All arts are one, howe’er distributed they stand;
Verse, tone, shape, color, form, are fingers on one hand.
W. W. STORY.
WHILE I make no pretense of vying with the shops of _bric-à-brac_ and
curios—it has been said the modern house has come to resemble a magazine
of _bric-à-brac_—yet, somehow, I find a great many objects which would
be classed under this definition have gradually drifted or floated in,
and have become as much of an artistic and companionable feature of the
house as the paintings on the walls. Especially since the arrival of my
ship, when several large bales with cabalistic marks and lettering
proved on opening to be a veritable repository of ancient Oriental
workmanship and design.
I can conceive of no more hideous nightmare than that which must haunt
one who is obliged to live in intimate companionship with many of the
so-called “ornaments” that dealers and the fashion of the hour force
upon one, and that, in one guise or another, must ever be snarling and
snapping at the unfortunate possessor. Littered up with all sorts of
_outré_ and unmeaning knick-knacks, the home at once becomes a place to
flee from; and instead of the spirit of quiet elegance and congruity
which should prevail, there reigns a pandemonium of disconformity. Yet a
certain amount of _bric-à-brac_ is not only admissible but requisite to
the decorative atmosphere of the interior. Its effect depends upon the
choosing. Given a correct eye for color and form and a natural feeling
for harmony, Sir William Temple’s sentence is pertinent, “The measure of
choosing well is whether a man likes what he has chosen.” Like my
paintings, rugs, and etchings, so also my porcelains, bronzes, arms, and
armor are pleasing objects for the eye to rest upon; and, ranged upon
the shelves and about the apartments, minister equally in the expression
and variety they lend to the surroundings.
I rejoice in my collection of arms and armor. Many rare antiques from
the Stamboul bazaars my ship contained—lovely inlaid Persian guns,
exquisitely mounted Albanian pistols, antique rapiers, daggers, and
swords, ancient kandjars and yataghans, with scabbards of _repoussé_
silver, of velvet, of copper, of shagreen and Ymen leather; with handles
of jade, agate, and ivory, constellated with garnets, turquoises,
corals, and girasols; long, narrow, large, curved; of all forms, of all
times, of all countries; from the Damascene blade of the Pasha,
incrusted with verses of the Koran in letters of gold, to the coarse
knife of the camel-driver. How many Zeibecs and Arnauts, how many beys
and effendis, how many omrahs and rajahs have not stripped their girdles
to form this precious arsenal which would have rendered Décamps mad with
joy![7]
Footnote 7:
Gautier. Constantinople—Les Bazars.
There are, moreover, glistening helmets and coats-of-mail, corselets,
maces, spears and hauberks, battle-axes and halberds, bucklers of
tortoise-shell and Damascene steel—all the implements of the ferocious
ingenuity of Islam. On the blue blade of this magnificent yataghan,
still keen and glittering, its ivory handle inlaid with topaz and
turquoise, is graven the number of heads it has severed. These cruel
swords, now crossed so peacefully, were once crossed in savage strife
and brandished in hate upon the battle-field amid the blare of Mussulman
trumpets and the shouts of murderous Janizaries. Often, as the sunlight
strikes the lustrous steel, do they seem to leap into life and flash
anew in remembrance of the battle-cry of Mohammed. Though mostly of
great age, my arms and armor are all in a state of perfect preservation.
For mere antiquity in art objects or curios is not desirable in itself.
Age has its charms unquestionably, but it becomes a valuable factor only
when accompanied by beauty. Where an object loses its pristine beauty
through time, age is a detriment rather than a desideratum. With many
classes of art objects time heightens their attraction, or at least does
not detract from it. In all such, age is a desirable quantity. To be old
is generally to be rare; but an object may be rare and still be
undesirable. Objects that are extremely sensitive to wear are usually
worthless when old. Others, like tapestries and Oriental textiles, are
improved by use, and gain in richness and value through age. An ancient
textile or article of _bric-à-brac_ is only desirable when, added to
intrinsic beauty of texture, color, form, or design, it preserves its
youth in its antiquity, or acquires additional attractiveness through
time.
Naturally, my ship contained many fine stuffs and hangings—old Flemish,
French, and Italian tapestries, embroideries from Broussa and Salonica,
Spanish brocades, and brocades from Borhampor and Ahmedabad, with some
priceless ancient altar cloths, chasubles, and dalmaticas I had long
desired to possess. Yet with all these and other acquisitions, now that
the bloom of first possession is brushed off, may I declare without
prevarication that I am fully satisfied? Increase of appetite but grows
on what it feeds. Collecting begets collecting, the desire for
possession constantly increasing, ever goading one on to unrest in the
quest of the unprocurable. How much one misses with a little knowledge,
and how much one gains! The love for beauty too often proves a bane.
Even a love for books is as dangerous as a love for _bric-à-brac_ or art
objects—the book in the end becoming an art object. Gradually, from the
ordinary editions one passes to the good editions, while from the good
it is but a step to the rare, and the seething maelstrom of
book-madness. My ship brought me many of my decorations; my books, with
few exceptions, I must procure myself.
But though sometimes productive of regrets, no one should be without a
hobby, or hobbies. “Have not the wisest of men in all ages, not
excepting Solomon himself—have they not had their hobby-horses?” asks
Sterne. “The man without a hobby may be a good citizen and an honest
fellow,” observes George Dawson, in his altogether lovely volume, The
Pleasures of Angling, “but he can have but few golden threads running
through the web or woof of his monotonous existence.” A hobby is the
best of preceptors, and rides straight to the mark. From a good
collection of porcelains one may study the Chinese dynasties, and
prepare himself for an Asiatic tour by a study of his rugs.
Unconsciously the collector of arms and armor becomes a student of the
history of numerous peoples and an eye-witness of many of the noted
battles of the world. Were I desirous to thoroughly familiarize myself
with the history of the American red man I should first proceed to
collect Indian implements of the chase and war, supplementing these by
close study in the fertile field of literature pertaining to the
Indians. But my bows and arrows I should shoot first; they would be the
guide to the target.
One of the essays of Elia has demonstrated the fallacy of the adage
“enough is as good as a feast.” In decorations it were a scant feast
without the endless form and color supplied by the potter’s art. Of all
art objects, a truly fine piece of old porcelain is amongst the most
beautiful. In color it may outshine a precious stone; in form, rival
that of a beautiful object of Nature herself. Its very frailty and
frangibility intensify its charm, and when possessing both grace of
contour and enchantment of color it becomes an object of beauty by the
canons of the most perfect art, exciting the profoundest and purest
pleasure—profound pleasure to all who behold it, supreme pleasure to him
who possesses it.
I speak of the finer examples of Oriental ceramics, though I grant there
is much to admire in some of the Italian soft-paste porcelains, notably
the lovely Capo di Monte productions of the first period and the
fascinating Doccia _terraglias_. Royal Worcester, despite its finish,
always looks new, and Sèvres wares I invariably associate with a gilded
French _salon_ and crimson brocatelle. These may be of excellent design
and highly wrought decoration, representing infinite labor, skill, and
minutiæ of detail; but they seldom seem effective compared with the
handiwork of the Oriental. For the most part European ceramics may not
be included under Prof. Grant Allen’s term, “decorative decoration.”
Among Oriental porcelains, it is well known that articles produced
to-day may not be compared with the same class produced in the past. The
secret of the marvelous old glazes has been lost, like the secret of the
famed old Toledo blades, and the craft of the ancient metal workers. It
is the remote Celestial we admire and revere.
Apparently, my ship must have touched some of the out-of-the-way ports
of Holland, that paradise of blue and white, for her collection of
ceramics was rich in this form of Oriental porcelains. It has been
asserted that the love for blue and white is a fashion, a craze that can
not endure. But fine blue and white from its very nature is beyond the
caprice of fashion, and must be enduring for all time. What other
blending approximates so closely to Nature? It is but a Celestial reflex
of the firmament—the most beautiful of all sky formations, the summer
_cumulus_ cloud. A coolness of color it has possessed by no other form
of porcelain unless by the incomparable old solid blue and blue-green
enamels.
Not that my ship’s stores were limited to the blue and white so lavishly
distributed among the appreciative Dutch burghers by the fleets of a
former day. There were also many _chrysanthema_ that could only have
been gathered from the classic gardens of the Celestial
himself—specimens from the periods of Wan-li, Kia-tsing, Ching-te,
Ching-hoa, Siouen-te, and yet still earlier rulers of the great dynasty
of the Mings; diaphanous egg-shells of the reign of Yong-tching;
Kien-long glazes fabricated in imitation of the color and texture of old
bronzes; delicate sea-green _céladons_; solid deep iridescent reds; and
frail translucent white pastes—marvels of the furnaces of the past. It
would require a Jacquemart or a Dana to describe them. However alien
races may regard the Mongolian and his flowing pigtail, there can be but
one opinion of the forms and colors crystallized in these his airy
inspirations. Matchless stands the ancient Chinese potter’s art. The
world might find a substitute for his tea; his finer vases, jars, and
bottles, and his fantasies in storks and dragons are unique this side of
paradise. From the ordinary blue of Nankin to the “blue of the head of
Buddha,” the “blue of heaven,” the “blue of the sky after rain,” the
“lapis lazuli,” and the priceless “turquoise,” my blue porcelains are a
study of the clouds and the sky.
Blue! “the life of heaven,” the hue of ocean, the violet’s joy; type of
faith and fidelity, it has remained for the almond-eyed molder of clay
to render thy beauty tangible. When I admire the hues of a Chinese vase
or bottle, I remember that each color is regarded as a symbol; the
fundamental colors being five, and corresponding to the elements (water,
fire, wood, metals, earth), and to the cardinal points of the compass.
Red belongs to fire, and corresponds to the south; black to water and
the north; green to wood and the east; white to metal and the west. Dark
blue corresponds to the sky, and yellow to the earth; blue belongs to
the east. Blue is combined with white, red with black, and dark blue
with yellow. The dragon, which in the Chinese zodiac corresponds to our
_Aries_, also personifies water, while a circle personifies fire.[8]
Footnote 8:
Jacquemart. Histoire de la Céramique.
Of the bloom of the peach my ship contained no example, so factitious a
value has been set upon this color by pretended connoisseurs. In place
of the peach-blow, I found gleaming among my ceramics a much more
beautiful form of opalescent porcelain—two vases of the extremely rare
“topaz,” brilliant as the gem itself, and of which these are unique
examples. Did I say my rugs supplied the rarest colors? I had forgotten
my old bottle of _bleu de ciel_ and my ancient vase of _sang de bœuf_!
The bronzes my ship contained differed essentially from the generality
of those I had previously known. Apart from a few fine specimens
enriched with gold and silver, and a superb figure of Buddha, they
consisted for the most part of a singularly beautiful collection of
ancient tripods, temple-censers and incense-burners, with dark patine
and antique-green surfaces, and engraved ornamentation and ornamentation
in relief. The largest incense urn occupies a prominent place in the
hall, and often curls its fragrant clouds through the mouth of its
dragon. I light it when I read A Kempis and the Religio Medici.
Yet the stores of my ship would have been incomplete without an old
hall-clock that marks the time for me. An old Dutch inlaid hall-clock of
all clocks for symmetry, beauty, and sonority! It measures rather than
accelerates the flight of the hours; and with its quarter chimes, its
deep hour-bells, its moons, and its calendars, it punctuates not only
the moments and the hours, but chronicles the passage of the months and
the years. I need not consult a watch for the time, or a calendar for
the day of the month and the phases of the moon—the musical voice and
the index-fingers of my clock proclaim them for me.
Among my most valued curios is a superb violoncello. A glance shows that
it has been long and tenderly caressed by the virtuoso who once
possessed it and developed its melodious voice. Even its ancient case
and the green baize of the lining attest the care it has received.
Scarcely a scratch is visible on the lustrous wood, and its curves are
as harmoniously proportioned as those of a Hebe. There is a rich, mellow
tone to the wood, and the bow draws tones no less rich and mellow from
its deep caverns of sound. Though there are no traces of the maker’s
name or the date of manufacture, the lovely glaze of the spruce top and
maple back at once proclaim its antiquity. Beneath the strings the rosin
has left a fine mahogany stain; and there are worn spots on the hoops
where it has been pressed by a loving knee. The grain of the top is as
straight as if it had been molded. At the base of the gracefully turned
scroll, in old English script, is carved an “H,” its only mark.
I find the same difference between a violin and a violoncello as there
exists between a piano and an organ. The difference of tone between
individual violoncellos is, if anything, more marked than in most other
musical instruments. There could be nothing more sonorous and more
delicately shaded than the magnificent baritone of my old violoncello as
it interprets the Cavatine by Raff, or chants the Andante by Mozart.
Sometimes, methinks, it gives forth a still richer consonance when it
renders Stradella’s grave Kirchen-Arïe; or, indeed, whenever noble
church music of any kind is drawn from its resonant depths. Then its
voice seems almost human, and the strings quiver apparently of their own
accord. Is it fancy, after all? Are not its strings sometimes swept by
unseen fingers—the tender touch of The Warden of Barchester, good old
Septimus Harding—who possessed it in years gone by; who so often found
solace in its companionship from the tyranny of the archdeacon and the
bickerings of Barchester Close! I almost find myself, like the warden,
passing an imaginary bow over an imaginary viol when annoyed or harassed
away from home, so strong is its personality and so soothing its
companionship.[9] Trollope has never been sufficiently appreciated, it
appears to me; and among his best works is his simplest one. The
character of the warden, so exemplary and yet so vacillating, the old
men of the hospital who love him so tenderly, the crafty and worldly
archdeacon, and, withal, the mellow ecclesiastical light that pervades
the churchly precincts of the Close, form a picture beautiful in its
quiet coloring and simplicity. It is far less a novel than an idyl, and
as such it should be read and must be regarded.
Footnote 9:
The Warden; Barchester Towers.—Anthony Trollope.
Music and flowers! The one suggests and complements the other. The home
should never be without either—they are its brightest sunshine, next to
lovely woman’s smile and the laughter of a child. Averaged throughout
the year, a dollar a week is a modest, reasonable outlay for a man of
limited means to expend for the luxury of flowers in the house. Every
petal holds a beautiful thought, so long as the flower is beautiful and
the petals are fresh. Even a few green leaves with a single fresh
blossom or two are a solace to the eye and a balm to the mind.
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