The Magic of Atmosphere

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXI, Issue 21769, 7 April 1934, Page 6 (Supplement)

The Magic of Atmosphere

There is a, house I know, an oldfashioned place with wide lawns in front of it and trees whose ancient branches, pleadingly extended, seem to fend away the world outside —a quiet house, a house of peace. The cool, highceil inged rooms eclio only to hushed slippered footsteps, and an old lady lives there all alone, with Memory. There is a spirit presence in the house —you feel it as soon as you step into the carpeted hall —but you feel it most in tho sanctuary which was " his " study—the grave, fine presence of the gentle dead. It is'not a morbid atmosphere, it is simply different. No one would dare to say a meau thing in that house, or a petty one, or to gossip or speak flippantly. There is something that demands a high standard of living because " he " is looking down at you with quiet, selt-possessed eyes and firm poised head. He is glad to see you there and you are proud to be his guest. There is another home I know whose bay windows lean toward the sea. It is a quaint, darling house, with sealoving people in it. It looks as though it wanted to bo a boat, and couldn't; so it just got as close as possiblo to that mutable expanse of moods and caprice, and all the dancing laughter of the ocean. When you look out of the window it is almost like being on a gondola; there is the soft plash, plash, of waters at your feet, shy echoes of distant voices, a note of music, fitful twinkling lights that drift by in the silent night. A gust of wind brings a salt tang with it, and at dawn you awake with a tug at your heart-strings because a, thousand dancing diamonds are beckoning to you irresistibly. You want to sail in a silver ship along that sun-ma.de pathway to tho end of a shoreless sea; but you are happy—there is no vague stirring of discontent, no restlessness!

A PLACE OF SANCTUARY

By JOYCE MILLAR

So different is another house of my acquaintance. It is well appointed, quite an exclusive home, in fact, but there is no rest in it. It seems to demand that you be up and doing. An energetic family peoples it. I "have never seen anyone lying down or reading a leisurely book in that house, except'through illness . . . its weekends are full of comings and goings, telephone rings, odd jobs being done, dresses pressed or " run up "~ in a hurry for next week's party, cooking, preserving, washing. A feverish rush is pervasive always, and whenever you call, day or night, a gramophone or wireless is proclaiming blatantly a stirring marche militaire or a restless jazz tune — it could never croon a love song or a hushing lullaby. They arc not an unhappy people, they have no time to be; yet they are quick, fretful, impulsive, with tapping feet and fingers eager to be on tho move again. They havo 110 time to bo unhappy, but they have no time to think. One wonders sometimes what old age will do to such as these. " Atmosphere " is inseparable from a home—its eidola, its essence. Let it be 0110 of harmony, of restful joy! Whatever the home conditions, let there be a quiet corner in it where a friend may come and find it hallowed. Have'somewhere a place in your home, whatever its activities, that suggests quietness and leisure hours, that calls to you from tho maelstrom whirl of things—a big comfy old chair that you love, a chance cushion or two, something in tho soft elusive blowing of a curtain," a restful peep of blue hydrangeas 011 green lawns, a hint of gentle, music—something that will calm the taut, tingling nerves of all who enter there, and whisper with a tender, sympathetic understanding, " Lo, here is fellowship!"