It is certain that colors exercise an influence over us to the
extent of rendering us gay or sad, according to their shades.—VOYAGE
AUTOUR DE MA CHAMBRE.
THE floors of my house, where hard-wood floors exist, are shellacked.
This imparts an excellent finish without darkening the wood, and the
subsequent care of the floor is slight. Beneath the rugs the finish is
sand-papered to prevent them from sliding. Oiling floors is
objectionable, the wood turning dark, and necessitating almost daily
going over with a damp and a dry cloth to keep them clean. Waxing is a
labor, and renders the floors slippery. Varnishing makes a very smooth
surface, easily marred, the gloss soon wearing in the least exposed
places.
My floors must, first of all, be subservient and subordinate to my rugs.
By shifting my rugs I immediately change the color of a room, the
expression of my house; I may cool a room in summer or warm it in winter
at will. Beautiful as beautiful paintings are some of the antique
Persian and Conia prayers, and the marvelously wrought Yourdes and
ancient Coulas. I believe there is no comprehensive book on rugs. Some
enterprising publisher should send a capable artist to Asia for a year
and publish an exhaustive _édition de luxe_ to supply a long-felt want.
An artistic work of this nature would be as desirable as an edition of
King Solomon’s lost book on gems. For color and color-blending we must
go to the Orientals; they have found its soul. Who else could blend
greens and blues so felicitously, or place the different reds in riotous
juxtaposition, or combine the whole gamut of browns with the entire
octave of yellows? They play with colors as a musician plays with the
keys of an instrument. They sound no false notes, they strike no
discords. I speak of the art as exhibited by the best masters. There are
plenty of daubs and crudities, it is true, a single specimen of which
will throw a whole house into an entasia. There is poor sculpture and
there are poor paintings. The finer examples of the loom deserve to be
stamped with the artist’s name just as much as a canvas of Gérôme or a
love-song of Hafiz.
There can be nothing more artistic, there is nothing more seductive than
these old Asiatic hand-paintings. I am drawn and fascinated by their
weird beauty. What charms do they not reveal! what multiplicity yet
harmony of hue and design! Though not unfrequently repeating themselves
in the same piece, color and design never tire. They have their
recurrent beat and rhythm, like the harmonious cadence of the Pantoum.
This large Afghan rug, for instance, mellow with use and time, the
general tone of which resembles that of a zircon, is composed of
innumerable shades of red, so many shades I can scarcely count them, one
shade melting into another shade—shades of shades—till the eye renounces
the task of pursuit. When examined closely, I find even magenta has been
employed by the craftsman, to become in his hands a medium of beauty. A
European produces a stiff-set pattern, the Oriental a maze of which one
never tires. There is always an unsuspected figure or color to reveal
itself, an oddity to suddenly appear, new lights and new shadows.
In coloring, some of the Afghans touch closely upon the Bokharas, though
the former are less closely woven, but are generally less set, and more
pleasing in design. As a class, I think the Bokharas are overestimated,
their usual lack of borders or indistinct bordering giving them an
unfinished look, despite their fineness of texture and the gloss of
their terra-cotta shades. My large thick blue Bokhara, however, is a
striking departure from the type, and I never tire of admiring its
artistic frame and its kaleidoscopic tints. The larger red Bokharas,
where the pattern is fine, the texture thin and silky, and the rug
straight, are very rich and handsome used as full single _portières_.
But a rug when hung, or used as a _portière_, must be something entirely
out of the ordinary to be in keeping, rugs in all such cases virtually
competing with and taking the place of old tapestries. The substitute,
therefore, should afford equal delight to the eye. I turn this closely
woven, heavy Shiraz, with the nap running toward the light, and its
forest of fluctuant palm leaves is blue. I spread it in the reverse
direction to see its color change like a tourmaline, and the field
become resilient with soft rich greens. Dusty, soiled, and dingy when I
first saw it unrolled from the bale, it is now a gem, alive to every
change of light and shade. Time has subdued its original strong colors.
These delicate gleams of buff that dance upon the border were once a
pronounced brown-crimson, while the original yellows of some of the
figures have softened to pale primrose. Its blues and greens are alone
unfaded, though refined by age. The artist painted better than he knew;
or did he designedly leave the finishing touches to the master-hand of
Time?
How strange this patch of shadow and yonder gleam of light in this
ancient Tiflis, the shadow shifting to light and the light darkening to
shadow, as I reverse my position. The cunning designer has suddenly
reversed the nap in the center, and hence its puzzling changes. I marvel
who has knelt upon these Conia prayers, in whose glowing centers four
shades of blue and four shades of red are fused so imperceptibly you may
scarcely tell where one shade ends and another begins—
The mossy marbles rest
On the knees that they have pressed
In their bloom.
Tender tones of olive, yellow, and blue lurk in some of the old Coulas,
and suave tints of peach-blow and of rose gleam in the patterns of the
rarer Kermans. Generally speaking, the Coulas possess little claim to
distinction. But the finer old examples are a marked exception, many
resembling the Yourdes prayers, while some are as velvety and intricate
in design as the old Meccas. My most admired Coula (4 × 5) in its
pattern and coloring might have been copied from an ancient cathedral
window.
This yellow Daghestan, coined four-score years ago, is a veritable field
of the cloth of gold. There are also the precious old Persian Sennas,
with a diamond flashing in the center, and a certain weave of Anatolians
with a bloom upon them like that of a ripe plum, so velvety one wants to
stroke them just for the pleasure of the caress. When viewed against the
nap, they look almost black, the colors hidden by the heavy fleece till
revealed by another angle of view. What strange conceits, what fine-spun
webs of tracery, what fillets, tangles, and tessellations of color do
they not disclose!
The command in the Khoran prohibiting its followers from reproducing the
image of living things has not been without its pronounced advantage. It
has served to develop the infinite beauty of geometrical design.
Color-study no edict of Mohammed could banish; it is a sixth sense
reflected from the sky and atmosphere—a priceless gift of Allah! There
has long been wanting a well-defined scale to describe and place the
different shades intelligibly, just as there exists a standard of
weights and measures comprehensible by all. Artists have one set of
terms, shopmen and milliners another; the average person can not define
a shade. Who can place the hues of a sunset sky? There needs to be a
color-congress to form a closer chromatic scale, and the task belongs by
right to the Orientals.
As a class, the Kazaks are not as desirable as many other makes, design
and colorings frequently being so obtrusive, and the weave usually being
marked by coarseness. Yet some Kazaks there are of remarkable beauty. My
best examples of Kazak art are done in cardinal and old gold. The one is
an antique, 6 × 7, thin and finely woven, the ground-work in three
shades of red, with the “tree pattern” raised in black upon the field,
and a storm of white flakes scattered over it. The other is a very old
piece of nearly similar size, in perfect preservation, so heavy that to
lift it is a task. Its luster is marvelous. The pattern is one of the
most admired of all the Kazak patterns when the colors are happily
employed, consisting of squares within squares or octagons variously
dispersed upon the field, the largest figure in the center. The colors
consist simply of four shades of yellow, the exquisite play of light and
shade produced by the glossy texture of the wool employed and the
frequent shiftings of the nap heightening the effect. It is my Asian
Diaz, and my ship contained it among her precious stores.
Always among the most beautiful of Persian and Turkish rugs are those of
various makes not often met with, that, exceptionally heavy and glossy,
possess a similar tone to that of the Kazak just specified—blendings and
interblendings of russet, chestnut, fawn, and fallow. To me their sleek
and velvety pile, their striped and spotted surfaces, their turmoil of
tawny hues, possess an attraction akin to that of the wild beasts of the
remote Eastern jungle. Looking at them, I instinctively recall a
carnivorous animal—fascinating in his fulvous beauty, supreme in his
splendor and his sheen. These graceful arabesques, are they not like the
curving haunches of some huge cat of the desert? These lucent spots and
markings, do they not resemble the shimmering pelt of a couchant
carnivore? A strange fascination they possess for me; a subdued ferity,
even to the animal odor that clings about their lambent folds; and,
sometimes, the gleams as of feline eyes that peer from the dots of their
borders.
The Yourdes are among the few weaves that do not acquire an additional
value from silkiness. Time mellows their naturally soft shades, and use
imparts to them a slight luster. But their great value consists in
detail of design and contrast of a few colors—black and dark bands on a
gray-white ground for the border, the plain prayer-disks usually of
gray, blue, green, or maroon. The warp and nap being relatively thin,
and color and design not being dependent upon strong or direct light to
emphasize them, they are excellently adapted for hangings—indeed, they
are too tender and precious to be placed upon the floor. The antique
Yourdes prayers usually come in sizes about 4 × 6, and are deservedly
among the most prized among Oriental textiles. Some of the finer
Persians are equally suitable for hangings. By Persians I refer to what
is known as “Persian prayers,” the term being used to designate a
certain class of Persian fabrics with centers of self-colors, to which,
for some unexplained reason, a more definite name is not given. More
strictly speaking, with double disks, the larger one plain and the
smaller partially embroidered or figured, the arabesque “a” and typical
Shiraz figure generally present in the border. These Persians are
recognizable at a glance. Can we wonder the Moslem is so resigned to
prayer with such _prie-Dieus_ to kneel upon!
Under the term Daghestan are lumped the makes of this and numerous other
districts, the designs of which are somewhat similar. There are very
many fine true Daghestans and Kubas, as well as very many poor ones, the
old examples being relatively much handsomer than the modern. The
ordinary Daghestan border repeats itself far too often, and its
commonness mars many an otherwise valuable work of art. Next to the
Meccas, the Daghestans are probably among the most crooked of the
products of Eastern looms, and numberless specimens of extraordinary
sheen and rare design and coloring are virtually spoiled on this
account. A long strip frequently has a horse-shoe curve, and even very
small pieces are often so much broader at one end as to prove positively
distressing to the sense of proportion.
The finer Meccas, distinguished for extreme softness and silkiness,
combined with intricacy and pronounced individuality of design, are
generally not only very crooked, but gathered and puffed at the corners
as well. A straight Mecca one rarely sees except in dreams. This is to
be deplored, for their lovely arabesques and gracious fantasies are not
to be met with elsewhere. A search for absolute geometrical precision in
Oriental rugs, however, would be like Kaphira’s pursuit of the golden
ball. They are made and painted by hand, and not cut out by machine.
Therein consists their enchantment. Nevertheless, one should only look
for and secure comparatively straight specimens; the very crooked, the
very crude, and the very glaring are worthless at any price. “A cur’s
tail,” says a Turkish adage, “may be warmed and pressed and bound round
with ligatures, and after a twelve years’ labor bestowed upon it, still
it will retain its natural form.” The dog in the adage was intended, not
for a Christian, but for a rug. No wetting, stretching and tacking will
remove its aged seams and wrinkles—
What nature hath not taught, no art can frame:
Wild born be wild still, though by force you tame.[2]
Footnote 2:
Thomas Campion, Third Booke of Ayres.
Distinct from all other productions are the Kourdestans, notably the
large anchor-pattern. These are difficult to manage, however, the design
being so striking. Very large figures or very glaring colors are on this
account to be avoided. They tyrannize over their companions, or clash
with surrounding objects. The eye is perpetually directed to them and
they disturb the sense of repose. Many specimens of the Carabaghs are
remarkable for their beautiful combination of colors, especially in the
blending of reds, olives, and blues. The nap is generally very heavy,
and the wool employed not unfrequently of extreme glossiness, imparting
almost an oily look to the surface. The rather large hexagonal figures,
moreover, without being glaring are usually artistic and striking.
Handsome are many of the Persian camel’s-hair rugs, unique in design and
usually of very subdued colors.
The Cashmeres or Somaks are lacking in animation compared with many
other weaves. Individuality they possess, but neither sheen, softness of
texture, nor marked grace of design. For the dining-room, the most
serviceable rugs are the large India, and the Turkish Ouchaks, though
when obtainable some of the finer large Khorassans and Persians are
equally desirable. Both of the latter are finer than the Ouchaks, and
old pieces possess a brilliant luster which the Ouchaks lack. The fine
large thick India rugs are among the most magnificent in the world, soft
as a houri’s cheek, and diapered and jeweled with every shade of color;
yet harmonious as the play of an opal. It is impossible to conceive of
more superb color-blending.
While age is unquestionably an important factor in the beauty of a rug,
one should by no means cast aside a new rug if the example be
exceptionally fine, and its design or coloring may not be obtained in an
antique. It will require time, I admit, to develop its beauties. But by
subjecting it to light and constant use its original crudeness will
gradually depart, and each year of service will heighten its bloom.
Against the crude new fabric must be placed the far more objectionable
form of “antique,” torn and thread-bare from rough usage, or soiled and
faded beyond redemption. Neither may it be amiss to caution the novice,
and many so-styled amateurs, against the not unfrequent practice of
dealers—aye, of merchants in Constantinople, Ispahan, and even Mecca
itself—of _painting_ old rugs to mask their sordid condition, and gloze
over their hoary antiquity.
Could the history of an old rug be traced, what a tale might it not
unfold!—the Adventures of a Guinea were nothing in comparison. Venerable
before it was secured by the itinerant collector in some remote
province, how many vicissitudes and changes has it not passed through!
Lashed to the backs of patient dromedaries goaded by the spears of
fierce dragomen; borne under the heat of a tropical sun amid the
toilsome march of the caravan; and escaping the rapine of plundering
tribes, it arrived at the great marts of the East. Here, unstrapped from
the bale, it passed to the bazaars, or the vast warerooms of the
merchantmen. There, perchance, its lovely sheen caught the eye of a
calculating middleman, who purchased the bale to secure the prize,
passing it in turn to a third. Or, while ransacking the treasures of a
Stamboul bazaar it was, perhaps, admired by a rich profligate—a bauble
for a new-found flame. Or, did it figure in the collection of some noted
connoisseur whose effects on his demise passed into unconversant or
indifferent hands? Youth and beauty may have reposed upon it, and old
age admired its bewitching hues. It may have overheard many a lover’s
tale; it may once have graced a pasha’s wall.
In fine Oriental rugs mere size seldom governs their value, this being
dependent upon intrinsic beauty and rarity. Of course, a splendid large
piece is more valuable than a similar example half its size, although
the fine large piece may not be worth the rarer small one of some other
make. Oddity and rarity, when combined with beauty, are the strongest
factors in the value of a rug. A sage-green or mauve centered Yourdes, 6
× 4, may be without price, as a small Rembrandt may command a hundred
times the price of a canvas double its size. It all depends upon the
artist. Neither is thickness nor silkiness a necessary factor in the
value of a rug. Depth of pile is certainly desirable in very many makes,
a heavy piece keeping its place upon the floor far better than a thin
one. Silkiness is likewise valuable in most cases; it imparts additional
life, and enhances the play of the color facets. But in rugs like the
rarer Yourdes and some of the old Persians and Coulas, neither depth of
pile nor extraordinary luster govern their value. These are
paintings—old masters—that should be hung, to be admired like a picture
or a stained-glass window, and the eye revel in their beauty.
But my rugs are more than mere foci of color and revelations of Eastern
luxury. They are, above all, examples of a rare handicraft; enduring
expressions of artistic skill of various times and various peoples. They
thus become sentient instead of simply material, their exuberance of hue
and opulence of design representing the most consummate art, and
appealing equally to me through the various motives of human industry,
human interest, and human thought. In them are incorporated the sense of
the beautiful as interpreted by the canons of Oriental art, a distinct
artistic motive and theme underlying the technical finish and manual
skill of the craftsman. Nor is spiritual quality less reflected in these
masterpieces than the fine æstheticism with which they are pervaded;
they express equally a religious symbolism of the Oriental mind, and the
mystic rites observed in the mosque of Islam. Just as painting and
sculpture are representative arts of Christian peoples, so these
marvelous blendings of form and color are typical of the individuality
of the Mohammedan alien race.
Endless is their variety. Independent of the diversity of the different
wools employed, each district has its characteristic patterns, its
peculiar weaves, and often its distinguishing colors and
color-combinations which are its individual right and inheritance, and
which other districts may not reproduce without incurring the opprobrium
attached to the plagiarist. Anatolia may not borrow from Bokhara, nor
Daghestan from Beloochistan. Nor may one rug of a district be an exact
reproduction of another rug of the same district. There may be a
resemblance, it is true; but each valuable example will be found to
possess a stamp of originality—the genius of the artist—which gives it
its value and constitutes the difference between the mere commercial
product and the enduring work of art. Thou shalt not purloin the work of
another’s brain! is a commandment embossed upon the loom of the
Oriental—a law of the Medes and Persians generally observed unto this
day.
Valuable as a well-chosen collection of porcelains is a well-chosen
collection of rugs. While neither may be dispensed with as art objects,
and both afford a constant delight to the eye and the sense of the
beautiful, it may be said that textiles have the advantage over
porcelains in that they can not break, and that they combine utility
with equal charm and more extended color. It is, withal, a satisfaction
to know that every footfall upon their luxurious pile and every beam of
sunlight that streams upon them only serve to increase their value and
heighten their beauty.
In the course of time, no doubt—aye, at no distant day, as fine old
specimens become more and more rare and occupy, as they deserve, a still
more exalted place in the domain of art—we will have exhibitions of
Oriental rugs, as we have exhibits of paintings and statuary to-day. The
appreciative and wealthy amateur who, in a single purchase, recently
expended nineteen thousand dollars for twelve specimens of the Asiatic
weaver’s art—specimens that may not now be duplicated—will then be
envied for his foresight and the cheapness of his purchase.
To form a fine, varied, and extensive collection of rugs, however, is
the work of years. As Paganini declared, after a lifetime of study, that
he had just begun to be acquainted with his violin, so the connoisseur
may say with regard to the textiles he loves so well. For every piece
should be like a painting, perfect of its kind, artistic in design,
harmonious in color; and to combine the desired qualifications without
incongruities or repetition of borders and patterns is to tread no
primrose path. Not only a concent of color and design is requisite in
each single example, but rarity, luster, age, good condition, and
individuality—a combination not easily obtainable.
But my ship contained many straight and beautiful rugs among her stores!
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[Illustration]