from the ceiling, never from the walls. No ball-room or saloon is
complete without its chandeliers: they are one of the characteristic
features of a gala room (see Plates V, XIX, XXXIV, XLIII, XLV, L). For
a ball-room, where all should be light and brilliant, rock-crystal
or cut-glass chandeliers are most suitable: reflected in a long line
of mirrors, they are an invaluable factor in any scheme of gala
decoration.
[Illustration: _PLATE XLV._
SALA DELLO ZODIACO, ROYAL PALACE, MANTUA. XVIII CENTURY.
(EXAMPLE OF STUCCO DECORATION.)]
The old French decorators relied upon the reflection of mirrors for
producing an effect of distance in the treatment of gala rooms. Above
the mantel, there was always a mirror with another of the same shape
and size directly opposite; and the glittering perspective thus
produced gave to the scene an air of fantastic unreality. The gala
suite being so planned that all the rooms adjoined each other, the
effect of distance was further enhanced by placing the openings in
line, so that on entering the suite it was possible to look down its
whole length. The importance of preserving this long vista, or
_enfilade_, as the French call it, is dwelt on by all old writers on
house-decoration. If a ball-room be properly lit and decorated, it is
never necessary to dress it up with any sort of temporary
ornamentation: the true mark of the well-decorated ball-room is to
look always ready for a ball.
The only chair seen in most modern ball-rooms is the folding camp-seat
hired by the hundred when entertainments are given; but there is no
reason why a ball-room should be even temporarily disfigured by these
makeshifts, which look their worst when an effort is made to conceal
their cheap construction under a little gilding and satin. In all old
ball-rooms, benches and _tabourets_ (small seats without backs) were
ranged in a continuous line along the walls. These seats, handsomely
designed, and covered with tapestry, velvet, or embroidered silk
slips, were a part of the permanent decoration of the room. On
ordinary occasions they would be sufficient for a modern ball-room;
and when larger entertainments made it needful to provide additional
seats, these might be copied from the seventeenth-century
_perroquets_, examples of which may be found in the various French
works on the history of furniture. These _perroquets_, or folding
chairs without arms, made of natural walnut or gilded, with seats of
tapestry, velvet or decorated leather, would form an excellent
substitute for the modern cotillon seat.
The first rule to be observed in the decoration of the music-room is
the avoidance of all stuff hangings, draperies, and substances likely
to deaden sound. The treatment chosen for the room must of course
depend on its size and its relation to the other rooms in the house.
While a music-room should be more subdued in color than a ball-room,
sombre tints and heavy ornament are obviously inappropriate: the
effect aimed at should be one of lightness and serenity in form and
color. However small and simple the music-room may be, it should
always appear as though there were space overhead for the notes to
escape; and some form of vaulting or doming is therefore more suitable
than a flat ceiling.
While plain panelling, if well designed, is never out of keeping, the
walls of a music-room are specially suited to a somewhat fanciful
style of decoration. In a ball-room, splendor and brilliancy of effect
are more needful than a studied delicacy; but where people are seated,
and everything in the room is consequently subjected to close and
prolonged scrutiny, sprightliness of composition should be combined
with variety of detail, the decoration being neither so confused and
intricate as to distract attention, nor so conventional as to be
dismissed with a glance on entering the room.
[Illustration: _PLATE XLVI._
FRENCH TABLE.
(TRANSITION BETWEEN LOUIS XIV AND LOUIS XV PERIODS.)]
The early Renaissance compositions in which stucco low-reliefs blossom
into painted arabesques and tendrils, are peculiarly adapted to a
small music-room; while those who prefer a more architectural
treatment may find admirable examples in some of the Italian
eighteenth-century rooms decorated with free-hand stucco ornament, or
in the sculptured wood-panelling of the same period in France. At
Remiremont in the Vosges, formerly the residence of a noble order of
canonesses, the abbess's _hôtel_ contains an octagonal music-room of
exceptional beauty, the panelled walls being carved with skilfully
combined musical instruments and flower-garlands.
In larger apartments a fanciful style of fresco-painting might be
employed, as in the rooms painted by Tiepolo in the Villa Valmarana,
near Vicenza, or in the staircase of the Palazzo Sina, at Venice,
decorated by Longhi with the episodes of an eighteenth-century
carnival. Whatever the design chosen, it should never resemble the
formal treatment suited to ball-room and saloon: the decoration should
sound a note distinctly suggestive of the purpose for which the
music-room is used.
It is difficult to understand why modern music-rooms have so long been
disfigured by the clumsy lines of grand and upright pianos, since the
cases of both might be modified without affecting the construction of
the instrument. Of the two, the grand piano would be the easier to
remodel: if its elephantine supports were replaced by slender fluted
legs, and its case and sounding-board were painted, or inlaid with
marquetry, it would resemble the charming old clavecin which preceded
the pianoforte.
Fewer changes are possible in the "upright"; but a marked improvement
could be produced by straightening its legs and substituting right
angles for the weak curves of the lid. The case itself might be made
of plainly panelled mahogany, with a few good ormolu ornaments; or of
inlaid wood, with a design of musical instruments and similar
"attributes"; or it might be decorated with flower-garlands and
arabesques painted either on the natural wood or on a gilt or colored
background.
Designers should also study the lines of those two long-neglected
pieces of furniture, the music-stool and music-stand. The latter
should be designed to match the piano, and painted or inlaid like its
case. The revolving mushroom that now serves as a music-stool is a
modern invention: the old stools were substantial circular seats
resting on four fluted legs. The manuals of the eighteenth-century
cabinet-makers contain countless models of these piano-seats, which
might well be reproduced by modern designers: there seems no practical
reason why the accessories of the piano should be less decorative than
those of the harpsichord.
[Illustration: _PLATE XLVII._
LIBRARY OF LOUIS XVI, PALACE OF VERSAILLES.
(LOUIS XV WRITING-TABLE WITH BUST.)]
XII
THE LIBRARY, SMOKING-ROOM, AND "DEN"
In the days when furniture was defined as "that which may be carried
about," the natural bookcase was a chest with a strong lock. These
chests, packed with precious manuscripts, followed the prince or noble
from one castle to another, and were even carried after him into camp.
Before the invention of printing, when twenty or thirty books formed
an exceptionally large library, and many great personages were content
with the possession of one volume, such ambulant bookcases were
sufficient for the requirements of the most eager bibliophile.
Occasionally the volumes were kept in a small press or cupboard, and
placed in a chest only when their owner travelled; but the bookcase,
as now known, did not take shape until much later, for when books
multiplied with the introduction of printing, it became customary to
fit up for their reception little rooms called _cabinets_. In the
famous _cabinet_ of Catherine de Medici at Blois the walls are lined
with book-shelves concealed behind sliding panels--a contrivance
rendered doubly necessary by the general insecurity of property, and
by the fact that the books of that period, whether in manuscript or
printed, were made sumptuous as church jewelry by the art of painter
and goldsmith.
Long after the establishment of the printing-press, books, except in
the hands of the scholar, continued to be a kind of curiosity, like
other objects of art: less an intellectual need than a treasure upon
which rich men prided themselves. It was not until the middle of the
seventeenth century that the taste for books became a taste for
reading. France led the way in this new fashion, which was assiduously
cultivated in those Parisian _salons_ of which Madame de Rambouillet's
is the recognized type. The possession of a library, hitherto the
privilege of kings, of wealthy monasteries, or of some distinguished
patron of letters like Grolier, Maioli, or de Thou, now came to be
regarded as a necessity of every gentleman's establishment. Beautiful
bindings were still highly valued, and some of the most wonderful work
produced in France belongs to the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries; but as people began to buy books for the sake of what they
contained, less exaggerated importance was attached to their exterior,
so that bindings, though perfect as taste and skill could make them,
were seldom as extravagantly enriched as in the two preceding
centuries. Up to a certain point this change was not to be regretted:
the mediæval book, with its gold or ivory bas-reliefs bordered with
precious stones, and its massive jewelled clasps, was more like a
monstrance or reliquary than anything meant for less ceremonious use.
It remained for the Italian printers and binders of the sixteenth
century, and for their French imitators, to adapt the form of the book
to its purpose, changing, as it were, a jewelled idol to a human
companion.
[Illustration: _PLATE XLVIII._
SMALL LIBRARY AT AUDLEY END, ENGLAND. XVIII CENTURY.]
The substitution of the octavo for the folio, and certain
modifications in binding which made it possible to stand books upright
instead of laying one above the other with edges outward, gradually
gave to the library a more modern aspect. In France, by the middle of
the seventeenth century, the library had come to be a recognized
feature in private houses. The Renaissance _cabinet_ continued to be
the common receptacle for books; but as the shelves were no longer
concealed, bindings now contributed to the decoration of the room.
Movable bookcases were not unknown, but these seem to have been merely
presses in which wooden door-panels were replaced by glass or by a
lattice-work of brass wire. The typical French bookcase _à deux
corps_--that is, made in two separate parts, the lower a cupboard to
contain prints and folios, the upper with shelves and glazed or
latticed doors--was introduced later, and is still the best model for
a movable bookcase. In rooms of any importance, however, the French
architect always preferred to build his book-shelves into niches
formed in the thickness of the wall, thus utilizing the books as part
of his scheme of decoration.
There is no doubt that this is not only the most practical, but the
most decorative, way of housing any collection of books large enough
to be so employed. To adorn the walls of a library, and then conceal
their ornamentation by expensive bookcases, is a waste, or rather a
misapplication, of effects--always a sin against æsthetic principles.
The importance of bookbindings as an element in house-decoration has
already been touched upon; but since a taste for good bindings has
come to be regarded as a collector's fad, like accumulating
snuff-boxes or _baisers-de-paix_, it seems needful to point out how
obvious and valuable a means of decoration is lost by disregarding the
outward appearance of books. To be decorative, a bookcase need not
contain the productions of the master-binders,--old volumes by Eve and
Derôme, or the work of Roger Payne and Sanderson,--unsurpassed as they
are in color-value. Ordinary bindings of half morocco or vellum form
an expanse of warm lustrous color; such bindings are comparatively
inexpensive; yet people will often hesitate to pay for a good edition
bound in plain levant half the amount they are ready to throw away
upon a piece of modern Saxe or a silver photograph-frame.
The question of binding leads incidentally to that of editions, though
the latter is hardly within the scope of this book. People who have
begun to notice the outside of their books naturally come to
appreciate paper and type; and thus learn that the modern book is too
often merely the cheapest possible vehicle for putting words into
print. The last few years have brought about some improvement; and it
is now not unusual for a publisher, in bringing out a book at the
ordinary rates, to produce also a small edition in large-paper copies.
These large-paper books, though as yet far from perfect in type and
make-up, are superior to the average "commercial article"; and, apart
from their artistic merit, are in themselves a good investment, since
the value of such editions increases steadily year by year. Those who
cannot afford both edition and binding will do better to buy
large-paper books or current first editions in boards, than
"handsomely bound" volumes unworthy in type and paper. The plain paper
or buckram covers of a good publisher are, in fact, more decorative,
because more artistic, than showy tree-calf or "antique morocco."
The same principle applies to the library itself: plain shelves filled
with good editions in good bindings are more truly decorative than
ornate bookcases lined with tawdry books.
It has already been pointed out that the plan of building book-shelves
into the walls is the most decorative and the most practical (see
Plate XLVIII). The best examples of this treatment are found in
France. The walls of the rooms thus decorated were usually of panelled
wood, either in natural oak or walnut, as in the beautiful library of
the old university at Nancy, or else painted in two contrasting
colors, such as gray and white. When not set in recesses, the shelves
formed a sort of continuous lining around the walls, as in the library
of Louis XVI in the palace at Versailles (see Plate XLVII), or in that
of the Duc de Choiseul at Chanteloup, now set up in one of the rooms
of the public library at Tours.
In either case, instead of being detached pieces of furniture, the
bookcases formed an organic part of the wall-decoration. Any study of
old French works on house-decoration and furniture will show how
seldom the detached bookcase was used in French libraries: but few
models are to be found, and these were probably designed for use in
the boudoir or study, rather than in the library proper (see bookcase
in Plate V).
In England, where private libraries were fewer and less extensive, the
movable bookcase was much used, and examples of built-in shelves are
proportionately rarer. The hand-books of the old English
cabinet-makers contain innumerable models of handsome bookcases, with
glazed doors set with diamond-shaped panes in wooden mouldings, and
the familiar broken pediment surmounted by a bust or an urn. It was
natural that where books were few, small bookcases should be preferred
to a room lined with shelves; and in the seventeenth century,
according to John Evelyn, the "three nations of Great Britain"
contained fewer books than Paris.
Almost all the old bookcases had one feature in common: that is, the
lower cupboard with solid doors. The bookcase proper rested upon this
projecting cupboard, thus raising the books above the level of the
furniture. The prevalent fashion of low book-shelves, starting from
the floor, and not extending much higher than the dado-moulding, has
probably been brought about by the other recent fashion of
low-studded rooms. Architects are beginning to rediscover the
forgotten fact that the stud of a room should be regulated by the
dimensions of its floor-space; so that in the newer houses the dwarf
bookcase is no longer a necessity. It is certainly less convenient
than the tall old-fashioned press; for not only must one kneel to
reach the lower shelves, but the books are hidden, and access to them
is obstructed, by their being on a level with the furniture.
The general decoration of the library should be of such character as
to form a background or setting to the books, rather than to distract
attention from them. The richly adorned room in which books are but a
minor incident is, in fact, no library at all. There is no reason why
the decorations of a library should not be splendid; but in that case
the books must be splendid too, and sufficient in number to dominate
all the accessory decorations of the room.
When there are books enough, it is best to use them as part of the
decorative treatment of the walls, panelling any intervening spaces in
a severe and dignified style; otherwise movable bookcases may be
placed against the more important wall-spaces, the walls being
decorated with wooden panelling or with mouldings and stucco
ornaments; but in this case composition and color-scheme must be so
subdued as to throw the bookcases and their contents into marked
relief. It does not follow that because books are the chief feature of
the library, other ornaments should be excluded; but they should be
used with discrimination, and so chosen as to harmonize with the
spirit of the room. Nowhere is the modern litter of knick-knacks and
photographs more inappropriate than in the library. The tables should
be large, substantial, and clear of everything but lamps, books and
papers--one table at least being given over to the filing of books
and newspapers. The library writing-table is seldom large enough, or
sufficiently free from odds and ends in the shape of photograph-frames,
silver boxes, and flower-vases, to give free play to the elbows. A
large solid table of the kind called _bureau-ministre_ (see the table
in Plate XLVII) is well adapted to the library; and in front of it
should stand a comfortable writing-chair such as that represented in
Plate XLIX.
[Illustration: _PLATE XLIX._
WRITING-CHAIR, LOUIS XV PERIOD.]
The housing of a great private library is one of the most interesting
problems of interior architecture. Such a room, combining monumental
dimensions with the rich color-values and impressive effect produced
by tiers of fine bindings, affords unequalled opportunity for the
exercise of the architect's skill. The two-storied room with gallery
and stairs and domed or vaulted ceiling is the finest setting for a
great collection. Space may of course be gained by means of a series
of bookcases projecting into the room and forming deep bays along each
of the walls; but this arrangement is seldom necessary save in a
public library, and however skilfully handled must necessarily
diminish the architectural effect of the room. In America the great
private library is still so much a thing of the future that its
treatment need not be discussed in detail. Few of the large houses
lately built in the United States contain a library in the serious
meaning of the term; but it is to be hoped that the next generation of
architects will have wider opportunities in this direction.
The smoking-room proper, with its _mise en scène_ of Turkish divans,
narghilehs, brass coffee-trays, and other Oriental properties, is no
longer considered a necessity in the modern house; and the room which
would formerly have been used for this special purpose now comes
rather under the head of the master's lounging-room, or "den"--since
the latter word seems to have attained the dignity of a technical
term.
Whatever extravagances the upholsterer may have committed in other
parts of the house, it is usually conceded that common sense should
regulate the furnishing of the den. Fragile chairs, lace-petticoat
lamp-shades and irrelevant bric-à-brac are consequently excluded; and
the master's sense of comfort often expresses itself in a set of
"office" furniture--a roller-top desk, a revolving chair, and others
of the puffy type already described as the accepted model of a
luxurious seat. Thus freed from the superfluous, the den is likely to
be the most comfortable room in the house; and the natural inference
is that a room, in order to be comfortable, must be ugly. One can
picture the derision of the man who is told that he might, without the
smallest sacrifice of comfort or convenience, transact his business at
a Louis XVI writing-table, seated in a Louis XVI chair!--yet the
handsomest desks of the last century--the fine old _bureaux à la
Kaunitz_ or _à cylindre_--were the prototypes of the modern
"roller-top"; and the cane or leather-seated writing-chair, with
rounded back and five slim strong legs, was far more comfortable than
the amorphous revolving seat. Convenience was not sacrificed to beauty
in either desk or chair; but both the old pieces, being designed by
skilled cabinet-makers, were as decorative as they were useful. There
seems, in fact, no reason why the modern den should not resemble the
financiers' _bureaux_ seen in so many old prints: rooms of dignified
plainness, but where each line of wall-panelling and furniture was as
carefully studied and intelligently adapted to its ends as though
intended for a drawing-room or boudoir.
Reference has been made to the way in which, even in small houses, a
room may be sacrificed to a supposed "effect," or to some inherited
tradition as to its former use. Thus the family drawing-room is too
often made uninhabitable from some vague feeling that a "drawing-room"
is not worthy of its name unless too fine to sit in; while the small
front room on the ground floor--in the average American house the only
corner given over to the master--is thrown into the hall, either that
the house may appear larger and handsomer, or from sheer inability to
make so small a room habitable.
There is no reason why even a ten-by-twelve or an eight-by-fourteen
foot room should not be made comfortable; and the following
suggestions are intended to indicate the lines on which an appropriate
scheme of decoration might be carried out.
In most town houses the small room down-stairs is built with an
opening in the longitudinal wall, close to the front door, while there
is usually another entrance at the back of the room, facing the
window; one at least of these openings being, as a rule, of
exaggerated width. In such cases the door in the side of the room
should be walled up: this gives privacy and provides enough additional
wall-space for a good-sized piece of furniture.
The best way of obtaining an effect of size is to panel the walls by
means of clear-cut architectural mouldings: a few strong vertical
lines will give dignity to the room and height to the ceiling. The
walls should be free from pattern and light in color, since dark walls
necessitate much artificial light, and have the disadvantage of making
a room look small.
The ceiling, if not plain, must be ornamented with the lightest
tracery, and supported by a cornice correspondingly simple in design.
Heavy ceiling-mouldings are obviously out of place in a small room,
and a plain expanse of plaster is always preferable to misapplied
ornament.
A single curtain made of some flexible material, such as corduroy or
thin unlined damask, and so hung that it may be readily drawn back
during the day, is sufficient for the window; while in a corner near
this window may be placed an easy-chair and a small solidly made
table, large enough to hold a lamp and a book or two.