libre, 27 June 1924, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
21 November 1924, 1; L’Echo annamite, 17 December
1924, 1.
66 “Avec les salles d’exposition, à donner aux com-
merçants et aux voyageurs toutes les facilités pour
étudier l’Indochine.” vnac 1, igtp h 7 r 61 815,
“Programme de concours et cahier des charges pour
un musée indochinois à Saigon” (signed Groslier).
67 Procès-verbaux du Conseil colonial (1920), 84.
68 “Les architectes demeurent entièrement libres dans
la conception du monument [...] On recommande
enfin aux architectes de s’inspirer de vues très
simples, de goût français, de rechercher la pureté de
lignes qui s’harmonise avec la belle lumière des pays
tropicaux.” vnac 1, igtp h 7 r 61 815, “Programme
de concours et cahier des charges pour un musée
indochinois à Saigon” (signed Groslier). Mostly
quoted in Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 78.
69 Procès-verbaux du Conseil colonial (1918), 131, 164.
Of this sum, 50,000 went to the construction of the
museum, and the rest to the acquisition, mainten-
ance, and renewal of collections, furniture, equip-
ment, and various supplies and the price of sending
samples of Cochinchina products to France and
participating in exhibitions and the Lyon fair.
70 vnac 1, igtp h 7 r 61 815. See Le Brusq, Vietnam,
78–9.
71 For a postcard of the 1925 pavilion, naming the archi-
tects, see: https://www.worldfairs.info/
expopavillondetails.php?expo_id=33&pavillon_
id=3278 (accessed 13 October 2021).
72 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 78.
73 Procès-verbaux du Conseil colonial (1924), 99. See
also Le Brusq, “Échanges,” 115–16; Le Brusq, Viet-
nam, 78–9.
74 vnac 1, igtp h 7 r 61 815, “Exposition de Saigon en
1926. Construction d’un musée ethnographique à
Saigon. Avant-projet.” 1924. I am grateful to Arnauld
Le Brusq for sharing his notes from this dossier.
75 vnac 1, igtp h 7 r 61 815, Letter from Groslier to
the Gouverneur Général (27 August 1923).
76 L’Action française, 5 October 1924, 4; Le petit
provençal, 4 December 1928, 2.
77 Le Brusq, Vietnam, 79.
78 Delaval prepared a set of plans of the “Musée
économique de la Cochinchine à Saigon. Palais du
riz” on 8 September 1925 which were examined by
Arnauld Le Brusq in the Hanoi archives: a ground
floor plan; a project for the ceilings; elevations of the
main and lateral facades, and a sectional view. He
also examined a project of 7 March 1924 executed in
Hanoi and signed by Delaval. vnac 1, igtp h 7 r 61
815, “Exposition de Saigon en 1926. Construction
d’un musée ethnographique à Saigon. Avant-projet.”
1924. He published the sectional view in his book
Vietnam, 77. I am grateful to Arnauld Le Brusq for
sharing his notes from this dossier. There are also
additional drawings of the Musée économique, all
signed by Delaval, in the Wolfsonian Museum at
Florida International University: “Musée Economi-
que de la Cochinchine, Façade latérale” (Saigon, 2
April 1924); “5. Musée Economique de la Cochin-
chine, Façade principale” (Saigon, 1 March 1925);
“Aménagement de la Salle du Musée Economique
à la Chambre de Commerce de Saigon” (Saigon, 26
September 1925); “Coupe gh ” (Saigon, 18 Janu-
ary 1926); “Coupe sur la Ferme du Hall Central”
(Saigon, 18 March 1926); “Musée Economique de la
Cochinchine, Coupe cd-e , Coupe ab ” (Saigon, 6
April 1926); “16. Musée Economique de la Cochin-
chine, Coupe ce , op , mn ” (Saigon, 10 April 1926);
“Façade postérieure” (Saigon, 31 May 1926); “23.
Musée Economique de la Cochinchine, Plan du
Carrelage” (Saigon, August 1926); “Gouverne-
ment de la Cochinchine, Musée Economique de la
Cochinchine, Coupe Transversale” (date missing);
“Hall Central: Plan du Plafond (gh ), Plan du
Lanterneau (ij ), Plan du Niveau du Balcon (gh ),
Plan du Rez-de-chaussée (bf )” (Saigon, 4 May
1926); “Musée Economique de la Cochinchine,
Coupe gh (Saigon, 18 June 1926); “8. Continuation
des travaux de construction du Musée Economi-
que de la Cochinchine à Saigon (15 October 1926);
“Aménagement de la Salle du Musée Economique a
la Chambre de Commerce de Saigon: Armoire Vi-
trine” (Saigon, 27 September 1928). There is also an
NoTeS To pAgeS 308–11
elevation of the Palais du Riz entitled “Palais du Riz
et des Produits de la Cochinchine (Projet A), Façade
principale (Saigon, 8 April 1925),” that is also signed
by Delaval and the present whereabouts of which is
unknown.
79 “Le plan général de M. Delaval, qui correspond
entièrement aux desiderata du programme précité
serait suivi et mis au point, sous sa direction s’il
est possible car M. Delaval, pris par l’Exposition
427
 des Arts Décoratifs de 1925 à Paris, est sans doute
appelé à quitter prochainement la colonie” (Hanoi,
31 January 1924). vnac 1, igtp h 7 r 61 815, Letter
from Governor-General Merlin to the Governor of
Cochinchina (27 August 1923).
80 Hébrard, “L’Urbanisme,” 72.
81 Blanchard de la Brosse’s decree of 18 November
1927 in “Chronique,” Bulletin de l’Ecole Française
d’Extrême-Orient 27 (1927): 529–31.
82 For a discussion of the common view at the time that
Indochina did not exist as its own entity but under
the shadow of India and China, see Herbelin, “Con-
struire,” 171–2.
83 Groslier, “The Saigon Museum Remodelled,” 232.
84 Malleret, Musée, 22.
85 Doling, Exploring Ho Chi Minh City, 143.
86 See Bảo, Kiến trúc, 90–2; Wright, Politics of Design,
208; Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 196; Le Brusq,
“Les musées,” 104; Le Brusq, “Échange,” 116–19;
Pédelahore, “Hanoi,” 302–3. For a critique of this
viewpoint, see Herbelin, Architectures, 82.
87 Manguin, Le Patrimoine indochinois, 264–8; see also
Herbelin, Architectures du Vietnam, 80; Anonymous,
“Musée,” 444.
88 See Hébrard, Architectures, 80. Hébrard notes that
he left the project “très rapidement” after providing
the first drawings.
89 Parmentier, “Charles Batteur.” See also Cros,
“Georges Coedès,” 73.
90 Manguin, Patrimoine, 265.
91 Wright, Politics of Design, 208. See also Le Brusq and
Selva, Vietnam, 199.
92 Anonymous, “Musée,” 445.
93 Le Brusq and Selva, Vietnam, 199. See also Herbelin,
Architectures, 179–80.
94 Herbelin, Architectures, 82.
95 Aviat’s first name and life dates do not appear in the
NoTeS To pAgeS 311–15
secondary literature, but he is listed as “officier d’ad-
ministration principal d’artillerie colonial en retraite,
en résidence à Hanoi (mis à la disposition du général
commandant supérieur des troupes de l’Indo-Chine
a Hanoi)” in the Journal officiel de la République
française. Lois et décrets (Paris, 14 March 1920), 4124.
His birth date appears in his 22 December 1914 mar-
riage certificate when he married Nguyễn Thị Tiên.
It was witnessed by François Emile Lefèvre, engineer
428
in the Ponts et Chaussées of Hanoi. anom , “Rési-
dence-Mairie de Hanoi (Tonkin), Registre des Actes
de l’État-civil (1913–14),” No 36. The marriage certifi-
cate claims that he was a Chevalier of the Legion of
Honour, as does the Journal officiel de la République
française. Lois et décrets (Paris, 16 August 1911), 6868.
Nevertheless I have been unable to find his dossier in
the Legion of Honour archives in Paris or Fontaine-
bleau. Aviat left his position with the army corps of
engineers (Génie) in Brest for Tonkin in 1902. Jour-
nal officiel de la République française. Lois et décrets
(Paris, 25 September 1902), 6378. Aviat’s wife died in
1935. Ville de Hanoï: bulletin municipal (November
1935), 1583. Aviat last appears in a court case from
1941 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 2 March 1941.
96 ap, v4e 3925, État civile, 13ème arrondissement
(1880), Naissances No 1126. He was born on the
morning of 14 May 1880, not 14 March 1880, as
Henri Parmentier had it. See Parmentier, “Charles
Batteur,” 552.
97 Walusinski, “The Girls,” 65–6.
98 L’Oeuvre, 18 September 1932, 5; Tô, “Mort de M.
Charles Batteur,” 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 25 October
1932, 2.
99 His death certificate does not mention his ailment
or his suicide: ap , 9d 150, État civile, 9ème arrondisse-
ment (1932), Décès 09 No 923.
100 Parmentier, “Charles Batteur,” 552.
101 Gouvernement général de l’Indo-Chine, Rapports au
Conseil (1928), 67.
102 Parmentier, “Charles Batteur,” 552; Annuaire général
de l’Indo-Chine française (1907), 60; Annuaire
général de l’Indo-Chine française (1910), 63; Annuaire
général de l’Indo-Chine française (1914), 72; Annuaire
général de l’Indo-Chine française (1915), 54.
103 Parmentier, “Charles Batteur,” 552; Gouvernement
général de l’Indo-Chine, Rapports (1921), 71.
104 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 9 July 1923, 2; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 7 January 1925, 2.
105 Tô, “Mort de M. Charles Batteur,” 2. Gouvernement
général de l’Indo-Chine, Rapports au Conseil de
Gouvernement (1929), 34.
106 Tô, “Mort de M. Charles Batteur,” 2.
107 Phan, “L’enseignement,” 210–11, 218; Herbelin,
Architectures, 85–99; Gouvernement Général de
l’Indochine, Les écoles, 10, 16.
108 Gaspardone, “Ecole des Beaux-Arts,” 518.
109 Falser, Angkor Wat, 1:290; Demay, Tourism and
Colonization, 191; Morton, Hybrid Modernities, 39.
110 Most of what I have been able to reconstruct of
Aviat’s life I have found in the local newspaper. See
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 19 January 1899, 2; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 8 February 1899, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
26 July 1899, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 30 September
1899, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 10 December 1902, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 24 December 1905, 5; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 21 April 1912, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
25 April 1912, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 19 May 1913,
4; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6 April, 1914, 3; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 22 August 1914, 4; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
1 August 1915, 4; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6 February
1922, 4; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 8 February 1922, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 26 February 1922, 2; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 27 February 1922, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
4 March 1922, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6 March 1922,
2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 18 March 1922, 2; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 27 April 1922, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6 May
1922, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 26 November 1922, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 31 December 1922, 2; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 5 February 1923, 3; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
22 October 1923, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 12 December
1923, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 16 December 1923, 2.
111 L’Éveil économique de l’Indochine, 3 February 1924,
7–8; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 11 November 1925, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 10 April 1926, 2; and L’Informa-
tion d’Indochine économique et financière (Saigon),
16 November 1940, 1. The quotation is from L’Éveil
économique de l’Indochine, 25 January 1925, 8.
112 Most of what I have been able to reconstruct of
Papi’s life I have also found in newspapers. See
L’Echo d’Alger, 20 November 1917, 1; L’Echo d’Alger,
9 August 1922, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 13 January
1924, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 14 February 1924, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 8 March 1924, 2; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 14 May 1924, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 7 July
1924, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 7 December 1925);
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 26 December 1925, 5; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 5 February 1927, 6; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
15 December 1927, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6 January
1928, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 30 November 1931, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 16 December 1931, 2; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 18 March 1932, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
16 October 1933, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 17 May 1935,
8; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 27 June 1935, 2; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 23 July 1935, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 13 January
1936, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 27 January 1936, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 20 February, 1936, 2; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 27 February 1936, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
2 September 1936, 5; Journal officiel de la République
française. Lois et décrets, 25 December 1936, 11378;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 9 March 1937, 6; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 11 March 1937, 5; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
30 March 1937, 12; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 7 May 1937,
1; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 2 April 1938, 1; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 21 April 1938, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
17 August 1938, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 27 May 1939,
11; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 13 June 1939, 7; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 19 February 1940, 5; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
15 January 1941. Although his birth certificate does
not survive, I have found his parents’ marriage
certificate (29 November 1875), when they were
living in Barral and his father Antoine was working
for the Ponts-et-Chaussées. His brother Valentin
was born in 1882, Jacques in 1889, and Georges in
1893. anom , État civile, marriages Barral 1875; État
civile, naissances Alger 1882, 1889, 1893. Max was the
youngest of the brothers and therefore must have
been born in the 1890s.
113 The Corsicans were particularly numerous and active
in the colony. See Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina,
187–8.
114 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 4 April 1927, 2; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 20 April 1938, 5.
115 Again, this biography is based on newspaper reports:
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 4 April 1926, 2; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 10 February 1927, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
18 July 1927, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 19 November
1930, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 6 May 1932, 2; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 16 June 1932, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
NoTeS To pAgeS 315–16
28 June 1932, 3; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 20 July 1932, 2;
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 21 September 1932, 2; L’Avenir
du Tonkin, 12 August 1933, 2; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
21 November 1934, 1; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 11 January
1936, 1.
116 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 29 March 1932, 2.
117 Tô, “Inauguration,” 1; Lévi, Indochine, 191. See also
Wright, Politics of Design, 208; Le Brusq and Selva,
Vietnam, 196; Le Brusq, “Musées,” 104.
429
 118 Anonymous, “Chronique de l’année 1925,” 570–1.
See also L’Éveil économique de l’Indochine, 14 March
1926, 10.
119 Tô, “Inauguration,” 1.
120 Ibid.; Anonymous, “Chronique de l’année 1925,” 571.
Both sources call the relationship a “collaboration.”
121 “Le projet de cette reconstruction vient d’être
établi par le directeur général des Bâtiments civils
avec la collaboration d’un Architecte membre de
l’Ecole Français d’Extrême-Orient. Il comprend une
rotonde et un corps principal reliés par la cage du
grand escalier, un avant corps et deux ailes.” vnac 1,
kt h544, 1142, “Rapport de l’Inspecteur Général
des Travaux Publics” (Hanoi, 24 February 1925).
122 Anonymous, “Chronique,” 571.
123 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 17 March 1932, “se sont pour-
suivi […] suivant les dessins d’exécution de Charles
Batteur et sous sa direction, puis sous celle de Max
Papi, Ingénieur des Travaux Publics de l’Indochine.”
124 vnac 1, kt 544-3, 1, 6b, “Construction du Musée de
l’Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, Façade Ouest,
dessin complémentaire du projet approuvé au date
du 28 février 1926” (signed Batteur, 8 October 1925);
vnac1, kt544-3, 1, 7a, “Construction du Musée
de l’Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, Façade
Nord, dessin complémentaire du projet approuvé au
date du 28 février 1926” (signed Batteur, 8 October
1925); vnac 1, kt 544-3, 1, 4, “Construction du
Musée de l’Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient, Plan
du Rez-de-Chaussée, dessin complémentaire du
projet approuvé au date du 28 février 1926” (signed
Batteur, 8 October 1925); vnac 1, kt 544-3, 1,
9, “Construction du Musée de l’Ecole Française
d’Extrême-Orient, Coupe longitudinale, dessin
complémentaire du projet approuvé au date du 28
février 1926” (signed Batteur, 8 October 1925). The
West facade drawing was published in Hà Vă Huề et
NoTeS To pAgeS 317–19
al., eds, Traits d’architecture, Hanoi à l’heure française
(Hanoi, 2009), 103.
125 vnac 1, kt h 545, hs 5, t 1, 7, No. 4331, “Construc-
tion du Musée de l’École Française d’Extrême-
Orient à Hanoi: Procès-Verbal d’Adjudication”
(7 November 1925), cahier includes the governor-
general’s approval letter of 12 November 1925.
126 L’Avenir du Tonkin, 3 June 1923, 2.
430
127 Anonymous, “Musée,” 447.
128 “Vu la lettre de m. aviat en date du 1er Mars 1928
demandant la résiliation de son marché par applica-
tion de l’article 30 du cahier des clauses et conditions
générales imposées aux entrepreneurs. […] Le marché
passé avec m. aviat , entrepreneur, le 8 Octobre
1926 et approuvé le 21 Octobre suivant pour l’exécu-
tion des travaux de construction du Musée de l’Ecole
Française d’Extrême-Orient à Hanoi, est résilié à
application de l’article 30 du cahier des clauses et
conditions générales imposées aux entrepreneurs.”
vnac1, kt h545, h55, t1, “Le Gouverneur Général
P.I. de l’Indochine, arrêté No 2197 (15 May 1928).”
For the reference to the imminent departure of
this “sympathetic and so active man of industry”
for France, see L’Avenir du Tonkin, 23 March 1927,
2; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 15 June 1927, 1; L’Avenir du
Tonkin, 22 December 1927; L’Avenir du Tonkin,
30 January 1928, 2.
129 “Le Gouverneur Général de L’Indochine, Comman-
deur de la Légion d’Honneur, […] Vu le marché passé
le 7 novembre 1925 entre m. aviat et approuvé le
12 Novembre 1925 pour la construction du Musée de
l’Ecole française d’Extrême-Orient à Hanoi; Vu le
réclamation en date de 6 Janvier 1929 présentée par
m. aviat, Entrepreneur […] ARRÊTÉ: article
premier: Il est alloué à m. aviat, Entrepreneur
de travaux de construction du Musée de l’Ecole
française d’Extrême-Orient à Hanoi, une indemnité
transactionnelle de vingt mille neuf cent vingt-trois
piastres quatorze cents (20,923$14) détaillée comme
suit: 1er chef – Prolongation excessive des travaux.
Insuffisance du montant des travaux exécutés:
8.003$54. 2e chef – Indemnité sur les aciers. Ap-
plication de l’article 32 des clauses et conditions
générales: 7.402$02. 3e chef – Application de l’article
32 pour d’autres ouvrages: 428$16. 4e chef – Travaux
exécutés après le 1er janvier 1928: 5.069$42 [total]
20.923$14. article 2. – Le surplus des réclam-
ations de m. aviat est rejeté. article 3. – Le
Résident supérieur du Tonkin, le Directeur des
Finances et l’Inspecteur général des Travaux Pub-
lics sont chargés, chacun on en qui le concerne, de
l’exécution du présent arrêté.” Hanoi, 4 April 1929.
vnac1, kt h545, hs5, t1, “Gouvernement Général
 de l’Indochine, Inspection Générale des Travaux
Publics, arrêté No 1670 (4 April 1928).”
130 Herbelin, Architectures, 80–1.
131 Anonymous, “Musée,” 445.
132 Gouvernement général de l’Indo-Chine, Rapports
(1929), 34; L’Avenir du Tonkin, 22 February 1929, 2.
133 “Approbation de l’adjudication. rapport de
l’Architecte Principal Chef du Service des Bâtiments
Civils. Il a été précédé le 11 Juin 1929 à une adjudica-
tion pour achèvement des travaux de construction
du Musée de l’Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient à
Hanoi dont le projet a été approuvé le 30 Mai 1929.
Suivant le Procès-Verbal d’adjudication ci-joint,
M. Trinh-Quy-Khang a fait les propositions les
plus avantageuses en demandant toutefois 25%
d’augmentation. Nous avions prévu que ces travaux
ne seraient adjugés que dans ces conditions. Nous
proposons donc d’accepter les offres de M. Trinh-
Quy-Khang. En cas d’acceptation, le montant des
dépenses autorisées, évalué à 165.000$00 dans le
projet, sera fixé à 199.542$53. […] En conséquence,
nous avons l’honneur de demander: 1e – l’approba-
tion de la commission de m. trinh-qui-khan .
2e – l’ouverture pour l’exercice en cours, d’un crédit
de 30.000$00 à imputer sur l’inscription indiqué
ci-dessus.” (signed) L’architecte Principal Chef du
Service des Bâtiments Civils. “Adopté et transmis
à Monsieur le Résident Supérieur du Tonkin, en le
priant de bien vouloir faire parvenir, avec son avis,
s’il y a lieu, à Monsieur l’Inspecteur général des
Travaux Publics” (Hanoi, 20 June 1929), signed by
the L’Ingénieur en Chef. vnac 1, 20 f 291 4301 No.
1508a, “Budget Général. Achèvement des travaux
de construction du Musée de l’Ecole Française
d’Extrême-Orient à Hanoi” (12 June 1929). This
tender was also announced in the newspaper
L’Avenir du Tonkin, 12 June 1929, 2), “Adjudica-
tion – Mardi 11 Juin 1929, à 16 heures a eu lieu à la
Circonscription Territoriale du Tonkin à Hanoi
une adjudication pour les travaux d’achèvement de
la construction du Musée de l’Ecole Française
d’Extrême-Orient à Hanoi. Travaux à l’entreprise.
132.855p.90. resultats. mm Gilles, augmentation
de: 39%; Société française d’entreprise de dragages
et de T. P. aug. de 23%; Do huu Thuc dit Cai Ba aug.
De 40%; Do Loi, augmentation de 35%; Trinh quy
Khang, aug. De 26. Ce dernier a été declaré adjudica-
taire provisoire.”
134 Tô, “Inauguration,” 1; Coedès, “Inauguration,” 472. A
copy of the minutes of the inauguration in the efeo
archives in Paris, of which the original in Chinese,
Vietnamese, Cambodian, and Lao were enclosed in
the foundation stone, is typical in praising Papi ex-
clusively for the completion of the building: “se sont
poursuivis jusqu’en 1931 suivant les dessins d’exécu-
tion de Charles Batteur et sous sa direction, puis sous
celle de Max Papi, Ingénieur des Travaux Publics
de l’Indochine.” Archives of the École Française
d’Extrême-Orient (hereafter aefeo ), Fonds Viet-
nam, vie 08969, “Procès-Verbal d’inauguration du
musée, texte en français” (17 March 1932).
135 “Sur la proposition du Directeur de l’Ecole française
d’Extrême-Orient, Arrêté: Article premier. – Le
musée de l’Ecole française d’Extrême-Orient sis à
Hanoi, sera désigné à l’avenir sous le nom de ‘Musée
Louis–Finot .’ Art. 2 – Le Directeur de l’Ecole
française d’Extrême-Orient est chargé de l’exécution
du présent arrêté.” (Hanoi, 11 March 1931, signed P.
Pasquier) [vnac 1, h 544, “Arrêté du 11 mars 1932.”]
136 “Le Directeur de l’Ecole Française d’Extrême-
Orient à Monsieur l’Administrateur – Maire de la
Ville de hanoi . J’ai l’honneur de vous informer
que le Musée Louis Finot sera ouvert au public,
à partir de dimanche prochain 20 mars, tous les
jeudis et dimanches, de 8 heures à 11 heures et de 14
heures à 17 heures. Je vous serais très reconnaissant
si vous vouliez bien, comme par le passé, y faire
détacher régulièrement un certain nombre d’agents
de la Police municipale pour y assurer un service
d’ordre aux jours et heures d’ouverture. Etant donnée
la disposition du nouveau Musée, quatre agents
seraient, à mon avis, nécessaires pour assumer la
NoTeS To pAgeS 319–20
responsabilité d’une surveillance réellement efficace.
Les frais qu’entrainera l’affectation de ces quatre
agents seront à la charge de notre institution.”
(Hanoi, 19 March 1932, signed Coedès). vnac 1,
h544, 312, 1, “Ecole Française d’Extrême-Orient.
urgent No 814.”
137 Anonymous, “Musée,” 444; Lévi, Indochine, 191.
138 Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 157.
431
 139 Le Brusq, Vietnam, 196; Le Brusq, “Musées,” 104;
Anonymous, “Musée,” 445.
140 Le Brusq, Vietnam, 199; Le Brusq, “Échange,” 117;
Pédelahore, “Hanoi,” 304. For a precise definition
of a dình, which serves civil and religious functions
alike, see Herbelin, Architectures, 46.
141 Le, Vietnamese Architecture, 157.
142 Bảo, Kiến trúc, 91.
143 Sickman and Soper, Art and Architecture, 464; Paine
and Soper, Art and Architecture, 305.
144 Herbelin, Architectures, 98; Malherbe and Herbelin,
Hanoï, 32–3; Pédelahore, “Hanoi,” 302.
145 Tó, “Inauguration,” 1.
146 C., “Le Musée de l’École,” 10.
147 C., “Toujours les plans,” 9.
148 Tô, “Inauguration,” 1.
149 Herbelin, “Construire,” 183. See also Herbelin, Archi-
tectures du Vietnam, 62–8.
150 Herbelin, “Construire,” 184.
151 Reynolds, “The Bunriha,” 228.
152 Herbelin, “Construire,” 186. See also Herbelin,
Architectures, 85–106.
153 Herbelin, Architectures, 85.
154 Tha, “Đi Tìm Một Lối Kiến-Trúc ‘Annam,’” 1.
c hApT er NiNe
1 Herbelin, Architectures du Vietnam, 183.
2 Vollait, “Provincializing Colonial Architecture,” n.p.
3 L’Alliance franco-annamite. Organe de collaboration,
23 April 1932, 2. See also Le Petit Marseillais, 31 Janu-
ary 1931, 3. For French coverage of the Burma Round
Table Conference, see Le Temps, 4 December 1931, 1;
La quinzaine colonial, 21 July 1931, 354.
4 intach , “Pondicherry Listing Book II : Tamil
Precinct,” second draft of an as yet unpublished book
(Pondicherry, 2019), 19–20; Malangin, Pondicherry,
NoTeS To pAgeS 321–38
35; Deloche, Le vieux Pondichéry, 87; Bourdat,
Eighteenth-Century Pondicherry, 57–9.
5 On the universality of Mughal architectural style in
the eighteenth century as a symbol of authority see
Dadlani, From Stone to Paper, 114–47.
6 Oliver, Art, Trade, and Imperialism, 172–3.
7 Shulman, “Cowherd or King,” 178.
8 More, Pondicherry, 88.
432
9 Oliver, Art, Trade, and Imperialism, 176–8; Sathy-
anarayanan, “Ānantaraṅgavijaya Campū,” 14–15;
Raghavan, Ananda, 48–9.
10 Sathyanarayanan, “Ānantaraṅgavijaya Campū,” 20–1.
11 Shulman, “Cowherd or King,” 177.
12 Oliver, Art, Trade, 180.
13 Sathyanarayanan, “Ānantaraṅgavijaya Campū,” 112.
14 Ibid., 117.
15 Ibid., 118–19.
16 Ananda, Private Diary, 12:122.
17 On 31 October 1743 at his house Ananda negoti-
ated the settlement of a monetary disagreement
between two merchants, Gôpâla Nâran�a Aiyan and
Sêshâchala Chet��t i: “In my presence, each of them
executed a bond of general release testifying to the
settlement of their dispute. In accordance with the
instructions of the Governor, I effected a reconcilia-
tion between them, by making them exchange betel
and nut.” Ananda, Private Diary, 1:239.
18 Sathyanarayanan, “Ānantaraṅgavijaya Campū,” 133.
19 Ananda, Private Diary, 4:113.
20 Ibid., 1:234.
21 Ibid., 1:254.
22 Ibid., 2:24, 26–7.
23 Ibid., 4:314–15.
24 Ibid., 1:37.
25 Ibid., 11:276–7.
26 Ibid., 10:283.
27 intach , Architectural Heritage, 60.
28 Fergusson, History, 1:386–7.
29 This complex has received little attention from
architectural historians. See Phuoc, Vietnamese
Architecture, 121–2; Nguyễn et al., Traditional Viet-
namese Architecture, 100; Keith, Catholic Vietnam,
181; Burel, “La paroisse,” 46; Olichon, Le Père Six;
Guides Madrolle, Indochine du Nord, 195.
30 Burel, “La paroisse vietnamienne,” 46. See also Le
Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 121.
31 Olichon, Le Père Six, 91–2.
32 Ibid., 95.
33 Ibid., 97.
34 Ibid., 92–3.
35 Hébrard, “L’architecture locale,” 101.
36 Burel, “La paroisse vietnamienne,” 46; Olichon, Le
Père Six, 95.
37 Le Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 121; Burel,
“La paroisse vietnamienne,” 46.
38 Butler, Christianity in Asia and America, 38; Oli-
chon, Le Père Six, 92.
39 Guides Madrolle, Indochine du Nord, 195.
40 Le Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 121.
41 Greene, The Quiet American, 54.
42 See Guillén Núñez, Macao’s Church of Saint Paul,
86–103; Bailey, Art on the Jesuit Missions, 85–6.
43 Keith, Catholic Vietnam, 67–8; Jarrett-Kerr, Patterns
of Christian Acceptance, 192.
44 His spare dossier reads: “Prêtre tonkinois, curé de
Fat-Diem (province de Ninh-Binh). Né le 1821 à My-
Quan-huyên de Tong Son (Phu de Ha-Trung) Prov-
ince de Thanh Hoa (Annam) a été nommé Chevalier
de la Légion d’honneur par décret du 28 Décembre
1884 rendu sur le rapport du Ministre de la Marine
pour prendre rang du même jour. […] Date du décès
6 juillet 1899 à Phat-Diem.” an , l 2624050, “Légion
d’Honneur, numéro d’ordre des matricules 31639,” 1a.
45 Keith, Vietnamese Catholicism, 181.
46 The quotations are from Le Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese
Architecture, 121.
47 Blagov, Caodaism, 17–27; Oliver, Caodai Spiritism,
7–40.
48 Oliver, Caodai Spiritism, 18.
49 Blagov, Caodaism, 21–2; Oliver, Caodai Spiritism,
36–40.
50 Blagov, Caodaism, 24–5.
51 “Tay-Ninh, le 19 Septembre 1929. A Monsieur le
Directeur Général des Travaux Publics de l’Indo-
chine à saigon . Monsieur le Directeur Général,
Comme suite à l’entretien que j’ai eu avec vous le
Samedi 14 Septembre courant, j’ai l’honneur de vous
faire connaître qu’un Comité Annamite, constitué
pour la construction d’un temple de la Religion dite
Dai-Dao-Tam-Ky-Phô-Dô ou Bouddhisme rénové
à Tâyninh (Cochinchine, a chargé m. delaval ,
Architecte à Hanoi, de fournir ce comité: 1. – des
études architecturales nécessaires pour la construc-
tion de ce Temple d’après les directives générales
données par les représentants de la Religion et dans
un style Extrême Oriental ou la note Sino-
Annamite devra dominer. Cette construction aura
un caractère à la fois monumental et religieux.
2. – des études d’un avant-projet complet et de la
fourniture d’un plan d’ensemble à l’échelle de 0m01
pour mètre, comprenant tous les dessins nécessaires
à la compréhension du monument tant au point
de vue distribution qu’au point de vue décoration
et mode de construction, structure, etc… 3.– de la
fourniture d’un plan général a 0m005 pour mètre
indiquant les dispositions générales d’ensemble du
Temple avec ses annexes et l’aménagement du terrain
aux abords, pour la mise en valeur du Temple projeté.
4. – des plans de détail d’exécution, des calculs de
résistance. 5. – de la construction d’une maquette et
des pièces nécessaires pour la rédaction d’un marché
forfaitaire avec l’entrepreneur désigné pour faire tous
ces travaux. etc…etc… Permettez-moi d’ouvrir ici une
parenthèse pour vous expliquer pourquoi le Comité
dont je suis le Président et moi, nous avois conçu
ce vaste projet de construction. Depuis le 6 Octo-
bre 1926 nous avons propagé en Cochinchine le
Bouddhisme Indochinois rénové appelé Caodaisme.
Nous vous envoyons sous ce pli: 1. – notre déclara-
tion au Gouvernement de la Cochinchine, déc-
laration signée par des fonctionnaires, notabilités
et propriétaires indigènes (pièce N. 1). 2. – copie
d’autorisation d’ouverture des oratoires Caodaistes,
y compris celui de Tâyninh (pièce N. 2) ou sera
construit le futur Grand Temple. Le Bouddhisme
Indochinois rénové ou Caodaisme est aussi indiqué
dans le Livre Vert du Conseil Colonial de Cochin-
chine, de 1928–1929 et de 1929–1939. En moins
de 3 ans nous avons maintenant plus d’un million
d’adoptes fervents. Vous pouvez ainsi vous rendre
compte que les Annamites ont soif d’une religion
rénovée unifiant les religions existantes. Cette
religion réunira toutes les croyances et nous aidera,
au point de vue spiritual, à avoir une entente sincère
franco-annamite. Nos frères ainés, les Français qui
NoTeS To pAgeS 338–43
sont depuis longtemps dans ce pays, qui connaissent
à fond l’âme religieuse Annamite ainsi que les us et
coutumes des indigènes, nous aideront certainement
à réaliser ce noble idéal. Le futur grand Temple Cao-
daiste marquera nos sentiments religieux. Il devra
réunir à la fois un style religieux suivant nos indica-
tions et un confort français moderne ; sa construc-
tion d’un genre nouveau exigera des études longues
433
 et sérieuses. On nous a conseillé de mettre en con-
cours le plan projet, mais nous voulons que le mérite
de ces études revienne à un architecte français, c’est
pourquoi nous avons choisi m . delaval . Nous
vous prions, en conséquence, de vouloir bien donner
suite à notre proposition et autoriser le plus tôt
possible m. delaval à travailler, pendant ses heures
non dues à l’Administration, pour nous fournir les
études, plans, devis, détails, etc … nécessaires à la
construction de ce grand bâtiment religieux. Nous
vous prions d’agréer, Monsieur le Directeur Général,
l’assurance de nos sentiments respectueux et dévoués.
Signé: le-van-trung (le-van-trung au
Temple Caodaiste de tayninh ).” anom , ggi
36/673, Dossier Auguste Delaval. Once again, I am
very grateful to Caroline Herbelin for sending me
her scans of this very large dossier on Delaval.
52 Hoskins, “Seeing Syncretism,” 38.
53 Ibid., 48. See also Blagov, Caodaism, 93–4.
54 Le Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 127.
55 Hoskins, “Seeing Syncretism,” 32, 36, 48–9.
56 Le Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 126. See also
Hoskins, “Seeing Syncretism,” 33.
57 Hoskins, “Seeing Syncretism,” 36.
58 Ibid.
59 Le Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 126;
Hoskins, “Seeing Syncretism,” 37.
60 Hoskins, “Seeing Syncretism,” 32.
61 Lewis, A Dragon Apparent, 44.
62 Greene, Quiet American, 103, 110.
63 Hoskins, “Seeing Syncretism,” 32.
64 Ibid., 33.
65 Ibid., 44.
66 Ibid., 48.
67 Le Huu Phuoc, Vietnamese Architecture, 127.
68 Ibid., 124.
69 Ibid., 125.
NoTeS To pAgeS 343–60
70 Ibid.
71 Englemann and Ménoni, A Walk, 66–71; Haywood,
Ancient Luang Prabang, 76–9.
72 Sitthivong and Khamvone, Great Monks, 67;
Khamvone, “The Life, Work,” 131–2, 197; “Memorial
to Pha Khamfan Silasangvaro Abbot of Vat
Suvannakhili,” unpublished document in the
Buddhist Archive of Photography, Luang Prabang
(hereafter baplp ).
434
73 Khamvone, “The Life, Work,” 131–2; Sitthivong and
Khamvone, Great Monks, 67–9.
74 BAPLP , vsk _004180 to vsk _004209. Source:
Khamvone, “The Life,” 132.
75 Sitthivong and Khamvone, Great Monks of Luang
Prabang, 64.
76 Khamvone, “The Life,” 138.
77 On Grassi see Piazzardi, Italians at the Court of
Siam, 246–9.
78 Notes in the Pha Khamfan Silasangvaro photog-
raphy collection baplp , ea p 326/21/1/14.
79 Greck, Luang Prabang, 36–7.
80 Ibid., 36–7, 49.
81 The palace is illustrated in Herbelin, Architec-
tures, 295.
82 These are all in the Pha Khamfan Silasangvaro
photography collection, baplp , ea p 326/21/1/14.
83 Cooke, “Early Christian Conversion,” 33; Hoskins,
“Visual Blasphemy,” 34; Oliver, Caodai Spiritism, 24.
84 Khamvone, “The Life,” 134.
85 Davison, Singapore Shophouses; Knapp, Chinese
Houses; Yin, “The Singapore Shophouse”; Lim, “The
Shophouse Rafflesia.”
86 Bremner, “Fabricating Justice,” 162–3. In 1933 the
ebai hosted an exhibition of house designs by its
students aiming to develop a national style specific-
ally to replace the “style comprador.” Tha, “Di Tìm
Một Lối Kiến-Trúc ‘Annam.’”
87 The building is illustrated in Herbelin, Architec-
tures, 26.
88 Koditek, Battambang Heritage.
89 Herbelin, Architectures, 313–15. See also the book of
photographs of old houses in Cochinchina: Ngô,
Nhà Xưa Nam Bộ.
90 Quoted in Herbelin, Architectures, 314.
91 The passage is from Tonkin: paysages et impressions
(1944) and is quoted in Herbelin, Architectures, 314.
92 Ibid., 291–3.
93 Coaldrake, Architecture and Authority, 216–17.
94 Reynolds, “Japan’s Imperial Diet”; Coaldrake,
Architecture and Authority, 212–13, 239–43. See also
Reynolds, “The Bunriha.”
95 Reynolds, “Japan’s Imperial Diet,” 256. See also
Coaldrake, Architecture and Authority, 250.
96 Topich and Leitich, The History of Myanmar,
41–50.
 97 Ibid., 61–70.
98 Maugham, The Gentleman in the Parlour, 5.
99 Quoted in Eimer, A Savage Dreamland, 5. See also
Birnbaum, “Early Modern Architecture,” 76.
100 Rooney, 30 Heritage Buildings, 40. The amount of
the loan is reported in Englishman’s Overland Mail
(14 March 1912), 5.
101 Rooney, 30 Heritage Buildings, 41. See also Bansal et
al., Architectural Guide, 81.
102 “Municipal Offices, Rangoon,” Architects’ Journal 68
(26 December 1928): 919.
103 “New Municipal Offices at Rangoon,” Architect and
Building News 121 (28 June 1929): 864.
104 Ward, “Architecture in Burma.” Quoted in Guedes,
“Behind the Veils,” 7–8; and Lewis, Cities in Motion,
89–90; and Lewis, “Rotary International,” 316.
105 Nair, Some Political Problems, 5. See also: Toe Toe
Kyaw, “A Study,” 105; Lewis, “Print Culture,” 148;
Taylor, The State in Myanmar, 173, 186.
106 Chicago Daily Tribune, Paris edition, 13 January
1932, 3.
107 The quotation first appears in “Incorporation of
Features,” 171. Rooney does not provide the source
and Lewis cites only its appearance in the newspaper
New Burma, 9 March 1930 (Rooney, 30 Heritage
Buildings, 41; Lewis, Cities in Motion, 91). I have
been unable to obtain a copy of New Burma. It is not
in the British Library, nor the School of Oriental
and African Studies at the University of London,
and the coup d’état of 1 February 2021 has made it
impossible to return to Myanmar libraries.
108 Lewis, Cities in Motion, 90–1; Lewis, “Rotary
International,” 317; Guedes, “Behind the Veils,”
7–8; Roberts, “Tradition,” 47; Roberts, “Heritage-
Making,” 47. Bansal et al. do not quote the speech
but follow Rooney in dating the debate to 1925.
Bansal, Architectural Guide: Yangon, 81.
109 “Incorporation of Features,” 170.
110 Ibid., 171.
111 Ibid., 177.
112 Ibid., 172.
113 Brent Archives, Willesden (UK) (hereafter baw ),
W.H.S. Collection, acc 586, “British Empire Exhib-
ition: Burma at Wembley, 1924 (Scrapbook of Violet
Rose James)” undated clipping from unidentified
newspaper, ca 1924.
114 baw , acc 586, clipping from Western Morning
News, 23 April 1924, 7.
115 “Now Being Erected at Sydney Agricultural Show-
ground,” Construction and Local Government Jour-
nal, 20 July 1927, 12.
116 “Incorporation of Features,” 171.
117 Moore, “Religious Architecture,” 21; U Kan Hla,
“Pagan,” 20.
118 Lewis, Cities in Motion, 91; Rooney, 30 Heritage
Buildings, 42.
119 Moore, “Religious Architecture,” 31.
120 Roberts, “Tradition,” 47–8; Bansal, Architectural
Guide, 83.
121 World Monuments Fund, Building the Future, 26.
122 Bansal, Architectural Guide, 264–5.
123 Birnbaum, “Early Modern Architecture,” 78.
124 Anderson, Columbia Guide, 22.
125 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 337.
126 Anderson, Columbia Guide, 23–4; Brocheux and
Hémery, Indochina, 357.
127 Bertrand, Indochine, 106–7; Anderson, Columbia
Guide, 26–7; Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 370.
128 Brocheux and Hémery, Indochina, 367.
129 Ibid., 372.
130 Malangin, Pondicherry, 112–15; Gressieux, “Les étab-
lissements,” 653.
131 Malangin, Pondicherry, 127; Gressieux, “Les étab-
lissements,” 653–6.
132 Gressieux, “Les établissements,” 757.
133 Malangin, Pondicherry, 138; Gressieux, “Les établisse-
ments,” 659–60.
134 Gressieux, “Les établissements,” 661.
135 Ibid., 663.
136 Quoted in Falser, Angkor Wat, 2:181.
137 Ibid., 182.
138 Ibid., 198.
139 The first quotation is by Falser, ibid., 182; the second
NoTeS To pAgeS 360–74
is reproduced in Ross, “The Civilizing Vision,” 168.
140 Falser, Angkor Wat, 2:183; Falser, “Cultural Heritage,”
127.
141 Falser, Angkor Wat, 2:194.
142 Ibid., 195.
143 Falser, “à l’école ,” 8; Falser, Angkor Wat, 2:195;
Falser, “Cultural Heritage as Performance,” 134.
144 Falser, Angkor Wat, 2:195–6; Falser, “Cultural Herit-
age as Performance,” 134.
435
 145 Falser, Angkor Wat, 2:197.
146 Tolla et al., Lima y el Callao, 294–315.
147 Petrina and López Martínez, Patrimonio arqui-
tectónico argentino, vol. 2, pt. 1, 112; Petrina and
López Martínez, Patrimonio arquitectónico argentino,
3:64–66.
148 Born in the Barrio Yungay district of Santiago,
Jéquier moved to France before 1928 and died in
Asnières-sur-Seine (Hauts de Seine). Archivo de
la Parroquia de San Saturnino (Chile), Libro de
Bautismos 1866, f.946; AP , “Liste de 1928,” d 4m 2
459; Archives départementales des Hauts-de-Seine,
“Table alphabétique des successions et des absences
1947–49, ” q/asn /920, f.107 n.3.
NoTeS To pAgeS 374–8
436
149 Rodríguez-Cano et al., La Belle epoque, 188; Cáceres-
González, La arquitectura, 69–70; Riquelme
Sepúlveda, 50 años.
150 Doling, Exploring, 106–7; Weill, “Travaux publics
et colonisation,” 287–300. Tim Doling, personal
communication, 21 August 2021.
151 La construction moderne 25 (2 May 1920): 244.
152 The impact of the Beaux-Arts on the United States
was extensive as well and has been long recognized in
the scholarship: see, for instance, Drexler, Architec-
ture, 417–94.
153 Volait, “Provincializing Colonial Architecture.”
154 Benjamin, Oriental Aesthetics, 4.
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index
Page numbers in bold indicate
illustrations.
Abeille, Jean-Joseph, 5, 149, 151
Académie des inscriptions et
belles-lettres, 10, 271
Académie royale d’architecture, 3,
20, 80
Académie royale des sciences, 80
Accademia di S. Luca, 162
Acheraïou, Amar, 26–9, 30, 32–3
Adran (Syria), 181, 199
Africa, 8, 20–1, 32, 36–7, 40, 44–56,
57, 75, 128, 165, 374, 377
Agra (India), 19, 60–1, 130; Padres
Santos Chapel, 61
Aix-en-Provence, 9, 198, 201, 326
Akbar, Mughal Emperor, 60, 97
Alam II, Shah, Mughal Emperor,
130
Alfonso VI, King of Portugal, 93
Algeria, 25, 209, 215, 254, 258, 264,
280, 297, 316; Office of Indigen-
ous Arts, 280
Algiers, 215, 258; National Museum
of Fine Arts, 264; Opera House,
215
Alsace, 116
Amable, Delphin, 229, 258
Ananda. See Pillai, Ananda Ranga
Ānantaraṅgavijaya Campū. See
Śrinivasa
ancien régime, 9, 11, 13, 40, 149, 197,
209, 211, 231, 262, 374, 377
Ancy-le-Franc (France), Château,
218
Andhra Pradesh (India), 57
Andrianramarivelle, 45
Androuet du Cerceau, Paul, 120,
126, 246; Ornements d’orfèvrerie
propres pour flenquer et émailler
(ca 1687), 82
Angkor Wat, 19, 23, 209, 222, 259,
264, 269, 270, 272–4, 279, 281,
290, 293, 303–4, 306–7, 314, 325,
347, 371, 373
Anglo-Burmese Wars, 360
Ango, Jean, 34–5
Ang Thong (Thailand), Wat Luang,
102, 103, 119
Annam, French protectorate, 12,
183, 207–10, 222, 252, 279, 293,
306, 311, 315–16, 339, 369
Antilles, 8, 168, 212
apprenticeship. See training,
architectural
arabisances, 297
Archaeological Survey of India
(1861), 274
architects, 3, 5, 13–16, 18, 20–3, 44,
50, 53, 60, 88–9, 91, 93, 95–7,
101, 107–9, 112, 128–9, 148–9,
178–80, 186, 190, 196–7, 210, 220,
222–3, 225, 231, 235, 243, 251, 253,
256–9, 261–3, 266–71, 273, 275,
278, 280, 283–6, 295, 297–8, 302,
304, 308, 312, 322–3, 339, 360,
364, 373–4, 378–9; Cambodian,
267, 283–4, 289, 378; civilian, 10,
20, 44, 56; Lao, 353–6; mixed-
race, 11, 14; royal engineers, 3,
5, 20, 44, 50, 53, 101, 149, 190;
Vietnamese, 14–15, 20, 182, 210,
266–7, 285, 289, 316, 323, 342,
356, 360, 373. See also architec-
ture; carpenters; masons
architecture: decoration, 5, 21, 29,
96, 100, 119, 124, 128, 136, 155–7,
173, 178, 181, 220, 237, 229, 235,
242–4, 255, 257–8, 263, 275, 283,
286, 290, 293, 299–300, 303,
305, 327, 330, 332, 339, 342, 345;
domestic, 16–17, 21, 128, 159, 256,
258, 327, 332, 351, 356, 371, 377;
and health, 15, 49, 177, 220, 280,
313, 324; and nostalgia, 8, 19, 129,
167, 176, 179, 207; pastiche, 163,
259, 272, 276, 273–4, 287, 289,
295, 297, 300, 312–13, 322, 337,
346–7, 373; vernacular, 16, 77,
264, 273, 275, 297, 299–300, 323.
See also associationism; baroque;
Beaux-arts style; compradoric
style; hybridity; “Indies Archi-
tecture”; Indo-Saracenic style;
modernism; neoclassicism, and
architecture; Travaux publics
style
 Argentina, 235, 375–6. See also
Buenos Aires; Rosario
Arica (Chile): Cathedral of San
Marcos, 376; Customs House,
376
Ariyankuppam (India), 66, 191
Armée d’Orient, 296
Arnhold, Hilda, 359, 378
art deco, 18, 31, 263, 275, 310, 312,
321, 325, 326, 357, 360, 362, 367,
371, 377
associationism, 12, 18, 20, 31, 261,
263–5, 273, 275–6, 293, 326, 354,
360, 368, 377
Association pour la formation
intellectuelle et morale des An-
namites (afima ), 322–4
Atlas de Colbert, 53
Aubert, Jean, 100, 162
Auclair, Claudius, 304, 308
Audouin, Georges-André, 227–8;
“Plans et vues du théâtre de
Saïgon,” 228
Augier, Émile, 243
Aumont, Paul, 97–8, 102
Aurangzeb, Mughal Emperor, 60–1
Aurillac (France), Hospital-
Hospice, 266
Aurobindo, Sri, 370
Aviat, Albert, 313, 316, 319
Avignon, 76, 198, 258; École des
Beaux-Arts d’Avignon, 258
Ayutthaya (Thailand), 17, 72, 74, 75,
77–8, 80–5, 88–91, 92, 93, 95, 97,
99–102, 105, 107, 109, 111–15, 117,
119–20, 123–7, 181–2, 185, 196,
262, 355; Cathedral and Semin-
ary of Saint-Joseph, 94, 97–9,
101–2, 109, 119, 178, 190, 224,
257, 262, 337, 339; College of São
Salvador, 93; Portuguese camp,
92–4; Royal Palace, 72, 80; São
Domingos Church, 93; São Paulo
index
Church, 93; Wat Niwet Tham-
maprawat, 355; Wat Ta Wed, 121,
122–3; Wat Thammaram, 124
462
Babonneau, Louis-Pierre-August,
236
Bắc Hà (Vietnam): Hoàng Yến
Chao Palace, 356
Baille, Mayor Frédéric, 236
Baillif, Claude, 101–2; project for
the facade of the Cathedral of
Notre-Dame (Quebec City), 101
Baldinotti, Giuliano, 184
Ballu, Théodore, 215, 217
Bandoeng (Bandung, Java), 275–6;
Indische Technische Hooges-
chool, 275, 276
Bangkok, 15, 70–2, 78, 82, 85, 89,
105, 111, 114–18, 123–5, 129, 138,
197, 208, 267–8, 283, 322, 325,
353, 355–6; Bangkok Fort, 72, 78,
116, 117–18, 129; Grand Palace,
104, 111, 267, 268–9, 283, 355;
L’Immaculée-Conception-de-la-
Sainte-Vierge (wat noi), 71, 114;
Ministry of Defence, 268; Suan
Pakkad palace, 123, 124; Wat
Bowonniwet Vihara, 355
Bangkok, Phra Thinang Chakri
Maha Prasat. See Bangkok,
Grand Palace
ban talaeng pediments, 286, 293
Bantam, 78
Ba Pe, U, 326, 363–5, 367–8
Barbudaux, Roger, 255
Baron, François, 78
Baron de Montesquieu, 167
baroque, 18, 22, 29, 42–4, 60, 66,
89, 93, 95, 119–20, 129, 148,
254–5, 333, 346–7, 351, 356–60,
374, 377; and classicism, 89; and
“Côte d’Azur style,” 359, 378. See
also grand goût; Grand Siècle
Basse-Terre (Guadeloupe): Fort
Saint-Charles, 136
Batavia, 48, 56, 71, 163, 208, 264
Bâtiments civils (Indochina), 10, 18,
19, 20, 235–6, 244, 259, 265–6,
285, 296, 300, 302–3, 308, 314,
355; and Travaux publics, 18
Bâtiments civils, Service central de
(Indochina), 296, 317
Bâtiments civils de l’État (Paris),
228
Battambang (Cambodia), 17, 357,
359, 373; shophouse, 358
Batteur, Charles-Louis-Joseph, 298,
312–19, 321–2, 354, 378
Batteur, Pierre-Joseph, 313
Baudoin, François-Marius, 274, 292,
286
Beau, Paul, Governor-General of
Indochina, 306
Beausse, Pierre de, Governor of Fort
Dauphin, 48
Beaux-Arts style, 15, 20–1, 215, 218,
226, 251, 256–7, 259–61, 264, 266,
268, 281, 285, 295–6, 300, 313,
324–5, 347, 355, 371, 375–8
Béhaine, Pierre Pigneaux de, 12, 77,
180–3, 190, 193, 195–9, 207, 307
Beijing, 97, 112, 202; Observatory,
79; Temple of Heaven, 321;
Yuanmingyuan, 33, 42. See also
Forbidden City, Beijing
Belem (Brazil), Theatro da Paz, 235
Bélidor, Bernard Forest de, 118, 202;
La science des ingénieurs (1729),
118
Bell, Adam Schall von, 79
Belle Époque, 14–15, 17, 21, 44, 211,
215, 222–3, 251, 257, 261, 296, 363,
374, 376
Bérain, Jean, 53, 55, 123; The Rear of
the Vessel L’Ambitieux (1691), 54
Berlage, H.P., 275
Bérnard, Emile, 256
Bernier, François, 8
Berruer, Henri, 236
Bertin, Henri, 97
Bertrand, Romain, 72
Béthune, Maximilen de (duc de
Sully), 36
Betts, Raymond, 273
Beylié, Briagadier General Léon de,
306
Bhabha, Homi, 26–7, 29–30, 32, 357
Bijapur (India), 57, 60, 64
bishops, 75–6, 95–6, 99, 341; in
partibus infidelium, 76
Bizet, George, 224, 243; Carmen
(1875), 224
Blanc-Gilli, Mathieu: La bienfai-
sance de Louis XIV (1783), 213
Blanchard-de-la-Brosse, Paul, Gov-
ernor of Cochinchina, 307
Blanche, Charles, 259, 271, 293–4,
303–4, 308, 315; Angkor Wat
replica, 271; Elevation of the
Main Facade of the Cambodian
Pavilion, 294
Blanchy, Paul, 226, 231
Blondel, Jacques-François, 148, 155,
169
Blondel, Paul, 256, 300
Blum, Léon, 272
Boffrand, Germain, 143, 148, 169,
173
Bohra, Abdul Ghafer, 57
Boiret, Denis, 202
Bollan, Jacques de, 52
Bombay, 12, 163, 264–5, 364; Prince
of Wales Museum, 264; Royal
Asiatic Society, 264
Bordeaux, 37; Grand Théâtre de
Bordeaux, 212
Borri, Cristoforo, 188–9
Bossard, Jacques-Sydney-Émile, 259
Bossard, Jean-Baptiste, 258
Bossard, Jean-Isidore, 215, 235,
239, 242–7, 249, 258–9. See also
Hanoi: Théâtre municipale de
Hanoi
Boucher, Francois, 97. See also
rococo
Bouderghem, Léonie Blanche, 259
Boullay, Claude Céberet du, 84
Bourcet, Jean-Claude de, 168–9,
171–2, 173, 175, 192, 195
Bourdaise, Toussaint, 53
Bourdat, Pierre, 130
Bourdeaud, Jean, 236–7, 260–1.
See also Haiphong: Théâtre
municipal
Boureau-Deslandes, André-
François, 66, 78, 91, 95
bourgeoisie, 220, 224, 259
Bourges, Jacques de, 114, 185
Bouvet, Joachim, 80
Bray, Arthur, 360, 362–3, 365, 367
Briançon, 136;
Notre-Dame-et-Saint-Nicolas,136
Briant, Sieur du, 85
Brieux, Eugène, 215, 244, 250
Brighton, Brighton Pavilion, 275
Brissay, Sieur de, 115
British Empire, 8, 163, 165–6, 263,
274, 360, 365; and architecture,
25
British Empire Exhibition, Wemb-
ley (1921), 365
Brittany, 5, 255, 380
Buenos Aires, 375–6; Palacio Oritz
Basualdo, 376; Palacio Pareda,
375; Teatro Colón, 235
Bunriha Kenchikukai, 323, 326, 377
Burma, 153, 208, 215, 326, 360,
362–5, 368–9, 371. See also Ran-
goon (Yangon, Burma)
Bussy, Adolphe-Louis, 244–5, 259
Buzomi, Francesco, 183, 187
Cai Ba, Dô huu Thuc dit, 318, 320
Cakravit, Bibhakti, 283
Calcutta, 12, 163, 166, 370
Callao (Lima, Peru), 256
Cambodia, 8, 12–17, 19–21, 32, 77,
96, 185, 197, 207–10, 252, 258,
260–1, 266, 268, 270–4, 277,
279–87, 289, 291–4, 300, 303, 313,
316, 325, 355, 359, 360, 365, 370–8.
See also Battambang; Kampot;
Phnom Penh; Savannakhet
Cambrai, 225, 259
Camus, Albert: The Plague, 215
Cannes, 253
Cao Bằng, 206
Caodaism, 305, 340–2, 346–8
Cape of Good Hope, 34–7, 163
Cap-François (Cap-Haitien, Haiti),
25, 211–12; Salle des Spectacles,
24, 25, 212
Capuchins, 60, 64, 66, 132
Caron, François, 49, 56, 61
carpenters, 11, 50, 149, 193, 241, 337,
356. See also architects
Carpezat, Eugène, 229, 257–8, 284,
375
Carré, Abbé Barthélemy, 33, 45, 49,
56, 61
Carrera, Augustin, 285
carton paté, 272
Carvalho, Diogo, 183
Cayenne (French Guiana), 44,
49–50, 201, 206; citadel, 51, 201
Cazenave, Eugène, 284
ceinture de fer, 43. See also Vauban,
Sébastien le Prestre de
Ceylon, 12, 56–7, 71, 90, 264. See
also Colombo (Sri Lanka)
Chaigneau, Jean-Baptiste, 207
Chaila, Abbé François de Langlade
du, 81
Chailley-Bert, Joseph, 231
Chaise, François de la, 75, 79, 84,
113
Challes, Robert, 64
Chamblain, Jean-Baptiste Bullet de,
146, 148; project for Château de
Champs, 146
Cham Kingdom: and architecture,
303–7, 311; and sculpture, 306
Chamnan, Ok-khun, 73
Champlâtreux (France), Château,
5, 6, 7, 10
Champmargou, Luc de, 48
Champs (France), Château. See
Chamblain, Jean-Baptiste Bullet
de
index
Chandernagore (India), 12, 41, 44,
57, 66–7, 71, 87–8, 102, 113, 129,
463
 130–1, 133, 370, 374; comptoir
(Lodge), 86–7; Notre-Dame,
68–9
Chánh Hậu, Abbot, 347, 357, 378
Chao Phraya River (Thailand), 75,
78, 92, 116, 125, 128
Chao Phraya Wichayen (super-
intendent of foreign trade), 78.
See also embassies, Franco-
Siamese; Phaulkon, Constantine
Chao Sua, King of Siam, 123
Chaperon, Philippe-Marie, 257
Charavy & Savelon, Entrepreneurs
et Constructeurs, 237, 241
Charbonneau, René, 82
Charcot, Jean-Martin, 313
Charles II, King of Britain, 79
Charner, Admiral Léonard, 12
Charpentier, Gustave: Louise
(1900), 244
Chasseloup-Laubat, Prosper de, 12,
208
chauderie (chatram, choultry), 191
Chaumont, Chevalier de, 72, 92. See
also embassies, Franco-Siamese
chauri (Mughal emblem of royalty),
131
chauvinism, French empire, 10,
26–7, 131, 228, 263–4, 280–1,
284–6, 289, 292–4. See also
racism
chelingues, 64
Chéreau, Marguerite Caillou, 162
Chevotet, Jean-Michel. See
Champlâtreux (France), Château
chhajjā, 332
Chhun, Alexis-Louis, 281–2
Chile, 235, 375–6. See also Santiago
(Chile)
China, 74–6, 80, 84, 92, 94–5, 97,
113–14, 123, 128, 191, 208, 222, 231,
280, 310, 356, 359; and porcelain,
33, 84, 88, 90–1, 123–4, 128
index
Chisholm, Robert Fellowes, 274
Choisy, Abbé Timoléon de, 75, 79,
81, 105, 115
464
Cholon (Vietnam), 210, 213, 252,
283
Chruy Tà Keo (Cambodia),
Pagoda, 284
chữ nôm (Vietnamese ideographic
writing), 210
Chu Quyến Village Hall (Viet-
nam), 189, 190
Cicé, Bishop Louis-Armand Cham-
pion de, 100–2
Circonscription Territoriale du
Laos, 314
Claeys, Jean-Yves, 310
classicisme, 11, 271. See also grand
goût; neoclassicism, and
architecture
Clement IX, Pope, 77–8
Clémentel, Étienne, 273
Clive, Robert, 165
Clunish, John, 267. See also Bang-
kok: Grand Palace
coadjuteur d’ambassade, 81
Coadjutor, Jesuit, 66, 94
Cochin, Charles-Nicolas, 3, 162
Cochinchina, French colony, 10,
12–14, 20, 76–7, 91, 94, 112–14,
179–81, 183–5, 187, 190, 196–9,
207–20, 228, 231, 252, 270, 282,
296, 305–7, 309–11, 341–2, 357.
See also Indochina; Saigon
Coedès, George, 320
Cognacq, Maurice, Governor-
General of Indochina, 308
Colbert, Jean Baptiste, 20, 25, 35,
37–8, 43, 48, 50, 53, 89, 95, 116,
129–30, 160, 178, 271, 377. See also
Atlas de Colbert
Colombo (Sri Lanka): Colombo
Museum, 264, 265; Wolvendaal
Church, 39
colonial administration, 56, 132, 183,
209, 211, 259, 304–5, 343, 369, 370
colonies françaises, Les (1889), 226
Comité agricole et industriel
(Société des études Indochi-
noises), 305
Comité de l’exploitation technique
des chemins de fer (Saigon), 230
Commission des Grands Travaux,
226
Compagnie de Chine, 40
Compagnie de la Louisiane, 40
Compagnie des Cent-Associés, 35
Compagnie des Indes de Saint-
Malo. See Compagnie des Indes
Orientales (cio )
Compagnie des Indes Orientales
(cio ), 15, 18–19, 37–8, 40, 42,
44, 48–50, 55–7, 60–1, 64, 66,
70, 77–8, 84, 87, 91, 129–30, 132,
141, 150, 152, 162, 173, 177, 187,
190–1, 208, 215, 327–8, 330–3
Compagnie des Indes Orientales et
de la Chine. See Compagnie des
Indes Orientales (cio )
Compagnie des Mers Orientales, 35
Compagnie des messageries im-
périales, 276
Compagnie des Moluques, 36
Compagnie du Mississippi, 40
Compagnie du Sénégal, 40
Compagnie française d’Orient
(cfo ), 36, 42, 48
Compagnie perpétuelle des Indes.
See Compagnie des Indes Orient-
ales (cio )
Compradoric style, 265, 296, 357
comptoirs, 17, 21, 38, 41, 56–7
Congo, 252
Conseil des bâtiments civils (Paris),
230
Consiglio Comunale di Sanremo,
253
Constantine (Algeria), Opera
House, 215
Construction moderne, La, 265
Conti, Duetto, 254
contractors, 5, 14, 20, 23, 93, 210,
241–2, 244, 267, 285. See also
architects
Conway, Thomas, 197
“coolies,” 21, 149, 210, 241, 335
Cordé, 169, 194
cordon sanitaire, 15
Cornudet Law of 1919, 297
Corps of Engineers. See Génie
militaire
Cotolendi, Ignace, 76
Couche, Charles-Henri-François,
251
Coucherousset, Henri, 266, 285
Courcy, General Henri Roussel de,
259
cour d’honneur, 143, 147, 171, 351
courtier (chef des malabars), 132–3,
159, 327–8, 339
Coussot, Alfred, 282
Coysevox, Antoine, 72
Crapoix, Henri, 226
Crawfurd, John, 204
Crystal Palace Exposition, London
(1851), 22, 178
Cửa Hàn (Vietnam), 183
Đại Nam (historical name for Viet-
nam), 183, 205, 207–9, 339
Đại Nam nhất thống chí (Đại Nam
Comprehensive Encyclopaedia),
205
Đại Việt (historical name for
Vietnam), 8, 13, 17, 22, 56, 75–7,
178–9, 182–5, 187, 196, 199, 205,
207, 209, 338–9, 374
Daladier, Édouard, 308
Dalat (Vietnam), 15, 298–9
Dalayrac, Nicolas: Le corsaire
(1783), 213
Daman (India), 93, 96
Da Nang (Vietnam), 197; Musée
Cham, 281
Danish East Asiatic Company, 231
Danish Empire, 44, 64, 135, 231
dao phedan (“star ceilings”), 96
Daumont, Jacques-François, 162
Davoust, Jean, 195
Deglane, Henri-Adolphe-August,
220, 230, 256
Delalande, Michel-Richard, 84
Delaporte, Louis, 270
Delarouzée, Paul-Louis, 242
Delaval, Auguste-Émile-Joseph, 283,
300, 302–5, 309–12, 342, 343,
347, 378. See also Saigon, Musée
Blanchard-de-la-Brosse
Delhi, 12, 19, 130, 274–5, 364
Delibes, Léo: Lakmé (1883), 224
Dellon, Gabriel, 49, 55
Deperthes, Édouard, 215, 217
Desbois, Jean, 298
Descourvières, Jean-Joseph, 202
Desfargues, Marshall, 85
Deshima (Dejima, Japan), 75
Dessolier, Félix, 236
Destouches, André Cardinal, 85, 223
Deveaux, Thérèse-Jeanne, 168
Deydier, François, 185
Dias, Maria, 66
Diderot, Denis, 167
Didier, Louis, 143
Điện Biên Phủ, Battle of, 12, 369
Diên Khánh: Cathedral of Saint-
Joseph, 337; Citadel, 7, 11, 17, 22,
179, 181–3, 185, 187, 189, 191, 193,
195–7, 199, 201, 203, 204–7, 209,
211, 252, 262, 337
đình, 321. See also Chu Quyến
Village Hall (Vietnam)
Diu (India), 93
Dolivet, Emmanuel, 228–9
Dollu, Charles-François, 99
Dominicans, 92–3, 97, 185, 207
Đỗ-Phúc-Thạnh, 205
Dormal, Jules, 376
Doumer, Paul, Governor-General
of Indochina, 209–10, 228, 237,
271, 306
dubash (“man of two languages”),
132, 329, 331, 333
Du Cerceau, Paul Androuet de,
82, 120, 126, 246; Ornements
d’orfèvrerie propres pour flanquer
et émailler, 82
Duchesne, Pierre-Joseph, 95, 112
Dulac, Claude, 169
Dumas, Alexandre, 243
Dumas, Pierre-Benoît, Governor of
Pondicherry, 5, 130–1, 135, 149,
165
Dumont, Gabriel-Pierre Martin,
3–4, 20, 135, 150, 153–4, 160–2;
drawings of the Pondicherry
Gouvernement, 4, 153–4; per-
spective view of the mechanical
works and construction of a
theatre, 161
Dupleix, Joseph-François, Governor
of Pondicherry, 5, 130–1, 133, 136,
139, 149, 151, 157–8, 165–6, 176–8,
195–6, 207, 329
Dutch Empire, 8, 18–19, 34, 36, 38,
42, 44, 48–9, 52, 56–7, 60–1, 64,
66, 75–6, 78, 82, 90, 92, 120, 130,
163, 196, 210, 224, 263, 276, 360.
See also Vereenigde Oostindische
Compagnie (voc )
Duvent, Charles-Jules, 241
East India Company (eic ), 34,
37–8, 42, 56–7, 60–1, 64, 77, 163,
165
École Centrale des Arts et Manu-
factures, Paris, 20, 281–2
École des Beaux-Arts, Paris, 9, 20–1,
226, 228, 251, 255, 256, 258–9,
264, 266, 270, 281, 296, 300, 302,
314–15, 324, 377
École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine
(ebai ), Hanoi, 21, 255, 264, 266,
302, 314–15, 323–4, 324, 326, 360,
377–8
École des Mines, Paris, 251
École des Ponts-et-Chaussées, Paris,
20, 259
École Française d’Extrême-Orient
(efeo ), 9, 18, 20, 264, 269–71,
index
278, 280–1, 283, 289, 292, 303,
465
 306–7, 311–12, 314, 316–22, 371,
373
École Nationale Supérieure des Arts
et Métiers, Paris, 20
École Polytechnique, Paris, 20, 259
École Royale des Arts Décoratifs
Cambodgiens, Phnom Penh,
264, 267, 278, 280, 283, 292
École Royale du Génie de Mézières,
Ardennes, 20, 198
École Spéciale des Travaux Publics,
Paris, 20
Edict of Nantes (1685), 79
Eiffel, Gustav, 376
embassies, Franco-Siamese, 72–85,
88, 90–3, 99, 105–7, 112–13, 115,
120, 149, 197, 207, 212
Emerson, William, 274
engineering, 20, 79, 83, 251, 255, 292,
364, 378. See also Génie militaire
ephemera, 93, 165, 178, 188, 264, 373
Ertinger, Franz: View of the Back of
the Audience Hall of the Palace of
Siam (1691), 80
escalier d’honneur, 147, 243, 247
Exposition coloniale de Marseille
(1906), 23, 222, 259, 260, 272,
273, 307
Exposition coloniale de Marseille
(1922), 23, 307
Exposition coloniale internationale,
Vincennes (1931), 23, 31, 222, 251,
255, 271, 276, 280, 290, 293, 294,
299, 303, 314, 315, 347
Exposition de Hanoï (1902), 23,
24, 237, 244, 295, 308–9, 316.
See also Hanoi, Grand Palais de
l’Exposition
Exposition internationale des arts
décoratifs et industriels mod-
ernes, Paris (1925), 304, 308–9
Exposition internationale des arts et
techniques dans la vie moderne,
index
Paris (1937), 23, 222, 226, 255
exposition pavilions, 13, 23, 31, 42,
50, 95, 166, 204–5, 222–4, 232–3,
466
242–6, 253, 261, 263–4, 273, 283,
290–1, 293, 303, 308, 310, 312, 316,
347, 351, 365, 367, 373, 376, 377
expositions, 23, 222, 263, 270, 272–3,
280, 293, 303, 315, 325, 347, 371,
373, 377; and pavilions, 23, 31,
222, 232–3, 261, 263–4, 272, 283,
290, 293, 303, 308, 312, 316, 347,
371, 373; and performance, 23. See
also British Empire Exhibition,
Wembley (1921); Crystal Palace
Exposition, London (1851);
Exposition coloniale de Marseille
(1906); Exposition coloniale
de Marseille (1922); Expos-
ition coloniale internationale,
Vincennes (1931); Exposition
de Hanoï (1902); Exposition
internationale des arts décoratifs
et industriels modernes, Paris
(1925); Exposition internationale
des arts et techniques dans la vie
moderne, Paris (1937); exposition
pavilions; Exposition théâtre
et de la musique, Paris (1896);
Exposition Universelle, Paris
(1855); Exposition Universelle,
Paris (1900); Foire-Exposition de
Saïgon
Exposition théâtre et de la mu-
sique, Paris (1896), 228. See also
Audouin, Georges-André
Exposition universelle, Paris (1855),
13, 215, 217
Exposition universelle, Paris (1900),
12, 23, 222, 251–2, 256, 282, 377.
See also Paris: Grand Palais;
Paris: Petit Palais
Faccio, Franco: Hamlet (1865),
224
Faifo. See Hội An
Fallois, Armand de, 253
Farrère, Claude, 272
Faucheur, Adélaide le, 173
Fénelon, François, 322
Fer, Nicolas de: Map of Pondicherry
on the Coromandel Coast (1704),
62–3
Ferret, Eugène-Alexandre-Nicolas,
215, 225–6, 228, 230–3, 251–5, 259,
375, 378; Cannes, Project for the
Casino municipal, 253; and the
Compagnie française des Tram-
ways de l’Indochine, 252; and the
Exposition coloniale interna-
tionale (1931), 255; and Guy de
Maupassant, 252; Hippodrome
Théâtre at Roubaix, 251; Korean
Pavilion at the 1900 Exposition
universelle, 252; and the Médaille
et Croix de Guerre de 1870–71,
251; and the “Société du Casino
Municipale de San-Remo,”
254. See also Saigon: Théâtre de
Saigon (Opera House); Sanremo,
Casinò Municipale
Ferrière, Joseph, 224
Ferry, Jules, Prime Minister of
France, 209
Fierens-Gevaert, Hippolyte, 322
Finlayson, George, 204–6
First Carnatic War (1746–48), 150,
169
First Indochina War (1946–54), 369
First World War, 14–15, 25, 215,
244, 255, 261–2, 296, 300, 305,
308, 316, 362, 370
Flacourt, Étienne de, 45–7, 50, 52,
56
Flanneau, Berthe-Marie-Henriette,
259
fleur-de-lys, 136, 194, 351, 355
Floyon (France), 258
Foire-Exposition de Saïgon, 308,
309, 310–11, 316
Fonbrun, Jean-Louis Champia de,
3–4, 135, 162; drawings of the
Pondicherry Gouvernement, 4
Fontaney, Jean de, 80
Fontenay-aux-Roses (France),
Maison de campagne, 266
Forbidden City, Beijing: East gate
(Donghuamen), 204; Grand
Ancestral Shrine, 321; Ten Thou-
sand Springs (Wanchun ting)
Pavilion, 310
Forbin, Claude de, 115
Fort Dauphin, Madagascar, 17,
36–8, 41, 43–6, 46–7, 48–50,
52–3, 55–7, 61, 67, 71, 73, 75, 77,
79, 83, 85, 132
Fossier, Louis-Denis, 166–7
Foulhoux, Alfred, 11, 215, 217, 222
fountains, 5, 21, 79, 93, 155, 176–7,
211
Fouquet, Nicolas, 36, 48
Fourès, Augustin-Julien, 239
Fournereau, Lucien, 270
Fournier, Victor, 253
Fraipoint, George, 241
Franciscans, 92–3, 97, 185, 207
François I, King of France, 34–5
Franco-Prussian War, 14, 251
Franco-Viet Minh War, 343. See also
First Indochina War
French Academy in Rome, 3, 20, 295
French Colonial Union, 231–2
French Indian Representative As-
sembly, 370
Frêne, Jean Roze dit du, 5, 149
Fronde civil war, 43
Gabriel, Ange-Jacques, 160
gác chuông, 338
Gallieni, Joseph-Simon, Governor
of Madagascar, 273
gallic culture, 25, 61, 179, 190, 224,
324
gardens, 9, 21, 43, 52, 61, 139, 162,
164–5, 168, 172, 232, 256, 305,
307, 374, 376; of Fort-Dauphin,
46–7, 52
Garnier, Charles, 25, 208, 220–1,
223, 235, 254, 256. See also Monte
Carlo, Casino; Paris: Opéra
Garnier
Garnier, Tony, 297
Gaussin, Albert, 244
Gayme, Claude, 78
Gedi (Kenya), 128
Genet, Antoine, 226
Génie militaire, 5, 205, 207. See also
engineering
Genouilly, Charles Rigault de,
Admiral, 12, 178, 208
Georgian Bay (Canada), 55
Gerbaud, Emmanuel-Julien, 4–5,
14, 143, 149–52, 154–5, 159, 169;
plans for the Pondicherry Gou-
vernement, 151–2
Gerbillon, Jean-François, 80
Gerini, Gerolamo Emilio, 268
Gervaise, Nicolas, 92, 115
Gia Long, Emperor of Đại Việt.
See Nguyễn Ánh, King of
Cochinchina
Giám thành (director of fortifica-
tions), 205
Ginain, Léon-Paul-René, 258, 296
Gingee, 8, 60, 64, 65, 70–1, 136
Girault, Charles, 222–3, 232
Gisors, Louis Henri Georges Scel-
lier de, 258, 283, 296
gloire (idea of French glory), 8, 18,
34–5, 40, 42, 79, 81, 130, 165, 195,
271, 207
Goa, 75–7, 79, 93–4, 113, 185; Col-
lege of São Paulo, 93–4
Golconda, 12, 57, 64, 70
Gold Coast (Ghana), 32, 45, 143
Gondrée, Nicolas, 48
gothic style, 10, 101, 275, 296, 321,
337, 343–4, 355
Gounod, Charles, 25, 224, 244, 257;
Faust (1859), 224
Gourou, Pierre, 357
Gò Vấp (Vietnam), 252
Graf de Lailhacar & Cie, 228
grandeur (French idea of ), 9, 37, 43,
45, 129–30, 136, 149, 155, 164, 215,
218, 225, 242, 250, 261
grand goût, 42–4. See also baroque;
classicisme; Grand Siècle
Grand Prix de Rome, 20, 162, 279,
296, 300. See also French Acad-
emy in Rome
Grand Siècle, 5, 18, 105, 129–30, 135,
143, 160, 167. See also Colbert,
Jean-Baptiste; Louis XIV
Greene, Graham, 222; The Quiet
American (1955), 15, 99, 222, 252,
338, 340, 345–7
Groslier, Bernard-Philippe, 279
Groslier, George, 263, 267, 275,
277–80, 284–6, 287, 289, 290–4,
296, 300, 302, 308–9, 312–15, 325,
346–7, 371; Arts et archéologie
khmers, 280; Danseuses
cambodgiennes anciennes et
modernes, 279
Guadet, Julien, 256
Guangzhou, Cathedral of the
Sacred Heart, 10
Guiana, 8, 49, 55, 408. See also Cay-
enne (French Guiana)
Guichard, Ernest-Amédeé, 215,
225, 230, 235, 251, 255–7, 375;
projet rendu for a chamber of
notaries building (1895), 257. See
also Saigon: Théâtre de Saigon
(Opera House)
Guignes, Chrétien-Louis-Joseph
de, 199
Guruvappa, Chevalier Charles-Phi-
lippe, 133
Haiphong, 21, 25, 211, 213, 215,
236–7, 244, 260–1, 265, 285, 316,
369, 375; Théâtre municipal, 213
Hàm Nghi, Emperor of Đại Nam,
209
Hanoi, 12, 14–15, 17–18, 21, 23, 25,
183, 185, 206, 208–13, 215, 218,
220–5, 229, 231–3, 235–53, 255,
258–65, 267, 271, 273, 283, 292,
295, 297–300, 303–9, 311–24,
index
334, 338, 342, 354, 357, 375–7;
Church of the Holy Martyrs,
298; Cổ Loa Citadel, 283;
467
 Grand Palais de l’Exposition,
23, 24, 25, 215, 222, 244, 252,
281, 309; Hôtel de la residence
supérieure du Tonkin, 244;
and indigenous production,
309; Institut Pasteur, 298; Lycée
d’Hanoi, 304; Ministry of
Finances building, Hanoi, 298,
299; Musée Louis-Finot, 18, 264,
284, 298, 312–14, 316, 317–19,
320; Musée Maurice Long, 25,
316–17; Palais du Gouverneur
Général, 13, 176, 208, 218, 218–19,
220; Pont Doumer, 210; Théâtre
municipal de Hanoi, 216, 223,
235–7, 238–40, 246, 248, 250,
251, 258–61, 284, 320; Université
Indochinoise, Hanoi, 298; Văn
Miếu Temple, 334
Hardouin-Mansart, Jules, 43
Harlay, Victorin-Anatole, Albéric,
215, 235, 236–40, 242–7, 258–60.
See also Hanoi: Théâtre munici-
pal de Hanoi
Harmond, Jules, 273
Hà Tiên (Vietnam), 185, 77, 185,
196–7, 205–6, 316
Hébert, Guillaume-André, Gov-
ernor of Pondicherry, 133, 195
Hébrard, Ernest, 14–15, 20, 22, 226,
263–4, 275, 277, 280, 283, 293,
295–300, 308, 311–13, 316–18,
321–4, 337, 343, 346–7, 363; and
“style indochinois,” 263, 295,
298–300, 312, 324, 337, 342–3.
See also Hanoi: Church of the
Holy Martyrs; Hanoi: Ministry
of Finances building, Hanoi;
Hanoi: Musée Louis-Finot;
Hanoi: Université Indochinoise,
Hanoi
Heeren XVII. See Vereenigde Oost-
indische Compagnie (voc )
index
Henault, Lucien-Ambroise, 235, 376
Henry IV, King of France, 35–6
468
Herbelin, Caroline, 15–16, 32–3,
273, 280, 295, 300, 313, 315, 319,
321–3, 325
Hermitte, Achille-Antoine, 10. See
also Guangzhou, Cathedral of
the Sacred Heart; Hong Kong:
City Hall; Saigon: Palais du
Gouvernement Général
Hernault, Jacques, 5, 149
Hervé, Louis-Auguste-Florimond
Ronger, 251
Hessing, John, 130
Hoàng Như Tiếp, 285
Hoàng Quỳnh, 339
Ho Chi Minh, 210, 369
Hội An, 184, 350; Chinese temple
on Nguyễn Thái Học Street, 345
Holbé, Victor-Thomas, 307
homesickness, 19, 220, 226, 244, 262
Hòn Đất (Vietnam), 185, 190, 196
Hong Kong, 10–11, 208, 228, 276,
308, 316, 357; City Hall, 10;
Flagstaff House, 276; Murray
Barracks, 276
hôtel particulier, 117, 158, 332
Houillères, de, engineer, 116
Huế (Vietnam), 13, 182, 189, 203,
205–9, 264, 302, 307, 312, 336,
339, 344, 350, 351; Citadel, 204;
Trường Tiền Bridge, 376
Huệ Đăng, Abbot, 347
Huquier, Jacques-Gabriel, 162–4;
Perspective View of the Marvellous
Bower, 164; View of Pondicherry
in the East Indies, 163
Huronia (Nouvelle-France), 53
Hutchinson, E.W., 106, 108–9
hybridity, 15, 18–19, 21, 23, 25–33,
42, 89–90, 97, 128, 132, 190, 263,
277, 305, 323–4, 333, 354, 368,
374, 377; in architecture, 18–21,
23, 25–6, 28–34, 42, 44, 60,
88–90, 93, 96, 109, 112, 128, 130,
132, 179, 190, 196, 206, 262–3,
267, 269, 274, 286, 290, 305, 323,
324, 326, 332–3, 354, 356–7, 362,
367–8, 374, 377–8; and mestizaje/
métissage, 23–6, 28–9, 31–3, 93,
262–3, 273, 295, 308, 325
Hyderabad (India), 131
Île Bourbon (Réunion), 9, 21, 36,
45, 48–9, 173
Île Dauphine (Madagascar), 48
Île de France (Mauritius), 5, 9, 14,
20, 21, 136, 139, 150, 169, 206
Île de Gorée (Senegal), 8, 49
Île de Ré (France), Citadel of
Saint-Martin, 205
Île Mascareigne. See Île Bourbon
(Réunion)
independence movements: Burma,
360, 368; Cambodia, 370–4;
India, 370; Vietnam, 12, 210, 322,
324–5, 343, 346, 360, 369, 373
India, 3–9, 13–17, 19–21, 33–8, 40–5,
48–50, 56–7, 60–1, 64, 70–1,
74–7, 85, 98, 100, 110, 129, 130–3,
135, 149, 151, 157–60, 162–3, 165,
168, 177–8, 195, 207, 210, 215, 263,
265, 274–5, 279, 323–7, 329, 331,
333, 353, 356, 360, 364, 367, 370,
374
“Indies Architecture,” 275
indigenous peoples, 23, 27, 31, 50
Indochina, 8, 12–16, 18–23, 25, 31–2,
38, 40, 44, 94, 177–80, 182, 195,
197, 207–10, 215, 220, 222–5, 235,
244, 251–2, 255, 258–9, 261–6,
269, 271–6, 279–81, 285, 290, 295,
297–8, 300, 302–4, 306, 308–9,
312–14, 316, 321, 322–3, 337, 339,
344, 357, 360, 369–70, 374, 376;
and pavilions, 23, 31, 222–4,
263–4, 273, 290, 300, 303–4, 308,
312, 314, 316, 344; and theatre,
215, 220, 224–5, 235, 244, 251–2,
258
Indo-Saracenic style, 263, 265,
274–5, 360
Innocent XI, Pope, 73, 75, 85, 99
Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) peoples,
50
Isfahan, 90
Israël, Marianne, 258
Issy-les-Moulineaux (France),
Château, 155
Istanbul, 296
Ivry-sur-Seine, 260
Jahangir, Mughal Emperor, 97
Jakarta, Batavia Museum (1862),
264. See also Batavia
jali (grille), 60
James II, King of Britain, 93
Jang, Salābat, 131
Japan, 56–7, 60, 74–5, 78, 84, 88,
90–3, 109–11, 119, 126, 128, 180,
182–4, 186–7, 281, 306, 310, 313,
321, 323, 326, 343, 351, 359, 360,
369
Jaussely, Léon, 297
Jéquier, Émile, 376
Jesuits, 41, 44, 53, 55, 60, 66–7, 75–
80, 83–4, 92–7, 99, 102, 107, 111–
14, 129, 132–3, 180–91, 195, 207,
262; and l’affaire Naniapa, 133
Joffre, Captain Joseph, 339
Jordis, Michael, 52
Josse, Jules, 308, 311
Jouveaux-Dubreuil, Gabriel, 195
Julienne, Jean de, 165
Jully, Abbé de, 81
Kaempfer, Engelbert, 99, 115
Kâlâpêttai, 131
Kampong Cham (Cambodia): Vat
Phnom Del, 284
Kampot (Cambodia), 357, 371
Kangxi, Emperor of China, 113
Kanō Sōshū, painting of the
Church of the Assumption,
Kyoto, 186
Karikal (Karaikal, India), 57, 149,
192, 369
Karnataka (India), 57
Karsten, Thomas, 275
Khamchan, Abbot Sathu Nyai,
354
Khan, Gussafar, 71
Khān I, Nawab Sa’adatullāh, 331
Khang, Trinh-Quy, 267, 313, 316,
320
khunmun, 83
khunnang, 83
Khun Phichit Maitri, 79
Khun Phichai Walit, 79
Khuôn Nguyễn Van, François, 266,
277–8, 281–3, 286, 291, 378
Knosp, Henri, 236
Kosa, Phraya Phiphat, 78
Kosa Pan, 72, 75, 83, 85, 213
Kosathibodi, 77
Kourou (French Guiana), 49–50,
51, 55
Krautheimer, Jean-Félix, Governor
of Cochinchina, 305
Kromluangyothathip, Chhaofah,
120
Labarca, Miguel Angel de la Cruz,
375
Laborde, Engineer, 276–7
La Chaise, Abbé François de, 75, 79,
84, 113
La Cruz Labarca, Miguel Ángel,
376
La Font de Saint-Yenne, Étienne:
L’Ombre du Grand Colbert
(1741), 130
Laforgue, Adrien, 297
Lagisquet, François-Charles,
215–16, 239–40, 243–6, 259–61,
272–3, 281, 316. See also Hanoi:
Théâtre municipal de Hanoi
Lagisquet, Suzanne Pauline, 259
La Grandière, Admiral Pierre-Paul
de, 306
Lagrée, Ernest Doudart de, 208,
282, 306
Lahore (Pakistan), Fort, 90
La Loubère, Simon, 75, 80, 84–5,
92, 105, 116, 183
Lamorte, Victor, 258, 284–5
La Motte, Bishop Pierre Lambert
de, 76, 92, 180, 185
Laneau, Bishop Louis, 76–8, 94–7
Lanessan, Jean Marie Antione de,
273
Langres, Sieur de, 115
Lanty, Claude-Thérèse de
Chastenay de, 149
Laos, 8, 12, 14, 17, 22, 76, 181, 207,
209, 266, 268, 289, 314–15, 347,
353, 356–7, 360, 369. See also
Luang Prabang; Vientiane
Lapie, 94
Larche, Jean Henry de, 143
Larmessin II, Nicolas de, 72
Laprade, Albert, 297
La Roche, Louis Paradis de, 149
La Rochelle, 36, 48, 205, 207; Fort
Liédot, 207
Lassurance, Pierre, 143, 148. See also
Paris: Hôtel Desmarets
Lauriston, Jean Law de, 172
Lavastre, Joseph-Antoine, 257–8
Lavoué, Pierre, 202
Law, John, 40, 61
Lazarists, 48, 53, 75
League of Augsburg, War of the
(1688–97), 85
Le Bozecq, Jean, 5, 143, 149, 150
Le Brun, Charles, 43, 53, 72–3;
Louis 14 Giving Audience to the
Ambassadors of Siam, 73. See also
Paris: Louvre
Le Brun, Théodore, 196, 199
Le Brusq, Arnauld, 15, 225, 246,
264, 297, 208, 313, 321
Leclanger, Victor-Anatole, 236
Le Clerc, Sébastien (the elder), 72
Lecocq, Alexandre-Charles, 251
index
Le Dure, Louis, 149
Le Dot, M., 81
469
 Le Gouaz, Yves-Marie: View of
Part of the Ruins of Pondicherry
(1773), 167
Léhar, Franz: The Merry Widow
(1905), 244
Le Mercier, Jacques, 67, 102
Lemire, Charles, 306
Le Muet, Pierre, 70, 107–8, 117;
Augmentations de nouveaux bas-
timens faits en France (1663), 70;
Manière de bien bastir pour toutes
sortes de personnes (1681), 107
Le Nôtre, André, 43
Le Pautre, Jean, 126, 246; acanthus
frieze design, 127
Lê Quang Định, Hoàng Việt nhất
thống dư địa chí (1806), 206
Lespinay, Benoît Bellander de, 61
Letondal, François-Claude, 195
Lê Văn Khôi, 204
Lê Văn Trung, Caodaist Pope, 341
Le Vau, Louis, 43–4. See also
Paris: Louvre; Vaux-le-Vicomte,
Château; Versailles, Château de:
Escalier des Ambassadeurs
Lewis, Norman, 15, 222, 345–6, 357,
362
Leyrit, Georges Duval de, Governor
of Pondicherry, 131, 157
Lichtenfelder, Charles, 218, 220. See
also Hanoi: Palais du Gou-
verneur Général
Lille, 115–16, 136, 205, 297
Lima: La Colmena neighbourhood,
375
Lionne, Artus de, 83
Locquin, Jean, 303
Lodi, Sher Khan, governor of
Valikondapuram, 61
Logerot, Albert, 243
Lolière-Puycontat, Monsignor Jean
de, 100
Long, Maurice, 297
index
Longvek (Cambodia), Phnom
Kruong, 284
470
Lopburi, 17, 22, 79, 82–5, 88, 91, 94,
102, 105–15, 119, 378; Ambassa-
dors’ Residence and Phaulkon’s
Palace (Ban Chao Wichayen),
106–7, 113; Chapel of Notre-
Dame-de-Lorette, 22, 108–9,
109, 112, 215, 378; Jesuit observ-
atory, 114; Royal Palace, 83, 85,
90, 111, 115
Lormier, Édouard, 182
Louis XIV, King of France, 5, 8,
18, 25, 35, 37, 41–2, 44, 49, 53,
60, 72–3, 75, 78–85, 90, 99, 105,
112, 115–16, 120, 129, 136, 148–9,
158–9, 165, 178, 206, 223, 257, 271
Louis XV, King of France, 8, 16, 37,
44, 130–1, 160, 168, 177, 181–2,
195, 197, 213, 323–3, 351, 376; clas-
sicism, 15. See also rococo
Louisbourg (Canada), 136
Louisiana, 8
Luang Prabang (Laos), 14–17, 22–3,
269, 314–15, 321, 325, 347, 351,
353, 356–7; Prince Vong Savang
Residence, 354; Royal Palace,
269; Sala Thammavihan, 347,
351, 352, 356–7; school principal’s
residence, 22; urbanization, 355;
Vat Saen Sukhharam, 354; Wat
Khili Temple, 323; Wat Tham
Chor Si, 314; Wat Xiang Thong,
315, 353
Lully, Jean-Baptiste, 25, 79, 83, 85,
213, 223; Acis et Galatée (1686),
213; Armide (1686), 213
Lutyens, Sir Edwin, 275
Lyautey, Louis Hubert, 273, 280,
297, 339
Lyon, 34, 37, 224, 226, 297, 302;
Basilica of Saint-Martin d’Ainay,
302
Macau, 75, 93–4, 111, 199, 339, 357
Macaulay, Thomas Babington, 165
Mạc Thiên Tứ, 185
Madagascar, 9, 34–6, 41, 44–5,
48–50, 55–6, 72, 75, 179, 208, 273.
See also Fort Dauphin, Madagas-
car; Île Dauphines
Madras, 3, 7, 38–9, 60, 64, 131, 135,
163, 165–6, 168–9, 176, 190, 193,
274, 328, 331–2, 362; Armenian
Church, 176; Chepauk Palace,
274; Doveton House, 176; Fort
St George, 7; St Mary’s (Fort)
Church, 39. See also Madras
Terrace
Madras Terrace, 176, 332
Madurai (India), 60, 70
Mahadik, Harji, 64, 71
Maharaja of Jodhpur, 130
Mahé (India), 57, 149–50, 169, 369,
370
māhi-marātib (Mughal fish insig-
nia), 131
Mahot, Guillaume, 187
Maignan, Albert, 279–80, 286
mái kép, 338
Maitri, Khun Phichit, 79
Mak, Oknha Tep Nimit, 267,
283–4, 289, 378. See also
Phnom Penh: École des arts
cambodgiens (1917); Phnom
Penh: Musée Albert-Sarraut;
Phnom Penh: Royal Palace
Malabar, 57, 60, 64, 132–3, 159, 195
Malacca, 75, 193, 199
Maldonado, Jean-Baptiste, 113
Malherbe, Pierre-Oliver, 35
Malleret, Louis, 195
mansard roof, 44, 160, 165, 232, 296
Mansart, François, 44, 211, 246
Mao, Oknha Reachna Prasor, 283.
See also Phnom Penh: École des
arts cambodgiens (1917)
Marathas, 130
Maratta, Carlo, 73
Marcel, Alexandre-Auguste-Louis:
Théâtre Cambodgien, 283; Wat
Phnom reconstruction, 283
Marchal, Henri, 270, 304, 314,
373
Maria Francisca, Queen of Portu-
gal, 93
Mariette, Jean, 126, 143, 148;
L’Architecture françois (Paris,
1727), 142, 169
Marini, Giovanni Filippo de, 93
Marliave, François de, 285
Marot, Jean, 67–70, 102, 108–10,
113; Architecture française, 67,
70; Recueil des plans, profils, et
eleuations, 110
Marquis de Marigny. See Poisson,
Abel-François
Marrast, Joseph, 297
Marseille, 23, 57, 212, 222, 224, 239,
251, 258–60, 262, 264, 272–3,
280–2, 293, 303, 307, 326, 370,
371; Collège (Lycée), 282; Opéra
de Marseille, 212. See also Ex-
position coloniale de Marseille
(1906); Exposition coloniale de
Marseille (1922)
Martin, François, 49, 61, 78, 135
Martin, Léonard-Louis, 375
mashrabiyya (wooden grille), 297
masons, 5, 11, 44, 50, 70, 149, 241,
347, 356. See also architects
Massé, Victor, 243
Massenet, Jules, 223–4, 231, 243–4,
257; La navarraise (1894), 224;
Sapho (1896), 224; Thaïs (1894),
19, 224; Werther (1892), 224
Masulipatam (India), 57
Mathon, Louis, 191, 195
Matifat, Charles-Stanislas, 178
Maucher, Engineer, 276
Maugham, William Somerset, 221,
362
Maupassant, Guy de, 252; Boule de
suif et autres contes de la guerre
(1880), 252
Mauritius, 5, 45. See also Île de
France
Mazarin, Cardinal Jules, 36
McLean, John, 166–7; Ruins of the
Citadel in Pondicherry (1762),
166
Mekong River, 12, 196–7, 306
Mergui (Myeik, Myanmar), 73, 85,
113, 115
Mériot, M., 266
Merlin, Martial Henri, Governor
General of Indochina, 308, 311,
317
metropolitan style, 21, 23, 44, 129,
141, 146, 149, 179, 218, 224, 262,
378
Mézières, Simon Lagrenée de, 173
Michelangelo, 97. See also Rome,
Palazzo dei Conservatori
military trophée, 5, 152
Milne-Edwards, Henri, 306
Minangkabau peoples, 275
Minh Đàn, Abbot, 347, 350, 357
Minh Đức vương Thái Phi, 187
Ministry of the Marine, 19, 20, 116,
149, 160
mirrors, 5, 25, 72, 79, 81, 84–5, 90–1,
120, 149, 156, 160, 248
mise en valeur, 210, 273
missionaries, 13, 18–19, 29, 36, 38,
40, 42, 44, 48, 55, 66, 73, 75, 77,
79, 81–2, 85, 88–94, 96–100, 105,
114, 129, 132–3, 178–80, 182–5,
190–2, 202, 207–8, 215, 338, 378.
See also Dominicans; Francis-
cans; Jesuits; Lazarists; Missions-
Étrangères de Paris (mep )
mission civilisatrice, 11, 31, 182, 210,
215, 280, 324
Missions-Étrangères de Paris
(mep ), 10, 12, 41, 66, 70, 75–9,
81–3, 85, 88, 92–7, 100–2, 105,
112–15, 132, 169, 180–7, 190–7,
202, 331
modernism, 5, 13–14, 16, 18–20, 23,
25, 26, 28–32, 34–5, 41, 61, 75–6,
83, 91, 97, 115, 128, 157, 162, 166,
178–80, 182–3, 196, 205, 207,
213, 215, 232, 239, 252, 255–6,
263–5, 269, 272, 275, 279–80, 293,
296–7, 308, 321–5, 333, 338, 342,
347, 354, 356, 359–60, 363–5, 371,
374, 376–8. See also art deco
modernism, and architecture, 31,
275, 323, 325–6, 363, 371
Molière, 83, 212; The Misanthrope,
212
Moluccas, 34, 36
Molyvann, Van, 325, 372–3. See also
Phnom Penh: Monument to
Cambodian Independence
Montagnais (Innu) peoples, 50
Montaubon, M. De, 48
Monte Carlo, Casino, 253
Montesquieu, Baron de, 167
Montmorency-Laval, François-
Xavier de, 76
Montpellier, 226, 375
Morin, Jean-Aimé, 241
Morocco, 264, 273, 280, 296–7;
associationist architecture and,
296
Morris, William, 322
Motta, Lazare de, 64
Mouhot, Henri, 270
Mughal Empire, 5, 19, 44, 49, 56–7,
60–1, 64, 70–1, 90, 97, 130–3,
149, 165, 190, 211, 274, 327, 331,
333, 367
Muhammad Shah, Mughal Em-
peror, 130
muqarnas (honeycomb vault), 297
mutram, 332
Mỹ Tho, House of Lê Công Phước,
359; Vĩnh Tràng Pagoda, 325, 347,
348–50, 351
Nacquard, Charles, 48
Nagasaki, 75
Napoleon I, Emperor of France,
44
Napoleon III, Emperor of France, 8,
index
12, 177–8, 195, 208
Narai, King of Siam, 8, 25, 70–5,
77–9, 81–5, 90–1, 93, 95, 99–100,
471
 105, 122–3, 115, 119–20, 124, 127,
183, 213, 378
Navarre, 243
nawab (viceroy), 130, 149, 275, 327,
331
Nawab of Awadh, 130
Nâyakkan, dubash Ôrkan.d.i
Rangappa, 331
Nayiniyappa, dubash, 133
neoclassicism, and architecture, 16,
19, 143, 190, 212, 260, 265, 268,
275–6, 281, 326, 337, 347, 351, 354,
357, 360, 362, 364
Neuf-Brisach (France), 116
Nevers, 300
Ngô Đình Diệm, President of
South Vietnam, 12
Ngô Văn Chiêu, 340
Nguyễn Ánh, King of Cochinchina,
17, 181–5, 195–9, 202, 205, 207,
235, 378
Nguyễn Cao Luyện, 285
Nguyễn-Học, 205
Nguyễn Phúc Cảnh, Prince, 181,
195, 197
Nguyễn Phúc Chu, chúa of Cochin-
china, 113
Nguyễn-Thông, 205
Nguyễn Văn Thích, 339
Nguyễn Văn Yên, 205
Nîmes, 198
Nine Years War, 135
Ninh Bình (Vietnam), 250, 333
Nolan, Jean-Baptiste, Solemn Audi-
ence Given by the King of Siam
(1685), 72
Nonburi (Thailand), 119
Nonthaburi (Thailand), 93
Norodom, King of Cambodia, 8
nostalgia, 8, 19, 129, 167, 176, 179,
207. See also architecture, and
nostalgia
Nouvelle Compagnie des Indes. See
index
Compagnie des Indes Orientales
(cio )
Nouvelle-France, 8, 53, 56, 116
472
Nouvelle-Orléans (New Orleans),
8, 49
Nước Mặn, 184
Nyon, Denis de, 135–6, 138–9;
elevation of the Royal Gate of
Pondicherry, 135; project for the
church of Saint-Louis, Pondi-
cherry, 137–8
Olichon, Armand, 335, 337, 339
Olivier de Puymanel, Joseph-Victor-
Cyriaque-Alexis, 182, 196–8
Ollivier, Félix-Louis-Jean-Marie,
225, 255; and the Exhibition Uni-
verselle (1900), 256; and the Prix
Godeboeuf (1889), 255; project
for a gate for a hall in a museum
of decorative arts (1889), 255;
and the Salons des Architectes
Français (1902, 1905), 256. See
also Saigon: Théâtre de Saigon
(Opera House)
opera, 13–17, 19, 25, 28, 31, 34, 42,
57, 60, 79, 83, 85, 93, 130, 133, 152,
183, 190, 195, 211–15, 220–6, 228,
230–2, 235–6, 239, 244, 248,
250–2, 257–9, 261, 263, 265, 273,
284–5, 320, 375; and classical
theatre, 23; and the Grandes
Écuries, 25, 83; grand opera,
23; opéra-bouffe, 224; “opera
colonialism,” 213; opéra-comi-
que, 224; “opera diplomacy,” 23;
musicians, 25, 83–4, 131, 224.
See also Algiers: Opera House;
Constantine (Algeria), Opera
House; Haiphong: Théâtre mu-
nicipal; Hanoi: Théâtre munici-
pal de Hanoi; Marseille: Opéra
de Marseille; Oran, Municipal
Opera House; Paris: Opéra Gar-
nier; Saigon: Théâtre de Saigon
(Opera House); Toulon: Théâtre
municipal
Oppenord, Gilles-Marie, Galerie
d’Enée, 156
Oran, Municipal Opera House, 215
Ottoman Empire, 60, 74, 76, 296
Oudong (Cambodia), 282
Ouidah (Benin), 8, 49
Outrey, Ernest, Résident-Supérieur
of Cambodia, 285
palace ateliers, 20, 194, 280,
283–4, 286. See also training,
architectural
Palicot, Engineer, 276
Palladio, Andrea, 11
Pallu, Bishop François, 75–6, 78,
94–7, 180, 185
Pan, Kosa. See Kosa Pan
Papa, Démétrius, 284
Papi, Max-Robert, 313, 316, 318, 320
Paris, 3–4, 7, 10, 12, 14, 18–21, 23,
25, 31, 34, 37–8, 41, 43–4, 49,
55, 62, 66–7, 70, 72–3, 76, 78,
80–2, 95–6, 98, 101, 105, 107, 110,
114, 118, 120, 126, 130, 133, 136,
139, 143, 146, 148–9, 155–7, 160,
162–4, 166–7, 169, 173, 175, 178,
185, 193, 201–2, 209–13, 215, 217,
220–4, 226, 228–32, 235, 239,
244, 246, 250–62, 264, 266–8,
270–2, 276, 278–83, 285–6, 289,
293–4, 302, 308, 311, 313–15, 318,
322, 325, 337, 347, 362, 371, 374–7;
Avenue de l’Opéra, 221; Bois
de Boulogne, 221; Cathedral
of Notre Dame, 18; Champs-
Elysées, 19, 221; College of
Louis-le-Grand, 79, 85; Grand
Palais, 23, 220; Hôtel Amelot de
Gournay, 148; Hôtel de Roque-
laure, 156, 157; Hôtel Desmarets,
142, 143, 148; Hôtel de Toulouse,
155–6; Hôtel de Ville, 18–19, 216,
253; Louvre, 5, 6, 43, 44; Musée
du Trocadéro, 270; Opéra Gar-
nier, 220, 221, 232–3, 235, 242,
244, 253; Palais de l’Industrie,
215, 217; Petit Palais, 18, 23, 222,
223, 232, 252–3; Place Louis XV
 (Place de la Concorde), Western
Palace, 160; Sainte-Chapelle, 96;
Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, 101,
102; Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs,
139; Salon des artistes français,
302; Sèvres Manufactory, 283
Parmentier, Henri, 278, 312, 314
Parmentier, Jean, 35, 281, 283, 289,
304
Parmentier, Raoul, 35
parwāna (imperial order), 132
Pascot, Antoine, 79
Pasquier, Governor-General Pierre-
Marie-Antoine, 319–21
Passage, Bernard du, 149
Pater, Paul, 376
pavilions. See exposition pavilions
Pernambuco (Brazil), 7, 48
Perrault, Claude, 43
Persia, 33, 36, 60, 74–6, 83–4, 88,
90–1, 106, 108–9, 123–4, 128, 327
Phạm Công Tắc, Caodaist Pope,
343
Phát Diệm (Vietnam), Cathedral
or Caodaist Holy See, 22, 325,
333–7, 339, 340–1, 343–4
Phaulkon, Constantine, 75, 77–8,
81–2, 85, 91, 93–7, 99, 100, 105–7,
109, 112–13, 116, 183
Phetracha, King of Siam, 85, 100,
117, 123
Philippines, 34, 75–6, 88, 185, 207,
215, 224, 310
Phitsanulok (Thailand), Église des
Trois-Rois-Mages, 114
Phnom Penh, 12, 15, 18, 23, 229, 258,
262–5, 267–9, 277–8, 285, 287,
289, 295, 298, 300, 302, 307–8,
325, 354, 370, 371–3; École des
arts cambodgiens (1917), 264;
Hôtel le Royal, 298; Monument
to Cambodian Independence,
370–1, 372, 373–4; Musée
Albert-Sarraut, 14, 18, 264, 266,
270, 277–8, 280–4, 286, 287–9,
290, 307; Musée Khmer, 264,
266, 277, 278, 280–3, 286, 290,
307; Royal Palace, 10, 258, 268,
284–5; Silver Pagoda, 283; Vat
Botum Vadei, 284; Vat Preah
Kèo Morokot, 284; Wat Phnom,
283, 286, 374
Phra Khlang (Siamese treasury
minister), 77–8
phương đình, 338
Phú Quốc (Vietnam), 197
Phú Xuân (Huế), 187
Pierre, Jean-Baptiste Louis, 306
Pieterse, Jan Nederveen, 26–7, 32–3
Piguel, Guillaume, 190
pilgrimage, 23, 215, 356; Church of
the Holy Sepulchre, 215; Gna-
denkapelle, Altötting, 215; Holy
House of Loreto, 215
Pillai, Ananda Ranga, 22, 131, 133,
325, 326, 327–9, 339
Pillement, Jean-Baptiste, 173;
Trophy with Agricultural Imple-
ments (1770), 175
Pina, Francisco da, 184
Pineau, Nicolas, 156–7
Pinha, Maria Guyomar de, 78
piquet hut, 55
Piranesi, Giovanni Battista, 167
place d’armes, 115–16, 159, 205–6
place royale, 44
plantations, 9, 21, 40, 45, 185, 210;
and slave builders, 8, 20–1, 149.
See also slavery
Plantier, Sieur, 115
Poilly, François de, 126
Poisson, Abel-François, marquis de
Marigny, 3–5, 161–2
Poivre, Pierre, 187
Pompadour, Madame de, 3, 5, 158,
161
Pondicherry, 3–5, 7–9, 11–19, 21–2,
36, 41, 43–5, 49, 53, 55–7, 60–2,
64, 67, 70–5, 77–80, 83, 85, 88,
116, 119, 129–33, 135–6, 138–9, 141,
143, 147, 149, 151–5, 157, 159–69,
171, 173, 175–9, 182, 184–5, 190,
192–7, 199, 206, 211, 215, 218, 235,
262, 274, 279, 325–30, 232–3, 335,
369–70, 374, 378; Ananda Ranga
Pillai House, 22, 325–6, 327–9,
331, 339; Conseil Supérieure, 5;
Fort Barlong, 44, 62–3; Fort
Louis, 3, 64, 133, 134–5, 136, 138,
149, 176; and French citizenship,
279; Governor’s Garden, 134, 135,
139, 141, 158, 164, 165; Hôtel de
la Compagnie, 135, 139, 140–1,
144–5, 148, 158, 160, 165, 252,
333; Hôtel Lagrenée de Mézières,
168, 173, 174–5, 190, 195 198;
Maison de Marihaure, 194; New
Gouvernement (Raj Niwas), 168,
169, 170–2, 174, 190, 192, 199;
Notre-Dame-de-la-Conception
(Saint-Paul), 66; Notre-Dame-
des-Anges (original church),
66–7; Palais du Gouvernement,
3, 4, 6–8, 12, 14, 16, 19, 56,
130, 135, 139, 143, 148, 149–50,
151–4, 155–62, 163, 165, 166–7,
176, 178, 190, 199, 215, 218, 235,
330; Port Royale, 135, 136, 138;
Présentation-de-la-Sainte-Vierge,
66; Raj Niwas, 168, 174, 175;
Saint-Lazare, 64; Saint-Louis,
64, 137–38; siege of (1760–61),
7, 149, 165–6, 168, 342; siege of
(1778), 195
Pont, Henri Maclaine, 275–6
Pontchartrain, Louis II Phélypeaux
de, 40
Pontzen, Ernest, 230
Port-au-Prince (Haiti): Hall of the
War Council, 8
Portuguese Empire, 34, 36, 57, 60,
75–6, 78, 92, 94, 179–81, 184,
207, 338; and the Padroado, 93
Poulo Condor Island (Vietnam),
14, 197–8
index
Poussin, Nicolas, 97
Prague, Clementinum, 113
Prévost, Abbé Antoine-François, 52
473
 Prince Cảnh. See Nguyễn Phúc
Cảnh, Prince
Pronis, Jacques, 36, 38, 45, 48–9
propaganda, 13, 84, 112, 181, 197,
208, 305, 309, 371
Prost, Henri, 296–7
protectorate, 8, 12, 35, 207–9, 224,
236–7, 241, 243, 259, 270, 279,
281–4, 286, 297, 317, 333, 356, 374
Puccini, Giacomo, 223, 244; La
Bohème (1896), 244; Tosca
(1900), 244
Puerto Bermudez (Peru), 256
Puget, Pierre, 53
Pulucambi (Đại Việt), 188–90, 262
pyatthat, 361, 366, 367, 368
Quân Bình (Vietnam), 187
Quảng Ngãi (Vietnam), 187
Quebec, 50, 76, 94, 102, 235
Quebec City, 8, 101; Château Saint
Louis, 8, 235; Notre-Dame de
Québec, 101
quốc ngữ (Vietnamese alphabet), 76
Quy Nhơn (Vietnam), 187, 196
racism, 26, 28, 30, 100, 215, 263–4
Rajiota, Isabel, 93
Rama IV, King of Siam, 268
Rama V, King of Siam, 268
Ramathibodi III. See Narai, King
of Siam
Ranger, Gilbert de, 169
Rangoon (Yangon, Burma): Central
Railway Station, 368; City Hall
(Municipal Offices), 326, 360,
361, 362, 367–8, 371; Sula Pagoda,
366, 367–8
Ranson, Pierre, 162, 173
raoandriana, 45, 49
Raphael, 256
ratchathut (Siamese first ambassa-
dor), 83
index
Red River (Vietnam), 208, 320
renaissance architecture, 11, 16, 44,
218, 246, 254, 256, 265, 292, 322
474
Rennefort, Urbain Souchu de, 52–3,
55
résident supérieur, 209, 281–2,
285–6, 292, 337
respondentia loans, 60
Reynaud, Leonce: Traité d’architec-
ture (1850–58), 259
Ricci, Matteo, 97
Richaud, André, 284
Richelieu, Cardinal, 35–6, 48, 70,
102
Rigoni, M.L., 266
Rivière, Captian Henri, 208
Rhodes, Alexandre de, 76, 108, 184,
187–8, 190, 207
Robin, René, Governor-General of
Indochina, 259
rococo, 5, 97, 119, 155–6, 160, 162,
171, 173, 176, 181, 333, 357, 376
romanesque, 115
Rome: Ara Pacis, 119; Collegio
Romano, 113; Palazzo dei Con-
servatori, 244; Villa Madama,
256
Rosario (Argentina), 376; Bulevar
Oroño, 376
Roume, Ernest, 230
Roy-Renaud & Cie, 229
Roze, Admiral Pierre-Gustave,
305
Ruskin, John, 322
Ryne, Jan van, 7, 163, 164
Sabrié, Paul, 298
Saëton, Honoré-Généreux-Marie,
279
Saëton, Paul-Henri, 279
Safavid Persia. See Persia
Sahut, Claude-Antoine, 375
Saigon, 8–12, 14–15, 17–19, 21–3,
25, 97, 101, 132, 176–8, 181–2,
195–6, 201–2, 205–6, 208–13,
215, 217–18, 220–33, 235, 237,
239, 241, 243–7, 249–53, 255–62,
264–6, 271, 273, 276–7, 284,
286, 292, 295–300, 302, 303–8,
311, 313, 315–17, 319–21, 323,
340, 342–4, 347, 351, 355–7, 363,
370, 373, 375–6, 378; Chemins
de fer de l’Indochine building,
28, 265, 266; Compagnie des
Messageries impériales Building,
276, 277; Gia Định citadel, 17,
196–7, 199, 200, 202, 204–6;
Grand Café Hôtel Catinat, 224;
Hôtel des Postes, 23, 217, 222,
243, 296–7; Hôtel de Ville, 215,
216, 217, 220, 222, 227, 258; Hôtel
Métropolitain, 19; Lycée Petrus
Ky, 298, 299; Maison Wang Tai,
276, 357; Ministry of Colonies,
220; Musée Blanchard-de-la-
Brosse, 18, 23, 195, 258, 264, 300,
301, 304, 307–8, 311–12, 342,
344; Musée économique de la
Cochinchine (Palais de l’Indo-
chine), 307–8, 309; Notre-Dame,
101, 221–22, 343, 344; Palais du
Gouvernement Général (Palais
Norodom), 3–5, 7–8, 9–10,
12–13, 176, 208, 218; Palais du
Justice, 11; Palais du Riz, 307,
309; Statue of Monsignor Pig-
neaux de Béhaine, 182; Temple
du Souvenir Annamite (1929),
304, 305, 311, 342; Théâtre de
Saigon (Opera House), 15, 22, 25,
97, 211–13, 214, 215, 220–8, 229,
230–2, 233–4, 235, 239, 246–7,
251–61, 284, 375, 378; Tomb of
Pierre Pigneaux de Béhaine,
180–1
Saint-Barthélemy, Paul de, 193–4
Saint-Christophe (Saint Kitts):
Château de la Montagne, 44
Saint-Domingue (Haiti), 8, 25, 215,
262
Sainte-Luce Bay (Manafiafy, Mada-
gascar), 36
Sainte-Thérèse, Dom Bernard de,
76
Saint Helena Island, 163
Saint-Maixent (France): École
primaire supérieure de filles, 266
Saint-Malo, 35–7, 40, 133
Saint-Ouen (France), Maison de
Rohan. See Boffrand, Germain
Saint-Pierre (Martinique), 8, 45;
Salle des Spectacles, 25, 212
Saint-Saëns, Camille, 25, 213, 221,
223–4, 257; Samson and Delilah
(1877), 213, 223
Savonnerie Manufactory, Music (ca
1685–7), 81
Samrèt Thichei (Cambodia), 284
Samut Prakan (Thailand), Wat
Klang Worawihan, 17, 119, 125–6
Sangha, 96
Sanremo, Casinò Municipale, 253,
254
Santiago (Chile): Edificio Edwards,
376; Estación Mapocho, 376;
Museo de Bellas Artes, 376;
Palacio Subercaseaux, 375; Teatro
Municipal, 234
Sardou, Victorien, 243
Sarraut, Albert, Governor General
of Indochina, 273, 280, 292, 308
Savannakhet (Cambodia), 357
Sayer, Robert, 163
Schoelcher, Victor, 370
Scindia, Mahadji, 130
Second World War, 7, 13
Seoul, Kyongbok (Gyeongbok-
gung) Palace, Royal Audience
Hall, 252
Seton-Morris, Henry, 362
Seven Years War, 7, 8, 40, 129, 168;
Third Carnatic War, 7, 169
shāhbandar (postmaster), 57
shish-mahal (glass hall), 90
Shivaji, Maratha leader, 64, 71
shophouse, 222, 354, 356, 357, 358
Siam, 13, 17–20, 22, 25, 40–2, 44,
66–7, 72–85, 87–102, 105, 107,
108, 110, 112–20, 122–5, 127–8,
132, 135, 149, 158, 169, 178–9,
181, 183–6, 190, 196–7, 207–9,
212–13, 215, 231, 262, 264, 267–8,
270–1, 280–1, 283, 285–6, 290–1,
293, 310, 313, 321, 325, 353, 355–7,
359–60, 371, 374, 377–8; apos-
tolic vicariate of, 76, 94, 185;
commercial life, 74; faith, 78–9,
92, 112, 184, 207, 215, 313, 325.
See also Ayutthaya (Thailand);
Lopburi
Siege of Mons (1691), 60
Sihanouk, Norodom, 373, 374
Silasangvaro, Abbot Pha Khamfan,
353–6
Singararayan, Michel, 279
Singh, Sarup, 71
Sino-Vietnamese style, 204
Sioeṅ, Ieṅ, 285
Sisavang Vong, King of Laos, 353–4
Sisowath, King of Cambodia, 283–6
Sitwell, Osbert, 15, 222, 261
Six, Père (Trần Lục), 333, 335, 337–9,
343, 378
slavery, 8, 20–1, 32, 36–7, 40, 45,
113, 143, 149; slave castles, 32, 143;
and sugar, 8; and tobacco, 45
Société Cochinchinoise de Béton
Armé, 284
Solain-Baron, Julien-Marie, 201,
206
Songkhla, 85
Soufflot, Jacques-Germain, 3, 162
Spanish Empire, 8, 19, 28, 34, 42,
75–6, 179, 181, 196, 207–8, 224
Śrinivasa, 133; Ānantaraṅgavijaya
Campū (1752), 133, 157, 328, 330,
333
Straits settlements, 310
style comprador, 16, 265–6, 296, 357
Sunthorn, Ok-Phra Wisut. See Kosa
Pan
Surat (India), 17, 35, 41, 49, 56–7,
58–9, 60–1, 64, 374; Jardin
Française ( Jawaharlal Nehru
Garden), 60–1; Maison du
Chancelier, 61
Swahili, 33, 128
Swaine, Francis, 164
Sweerts, Michael, 76, 96
H.usayn T.abāt.abā’i, Mīr Ghulām
H.usayn, 331
Tachard, Guy, 66–7, 75, 78, 81–3,
85, 87, 92–3, 99–100, 105, 107,
109–13, 132
Tamil people, 5, 14, 17, 20, 57, 64,
66, 71, 131–2, 157–8, 165, 192,
325–6, 328, 330–2, 339
tamnak (Siamese residence), 120
Tanjore (Thanjavur, India), 60, 70
Tardieu, Victor, 315
Tây Ninh, 305, 339–43, 345–6, 350;
Caodaist Cathedral (Holy See),
25, 339, 340–1, 342–4, 357
Tây Sơn Rebellion (1771–1802),
185, 196
Te Deum mass, 48, 60
Tenasserim (Myanmar), 78, 115
Tertre, Jean-Baptiste du, 56
Tessarech, François-Xavier, 284
textiles, 7–8, 40, 82, 283, 331
Thaisa, King of Siam, 97
thalvaram, 332
Thăng Long (Hanoi), 184–5, 188,
190, 206
Thanh, Madame Lâm Thị, 341
Thanh Chiêm (Đại Việt), 184
Thanh Hóa Province (Đại Việt),
187
Thessalonica, 296
Thierry, Charles-Alphonse, 256
Thiệu Trị, Emperor of Đại Nam,
206
Tholanhara (Taolankarana, Mada-
gascar), 53
Thonburi (Thailand), 17; Wat Yang
Suthavat, 122
Thuận Hòa. See Huế (Vietnam)
Timurids, 123
Tirupati (India): Tirumala Ven-
index
kateswara Temple, 331
Tiruvangadan, 329
Tô, N., 322
475
 Tokugawa Shogunate, 180
Tonkin (Đại Việt), 13, 73, 76–7,
85, 94, 112, 114, 179, 180, 181, 183,
184–5, 187–8, 195–6, 199, 315
Tonkin, French protectorate, 12, 13,
15, 22, 207, 208, 209, 224, 245,
252, 259, 302, 306, 314, 316, 318,
323, 333, 337, 339, 359, 360, 369
Tonlé Sap Lake (Cambodia), 185,
284
Tornatore, Franco, 253
Toulon: Théâtre municipal, 225,
226
Tourane. See Da Nang (Vietnam)
Trạch, Trần Trinh, 323
training, architectural, 20–1, 111,
131, 149, 193, 280, 283, 291–2, 311;
apprenticeships, 20, 284, 364;
craftsmen, 44, 48, 50, 56, 94, 241,
267, 278, 296, 337, 350, 373; guilds,
50; journeymen, 50
Trần, Joseph, 339
Trần Quang Vinh, 347
Tranquebar, 190; Dansborg Fort,
64, 65
Travaux publics, 15–16, 18, 220, 239,
258–9, 287, 296, 300, 302–3, 305,
311, 316, 342; École des, 20–1. See
also Bâtiments civils (Indochina)
Travaux publics style, 16–18, 20–1,
239, 266, 258–9, 265–6, 287, 296,
300, 302–3, 305, 311, 316, 342,
355–7
Treaty of Compiègne, 36
Treaty of Paris, 163
Trinh Tac, Lord of Tonkin, 184, 323
Trinh Tráng, Lord of Tonkin, 184
triumphal arch, 14, 83, 136
Trois-Rivières (Canada), 56
Tự Đức, Emperor of Đại Nam, 205
Tunis, Casino, 285
United States, 22, 310, 322, 369;
index
Metropolitan Opera House,
New York, 235
476
U Tin, Sithu, 363, 364, 365, 367,
368, 371, 377. See also Rangoon
(Yangon, Burma): Central Rail-
way Station; Rangoon (Yangon,
Burma): City Hall (Municipal
Offices)
Vachet, Bénigne, 75, 79, 81, 83, 99
Valdemar, Prince of Denmark, 231
Valguarnera, Tommaso, 93, 115
Valignano, Alessandro, 93, 186
Vassé, François-Antione, 155–6
Vat Sisowath Ratanaram (Cambo-
dia), 284
Vaux-le-Vicomte, Château, 148
Vauban, Sébastien le Prestre de, 43,
196
Verbiest, Ferdinand, 79
Verburg, Frederick, 52
Verdi, Giuseppe, 223
Vereenigde Oostindische Com-
pagnie (voc ), 34, 36–7, 42, 56,
60
Vernet, Abbé, 80
Verrazano, Giovanni, 34
Verrazano, Girolamo, 34
Versailles, Château de, 5, 41, 49,
72–3, 83–4, 90, 105, 116, 118,
155–6, 181–2, 195, 197–8, 279,
377; Escalier des Ambassadeurs,
155, 156; Hall of Mirrors, 25, 72,
73, 83–4, 90, 149; Salon d’Apol-
lon, 84
Viel, Jean-Marie-Victor, 215
Vientiane (Laos), 14, 16–17, 164,
314, 321, 356; house on rue Sett-
hathirath, 17
Vietnam, 8, 12–15, 17, 20–2, 25, 32,
76, 128, 179, 181–5, 187, 189, 190,
196, 202, 204–7, 209–10, 213,
220–2, 226, 238, 240, 251, 255,
259, 261–3, 267, 273, 279–83,
289, 291, 304–5, 310–13, 316, 318,
321–3, 325, 333–4, 337–40, 344–7,
350–1, 354–7, 359–60, 369, 373,
378. See also Đại Nam; Đại Việt
(historical name for Vietnam);
Indochina
Vietnam War, 369
Viết-Súy, Trưởng, 205
Vijayanagara Empire, 8, 57, 64, 328,
332–3
Vila, Pierre-Jean-Corneille, 284
Vildieu, Henri, 215, 217, 222,
259–60, 272–3, 281
Vinckboons, Johannes: Judea (ca
1662–3), 74
Viollet-le-Duc, Eugène, 322
Virampatnam (India): Collège des
Saints Anges, 190, 191–2, 193, 195
Vitalis, Françoise-Louise, 198
Vitre, François Martin de, 36
Vola, Louis, 242
Vollant, Simon, 136
Vollant des Verquains, Jean, 115,
117–18; Histoire de la révolution
de Siam (1691), 115; project for
a chapel in the fort at Bangkok,
118; project for an arsenal in the
fort at Bangkok (1687), 117
Vollet, Henri Émile, 241
Võ Vương, Lord of Cochinchina,
185
Vương Vĩnh Tuy, 244
Wagner, Otto, 322
Wagner, Richard, 223–4, 257; Lo-
hengrin (1850), 224
Ward, Basil, 363
Wat Pha Nom (Laos), 354
Watteau, Antoine, 165
White, John, 204
Whiting, Jasper, 211, 221
William IV, King of Britain, 212
Yên Bái Uprising (1930), 272
Yuan Dynasty, 128
Yukanthor, Prince Norodom, 282
Yunnan (China), 208
Yuos, architect-monk, 284