88 
House & Garden 
PAGES from a 
DECORATOR’S DIARY 
R OBERT HENRI, the painter, says that once 
■ when he was lecturing, someone in his audi¬ 
ence made a statement that art was only for the 
rich, and he told the story of a janitor he had 
once had who one day asked him to look at a 
picture he had done of his best girl. The moment 
he saw the picture he realized the janitor was an 
artist, and arranged for him. to go to a free 
night class, which he was instructing at the time. 
Later, the janitor became a butler to a very rich 
man, where he had enough leisure to paint. The 
rich man paid a dealer to make a collection of 
old masters for him. “Now, who,” asked Mr. 
Henri, “owned those pictures,— 
the butler or the millionaire? 
The butler owned them inas- 
much as he could appreciate 
them, just as I own a fine lot 
of paintings at the Metropolitan, 
because I have the ability to 
receive them. I also own a 
magnificent collection of Goyas 
and Velasquezes in Madrid. I 
own all the beautiful things in the world that I can 
appreciate and I shall always own them.” 
Henri says that he considers the most important 
thing in the world is to have toys and play with 
them, and to keep collecting more toys if you can 
really play with them. 
Which is sound wisdom. Beauty is not alone a 
thing to admire—to sit and be enraptured by; it is 
a thing to frolic with. And one frolics to her 
capacity for understanding beauty. 
Too many of us consider beauty in the home a 
subject for veneration by the family and for exhi¬ 
bition to one’s friends. Beauty would be bed¬ 
fellow and mate at table. Many of the old 
mystics made playthings of divine subjects. They 
possessed them—sun and moon and stars and 
Sister Wind and Brother Rain. Their relationship 
to them was that of a child to its toys. So 
should be our attitude toward all beauty. 
ANOTHER knowledgeable butler I once en- 
•li. countered had a real flair for old silver. I 
was lunching one day at Sunninghill Park, the 
lovely old house of the Benjamin Guinnesses at 
Ascot, when I spoke of the beauty of the old 
rat tail spoons. Mr. Guinness said, “If you are 
interested in old silver, come into the pantry, and 
look at some extraordinary bits.” We went in, 
and the butler brought out the flannel bags, each 
containing some rare English or Irish piece. Mr. 
Guinness constantly deferred to the butler’s 
knowledge as to the hall marks and dates, and 
histories. You could see the tremendous respect 
and affection existing between master and man, 
because of their mutual reverence for beautiful 
things, things of romance and dignified age. 
Oh, would that my tongue could 
utter the thoughts that arise in me 
when I meet the man who feels him¬ 
self superior to taste, the red-blooded 
American who takes his beauty, like 
his meat, raw! The only kind of 
silver that interests him is the trophy 
variety—a lumpy silver cup, or a 
silver box, or something that adver¬ 
tises his prowess—and advertises it 
in very bad lettering, usually. It is 
refreshing to meet a man who admits the charm 
of objects, who frequents auctions and antique 
shops, who collects his own prints and books and 
pictures instead of paying someone to do it for 
him. We have many such men in America, but 
they are in the minority. The majority are 
satisfied with displaying their animals’ heads and 
horns and stuffed birds and fish. Such things 
proclaim them conquerors. They still feel the 
need of the coon-skin nailed on the cabin door. 
W HEN does one’s house become one’s home? 
George Moore reveals his feeling charmingly 
in his “Salve,” when he describes the trials of 
moving from London to Dublin: “All the usual 
inconvenience was endured, and it was not until 
a fortnight later that my Aubusson carpet was 
Unrolled in the drawing-room one afternoon about 
two o’clock, Ai’s leisure hour after dinner.” 
I have been wondering what my household 
gods really are. I love so many of my belong¬ 
ings, I am torn with doubt. I too have an Aubus¬ 
son rug that must be unrolled before I shall be 
chez moi, but there are other equally beloved 
things that must live for awhile in unfinished 
rooms. I think the real thrill of being at last at 
home will come to me when all my books are 
unpacked and arranged. I have moved many 
times, but always I remember the arranging of the 
books came first—before curtains or pictures or 
flowers in the vases. I have a system that makes 
it impossible for any servant to arrange books 
for me. I don’t arrange them by subject at all, but 
by their “backs,” whether they be tall or short, 
or bright or dull. I like my 
books to be a brilliant mosaic, 
very tall ones beside tiny ones, 
and then middle-sized ones, and 
I mix the bright red ones and 
gilt ones and white ones in after 
the others are placed, as one 
sticks a few last flowers into a 
huge bouquet where they will 
look best. When their bright 
pattern satisfies me, then Home is achieved. 
O NE of the most interesting houses in New 
York is that of Robert W. Chandler, the 
mural painter, in East Nineteenth Street. It is 
really two houses in one, with interlocking floors, 
and mysterious passages and two staircases, and 
two front doors. It is rather overwhelming in 
its wealth of decoration—a veritable musee of 
decoration, for each room is a different exposition 
of his marvelous imagination. The newest room 
is a bedroom, done from an ancient Bokhara 
robe that some one brought him from 
Persia. The walls are painted in 
vertical stripes, violet and yellow and 
red, about six inches wide. The ceil¬ 
ing has a fond of pale yellow, and 
great flower-like circles of violet and 
red and yellow cover it. These stripes 
and circles are exact enlargements of 
the design of the old robe, and the 
texture of the woven silk is indicated 
in the painting. There is no furniture 
in the room except the great bed, 
which is built on a dais, dais and bed being 
painted light green and covered with stars and 
suns and moons, marvelous constellations in many 
blues. There is a red silk bedspread, and three 
of Mr. Chandler’s extraordinary screens in the 
corners of the room—nothing more. He says 
there was never a pleasanter room to wake up in, 
that he is always cheerful and eager for work 
after a few moments of this oriental color. 
Now, I sha’n’t be happy until he paints a room 
from the old Spanish shawl that hangs in h s 
living room—an ivory colored shawl covered with 
miraculous flowers of a thousand 
pinks and reds, and an occasional 
smaller flower of black-purple. 
I sha’n’t be happy until people 
learn that the secrets of color schemes 
are about them on all sides. Here’s a 
bowl of terra cotta, mauve and 
white zinnias, a suggestion for a 
country house living room; yonder’s 
a piece of Famille Verte, rich with 
yellows and grass greens and auber¬ 
gine purple. 
S OMEHOW that shawl of Bob Chandler’s re¬ 
minds me of a great glass bowl of fruit I 
always enjoy at Armenonville, that charming 
restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne. Fruits re- 
fraichais, it is called, and it is an artist’s massing 
of ambrosial color and fragrance and sweetness. 
Black plums and saffron nectarines, purple and 
pale green grapes, red and pink peaches, pears and 
pineapples, red cherries, slices of oranges and 
bananas, purple figs, and finally hundreds of 
little green almonds, a deli¬ 
cious ambrosial collection, 
like a bouquet where every 
melting morsel tempts one by 
its color and fragrance. Every 
bit of fruit seems as fresh as if 
it had been arranged five min¬ 
utes before in the great clear 
glass bowl. 
O CCASIONALLY we meet a gallant old lady 
whose taste runs with our own, but keeps the 
flavor of her own favorite period. One of the 
nicest rooms I know is of the white candle and 
crystal variety. It belongs to an old lady down in 
Georgia who has kept her parlor and her hair 
white, but whose taste is as fresh and whose 
humor is as sunny as her old-fashioned room. 
Everything seems to lead up to or away from 
the old marble mantelpiece. (Why is a Victorian 
mantel a “mantelpiece”? I don’t know.) This 
is a lovely, exaggerated rococo one with plumes 
and garlands of roses, just the sort we see ripped 
out of old New York houses every day. On the 
mantelshelf are crystal candelabra with wax can¬ 
dles. A gay gilt mirror hangs above, reflecting 
just the right white flowers in a pale green vase 
beneath. When these flowers are lilies you feel 
it . isn’t fair for one room; to be so sweet. The 
curtains are of white ruffled net, not lace, and 
they are hung from gilt cornice boards. A white 
fur hearth rug lies on the faded Victorian carpet. 
There are bright fire irons and a fender of brass, 
and many more candles and gilt mirror frames 
against the white washed walls. A set of rose¬ 
wood, a sofa on one side, and two chairs on the 
other, invites you to the fire, and an old square 
piano seems more beautiful than we remembered 
square pianos could be. 
B REAKFAST in an English country house is a 
casual but traditional custom. Among the 
September notes in my diary I find several pages 
of my delight over my first breakfast in an old 
Queen Anne house in Lincolnshire,—an English 
breakfast never' to be forgotten. 
Many equally marvelous breakfasts 
followed (before-dawn hunt break¬ 
fasts, and mid-day after-hunt ones,) 
but none so enchanting as the first 
prolonged one. 
It really began at eight, when I 
was awakened from a deep sleep by 
a rosy-cheeked little maid with sil¬ 
ver-gilt hair like a Xmas tree orna¬ 
ment, who placed a tray of tea be¬ 
side my bed. Then she drew back 
the great red damask curtains, and oh! The fra¬ 
grant English country air blowing in, the sound 
of the ancient bells brought here long ago from 
Peterboro Cathedral, the far cry of hounds call¬ 
ing !—What a heavenly place, a sort of dreams- 
come-true, and surely the most perfect September 
morning among all noble mornings. I wish I 
could remember it all, always—the hum of bees 
and the song of birds and always the hounds 
calling, and the feeling of heat and fragrance. My 
room was a great chamber over the dining room, 
pale yellow walls, and red silk hangings, and a 
great gilt bed. Dozens of mezzo-tints on the 
walls, and a great chest of drawers furnished as a 
wash-stand, although a perfectly good bathroom 
adjoined the bedroom. In the window bay was 
the usual dressing table, a long Queen Anne table 
such as we would use for a desk, with a small 
standing mirror, and tall silver candlesticks. From 
the window I could see my host strolling in the 
gardens, a tall picturesque figure in a red Indian 
sprigged silk dressing gown, looking more like an 
Indian Prince than an Englishman. The favorite 
dogs were close at his heels. 
An hour to dress, for at nine sharp the great 
gong summons to breakfast. The tray is only a 
cup of tea to awaken you, for breakfast is a very 
serious affair. I dressed quickly, because I wanted 
to see the house and the gardens before the others 
were down. I had a half-hour for exploration, 
but it took me days! 
I wanted to re-enter the place, so I went out 
the front door to the entrance path and reviewed 
my vague impressions of the night before. There 
were two great gates with a hedge connecting 
them, a tall hedge of ever¬ 
greens, holly, and box, and 
strange plants that made ver¬ 
tical yellow and green stripes, 
with clipped obelisks of deep¬ 
er green punctuating it. After 
the second gate, a hedge of 
box and yew, a changing, 
(Continued on page 114) 
