PEOPLE'S HOUSES: A DIALOGUE.
Mrs. Philip Markham. Philip Markham.
Mrs. Frank Beverly. Frank Beverly.
Frank Beverly. Now that I have a house of my own to furnish, I find that I have a strong reaction of taste in favor of the things I was used to as a boy. It is all very well to go into other people's rooms and see fantasies in sage and olive-greens and peacock-blues—to admire stained floors and French Turkey rugs, tiles and dadoes, decorated curtains and portières (which latter invention, by the way, I call a mere nuisance, always in the way, letting in draughts and depriving you of the comfort of closed doors). So I tell Ethel that for my part I don't want any of these things.
Mrs. Beverly. What Frank really wants he does not know himself: he is simply too bigoted and old-fashioned to move with the new currents, but all the time has nothing better to propose. We have bought the house, and have gone twice to look at it. I know exactly what would suit me. I should like to have it done up with inlaid floors and wainscotings—tiles in the fire-places, with brass fenders and andirons. The dining-room should be in oak and brown and gold—Queen Anne's style—the parlors in blue and olives, and the bedrooms in chintzes.
Mrs. Markham. That would be perfectly lovely. One may always be certain of your taste, Ethel.
Philip Markham. I confess I don't see any marvellous display of taste in furnishing rooms like everybody else's.
Mrs. B. But the general styles now-a-days are so thoroughly artistic!
Philip M. I suppose they are. I shall be very glad, however, when this ever-lasting refrain of artistic household furnishing is done with, and people settle down into their surroundings and really get to living. Then, after a little wear and tear, one may find comfort in these new houses: everything is too fine at present. Now, the other night at Gregory's dinner I sat with my back to the fine Eastlake fireplace and was scorched by the blazing wood-fire. I suggested to the servant that he should put a screen behind me: you know the house is full of Japanese screens. On my word, had I proposed burning the house down Mrs. Gregory could hardly have made more of it. She told everybody, as the most delicious joke, that Mr. Markham wanted to put one of her exquisite silk hand-embroidered Japanese screens before the fire! Of course I grinned and made light of it, but I was roasted alive and made almost ill.—Now, that would just suit you, Ethel, to have a fine house and then begrudge the use of it to people.
Mrs. B. But the idea of spoiling one of those lovely screens in that way!
Philip. What were they made for, any way?
Mrs. B. For decoration.
Frank B. I go into very few houses which suggest actual living. The drawing-rooms are Fairyland to look at, but might as well be a show suite in upholsterers' shops. I had a pride and pleasure in my mother's house which had nothing to do with the furniture: its charm and elegance linger in my memory like a perfume. There was no room which did not contain a low chair belonging to my mother, with a work-table and work-basket beside it. She always sat, a living presence, in either parlor, dining-room or library. I heard her once tell a lady-friend, "I always stay down stairs and arrange my occupations here, that I may be within reach of my husband and sons." You need not doubt but what the first impulse of any one of us on entering the house was to seek her. We were often all grouped about her at once. When I go into the lifeless, dreary houses of most women, I am amazed that they do not cultivate this habit of my mother's.
Mrs. M. There is a good deal in what you say. A set of rooms has quite a different air when the mistress habitually sits there. When I am making visits I have a sort of reluctance to ring the bell at houses where I feel certain of being forced to wait twenty minutes in a dim, empty parlor.
Mrs. B. But then a lady should be ready to receive her guests promptly.
Mrs. M. Of course she should, but, all the same, she never is ready save on her regular reception-days. She sits up stairs in her own room, and it seems absurd to wear a nice dress when she is not certain that anybody will come. She slips, naturally, into her wrapper in order to enjoy her fire and easy-chair, then when the bell rings has a hurried toilette to make.
Mrs. B. I shall make a point of sitting in my parlor.
Mrs. M. Those delicately-furnished rooms grow shabby and faded very soon when lighted and used freely.
Frank B. You see we come back to my notion that in order to live elegantly one must have a house furnished in a certain solid, old-fashioned way.
Philip M. Exactly. Nothing is more inelegant than being over-fine. True elegance consists in the fitting of our surroundings to our needs. There is no elegance in extravagant furniture, which must claim the first place in one's thoughts and forbid real comfort and ease. I don't spend many days at home in the course of the year, but when I am in the house Jenny has a bad time of it, and actually suffers for her chairs and sofa. I like to "glorify the room," as Sidney Smith used to say. I will have light everywhere; I will have the good of my furniture: if the fire is too hot to bear, I will put a screen in front of it; if the screen is too fine, it is direct impertinence to me: I consider myself more precious than the screen.
Frank B. Speaking of Sidney Smith, he had good views respecting household comfort. Every guest in his house was formally introduced to a particular easy-chair, table and reading-lamp in the parlor, and informed that said chair, table and lamp were to be sacred to his or her individual use so long as he or she remained.
Philip M. Now, that was a man's idea. Men are the only judges of what is pleasant and convenient in a house: women know nothing whatever about it.
Mrs. M. (sarcastically). Oh dear! no!—nothing at all!
Philip M. Women always want to save in essentials that they may waste in non-essentials. If a woman orders a dinner—that is, unless she has had a long and valuable experience under some sensible man's directions—she will stint you in everything except entrées and dessert.
Mrs. M. For shame! Women are so lectured, so tutored, about extravagance, that they feel the necessity of making their money go as far as it can. Most of us experience a positive sense of guilt when we assume a masculine prerogative and insist upon having the best of things.
Philip M. Indeed! So far as my limited experience goes—
Mrs. M. It is all very well to be sarcastic about us poor women, when you know all the time that you are dependent upon us for everything that makes a house pretty and cheerful. You men know just one thing about furniture—how to spoil it; and one thing about meals—how to eat them. As to knowing how to live, that is wholly a feminine accomplishment.
Frank B. I quite agree with you, dear Mrs. Markham, but then how few people do live! Mrs. M. My instinct tells me what you mean—that there is either vacuity or an air of bustle and haste about our lives; that we waste our strength upon what is not worth having when it is attained; that we are never satisfied with to-day, but are always longing for the morrow; that we surround ourselves with beautiful things, but fail to get the worth of them in improved ideas and culture.
Frank B. Precisely.
L.W.