children. A lonely man or woman who is so unfortunate as not to have
this ideal home should, I think, try to find as many of its elements as
possible. A man should not live altogether at his club, and it is a pity
for a woman to live permanently with women alone. And a home is so
incomplete without children that it seems almost necessary that every
childless man or woman should adopt one or two. Unfortunately this is
often impossible, and then it becomes the more essential to seek for a
boarding-place where we may get a little of the cheer of other people's
children and at the same time practice some of the virtues which
children always call out in older people. No home is truly homelike in
which there is not a large hospitality. I have so much to say on this
head that I must leave it for another chapter.
I have said little about the qualities of character which make a happy
home. Beyond a loving nature, on which all the others rest, I know of
nothing more essential than a serene temper. Let a woman be "mistress of
herself, though china fall." The daily temptations to irritation are
incessant, and irritability will destroy the comfort of any home, even
if it is well warmed and lighted and furnished with easy-chairs and
sofas, even if everybody is high minded and ready to take part in
refined pleasures, and even if room is made in the family circle for a
host of agreeable friends.
XI.
HOSPITALITY.
No home is genuine which is not also hospitable. Just as we must go out
to get fresh life, we must welcome fresh life which comes in to us. And
further than that it would be a poor nature which found no one to love
outside the home circle. If we love any one we wish to share our life
with our friend.
But it is impossible to be hospitable except by welcoming our visitors
to our every-day life. If we depart much from our usual customs, our
freedom is checked, and the visit becomes a burden, willingly borne,
perhaps, for the time, but sure to be felt if often laid upon us.
A friend, well known in literary circles, inviting me to visit her in a
Western city through which I was to pass on my way to another State
wrote, "You must stay more than a day or two, for, if not, I shall have
to give up my time to you, and I can't interrupt my daily work! I go
into my library at nine o'clock every morning and stay till two. But in
the afternoon I drive, and when in the evening my husband comes home
from business and my children from school I give myself up to my
family."
Upon this invitation I determined to stay a week. "You must not come
into my library in the morning unless I invite you," said my friend
laughing; "but there is another library adjoining your room where I
shall not venture to disturb you without leave!"
I remember a home which opened very hospitable doors to me when I was a
young girl,--that of a widow with two young daughters. They were in
straitened circumstances, and could not effectively heat the large and
handsome house left by the father of the family. "I ask you to come in
the winter, my dear," the lady used to say to me, "because you live in
the country and can sleep comfortably in a cold room: I ask my city
friends to come in the summer." That, I think, showed a true spirit of
hospitality. She gave what she had to those who could enjoy it. I shall
never forget the cosy afternoons I have passed in her warm sitting-room,
while one read aloud and the rest did fancy work, or sometimes the
plainest of sewing. We read novels, some first rate, some second, or
even third rate, without a thought of getting any benefit from them. But
we chatted and laughed and enjoyed ourselves. Or sometimes some of us
would go into town to a matinée, and coming home tingling with cold
would find a hot and savory supper awaiting us in the bright
dining-room, prepared by those who had stayed at home, and who were
eager to hear everything about the play which we were eager to tell.
There was no servant to trouble us, and we all enjoyed ourselves
together in washing the dishes. We sat up as long as we pleased and
toasted our feet, and in zero weather even wrapped up a hot brick to
take to our chilly beds.
But this lady was not without ambition. She wished she could entertain
more as other people did. She thought she ought to give some parties,
especially as she liked to go to other people's entertainments. And so,
on one occasion, she did give a party. It was a grand affair. The whole
house was set in order and decorated. Caterers came from the city, and
her tables were beautifully laid with exactly the same salads and cakes
that she was in the habit of eating at other houses. Her cards of
invitation were of the choicest style, and her house was filled with
fashionable people, since, in spite of her reduced circumstances, she
had a perfectly assured position in society, and there was also a
respectable number of unfashionable people present, for she was too
truly hospitable to leave out anybody she liked. She was a skillful
manager, and succeeded in carrying through her undertaking for half the
expense usual in such a case; but it cost her sleepless nights. Of
course, "The labor we delight in physics pain," and I am sure she
thoroughly enjoyed her grand party which everybody said was perfect in
all its appointments. Nevertheless, her bills amounted to one sixth of
the yearly income of the family, so that she never gave another party
till later in life, when fortune suddenly smiled upon her again and put
her in possession of a million. I do not condemn her party, but merely
use it to point my statement that we cannot often exercise hospitality
except as we admit our friends to our daily life.
A friend of mine who was making a tour of the South bethought her of a
cousin in New Orleans whom she had not seen since the war. She wrote to
her, "I am going to New Orleans for a week or two and wish you might
find me a boarding-place near you, so that I could see you as well as
the sights." The Southern cousin at once replied with a cordial
invitation that the Northern cousin should visit her. The Northerner had
no idea of making a convenience of her almost unknown relative, and
declined; but the Southerner insisted that the visit would be a real
favor to herself. "That is," she added, "if you can be comfortable in
the way we live." The Northerner could hardly refuse longer, but having
certain fastidious ideas, she was rather startled on reaching New
Orleans to find that her cousin's family, in which there were eight
children, lived in a house of five rooms! She felt, in spite of her
precautions, she must be an intruder. But the husband of her cousin said
sweetly, "Where there is room in the heart, there is room in the
house," and she stayed, and had one of the most delightful experiences
of her life.
I am afraid few Northerners judged by this standard can be said to have
"room in the heart," though I remember gratefully a minister's family in
Massachusetts who lived in a little house and with narrow means, and yet
received with bright smiles all their friends from the towns around who
chose to stay with them. A brother minister would drive over with his
whole family and stay a few days, and no one ever suggested there was
not room for everybody. All the young collegiate cousins took this home
in their way on their vacation tramps, and brought with them as many of
their classmates as chose to come, never thinking it necessary to give
any warning of their approach. I have known as many as a dozen young
cousins to be gathered in the house at one time, the boys from Yale and
Amherst, girls from New York and Philadelphia, or from quiet country
boarding-schools,--one indeed came all the way from London,--and they
enjoyed themselves as much as the visitors in an English country-house.
They did not "ride to the meet," of course, or attend a county ball; but
they went blackberrying together, and they sang songs, and played duets,
and had games of croquet, and read French, and acted Shakespeare under
the apple-trees; they climbed a mountain, and rowed on the pond, and
took long botanical expeditions. The minister's wife was herself a
delectable cook, but she must have wrinkled her brow many a time in
planning how to get enough bread and butter to go round even with the
aid of the blackberries, and some of the young fellows had to sleep on
the hay in the barn, though happily they had a natural bath-tub provided
in a stream among the bushes behind the house.
The achievement of this hostess is the more notable because she was a
New England housekeeper, and her standard of neatness was high. If she
had attempted anything but the simplest manner of entertainment she
would certainly have had nervous prostration. But her simplicity of
living saved her, and she is still hale and hearty, though she has
passed the limit of threescore and ten.
A friend who has lived much at the South, in speaking of the beautiful
hospitality for which Southerners are distinguished, says that it comes
partly from their easy way of taking life. They do not think it
necessary to put the house in order because guests are coming, but let
the guests take them as they find them. More than that, they are less
given to "pursuits" than Northerners, and so less easily disturbed.
Believing, however, in the value of "pursuits," I have been interested
in observing the manner of hospitality in a family among my friends. The
family consists of the father, mother, and three grown-up daughters.
All the daughters are earning their own living, and the mother is much
occupied in household cares. It is a highly intellectual family. All are
readers and keep abreast of the literature of the day. Beyond that, one
or another of them is always studying German, or French, or history, or
mineralogy, or taking up some social reform. Two of them find time to
write acceptably for magazines. It would seem as if they could not have
much leisure to entertain friends, yet their great rambling house, which
stands in the midst of a shady old-fashioned yard and garden just
outside the city, is seldom without a guest or two, and there never was
a place where a tired soul and body could find sweeter rest. A cup and
plate at table and a bed to sleep in are provided for the visitor, and
so far there is not much trouble. The family meet at the table,--when
convenient,--and there is plenty of delightful chat. One or another is
often at leisure for a walk or a row or some other pastime, but no one
appears to feel it necessary to give up any of her ordinary occupations
for the sake of the visitor. I consider myself rather a particular
friend of three of the family, yet I have often passed a Sunday there
without seeing more than one of the three. The others had something to
do on their own account. One of them, tired with her week's work, likes
to rest all day in her own room. Another is an ardent Episcopalian, and
wishes to follow all the church services from early morning through the
evening. As there are so many agreeable people in the family one is not
often obliged to be alone, but when left alone the sense of home comfort
is only increased. There are plenty of lounges and easy-chairs; the
large, comfortable tables are strewn with all the latest magazines; the
bookcases are full of readable books, and the young ladies all have
their individual collections of Soule's photographs, which are well
worth lounging over. The fires are always bright within, and the long
windows opening everywhere on piazzas and balconies command extensive
and beautiful views. The rooms are sweet with flowers in winter, and the
gardens are fragrant in summer. One can lounge and read all day, or take
a walk, or do a dozen other things. The cheerful, interesting
conversation at table, and in the odds and ends of time through the day,
would be sufficient stimulus to all but the most exacting guests; while,
as a matter of fact, there are always a few hours in the evening when
everybody seems to be at leisure, and these form the social centre of
the day. For my part I would much rather be entertained in this way than
to have my footsteps dogged all day by some well-meaning and
self-sacrificing devotee who tries conscientiously to amuse me.
One of the most hospitable homes I ever knew was made by two young
ladies in Boston. One of them was a country girl of genius and
refinement who came to the city to do literary work. Here she formed a
friendship with another young lady who liked to pass most of the time in
Boston for the sake of its advantages in music, art, and the theatre.
Neither was rich, but together they had a very respectable income. They
found a nice little flat of six convenient rooms in an accessible and
pleasant but unfashionable street, and furnished it with exactly the
things they wanted to use every day. The furnishings were thus simple,
but they combined comfort and beauty, for both the young ladies had
excellent taste. I am tempted to describe all their original and
charming arrangements, only that would lead me too far. I will only
speak of their hospitality which was perfect. They gave no parties nor
even afternoon teas. How could they without a servant? Indeed, though
they had the luxury of getting their own breakfast in their sitting-room
at any hour of the day when they liked to eat it, they were too much in
the habit of eating their dinner at any restaurant near which they might
happen to be when they were hungry to have inaugurated any extensive
housekeeping. Moreover, they could see their city friends whenever they
chose for an hour or two at a time without the trouble of providing a
feast or a band of music. They always had bread and butter and fruit and
various appetizing knickknacks stored away, so that if a caller stayed
till any one was hungry a sufficient lunch could be served on the spot.
But they exercised their hospitality chiefly for the benefit of their
country friends whom they could not otherwise see. Many a nice old lady
or bright young girl passed a week with them, who would otherwise have
hurried through her season's shopping in a day and have had no time left
for music or pictures. Most of these friends could amuse themselves very
well through the day. If they did not know the way about, one of the
hostesses conducted them to the libraries or museums as she went her own
way to her daily occupation. There was always bread and cheese for them
to eat if they chose, and if they cared for something more they could
find it at a restaurant as their entertainers did, or they could cook it
for themselves in the hospitable little kitchen. A folding bed could
always be let down for them at night, and in times of stress another bed
could be made on the sofa.
The hostesses spent little money or thought or time on their guests,
except so far as they really wanted to do so, and yet they entertained
great numbers of people most satisfactorily. They did not ask anybody to
visit them from a sense of duty, but they always asked everybody they
fancied they should like to see without a thought as to convenience,
because it always was convenient to have anybody they liked with them.
We know that men enjoy giving invitations in this free way, but they
seldom have the power--for two reasons; either their wives are not
satisfied to entertain the friends of their husbands in simple every-day
fashion, or the husbands themselves are not satisfied to have them so
entertained.
Every one knows the great difference between city and country
hospitality. Very few people in the city appear to be really pleased to
see an uninvited guest, and they are far less likely to invite guests,
except perhaps when giving a party, than those of the same means in the
country. They are not altogether to blame in this. There are so many
more people to see in the city than in the country that every one
becomes a new burden, and the friendship must be very close indeed that
survives such a strain. But I fear it is also true that in the city the
non-essentials of life have undue weight.
XII.
BRIC-À-BRAC.
Our lives are clogged with _bric-à-brac_. Every separate article in a
room may be pretty in itself, and yet the room may be hideous through
overcrowding with objects which have no meaning.
The disease of _bric-à-brac_ I think, is due to two influences,--the
desire of uncreative minds to create beauty, and the mania for giving
Christmas presents. Both these influences have a noble source, and will
probably reach more beautiful results at last. Any mind awake to beauty
must try to create it, and if its power and originality are not very
great, what can it do better than to apply itself to humble, every-day
trifles and try to decorate them? This is certainly right, if the old
principle of architecture is always remembered: "Decorate construction,
do not construct decoration." A few illustrations of my meaning may be
needed.
I am obliged to use blotting-paper when I write. I have always been
grateful to a friend who sent me a beautiful blue blotting book, with a
bunch of white clover charmingly painted on the first page. It gives me
pleasure every time I write a letter. I am glad that one of my friends
was artistic enough to embroider some fine handkerchiefs for me with a
beautiful initial. One of my dearest possessions is the lining for a
bureau drawer made of pale blue silk, with scented wadding tied in with
knots of narrow white ribbon. This lies in the bottom of the drawer, and
owing to the kindness of my friends shown at various times, I am able to
lay upon the top of each pile of underclothing either a handkerchief
case or a scent bag of blue silk or satin. Some of these trifles are
corded with heavy silk, some are embroidered with rosebuds, some are
ornamented with bows of ribbon, and altogether they make the drawer a
"thing of beauty" which to me personally "is a joy forever," and they
are never in anybody's way.
My friend has been less fortunate in the tributes of affection she has
received. She has several elaborate and even pretty ties which she is
obliged to append to her sofas and easy-chairs. They are believed to add
to the harmony of coloring in her sitting-room, but they are very likely
to be askew when the sofas and easy-chairs are in use; and as they
always have to be rearranged during the process of dusting, they form an
argument for delaying that duty as long as possible. She also has
several head-rests and foot-rests, in which the embroidery is exquisite
in itself, but which are so ill-contrived that they afford no rest to
either head or foot. "They are worth having, though," she says,
"because of their beauty, just as a picture is worth having though you
cannot use it." "Yes," replies her husband, "they are worth having, but
not worth having in the way. I do not want even the Sistine Madonna
propped up in my easy-chair." Most of her friends are learning to paint,
and many of them have chosen to give her at Christmas specimens of their
progress mounted on pasteboard easels. These cover the tables and
mantels and brackets of her sitting-room. "Ah!" she says softly, under
her breath, "if they had only thought to paint book-marks instead One
can never have enough book-marks. It would be delightful to have one in
every book in the library, and the more beautiful the better, while the
ugly ones, which perhaps come from our dearest friends, would be blessed
for their usefulness besides being unobtrusive."
Sweet temper is certainly essential to a happy home; but if my friend
were not too sweet tempered to hide these offerings from constant sight,
her sitting-room would not be so exasperating a place. There is no room
for a work-basket or a book on the tables. One is continually upsetting
some frail structure, or tumbling over some well-meant æsthetic
convenience.
Christmas presents are worse than any others. Even a hideous and useless
gift offered at any other season may be acceptable, and we need not
grudge it room, because being spontaneous, it represents love. But even
the most genuine Christmas presents are becoming subject to the
suspicion that they are given from a sense of duty, because gifts at
that season have become a habit. I have no reason to suppose that any of
my numerous kind friends grudge the Christmas presents they so
generously give me; but I often find myself wondering how many of them
would think of giving me anything as often as once a year if there were
no special date to recall the custom to their minds.
Gifts would be far more likely to be spontaneous if they were never
given regularly; if, for instance, we avoided giving anything next
Christmas to anybody whom we had remembered this year--excepting always
to little children, to servants, and to the poor--the three classes to
whom we never venture to give _bric-à-brac_, knowing well they would
laugh us to scorn instead of flattering us by calling our contributions
"perfectly lovely." Now, when a gift is spontaneous, its value is quite
irrespective of its use, but at the same time it is far more likely to
be both beautiful and useful. We read a book that moves us. How we wish
we could share it with one friend who particularly enjoys such a book!
We send it to her, and it is exactly the thing she wants. On the other
hand, Christmas is approaching. What shall we give our friend? She likes
books. Well, then, here is a prettily bound volume which is well spoken
of. We have no time to look farther, and we send it to her. She thanks
us in a pretty note, but is too busy in writing a hundred notes of
thanks to read the book then. It is laid by and perhaps forgotten.
We are making another friend an informal visit. We see that her
needle-book is getting shabby. We hasten to get bits of kid and silk and
flannel, and make her a new one with our daintiest stitches, and she is
delighted. She uses it every day, and likes to remember that we thought
of her comfort. But what shall we give her for Christmas? We think she
has everything. We have too many friends to remember now, for time for
such a dainty piece of sewing. Let us buy her some kind of an ornament.
It is true that the French clock and the vases and the match receivers
and two or three pictures on easels already crowd the mantel-piece, but
there is an odd little bronze image which would not be amiss among them.
It costs rather more than we can afford to pay, but we love her, and
wish to give her something, and are at our wits' end to know what. She
receives it graciously, and every time she dusts her ornaments she
remembers us affectionately. "I don't grudge dusting this," she says
sweetly to herself, "for my dear friend gave it to me, and I would do a
great deal more than this for her." Of course, in a family where a
servant dusts, the present is forgotten the moment it is placed on the
shelf.
I remember the dearest of little girls who once made me a Christmas
present of a purse of her own embroidering. The colors she chose were
brilliant, but hardly beautiful; the material rather flimsy, the sewing
was far beyond criticism, and if I had ever been rash enough to intrust
any money to such a purse, I should have returned home penniless. But I
was enchanted with the gift. I shall keep it as long as I live wrapped
in the crumpled tissue paper in which this darling child folded it in
her wish to make it look as attractive as possible. I can never even
think of this gift without fancying the tiny unskillful fingers as they
toilsomely labored over those silks that would catch and twist, and I
think of the sweet brow and eyes which bent over the work, and am as
sure as if I had seen it of the loving smile which hovered about the
childish lips at the thought that she was going to give me a pleasant
surprise.