The fireplace wants to be all aglow, the wind rising, the night heavy
and black above, but light with sifting snow on the earth, a background
of inclemency for the illumined room with its pictured walls, tables
heaped with books, capacious easy-chairs and their occupants,--it needs,
I say, to glow and throw its rays far through the crystal of the broad
windows, in order that we may rightly appreciate the relation of the
wide-jambed chimney to domestic architecture in our climate. We fell to
talking about it; and, as is usual when the conversation is professedly
on one subject, we wandered all around it. The young lady staying with
us was roasting chestnuts in the ashes, and the frequent explosions
required considerable attention. The mistress, too, sat somewhat alert,
ready to rise at any instant and minister to the fancied want of this or
that guest, forgetting the reposeful truth that people about a fireside
will not have any wants if they are not suggested. The worst of them,
if they desire anything, only want something hot, and that later in the
evening. And it is an open question whether you ought to associate with
people who want that.
I was saying that nothing had been so slow in its progress in the
world as domestic architecture. Temples, palaces, bridges, aqueducts,
cathedrals, towers of marvelous delicacy and strength, grew to
perfection while the common people lived in hovels, and the richest
lodged in the most gloomy and contracted quarters. The dwelling-house
is a modern institution. It is a curious fact that it has only improved
with the social elevation of women. Men were never more brilliant in
arms and letters than in the age of Elizabeth, and yet they had no
homes. They made themselves thick-walled castles, with slits in the
masonry for windows, for defense, and magnificent banquet-halls for
pleasure; the stone rooms into which they crawled for the night were
often little better than dog-kennels. The Pompeians had no comfortable
night-quarters. The most singular thing to me, however, is that,
especially interested as woman is in the house, she has never done
anything for architecture. And yet woman is reputed to be an ingenious
creature.
HERBERT. I doubt if woman has real ingenuity; she has great
adaptability. I don't say that she will do the same thing twice
alike, like a Chinaman, but she is most cunning in suiting herself to
circumstances.
THE FIRE-TENDER. Oh, if you speak of constructive, creative ingenuity,
perhaps not; but in the higher ranges of achievement--that of
accomplishing any purpose dear to her heart, for instance--her ingenuity
is simply incomprehensible to me.
HERBERT. Yes, if you mean doing things by indirection.
THE MISTRESS. When you men assume all the direction, what else is left
to us?
THE FIRE-TENDER. Did you ever see a woman refurnish a house?
THE YOUNG LADY STAYING WITH US. I never saw a man do it, unless he was
burned out of his rookery.
HERBERT. There is no comfort in new things.
THE FIRE-TENDER (not noticing the interruption). Having set her mind
on a total revolution of the house, she buys one new thing, not too
obtrusive, nor much out of harmony with the old. The husband scarcely
notices it, least of all does he suspect the revolution, which she
already has accomplished. Next, some article that does look a little
shabby beside the new piece of furniture is sent to the garret, and its
place is supplied by something that will match in color and effect. Even
the man can see that it ought to match, and so the process goes on, it
may be for years, it may be forever, until nothing of the old is left,
and the house is transformed as it was predetermined in the woman's
mind. I doubt if the man ever understands how or when it was done; his
wife certainly never says anything about the refurnishing, but quietly
goes on to new conquests.
THE MISTRESS. And is n't it better to buy little by little, enjoying
every new object as you get it, and assimilating each article to your
household life, and making the home a harmonious expression of your own
taste, rather than to order things in sets, and turn your house, for the
time being, into a furniture ware-room?
THE FIRE-TENDER. Oh, I only spoke of the ingenuity of it.
THE YOUNG LADY. For my part, I never can get acquainted with more than
one piece of furniture at a time.
HERBERT. I suppose women are our superiors in artistic taste, and I
fancy that I can tell whether a house is furnished by a woman or a
man; of course, I mean the few houses that appear to be the result of
individual taste and refinement,--most of them look as if they had been
furnished on contract by the upholsterer.
THE MISTRESS. Woman's province in this world is putting things to
rights.
HERBERT. With a vengeance, sometimes. In the study, for example. My
chief objection to woman is that she has no respect for the newspaper,
or the printed page, as such. She is Siva, the destroyer. I have noticed
that a great part of a married man's time at home is spent in trying to
find the things he has put on his study-table.
THE YOUNG LADY. Herbert speaks with the bitterness of a bachelor shut
out of paradise. It is my experience that if women did not destroy the
rubbish that men bring into the house, it would become uninhabitable,
and need to be burned down every five years.
THE FIRE-TENDER. I confess women do a great deal for the appearance of
things. When the mistress is absent, this room, although everything is
here as it was before, does not look at all like the same place; it is
stiff, and seems to lack a soul. When she returns, I can see that her
eye, even while greeting me, takes in the situation at a glance.
While she is talking of the journey, and before she has removed her
traveling-hat, she turns this chair and moves that, sets one piece of
furniture at a different angle, rapidly, and apparently unconsciously,
shifts a dozen little knick-knacks and bits of color, and the room is
transformed. I couldn't do it in a week.
THE MISTRESS. That is the first time I ever knew a man admit he couldn't
do anything if he had time.
HERBERT. Yet with all their peculiar instinct for making a home, women
make themselves very little felt in our domestic architecture.
THE MISTRESS. Men build most of the houses in what might be called the
ready-made-clothing style, and we have to do the best we can with them;
and hard enough it is to make cheerful homes in most of them. You will
see something different when the woman is constantly consulted in the
plan of the house.
HERBERT. We might see more difference if women would give any attention
to architecture. Why are there no women architects?
THE FIRE-TENDER. Want of the ballot, doubtless. It seems to me that here
is a splendid opportunity for woman to come to the front.
THE YOUNG LADY. They have no desire to come to the front; they would
rather manage things where they are.
THE FIRE-TENDER. If they would master the noble art, and put their
brooding taste upon it, we might very likely compass something in our
domestic architecture that we have not yet attained. The outside of our
houses needs attention as well as the inside. Most of them are as ugly
as money can build.
THE YOUNG LADY. What vexes me most is, that women, married women, have
so easily consented to give up open fires in their houses.
HERBERT. They dislike the dust and the bother. I think that women rather
like the confined furnace heat.
THE FIRE-TENDER. Nonsense; it is their angelic virtue of submission. We
wouldn't be hired to stay all-day in the houses we build.
THE YOUNG LADY. That has a very chivalrous sound, but I know there will
be no reformation until women rebel and demand everywhere the open fire.
HERBERT. They are just now rebelling about something else; it seems to
me yours is a sort of counter-movement, a fire in the rear.
THE MISTRESS. I'll join that movement. The time has come when woman must
strike for her altars and her fires.
HERBERT. Hear, hear!
THE MISTRESS. Thank you, Herbert. I applauded you once, when you
declaimed that years ago in the old Academy. I remember how eloquently
you did it.
HERBERT. Yes, I was once a spouting idiot.
Just then the door-bell rang, and company came in. And the company
brought in a new atmosphere, as company always does, something of the
disturbance of out-doors, and a good deal of its healthy cheer. The
direct news that the thermometer was approaching zero, with a hopeful
prospect of going below it, increased to liveliness our satisfaction in
the fire. When the cider was heated in the brown stone pitcher, there
was difference of opinion whether there should be toast in it; some
were for toast, because that was the old-fashioned way, and others were
against it, "because it does not taste good" in cider. Herbert said
there, was very little respect left for our forefathers.
More wood was put on, and the flame danced in a hundred fantastic
shapes. The snow had ceased to fall, and the moonlight lay in silvery
patches among the trees in the ravine. The conversation became worldly.