The Country House Smell
PERHAPS you must have a town-bred nose to get it—this country house smell. In any case you only seem to sense it perfectly on the day of arrival at a country house. Pierre Loti said a true thing about these days of arrival. Theirs is a vision and theirs a splendour that can never recur. The next day may be beautiful, but it is not magical.
The country house smell, then, is most striking on the day of arrival. It greets you in the hall, you follow it upstairs. Always I try to analyse it. It is cOmPound,ed of so many delights, even of things not essentially delight- ful like paraffin oil and hot tin can, Which still blend harmoniously with flowers and floor polish.
Of course each country house has its own special sniell, One which linger' with every child who know i the house, recalled how often in later years with a "That reminds me of ." In reading that most lovable book Eoxlham, by Mr: Percy Lubbock, I felt that he had omitted to dwell on the scent of the house on his day of arrival.
I knew, that his so sensitive spirit must have the hot can and soap smell in the nursery when he went in on that first day. It, emboldened . me to write to inni, and he, most kindly, agreed that the omission had been made, but that he recalled those welcoming scents.
In the house I have loved best and remembered. most the scent seemed compounded of Lilium Aurattun and raspberry jam. But upstairs in the nursery set apart for us it melted into hot tin can and a special sort of curd soap, which I must not advertise, dearly as I love it. In more modem houses, where electric light is installed, one misses the suggestion of paraffin oil which I connect with a certain country rectory, where it blended with jam making and beeswax.
In Irish houses burning turf has its own peculiar rapture of welcome and recollection. A bonfire in autumn and the reek of a turf fire have, I will swear, more poetry, more heart-thrilling romance than any that other scents can claim.
Apart from this general typical country house smell there are peculiar and delightsome odours for each room. The drawing-room has the flowers of each season. Those who gather primroses capture, I feel certain, the scent of fairies; while cowslips are full of the very essence of youth. Of the rapture of azaleas and the pure bliss of stocks one might say much. But in winter seasons the drawing-room has its potpourri, full of uncountable gathered memories. It will have, be sure, Sandalwood boxes, not to mention the piano with its appreciable scent. In a library full of old and rather musty books there is a pleasant atmosphere to an appreciative nose. Some- thing so mellow and wise and old world is in the air. You will get a breath of the same in many country churches. You speak softly, aware of august presences. The study holds the redolence of many Pipes, of old leather and of assorted masculine possessions, just as a coat cupboard will have the comfortable Smell of tweed and frieze and homespun—a most kindly smell I call it. Upstairs you have the linen press with its lavender, and drawers with orris root and camphor. I, for one, do not despise the pungent and homely naphtha ball. Of the refined scents I recall eau-de-Cologne as the special glory of Victorian aunts. It lived in red glass • bottles, speckled with gold stars. Eau-de-Cologne was at one time the aroma of grand- mothers, mothers, and aunts. It heralded their coming. rn my memory it clings to the most perfect of grand- mothers, lovely in black silk and white tulle cap and necklace of ivory balls. She held the key of a wall press, and at evening we must follow her there to glimpse the delightsome hidden things on the shelves. Here was scent for you, indefinable and delicious. There were chocolate drops for us, powdered with fine white hail, and wonderful true lovers' knots of pink and green candied apple—I never see them now—and Marie biscuits —how. the Victorians loved Marie biscuits, and how pleasant it was to nibble them round and round, pursuing the circle till the last mouthful! See now how memories, trivial but dear, come thronging at the mere thought of the country house smell. There are better ones and dearer, each to his own. Like the country house smell, I Would evoke memories.
W. M. LETTS.
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