The HOUSE BEAUTIFUL
By Orman Cooper, Author of "We Wives," Etc.
"In the fields of taste it is always much easier to point out paths which should be avoided than to indicate the road which leads to excellence."
Such are the words of a well-known artist of the present day. I feel them to be true as I begin this paper on the House Beautiful. Taste differs so widely that it would be futile to try to set up a positive standard of beauty. Furniture has its fashions, too, though they change but slowly. So we can only lay down broad general rules with regard to the plenishment of our homes. We cannot insist on detail.
There is no single point on which a gentlewoman is more jealous of disparagement than the question of taste. Yet it is a lamentable fact that this very quality is often—I may say generally—deficient even amongst the most cultured classes. The bubble of fashion is blown in our drawing-rooms just as surely and even more foolishly than elsewhere. Individuality is seldom seen.
In order to have lovely homes inside four commonplace walls we must remember that simplicity is one true element of beauty. The best and most picturesque furniture of all ages has been simple in general form. Next, good design is always compatible with sturdy service, and can accommodate itself to the most fastidious notions of convenience. Thirdly, every article of manufacture to be really beautiful should indicate by its general design the purpose to which it will be applied. In other words, shams and make-believes must be utterly tabooed.
Taking these three principles as the basis of our plans for our own particular House Beautiful, let us consider how best we may secure such. Our halls and kitchens are perhaps the best instances of simplicity of design. In them we seldom have more utensils or articles than we need. Parquetry, or inlaying with various-coloured wood, is an ideal floor covering, even for our modern narrow hall. Next to it ranks tiling, and a plain linoleum is admissible. All these secure cleanliness. Warmth must next be suggested. To obtain this, we lay down rugs of various colours and hang heavy curtains. An oak chair, solid to look at (N.B.—Curves in furniture should suggest repose, which is out of place in a passage), a chest to hold rugs and cloaks, a small, narrow mirror to lighten up the gloom, and you have all that is necessary. A few brass dishes on the wall, a tall palm by one curtain, elks' antlers, etc., are permissible where space is obtainable. Do not, however, ever be tempted to hang muslin in the alcove or to drape with flimsy materials. Leave plenty of room for visitors to pass in and out, without finding entrance or exit blocked with exasperating detail. Colour is what really redeems a hall from monotony. This the wall-paper and curtains and rugs should give without help from trivial ornamentation.
Our kitchens are perhaps the most really beautiful spots in our homes, if we take true beauty to consist of absolute fitness for the work to be done therein. The severe wooden dresser, with its wide undershelf and commodious cupboards, is as picturesque an object as can be found. From time immemorial its shape has been unaltered, and its beauty consists in its suggestions of utility. Traditional work is mostly beautiful, as evidenced by the fact that the lines of a plough have always been the admiration of artists. Plainness is not ugliness, and the dresser, glorified, is now one of the necessary beauty spots even in our drawing-rooms. Then those Windsor chairs, with their slightly sloping backs and hollowed seats, are restful to both eye and body. The bright steel or copper range fitted with necessary knobs and useful doors is another example of the beauty of fitness. In fact, both stove and dresser are forms of truth and realism.
The two great faults to be avoided in the dining-room of our House Beautiful are dreariness and overcrowding. The French salle-à-manger is really an ideal to work towards. Unfortunately, few of us can consecrate the parlour to meals alone; this living-room has to serve many purposes. We should have it as spacious, thou, and airy as possible. Round tables have gone out of fashion, unfortunately; yet the claw-leg pedestal table is the most convenient, and consequently the most decorative, of its kind. It economises space, and is easily beautified. I have in memory a dining-room I should like to see reproduced in many a home. Just an ordinary square chamber, with two straight windows looking out on a lawn; a round table, its centre encircled with flowers; a plain sideboard, guiltless of plate-glass, but enlivened by old silver wine coolers, napkin rings, and goblets; a wide brass-bound fireplace with hobs; a high mantelpiece, surrounded with a brazen grating; a screen, and a few fine chairs. The beauty of it—and it was very beautiful—consisted in fitness for the end for which it was designed. The walls were covered with a light-tinted background for pictures (not with ornamental garden stuff in perspective). Its heavy, rich curtains hung by visible rings from a real pole; its coal-scoop was of copper, not papier-maché tinware; its cupboards full of glass that might be wanted, and silver often called for; its napery and napkins fine and fair; its thick carpet guiltless of grating greens and crude crimsons; its windows made to open, and its iron-flanged door made to shut. There was no meaningless or characterless ornamental work about this old room; no inappropriate decoration spoiled its well-designed and well-constructed tout ensemble.