CHAPTER IX.

THE SPARE ROOM.

Perhaps the kindliest and wisest advice with regard to a spare room,

would be the same as _Punch's_ famous counsel to young people about to

marry--a short and emphatic "Don't." In a large country house, perhaps

even in a small country house, the case is different, for the spare room

too often represents all the social variety which the owners can hope

for, from year's end to year's end--and the only change from town life

possible to half the bees in the great hive. It is scarcely possible to

imagine an English country house, be it ever so humble, without its

spare room, or the warm cordial welcome which would be sure to greet its

succeeding inhabitants. How fresh and sweet and dainty do its simple

appointments look to jaded eyes! how grateful its deep stillness to

world-deafened ears! How impossible, in a brief summer week, to believe

that life can ever be found dull or monotonous amid such delicious calm!

A walk in the gloaming in a country lane,--always supposing it is not

too muddy--a cup of milk fresh from the cow, a crust off the home-baked

loaf, are all treats of the first order to the tired cockney. I have

often noticed the sort of half-pitying, half-contemptuous amazement with

which my country hostess has beheld my delight at being installed in her

spare room, my rapture at the sight of meadows and trees, or the sound

of cawing rooks and the whirr of mowing machines. And how fresh and

clean ought this country spare room to look! How inexcusable would be

stain or spot, or evil odour amid such fragrant surroundings! Why should

not the sheets _always_ smell of lavender (as a matter of fact, they do

not, I regret to state)? why should not there be _always_ a jar of dried

rose-leaves somewhere "around," as our dear, epigrammatic, Yankee

cousins say?

[Illustration: FIG. 31.]

I do not think I really like silks and satins anywhere; I acknowledge

that they fill me with a respectful admiration and awe for a short

space, but that soon wears off, and my accidental splendour bores me all

the rest of the time I have to dwell with it. No, the sort of

guest-chamber which I love to occupy in the country is as simple as

simple can be, and not so crowded with furniture, but that a little

space is left here and there where a box can be placed without its

intruding itself as a nuisance for which one feels constantly impelled

to apologise. If I am so fortunate as to find in a corner of my room a

little frame, about two feet high made by the village carpenter, or the

big boys of the household, for this box to stand on, then, indeed, I

know what luxury means. You have your box so much more under your

control if it is raised a little from the floor, and it is ever so much

easier to pack and unpack. The taste and characteristics of the owners

of the house, which you may be sure is to be found in all their

surroundings, is never more apparent than in the spare room. Sometimes

your hostess tries to make you happy with looking-glasses, and I have

shudderingly dwelt in a room with five large mirrors and sundry smaller

ones; or else you are abashed to find how many gowns there is space for,

and how few you have brought. But this extreme is better than the other:

I have had to keep my draperies on all the available chairs in the room

because I was afraid to open and shut the diminutive drawers of an

exquisite, aged coffre which was provided for their reception. Beautiful

as was this article of furniture, I would gladly have changed it for the

commonest deal chest of drawers, long before the week was out. In spare

rooms, as in all other rooms, money is not everything. It will not

always buy taste, nor even comfort. Doubtless many of my readers who may

happen to have led as varied a life as mine has been, will agree with me

in the assertion, that as far as actual _comfort_ goes, they have often

possessed it in a greater degree under a very humble roof-tree, than

beneath many a more splendid shelter. Everybody has their "little ways"

(some of them very tiresome and odd, I admit), and there are splendid

spare rooms in which apparently no margin has been left, no indulgence

shown, for any little individualities.

I should not be an Englishwoman writing to other Englishwomen if I did

not take it for granted that we all desire most ardently that our guests

should be thoroughly comfortable in their own rooms as well as happy in

our society, and so I venture to suggest that visitors should not be

fettered by too many rules, that, however homely the plenishing of the

guest-chamber must needs be, it should never lack a few fresh flowers, a

place to write (Fig. 31), pen and ink, a tiny table which can be moved

about at pleasure, a dark blind for the window, and such trifles which

often make the difference between comfort and discomfort, between a

homelike feeling directly one arrives, and the incessant consciousness

of being "on a visit."

But with regard to spare rooms in a town house, what advice can be given

beyond and except that horrid "don't"? Especially true is this in

London. No one has the least idea how many affectionate relations he

possesses until he has an empty bed-room in a London house. It would

almost appear as if such things as hotels and lodgings had ceased to

exist, so incessant, so importunate are the entreaties to be "put up"

for a couple of nights. And let me say here that visitors will prove

much more of a tax in London than they ever are in the country. For

rural visitors scarcely ever seem to realise or comprehend how

methodically mapped out is the life of a professional man living in

London, how precious are to him the quiet early hours which they insist

upon leaving behind them in the solitude of the country. Speaking as a

London hostess, I may conscientiously assert that the guests who have

kept me up latest at night, who have voted breakfast at 9.30

unreasonably early (without considering it was a whole hour later than

our usual time) have been those people who ordinarily led the quietest

and most clock-work existence in their country home. I will say nothing

here of the impossibility of inducing them to regard distance or

cab-hire as presenting any objection worth consideration in their

incessant hunt after the bargains erroneously supposed by them to be

obtainable in every shop. I have been scolded roundly by country

visitors for keeping early hours and leading a quiet life in London, and

I have never succeeded in impressing on them that in order to get

through a great deal of hard work, both my husband and I found it

necessary to do both.

To a professional man, with a small income, the institution of a spare

room may be regarded as an income tax of several shillings in the pound.

It is even worse than that; it means being forced to take in a

succession of lodgers who don't pay, who are generally amazingly

inconsiderate and _exigeante_, and who expect to be amused and advised,

chaperoned and married, and even nursed and buried. It is inconceivable

upon what slender grounds, or for what far-fetched reasons, your distant

acquaintance, or your--compared to yourself--rich relation, will

unhesitatingly demand your hospitality. And oh, my unknown friends, how

often are we tempted to say yes to the well-to-do relation who asks the

question of us, and to find an excuse to shut out the poor one who

really needs it? Ah how often?

It is really a trial to be unable to receive one's nearest kith and kin,

one's sailor brother or sister home from India, because "we have no

spare room," yet that very beginning, natural and delightful as it is,

cheerfully and laughingly borne as the little privations it entails may

be, is often the beginning of a stream of self-invited guests who

literally worry us, if they don't exactly "eat us," out of house and

home.

THE END.

LONDON: R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, BREAD STREET HILL.

[Illustration:

DESIGNER IN PORCELAIN & GLASS

JOHN MORTLOCK

ESTAB^D. 1746

POTTERY GALLERIES

203 & 204 OXFORD STREET.

31 ORCHARD STREET.

LONDON, W.]

THE OLD POTTERY GALLERIES.

BY SPECIAL APPOINTMENT TO

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* * * * *

TRANSCRIBER NOTES:

Missing punctuation has been added and obvious punctuation errors

have been corrected.

Archaic words, mis-spellings and printer errors have been retained.

Footnote has been moved closer to its reference point.

Illustrations have been moved to accommodate the flow of text.

The Bedroom and Boudoir · 第 9 / 9 章