THE time and strength necessary for housework, and the comfort and happiness resulting from the work depend much upon something which housekeepers have to a great extent the power to control. I mean the quantity and kind of things they have in their houses.
Much time and money and weary labour would be saved, much comfort and loveliness would be gained if we could persuade ourselves to follow William Morris's rule:
"Have nothing in your rooms which you do not think to be beautiful and know to be useful."
Were this rule suddenly put in practice, what a bundling out of rubbish would ensue. A Bonfire of Vanities would rise in no time, built of little tables and pedestals, cushions and bows, curtains, vases, pictures that no future generations would call us vandals for destroying, fringes and ruffles, souvenirs of travel, broken and mended objects from the top shelves of closets, bronze and china statuettes, and that whole miserable race of blotters which do not blot, book-racks which faint under the weight of books, pen-wipers which would be insulted if they were inked, collapsible waste-baskets always in a state of collapse, holders that hold nothing, cases that fit nothing, impervious pin cushions!
May the smoke of them ascend!
One would think that this rule of use and beauty were austere enough, yet many people, before they acquire even a useful or a beautiful object, must consider whether there is room for it in their home, whether the members of the household have time and strength to take care of it, and whether it is appropriate to their possessions and to their way of living.
The amount of space we have about us seriously effects our health of body and mind. The more furniture there is in a room, the less air space there is. The sense of oppression one feels in a room crowded with furniture is not imagination, there is literally much less air to breathe. It is also not merely an idea that a house full of ornaments and pictures is not restful to live in. One knows what matchless weariness results from hours spent in a museum; it is caused by continually readjusting one's eyes, and thoughts, and emotions to an endless succession of things. A room crowded with ornaments and pictures is a miniature museum. With familiarity one may cease to see the individual objects the room contains, but this is indifference, not peace.
Those who have not done housework with their own brains and bodies cannot realize how many thousands of times every object in a house has to be touched and moved merely for the sake of cleanliness and order. It seems a small matter whether there are six pictures in a room or eight, whether flower vases are kept in the china closet or on the tops of book shelves and tables, whether there are five little fal-lals on a mantelshelf or twenty-five; but I hardly think it is a small matter whether a woman spend a half-hour with her children, or out of doors, or reading a book, or spends it in dusting tormenting trifles. These considerations are equally important when the work is done by maids; there are always enough useful things to do in a house to fill reasonable work hours.
One must ask, then, even when a useful or beautiful object is in question, Have I room for it? and, Is it worth the time and strength needed to care for it? And then one more question: Is this thing I desire suitable? That is, will it make the rest of the furniture which cannot now be renewed look shabby? Shall I feel that it is too good for the sun to shine upon, or the family to use? Will it set up a standard which I cannot keep up to without feverish effort?
In order to select or to weed out possessions in a reasonable way, attachments have to be kept in check; one must keep in mind that the family are more worthy of regard than the family chairs, and one must have such respect for oneself as a spiritual and intellectual creature that one will not fall in love with a silver-service or a set of ancient plates. I can think of few things more humiliating than the fact that families can be divided by old furniture; that sisters can be estranged by silver sugar-tongs; that lives can be spoiled, hearts broken and fortunes spent in the service of possessions which should exist only for the temporary comfort and happiness of their owners.