ODDS AND ENDS OF DECORATION.
It seems a pity that sofas and chairs made of straw or bamboo should not
be more used than they are. I mean, used as they come from the maker's
hands, _not_ painted or gilded, and becushioned and bedizened into
hopeless vulgarity. They are only admissible _au naturel_, and should
stand upon their own merits. Those we have as yet attempted to make in
England are exceedingly weak and ugly compared with the same sort of
thing from other countries. In Madeira, for instance, the chairs,
baskets, and even tables, are very superior in strength and durability,
as well as in correctness of outline, to those made in England; and when
we go further off, to the East, we find a still greater improvement in
furniture made of bamboo. Here is a chair (Fig. 23), of a pattern
familiar to all travellers on the P. and O. boats, and whose
acquaintance I first made in Ceylon. It is essentially a gentleman's
chair, however, and as such is sinking into an honoured and happy old
age in the dingy recesses of a London smoking-room. Without the
side-wings, which serve equally for a table or leg-rest, and with the
seat elongated and slightly depressed, such a chair makes a delicious,
cool lounge for a lady's use in a verandah.
[Illustration: FIG. 23.]
Then here (Fig. 24) is a Chinese sofa made of bamboo which, in its own
country, would probably not be encumbered with cushions, for they can be
removed at pleasure. Where, however, there is no particular inducement
to use cane or bamboo, then it would be better to have made by the
village carpenter a settee--or settle, which is the real word--something
like this. The form is, at all events correct; and in a private
sitting-room, furnished and fitted to match, the effect would be a
thousand times better than the modern couches, which are so often padded
and stuffed into deformity.
[Illustration: FIG. 24.]
Nothing can be simpler than the lines of the design, as is seen in this
drawing (Fig 25B), without the cushions; and it would come within the
scope of the most modest upholstering genius. In one's own little
den--which, by the way, I should _never_ myself dignify by the name of
boudoir, a word signifying a place to idle and sulk in, instead of a
retreat in which to be busy and comfortable--such odds and ends of
furniture, so long as there be one distinct feeling running through
it all, are far more characteristic than commonplace sofas and chairs.
If one _must_ have large armchairs in a boudoir, or in a bed-room, here
is one (Fig. 26) which is big enough in all conscience, and yet would go
more harmoniously with an old-fashioned room than any fat and dumpy
modern chair. If, on the other hand, the house in general, and this
particular room, chances to be essentially in the style of the present
day, then you would naturally choose some of the comfortable modern
easy-chairs, taking care to avoid the shapes which are a mass of padded
and cushioned excrescences. But modern armchairs can be very pretty, and
I know several which are low and long, and straight and unassuming, and
which yet preserve quite a good distinct outline. Such chairs as these
are a sort of half-way house between bed and board, between absolute
rest and uncomplaining unrest; famous places for thinking, for watching,
for chatting, and, above all, for dozing.
[Illustration: FIG. 25A.]
[Illustration: FIG. 25B.]
The bed-rooms I am thinking of and writing about have, we must bear in
mind, a certain element of the bower or boudoir or private sitting-room
in them, and so I must stand excused for a suggestion about a place for
books or music. Here is a delightful corner for a piano (Fig. 27), but
sometimes such a thing is out of the question, and it is only possible
to find space for a few shelves. These can always be made suitable and
pretty either of a simple old form in plainest oak to match the severe
lines of an old-fashioned room, or of deal painted black, varnished,
with a gilt line grooved in front, and a bit of bright leather to go
with a more modern room. To my mind books are always the best ornaments
in any room, and I never feel at home in any place until my beloved and
often shabby old friends are unpacked and ranged in their recess. I once
extemporised a capital book case out of a blocked-up window, and with, a
tiny scrap of looking-glass let in where the arch of the window began
its spring, and filled by some old bowls of coarse but capital old
china, whose gaudy colours could only be looked at safely from a
distance.
[Illustration: FIG. 26.]
As time goes on, one is sure, in such a beloved little den, to
accumulate a great deal of rubbish dear, perhaps, only to the owner for
the sake of association. Which of us has not, at some tender time of our
lives, regarded a withered flower, or valueless pebble, as our great
earthly treasure? So, in later days, a plate, a cup, a pipe will be
precious, perhaps, to one as mementoes of the place and companions where
and with whom it was bought. But if such trifles, though too dear to be
laid aside, are yet not intrinsically good enough to form part of a
collection, and to take a prominent share in decoration, then I would
either stand them aside on a little _étagère_ like that to be found on
page 79, or else get the carpenter to put up graduated shelves, which
may be quite pure and simple in taste and yet suit the rest of the
room. This (Fig. 28) is a capital valuable hint to keep photographs or
prints at hand, and yet in safety. Take my advice, and don't have fringe
or mock lace, or gilt nails at the edges by way of decoration. Have a
nice piece of wood, walnut, oak, even varnished pine, if you choose,
neatly finished off at the edge, or, if it suits the rest of the room,
black, with a little narrow gilt line in a depression. I think something
ingenious might be done with Japanese tea-trays, taking care to choose
good designs.
[Illustration: FIG. 27.]
The worst of such a dear delightful den as I am imagining, or rather
describing, is the tendency of the most incongruous possessions to
accumulate themselves in it as time goes on. What do you think of a
pitcher like this (Fig. 29) standing in one corner, just because, though
of common ware, and rather coarsely modelled, the colour of the
earthen-ware is delicious in tone, and the design bold and free? It was
brought from South America, and cost only six shillings, or thereabouts,
but if it had cost as many pounds it could not have been more thoroughly
in harmony with the surroundings of its new home.
[Illustration: FIG. 28.]
One hint may not be out of place here, and that is with respect to
table-covers. Many people are fond of covering up writing-tables, and
every occasional table, with a cloth; and these draped tables are
generally great eyesores in an ill-arranged room. The covers seldom
harmonise, and now-a-days many hideous pieces of work are accomplished
in the name of the School of Art which are far removed from the artistic
and beautiful designs which alone proceed from the School itself. There
indeed you may find patterns which would go beautifully with any
old-time furniture, and which might be worked on deliciously neutral
tints of cloth or serge. But beware of staring, gaudy table-covers, of
shabby material, of which the best that can be hoped is that they may
speedily fade into better harmony. The Queen Anne tables were never
intended by their designer to be covered up by drapery. They are
generally inlaid in delicate designs, which it would be a sin to
conceal; nor could we afford to lose the slender grace of the legs. The
clumsy, ill-finished cheap table of the present day is all the better
for a cover, and wonders may be done in improving a bare, cold,
unhappy-looking room, by a good table-cover here and there, or a nicely
embroidered sofa-pillow of cloth or satin, or, better still, one of
those lovely new low screens, with the tall tufts of grass or lilies
which we owe to Walter Crane's skilful pencil.
[Illustration: FIG. 29.]
I confess I like a room to look as if it were inhabited, and that is the
only drawback that the rooms furnished in the seventeenth century style
have in my eyes. You scarcely ever feel as if any one lived in
them--there are seldom any signs of occupation, especially feminine
occupation, lying about, no "litter," in fact; litter being a powerful
weapon in the hands of a person who knows how to make a room look
comfortable. Then I am told that litter is incongruous in a Queen Anne
room, for that the women of those days had not the same modes of
employment as ourselves. The greatest ladies, if they were blessed with
an energetic temperament, only gave it free scope with their medicine
chest or in their still-room or linen closet; while the lazy ones were
obliged to dawdle away a good deal of their time in bed or at their
elaborate toilettes. But still I am always longing to overlay a little
of the modish primness of the distant days we are now copying, with
something of this busy nineteenth century's tokens of a love of art or
literature. And in a room with any claim to a distinct individuality of
its own, this would always be the case.