CHAPTER VI. TWO MORE YEARS ELAPSE
As the reader will have no trouble in recalling, we broke ground for ourhouse. That, however, was after we had altered the design so often thatthe first lot of plans and specifications got vertigo and had to beretired in favor of a new set. For one thing, we snatched one entirefloor out of the original design--just naturally jerked it out fromunder and cast it away and never missed it either. And likewise this wasafter we had shifted the site of the house from one spot to another spotand thence to a third likely spot, and finally back again to the firstspot. This, however, had one thing in its favor at least. It enabled usto do our moving without taking our household goods from storage,and yet during the same period to enjoy all the pleasurable thrill ofshifting about from place to place. I find moving in your mind is amuch less expensive way than the other way is and gives almost as muchpleasure to a woman, who--being a woman--is naturally a mover at heart.
Finally, though, all this preliminary skirmishing came to an end andwe actually started work on our house. I should say, we started work onwhat formerly we had thought was going to be our house. It turned outwe were wrong. As it stands to-day, two years after the beginning, in astate approaching completion, it is a very satisfactory sort of housewe think, artistically as well as from the standpoint of being practicaland comfortable; but it is no longer entirely our house. The architectis responsible for the general scheme of things, for the layout and theassembling of the wood and the brick and the cement and the stoneworkand all that sort of thing, and to him largely will attach the creditif the effect within and without should prove pleasing to the eye.Likewise, here and there are to be found the traces of ideas which weourselves had, but I must confess the structure is also a symposium ofthe modified ideas of our friends and well-wishers mated to our ideas.
To me human nature presents a subject for constant study. For a thing sowidely distributed as it is, I regard it as one of the most interestingthings there are anywhere. It seems to me one of the chief peculiaritiesof human nature is that it divides all civilized mankind into twospecial groups--those who think they could run any newspaper better thanthe man who is trying to run it, and those who think they could run anyhotel better than the man who is hanging on as manager or proprietorof it. There are subdivisional classifications of course--for example,women who think they can tell any other woman how to bring up herchildren without spoiling them to death, and women who are absolutelysure no woman on earth can tell them anything about the right way tobring up their own children; which two groupings include practically allwomen. And I have yet to meet the man who did not believe that he wasa good judge of either horses, diamonds, wines, women, salad dressings,antique furniture, Oriental rugs or the value of real estate. Andfinally all of these, regardless of sex and regardless, too, of previousexperience in the line, know better how a house intended for livingpurposes should be designed and arranged than the individuals who arepaying the bills and who expect to tenant the house as a home when it isdone. By the same token--or by the inverse ratio of the same token--thepersons who are building the house invariably begin to have doubts andmisgivings regarding the worth of their own pet notions in regard to thesaid house the moment some outsider offers a counter argument. I donot know why this last should be so, but it is. It merely is one of theinexplicable phases of the common phenomenon called human nature.
In our own case the force of this fact applied with a pronouncedemphasis. When the tentative draft of the house of our dreams wasoffered for our inspection it seemed to us a gem--perfect, precious andrare. Filled with pride as we were, we showed the drawings to every onewho came to see us. Getting out the drawings when somebody called becamea regular habit with us. Being ourselves so deeply interested in them,we couldn't understand why our friends shouldn't be interested too. Andthey were--I'll say that much for them; they were all interested. Andwhy not? For one thing, it gave them a chance to show how right theywere regarding the designing of a house; not our house particularly, butanything under a roof, ranging from St. Peter's at Rome to the facade ofthe government fish hatchery in Tupelo, Mississippi. For another thing,it gave them a chance to show us how completely wrong we were on thissubject. Not a single soul among them but pounced at the opportunity.Until then I never realized how many born pouncers--not amateur pouncersbut professional expert master pouncers--I numbered in my acquaintance.Right from the beginning the procedure followed a certain ritual.A caller or pouncer would drop in and have off his things and getcomfortably settled. We would produce the sketches, fondling themlovingly, and spread them out and invite the attention of our guest toprobably the only perfect design of a house fashioned by the mind of mansince the days of the mound builders on this hemisphere. In our languagewe may not have gone quite so far as to say all this, but our mannerindicated that such was the case.
He--for convenience in the illustration I shall make him a man, thoughin the case of a woman the outcome remained the same--he would considerthe matchless work of inventive art presented for his considerationand then he would say; "An awfully nice notion--splendid, perfectlysplendid! And still, you know, if I were----"
And so on.
Or perhaps it would be: "Oh, I like the general idea immensely!But--you'll pardon my making a little suggestion, won't you?--but if Iwere tackling this proposition--" And so on.
It has been my observation that all complimentary remarks uttered by amember of the human race in connection with a house which somebody elsecontemplates building end in "but."
You just simply can't get away from it.
From the treasure-troves of my memory I continue to quote:
"But if I were tackling this proposition I would certainly not put thedining room here were you've got it. I'd switch it over there right nextto the living room and give a vista through. See, like this!"
And out would come his lead pencil.
"But that would mean eliminating the main hall," one of us wouldventure.
"Of course it would," Brother Pounce would say. "Next to giving a vistathrough, cutting out the hall is the principal idea I had in mind. Whatdo you want with a hall here? For that matter, what do you want with ahall any place that you can get along without it? Why, my dear people,don't you know that hallways are no earthly good except to catch dustand be drafty and make extra work for servants? And besides, in modernhouses people are cutting the hallways down to a minimum--to an absoluteminimum."
We gathered that in a modern house--and, of course, a modern house waswhat we devoutly craved to own--persons going from one part of it toanother didn't pass through a hall any more; they passed through aminimum. The idea seemed rather revolutionary to persons reared--as wehad been--in houses with halls in them. Still, this person spoke as onehaving authority and we would listen with due respect to his words as hewent on:
"All right, then, we'll consider the hallway as chopped out. By choppingit out that gives us a chance to put the dining room here in this placeand give a vista through into the living room. Here, I'll show youexactly what I mean--what did I do with my lead pencil? Because nomatter what else you do or do not have, you must have a vista through."
Before he had finished with this alteration and taken up with the nextone we were made to understand that a house without a vista throughwas substantially the same as no house at all. Ashamed that we had beenguilty of so gross an oversight, I would make a note, "Vista through,"on a scratch pad which I kept for that very purpose. Under the spellof his eloquence and compelling personality, I had already decided thatfirst we would build a vista through, and then after that if any moneywas left we would sort of flank the vista through with bedrooms and akitchen and other things of a comparatively incidental nature.
Having scored this important point, the king of the pouncers--nowwarming to his work and with his eyes feverishly lit by the enthusiasmof the zealot--would proceed to claw the quivering giblets out ofanother section of our plan. Hark to him: "And say, see here now, howabout your sun parlor? I can
see two--no, three places suitable fortacking on a sun parlor merely by moving some walls round and puttingthe main entrance at the east front instead of the south front--funnythe architect didn't think of that! He should have thought of that thevery first thing if he calls himself a regular architect--and I supposehe does. What's the idea, leaving off the sun parlor?"
Then weakly, with an inner sinking of the heart, we would confess thatwe had not calculated on including any sun parlors in the general scopeand he for his part would proceed to show us how deadly an omission, howgrievous an offense this would be.
It is a curious psychological paradox that we dreaded these suggestionsand yet welcomed them, too. That is to say, we would begin by dreadingthem--resenting them would perhaps be a better term--and invariablywould wind up by welcoming them. Nevertheless, there were times when Igave my celebrated imitation of the turning worm. Jarred off my mentalbalance by a proposed change which seemed entirely contrary to the trendof the style of house we had in mind for our house, I would offer at theoutset a faint counter argument in defense, especially if a notion whichwas about to be offered as a sacrifice on the altar of friendly counselhad been a favorite little idea of my own--one that I had found in myown head, as the saying went in the Army. Though knowing in advancethat I was fighting a losing fight, I would raise a meek small voice inprotest. Never once did my protesting avail. There was one stock answerwhich my fellow controversialist always had handy--ready to belt mewith.
"One moment!" he would say, smiling the superior half-pitying smilewhich was really responsible for Cain's killing Abel that time.
Abel smiled just exactly in that way and so Cain killed him, and ifyou're asking me, he got exactly what was coming to him. "One moment!"he would say. "You've never built a house before, have you?"
"No," I would confess, "but--but--"
"Then, pardon me, but I have! What I am trying to do is to keep you frommaking the mistakes I made. Almost anybody will make mistakes buildinghis first house. I only wish I'd had somebody round to advise me as I'madvising you before I O. K.'d the plans and signed the contract. As itwas, it cost me four thousand dollars to pull out two walls so that wecould have a sun parlor. If you go ahead and build your house withouthaving a sun parlor you'll never regret it but once--and that'll be allthe time you live in it. Look here now, while I show you how easily youcan do it." And so on and so forth until we would capitulate and I'dwrite "Memo--sun parlor, sure," on my little pad.
Take for example the matter of sleeping porches.
Personally I have never been drawn greatly to the idea of sleepingoutdoors. I used to think an outdoor bedroom must be almost asinconvenient as an outdoor bathroom, and with me bathing has always beena solitary pleasure. I have felt that I would not be at my best whilebathing before an audience. That may denote selfishness on my part,but such is my nature and I cannot change it. I suppose this prejudiceagainst bathing before a crowd is constitutional with me--hereditary, asit were. All my folks were awfully peculiar that way.
When they felt that they needed bathing they also felt that they neededprivacy. I sometimes think that my family must have been descended fromSusanna. She was a Biblical lady and so did not have any last name,but you probably recall her from the circumstance of her having beensurprised while bathing by two snoopy elders. Whenever one of the OldMasters ran out of other subjects to paint, he would paint a picture ofSusanna and the elders. In no two of their pictures did she look alike,but in all of them that I've ever seen she looked embarrassed. Yes,I dare say Susanna was our direct ancestress. Like practically allSouthern families, ours is a very old family and I've always been ledto believe that we go back a long way. True, I've never heard the OldTestament mentioned in this connection, but in view of the fact of ourfamily being such an old or Southern family I reckon it is but fair topresume that we go back fully that far if not farther.
Indeed I have been told that in my infancy a friend of the family, a manwho had delved rather into archeology, on calling one day remarked thatI had a head shaped exactly like a cuneiform Chaldean brick. It wasyears later, however, before my parents learned what a cuneiformChaldean brick looked like and by that time the person who had paid methe compliment was dead and it was too late to take offense at him. Andanyhow, in the meantime the contour of my skull had so altered that itwas now possible for me to wear a regular child's hat bought out ofa store. I point out the circumstance merely as possible collateralevidence showing semiprehistoric hereditary influences to corroboratethe more or less direct evidence that as a family we antedate nearlyall--if not all--of these Northern families by going back into the verydawn of civilization. I have a great aunt who rather specializes ingenealogies and especially our own genealogy and the next time I see herI mean to ask her to consult the authorities and find out whetherthere is a strain of the Susanna blood in our stock. If she confirms mypresent belief that there is I shall be very glad to let everybody knowabout it in an appendix to the next edition of this work.
As with taking a bath outdoors, so with sleeping outdoors; this alwayswas my profound conviction. I had a number of arguments, all goodarguments I thought, to offer in support of my position. To begin with,I am what might be called a sincere sleeper, a whole-souled sleeper.I have been told that when I am sleeping and the windows are openeverybody in the vicinity knows I am actually sleeping and not lyingthere tossing about restlessly upon my bed. I would not go so far asto say that I snore, but like most deep thinkers I breathe heavily whenasleep. On board a sleeping car I have been known to breathe even moreheavily than the locomotive did. I know of this only by hearsay, butwhen twenty or thirty passengers, all strangers to you, unite in acommon statement to the same effect you are bound to admit, if you haveany sense of fairness in your make-up, that there must be an element oftruth in what they allege.
Very well, then, let us concede that I sleep with the muffler cut outopen. In view of this fact I have felt that I would not care to sleepin the open where my style of sleeping might invite adverse comment. Insuch a matter I try to have a proper consideration for the feelings ofothers. Indeed I carried it to such a point that when we lived in theclosely congested city, with neighboring flat dwellers just across anarrow courtyard, I placed the head of my bed in such a position that Imight do the bulk of my breathing up the chimney.
Besides--so I was wont to argue--what in thunder was the good of havinga comfortable cozy bedroom with steam heat and everything in it, and anight lamp for reading if one felt like reading, and a short cut downto the pantry if one felt hungry in the small hours, and then on a coldnight deliberately to crawl out on a wind-swept porch hung againstthe outer wall of the house and sleep there? I once knew one of thesesleeping-porch fiends who was given to boasting that in wintertime heoften woke to find the snow had drifted in on the top of him while heslept. He professed to like the sensation; he bragged about it. From hisremarks you gleaned that his idea of a really attractive boudoir was thepolar bear's section up at the Bronx Zoo. I was sorry his name had notbeen Moe instead of Joe--which was what it was--because if it had onlybeen the former I had thought up a clever play on words. I was going tocatch him in company and trap him into boasting about loving to sleep ina snowdrift and then I was going to call him Eskimo, which should havebeen good for a laugh every time it was spontaneously sprung on a freshaudience.
In short, taking one thing with another, I have never favored sleepingporches. But after listening to friends who either had them or who wereso sorry they didn't have them that they were determined we shouldhave a full set of them on our house, we concurred in the consensus ofopinion and decided to cast aside old prejudices and to have them atall hazards. I believe in the rule of the majority--of course with afew private reservations from time to time, as for instance, when themajority gets carried away by this bone-dry notion.
I recall in particular one friend who was especially emphatic andespecially convincing in the details of offering suggestions and advice,and--where he deemed such painful me
asures necessary--in administeringreproof for and correction of our faulty misconceptions of what a houseshould be. But then he was a Bostonian by birth and a Harvardgraduate and had the manner--shall we call it the slightlysuperior manner?--which so often marks one who may boast these twoqualifications. When you meet a well-bred native Bostonian who has beenthrough Harvard it is as though you had met an egg which had enjoyedthe unique distinction of having been laid twice and both timessuccessfully. Our friend was distinctly that way. When he had renderedjudgment there was no human appeal. It never occurred to us there couldbe any appeal.
So we incorporated sleeping porches and vistas through and sun parlorsand a hundred other things--more or less--into the plan. Obeying thewills of stronger natures than ours, we figuratively knocked outwalls and then on subsequent and what appeared to be superior counselfiguratively stuck them back in again. We lifted the roof for air and welowered it for style. We tiled the floors and then untiled them and putdown beautiful mental hardwood all over the place. We rejected paneledwainscotings in favor of rough-cast plaster and then abolished theplaster for something in the nature of a smooth finish for our walls.By direction we tacked on an ell here and an annex there. If we had keptall the additions which at one period or another we were quite sure wemust keep in order to make our home complete we should have had a houseentirely unsuitable for persons of our position in life to reside in,but could have made considerable sums of money by renting it out fornational conventions.
On one point and only one point did we remain adamant. Otherwise we wereas clay in the hands of the potter, as flax to the loom of the weaver;but there we were as adamant as an ant. We concurred in the firm andunswervable decision that--no matter what else we might have or mightnot have in our house--we would not have a den in it. By den I mean oneof those cubby-holes opening off a living room or an entrance hall thatis fitted up with woolly hangings and an Oriental smoking set wherepeople are supposed to go and sit when they wish to be comfortable--onlynobody in his right mind ever does. In my day I have done too muchtraveling on the Pullman of commerce to crave to have a section ofone in my home. Call them dens if you will; I know a sleeping-carcompartment when I see it, even though it be thinly disguised by a pairof trading-stamp scimitars crossed over the door and a running yard ofmailorder steins up on a shelf. Several earnest advocates of the dentheory tried their persuasive powers on us, but each time one or theother of us turned a deaf ear. When her deaf ear was tired from turningI would turn mine a while, and vice versa. There is no den in our home.Except over my dead body there never shall be one.
While on this general subject I may add that if anybody succeeds insticking a Japanese catalpa on our lawn it will also be necessary toremove my lifeless but still mutely protesting remains before goingahead with the planting. I have accepted the new state income tax inthe spirit in which it seems to be meant--namely, to confiscate any oddfarthings that may still be knocking round the place after the Federalincome tax has been paid, and a very sound notion, too. What is moneyfor if it isn't for legislators to spend? Should the Prohibitionists putthrough the seizure-and-search law as a national measure I suppose intime I may get accustomed to waking up and finding a zealous gent witha badge and one of those long prehensile noses especially adapted forpoking into other people's businesses, such as so many professionaluplifters have, prowling through the place on the lookout for a smallprivate bottle labeled "Spirits Aromatic Ammonia, Aged in the Wood."With the passage of time I may become really enthusiastic over theprospect of having my baggage ransacked for contraband essences everytime I cross the state line. My taste in pyjamas has been favorablycommented on and there is no reason why my fellow travelers should notenjoy a treat as the inspector dumps the contents of the top tray out onthe car floor. The main thing is to get used to whatever it is that wehave got to get used to.
But I have a profound conviction that in the matter of a Japanesecatalpa on the lawn, just as in the matter of a den opening off theliving room and taking up the space which otherwise would make afirst-rate umbrella-and-galosh closet, I could never hope to get used.Nor do I yearn for a weeping mulberry tree about the premises. I dislikeits prevalent shape and the sobbing sound it makes when especially movedby the distress which chronically afflicts the sensitive thing. Natureendowed our abandoned farm with a plenteous selection of certaindeciduous growths common to the temperate zone--elms and maples andblack walnuts and hickories and beeches and birches and dogwoods andlocusts; also pines and hemlocks and cedars and spruces. What the goodLord designed as suitable arboreal adornment for the eastern seaboard isgood enough for me. I have no desire to clutter up the small section ofNorth America to which I hold the title deeds with trees which do notmatch in with the rest of North America. I should as soon think ofputting a pagoda on top of Pike's Peak or connecting the ThousandIslands with a system of pergolas.
Having got that out of my system, let us get off the grounds and back tothe house proper. As I was remarking just before being diverted fromthe main line, a den was about the only voluntary offering which wepositively refused to take over. Every other notion of whatsoever naturewas duly adopted and duly carried on to the architect He was a wonderfulman. All architects, I am convinced, must be wonderful men, but himI would call one of the pick of his breed. How he managed to makepractical use of some of the ideas we brought to him and fit theminto the plan; how without hurting our feelings or the feelings of ourfriends he succeeded in curing us of sundry delusions we had acquired;how he succeeded in confining the ground plan to a scale which wouldnot make the New York Public Library seem in comparison a puny andinconsequential edifice; and how taking a number of the suggestionswhich came to him and rejecting the others he yet preserved thestructural balance and the suitable proportions which he had had in hismind all along--these, to my way of thinking, approximate the EighthWonder. No, it is the first wonder; the remaining seven finish place,show and also ran.
After a season of debate, compromise and conciliation, when the grayin his hair had perceptibly thickened and the lines in his face haddeepened, though still he wore his chronic patient smile which makesstrangers like him, the final specifications were blue-printed and thework was started. A lady to whom I have the honor of being very closelyrelated by marriage removed the first shovel load of loam from thecontemplated excavation. She is not what you would call a fancy shovelerand the net result of her labor, I should say offhand, was abouta heaping dessert-spoonful of topsoil. Had I guessed what thatinconsequential pinch of earth would subsequently mean to us in joy Ishould have put it in a snuffbox and carried it about with me as thefirst tangible souvenir of a great accomplishment and a reminder tome never again to look slightingly upon small things. Bulk does notnecessarily imply ultimate achievement. If Tom Thumb had been two feettaller and eighteen inches broader than he was I doubt whether he wouldamounted to much as a dwarf.
Well, we reared the foundations and then one fine April morning ourcountry abandoned its policy of watchful waiting for one of swatfulhating. While we were at war it did not seem patriotic to try to goahead. There was another reason--a variety of reasons rather. Verysoon labor was not to be had, or materials either. Take the detail ofconcrete. Now that the last war is over and the next war not as yetstarted, I violate no confidence and betray no trust in stating thatone of our chief military secrets had to do with this seemingly harmlessproduct. We were shooting concrete at the Germans. In large quantitiesit was fatal; in small, mussy. And while the Germans were digging thegummy stuff out of their eyes and their hair our fellows would swarmover the top and capture them. And if you are not sure that I am tellingthe exact truth regarding this I only wish you had tried during activehostilities--as I did--to buy a few jorums and noggins of concrete.Trying would have made a true believer of you, too. And the same mightbe said for steel girders and cow hair to put into plaster so it willstick, and ten-penny nails. We were firing all these things at theenemy. It must have disconcerted him terribly to be expecting highexplosives an
d have a keg of ten-penny nails or a bale of cow hair burstin his midst. Without desire to detract from the glory of the otherbranches of the service, I am of the opinion that it was ten-penny nailsthat won the war. And in bringing about this splendid result I did myshare by not buying any in large amount for going on eighteen months.
I couldn't.
War having come and concrete having gone, the contractor on our littlejob knocked off operations until such time as Germany had been curedof what principally ailed her. Even through the delay, though, we foundpleasure in our project. We would perch perilously upon the top of thejagged walls and enjoy the view the while we imagined we sat in ourfinished dream house. We could see it, even if no one else could. Inrainy weather we brought umbrellas along. The fact that a passerbybeheld us thus on a showery afternoon I suppose was responsible for thereport which spread through the vicinity that a couple of lunatics wereroosting on some stone ruins halfway up the side of Mott's Mountain. Wedidn't mind though. The great creators of this world have ever been thevictims of popular misunderstanding. Sir Isaak Walton, sitting underan apple tree and through the falling of an apple discovering thecirculation of the blood, is to us a splendid figure of genius; but Ihave no doubt the neighbors said at the time that he would have beenmuch better employed helping Mrs. W. with the housework. And probablythere was a lot of loose and scornful talk when Benjamin Franklin wentout in a thunderstorm with a kite and a brass key and fussed round amongthe darting lightning bolts until he was as wet as a rag and then camehome and tried to dry his sopping feet before one of those old-fashionedopen fireplaces so common in that period. But what was the result?
The Franklin heater--that's what. With such historic examples behind us,what cared we though the tongue of slander wagged while we inhabitedour site with the leaky heavens for a roof to our parlor and the farhorizons for its wall. Not to every one is vouchsafed the double boon ofspending long happy days in one's home and at the same time keeping outin the open air.
On the day the United Press scooped the opposition by announcingthe cessation of hostilities some days before the hostilities reallycessated, thereby scoring one of the greatest journalistic beats sincethe Millerites prognosticated the end of the world, giving day, date andhour somewhat prematurely in advance of that interesting event, whichas a matter of fact has not taken place yet--on that memorable day thecountry at large celebrated the advent of peace. We also celebrated thepeace, but on a personal account we celebrated something else besides.We celebrated the prospect of an early resumption of work in theconstruction of our house.
During the months that followed I learned a lot about the intricaciesand the mysteries of house building. Beforehand, in my ignorance Ifigured that the preliminary plans might be stretched out or contractedin to suit the shifting mood of the designer and the sudden whim of hisclient, but that once the walls went up and the beams went across andthe rafters came down both parties were thereafter bound by set metesand bounds. Not at all. I discovered that there is nothing more plasticthan brickwork, nothing more elastic than a girder. A carpenter spendsdays of his time and dollars of your money fitting and joining a certainsection of framework; that is to say, he engages in such craftsmanshipwhen not sharpening his saw. It has been my observation that the averageconscientious carpenter allows forty per cent of his eight-hour day tosaw sharpening. It must be a joy to him to be able to give so much timedaily to putting nice keen teeth in a saw, knowing that somebody else ispaying him for it at the rate of ninety cents an hour. Watching him atwork in intervals between saw filing, you get from him the impressionthat unless this particular angle of the wooden skeleton is articulatedjust so the whole structure will come tumbling down some day when leastexpected. At length he gets the job done to his satisfaction and goeselsewhere.
Along comes a steamfitter and he, whistling merrily the while, takes achisel or an adze or an ax and just bodaciously haggles a large raggedorifice in the carpenter's masterpiece. Through the hole he runs a QueenRosamond's maze of iron pipes. He then departs and the carpenter iscalled back to the scene of the mutilation. After sharpening his sawsome more in a restrained and contemplative manner, he patches up thewound as best he can. Enter, then, the boss plumber accompanied by ahelper. The boss plumber finds a comfortable two-by-four to sit on anddoes sit thereon and lights up his pipe and while he smokes and directsoperations the assistant or understudy, with edged tools provided forthat purpose, tears away some of the cadaver's most important ribs andseveral joints of its spinal column for the forthcoming insertion ofvarious concealed fixtures.
Following the departure of these assassins the patient carpenter returnsand to the best of his ability reduces all the compound fractures thathe conveniently can get at, following which he sharpens his saw--not thebig saw which he sharpened from eight-forty-five to ten-fifteen o'clockthis morning, but the little buttonhole saw which he has not sharpenedsince yesterday afternoon; this done, he calls it a day and goes hometo teach his little son Elmer, who expects to follow in the paternalfootsteps, the rudiments of the art of filing a saw without being intoo much of a hurry about it, which after all is the main point in thisdepartment of the carpentering profession.
And the next day the plumber remembers where he left his sack of smokingtobacco, or the steam fitter's attention is directed to the fact thatwhen he stuck in the big pipe like a bass tuba he forgot to insertalongside it the little pipe like a piccolo, and therefore it becomesnecessary to maltreat the already thrice-mangled remains of woodwork. Amonth or so later the plasterers arrive--they were due in a week, but aplasterer who showed up when he was expected or any time within a monthafter he had solemnly promised on his sacred word of honor that he meantto show up would have his card taken away from him and be put out of theunion. Hours after Gabriel has blown his trump for the last call it isgoing to be incumbent upon the little angel bell hops to go and page theplasterers, else they won't get there for judgment at all.
Be that as it may and undoubtedly will be, in a month or so theplasterers arrive, wearing in streaks the same effects in laid-oncomplexion that so many of our leading debutantes are wearing all overtheir faces. The chief plasterer looks over the prospect and decidesthat in order to insure a smooth and unbroken surface for his plastercoat the plumbing and the heating connections must have their elbowstucked in a few notches, which ultimatum naturally requires the goodoffices of the carpenter, first to snatch out and afterward to hammerback into some sort of alignment the shreds and fragments of hisoriginal job. When this sort of thing, with variations, has goneon through a period of months, a house has become an intricate andcomplicated fabric of patchworks and mosaics held together, as nearly asa layman can figure, by the power of cohesion and the pressures of deadweights. The amazing part of it is that it stays put. I am quite surethat our house will stay put, because despite the vagaries--perhaps Ishould say the morbid curiosity--of various artificers intent on takingthe poor thing apart every little while, it was constructed of materialswhich as humans compute mutabilities are reasonably permanent in theirbasic characters.
It was our desire to have a new house that would look like an oldhouse; a yearning in which the architect heartily concurred, he havinga distaste for the slick, shiny, look-out-for-the-paint look which iscommon enough in American country houses. In this ambition a combinationof circumstances served our ends. For the lower walls we looted two ofthe ancient stone fences which meandered aimlessly across the face ofour acres. According to local tradition, those fences dated back topre-Revolutionary days; they were bearded thick with lichens and theirfaces were scored and seamed. In laying them up we were fortunate enoughto find and hire a stonemason who was part artificer but mostly realartist--an Italian, with the good taste in masonry which seems tobe inherent in his countrymen; only in this case the good taste wasdeveloped to a very high degree. Literally he would fondle a stone whosecolor and contour appealed to him and his final dab with the trowel ofmortar was in the nature of a caress.
On top of thi
s find came another and even luckier one. Three miles awaywas an abandoned brickyard. Once an extensive busy plant, it had lainidle for many years. Lately it had been sold and the new owners werenow preparing to salvage the material it contained. Thanks to theforethought of the architect, we secured the pick of these pickings.From old pits we exhumed fine hard brick which had been stacked therefor a generation, taking on those colors and that texture which onlylong exposure to wind and rain and sun can give to brick. These wentinto our upper walls. For a lower price than knotty, wavy, fresh-cut,half-green spruce would have cost us at a lumber yard, modern prices andlumber yards being what they are, we stripped from the old kiln shedsbeautiful dear North Carolina boards, seasoned and staunch. Thesewere for the rough flooring and the sheathing. The same treasuremine provided us with iron bars for reenforcing; with heavy beams andsplendid thick wide rafters; with fire brick glazed over by clays andminerals which in a molten state had flowed down their surfaces; withgirders and underpinnings of better grade and greater weight than anyhousebuilder of moderate means can afford these times. Finally, forroofing we procured old field slates of all colors and thicknessesand all sizes; and these by intent were laid on in irregularcatch-as-catch-can fashion, suggestive when viewed at a little distanceof the effect of thatching. Another Italian, a wood carver this time,craftily cut the scrolled beam ends which show beneath our friendlyeaves and in the shadows of our gables. It was necessary only to darkenwith stains the newly gouged surfaces; the rest had been antiquatedalready by fifty years of Hudson River climate. Before the second beamwas in place a wren was building her nest on the sloped top of the firstone. We used to envy that wren--she had moved in before we had.
The Abandoned Farmers Page 6
