Nooks and Corners / being the companion volume to 'From Kitchen to Garret'

by J. E. Panton

But though a big room is much better than a small one for billiards, people should not be deterred from having a table in their houses because their space does not allow of a full-sized one. The very nicest billiard-room I was ever in, and which, alas! is now no more, was that formed by using the square hall of a country vicarage; that table existed before the present age of artistic decorations, but whenever I remember it and the dear old house in which it stood I forget all art, and only remember the extreme fascination that place had for me, and can scent again the mingled odours of the vicar’s pipes and Maréchal Niel roses, which are inseparable from my remembrance of the place. The table stood squarely in the front hall, which was covered with brown linoleum, and was seldom unmarked by dogs’ feet for more than five minutes after it had been freshly washed, and we used to perch about on the tops of oak chests, the fender, anywhere, while the game progressed, as there was no room for seats. In addition to the hall table, the hat-stand, decorated with all sorts and conditions of hats, male and female, and the oak chests, one of which held the rugs and whips, the other the parish registers from some very bygone date, the walls themselves were decorated with stuffed birds and animals in glass cases, sundry collars and chains belonging to the dear dogs, driving-whips suspended in some cunning manner to keep them in shape, a barometer which survived the most fearful amount of banging and shaking that ever barometer was subjected to, and finally by the post-bag, which hung from a nail until it was fetched by a small village girl who rejoiced in the remarkable name of ‘Rhody Jemimy,’ who had to take and fetch the bag morning and evening from the ‘World’s End,’ the mail-cart bringing it and taking it from and to that mysterious location, for we were far too primitive in those parts to have a postman, and had our one post a day contentedly enough, though I believe the present denizen of the vicarage has clamoured until he has not only a postman but a second post; albeit, neither were ever required by us, who were perfectly happy in those blessed days without them. I dwell upon this room rather at length in order to encourage anyone who may hanker after a billiard-room, and not dare to think of it seriously because the necessary twenty feet by twenty space is not forthcoming, and, moreover, because they dread the expense as much as the want of room. Of course a new full-sized table is a very expensive thing, and fittings and all could not cost less than 150l.; but as soon as we have made up our minds that we can really have a billiard-table we must begin to look out for the sales, for very often there are compulsory sales about, where a very good billiard-table can be purchased for a quarter the price of a new one. I have known one sold for 25l., as the owner had forgotten to renew his lease and was given summary notice of dismissal, while a friend of mine bought a beauty for 40l. which simply required a little polish about the legs to be quite as good as new; but should money be of no real object, it would be better to go to some really first-class maker and have the table properly set up and made, for I believe there is great art in the proper placing of the table, and this should only be undertaken by someone who thoroughly understands the business; still, in a small room, and with a small and second-hand table, there may be found vast enjoyment if the bigger and more elaborate arrangement cannot possibly be managed.

I am always amused at some people’s determination not to be either happy, or complete in their household arrangements, because they cannot have the best of everything that is to be had, though I must confess such conduct makes me just a little cross as well. I have known folks utterly refuse to contemplate the joys of a jolly little pony and chaise because they didn’t care to set up a carriage unless they could do so properly; ‘properly’ in their case meaning the orthodox coachman, footman, horses, and a couple of carriages; whereas they condemned themselves to their own immediate neighbourhood and to tramping about the lanes, or to staying at home, because they could not understand that as much pleasure could be got out of the ‘shay’ as out of anything still more gorgeous. I have known folks decline with scorn to cover their ugly, depressing, bare walls with pictures, because they could not buy Millais and Herkomers; whereas their lives and their houses would have been brightened at once had they spent 20l. on autotypes. And I have as constantly been acquainted with dozens of folks who would not do this, that, or the other, because they must take a back seat so to speak, and who in consequence waste half their opportunities. I except society, by the way; if the best society is not forthcoming (and by the best society I mean the society of people who are clever and who have done, or long to do something to make the world brighter and happier than they found it), don’t have any. The contact with mean, small, and ignorant minds does one harm, not good; the constant rubbing against time-serving shoulders and the shoulders of those who would do any amount of grovelling to be received by what they consider the society of the neighbourhood, only smirches us, and we had better sit at home all our lives with our books alone than expose ourselves to the deterioration we receive from association with such folk. But, apart from society, I would rather have the second or third best of everything if I can’t have the first, for the more one gets out of life the better, and the more one sees of the world and of the nice people in it the wider do our minds become, and the more appreciation and enjoyment do we have from our lives.

With the plea for a secondhand billiard-table rather than none, I will turn away from the room with one last suggestion—viz. to have good thick curtains hung over any doors that there may be in the room, outside; this will keep the smell of the smoke within proper bounds, and will also keep out the sound of the click-click of the balls, than which nothing is more annoying—to me at any rate. These curtains could be made of Adams serge lined with Bolton sheeting; both these materials will wash and are to be had from Burnett’s, and should be very wide and full, and should hang well over the hinges and cracks of the door; these should further be surrounded by ‘Slater’s patent’ for excluding draughts, as naturally the room will be properly ventilated, and there would be no need to think of that, all our care being centred on keeping in the room all scent of the smoke and all sound of the balls. If the room is separate from the house, and only connected with it by a long passage, we may consider, I think, that nothing more is to be expected, and that here is indeed the perfect billiard-room. This room should be in the care of the head housemaid, whose first duty should be to open all the available windows every morning, no matter what the weather is like, to see all the cigar-ash is swept up, and finally to slip the curtains off the poles (a matter of three minutes exactly), to have them well shaken out of doors and left there for half an hour, having them replaced the moment the room is cleaned and set straight. Treated like this the billiard-room would always be fresh and nice, and would have no more smell of smoke about it than would be pleasantly suggestive to anyone who is not such a bitter enemy to smoke as I am.

And now about the library, the arrangement of which must depend entirely on the individual tastes and pursuits of the master of the house, whose room this is more especially; for in all big houses the mistress has her morning-room, and the guests generally are provided with writing-tables in their rooms, and would only venture into the library when the door was open, or by the rule of the house was made free to them during certain hours. Naturally, if the master were in no measure a literary man, if he had no Parliamentary work, or work that required him to isolate himself from the rest of the household at certain hours, the room would always be free; but it should be kept for writing and reading only, it should never be turned into a play-room of any kind; therefore there should be a certain sobriety about it, and it should not be furnished too frivolously or in such a manner as to suggest flirtation instead of study, sweet sleep instead of proper, severe application to one’s books.

Perhaps the very prettiest library I have ever seen is one in London, which may sound frivolous, but is nothing of the kind, and has some of the most serious work of the nation done between its four walls; it is enamelled white—doors, cupboards, bookshelves, overmantel, indeed everything, and has a most beautiful effect, especially against the dun-coloured, gold-tinted calf volumes, with which the shelves are most amply supplied; the shelves are supported on cupboards with brass locks and hinges, and are wide and deep enough to hold quantities of law papers; all these shelves and cupboards are ‘fitments’ passing completely round the room, and continuing under the windows. The only scraps of wall which show are papered with a very good Japanese leather paper, and the space above the mantel-piece is filled in with an old portrait; sundry pieces of blue china are on the mantel-piece, which are never without their fresh flowers; the carpet is a very fine Oriental one, with a great deal of white in it; the furniture is blue, as are the curtains, which are arranged across the top of each window and down one side only, while the enormous desk which occupies the centre of the room is a most exquisitely inlaid piece of marqueterie, and is the only coloured thing in the room, the frames of the chairs, &c., being enamelled like the room itself. Now this white idea for a library in London—dirty, smoky London—does seem absurd and a trifle frivolous, but the effect thereof is perfect, and as the application of a damp clean duster and a polish from a leather makes the room absolutely spotless, I see no reason why the white library should be scoffed at as an impossibility. A big beaten iron and copper lamp from Strode hangs in the centre of the room, and gives the finishing touch to a very perfect apartment.

Here the room is used for important work which requires absolute peace and absolute solitude, where the books refer to the special subject of study, and would be of no interest whatever to the ordinary man. Still, a modified edition of the white room could easily be carried out, and would be far more cheerful to live with, than the orthodox dark green and carved oak, or a base imitation thereof that we find in far too many houses; oak, in my opinion, being utterly unsuited to a modern house, and should only be used in a big old house where one looks for it as a matter of course. Of the modern imitation called Flemish oak I have no words of condemnation sufficiently strong; it is abominable, ugly, heavy, and badly executed, and should never be tolerated in any house where artistic decoration is encouraged and sought after.

If, as I said before, the master of the house does not require so much space for papers or books as to authorise him to cover in the entire wall-space at his command with fitments, I advise him to run his bookcases simply round the room to a height of an ordinary dado. Above this could be hung the ever-useful Japanese paper, or a real red-and-white paper, such as is Pither’s ‘buttercup.’ On the wall could be hung pictures, or a large cupboard well designed (and I should suggest Mr. Arthur Smee as the proper person to send to for this) should break the space of wall in the centre. The doors could be of cathedral glass in leaded squares, with broad brass hinges and locks; while the same design, of course on a much smaller scale, could be introduced over the mantel-piece. The desk could be enamelled white, and the top covered with Japanese leather paper. Of course the handles on the drawers must be brass; the blotting-book could be of red leather, with a plain monogram stamped on, or else the name of the room and of the house; and the head housemaid should be very particular about the state of the inkstand and of the blotting-book, though she should be forbidden, of course, to touch any of the papers on the desk, for fear she might lose important manuscripts. The mistress of the house should dust these herself if the master is touchy, or objects to other hands meddling with his belongings.

The curtains in a library should be thick and warm, and should, in the red-and-cream room, be in cream Roman satin, embroidered with red flowers if possible, or else of deep red Roman satin or Bokhara plush. The furniture sold by Hampton, covered in what they call ‘Khelims,’ but which is quite unlike the ordinary striped material I have always purchased as such, and is much more Oriental-looking, would do admirably in this room, where there should certainly be a couple of good sofas and four or five armchairs, and a small writing-table and chair beside the bigger one; while great care should be taken with the lighting, it being most important that a good light should fall on the book or writing-table, which should throw no fidgety shadows. When the electric light becomes general this advice will not be necessary, but until it is great care must be taken, before the lights are absolutely fixtures, to ascertain that they are in the right place, or else the unfortunate would-be readers and writers will be continually annoyed. The large standard lamps are useful in a library, as they can be moved at any moment, and further care should be taken in the choice of a carpet, which should be thick and soft, and should cover almost all the floor, thus saving the student any chance of being fidgeted by the sudden scroop of a chair pushed hastily back or by the noise of a falling book or of a sudden footstep.

In a small house a library would be impossible, and therefore I give no directions for a cheaper style of decoration, which, however, could be managed in judiciously chosen shades of green and white, and I will only now speak about the books and the manner of treating such a room.

No child or very young person, and no servant, no matter whom, should ever be allowed to read the library books, which should never under any pretext whatever be removed from the library, and should consist of histories, travels, poetry, and all standard works that have survived the fiery trial of a twenty years’ existence; the lighter works of to-day, which one reads when one is tired or wants simply to be amused, should be found in the billiard and morning rooms, and in every spare room in the house (Mudie’s books being also in these rooms), and on no account whatever should a really good book which forms part of a set, or is valuable, be lent; listen to no entreaties, place the book in the room at the disposal of anyone who cares to read it, but lend it and you may and will run the risk of losing your book, or of having to torment for it, until your friend hates you, although in strict justice he ought to hate himself for the trouble he has given you. In every library and, indeed, in every house, there should be a list of the books in each room, and whenever a book is added the name thereof should be written down. I speak feelingly, if a little bitterly, on the subject, for no one has lent more books than I have, and no one has been more ruthlessly robbed; for people who would be absolutely incapable of depriving one of a pin, lose and forget to return my books, and at last I have come to the conclusion that I will never lend another; books are cheap enough, goodness knows, and libraries swarm; let people borrow there, and close your heart to the would-be borrower if you want to keep your books, and not scatter them generously about the world at large.