Читать книгу Happy-Thought Hall - F. C. Burnand - Страница 4

Table of Contents

THE IDEA—ADVICE—TITLE—PLAN—ON PAPER—SUGGESTION—COST—BOODELS—OLD FRIENDS—JENKYNS SOAMES—DESIGNS—STAIRCASES—BAYS—OBJECTIONS—ORDER OF ARCHITECTURE—STABLES—PRICE—GIVEN UP—CAZELL'S IDEA.

appy Thought.—To get a country house for the winter. To fill it with friends. To have one wing for bachelors. Another wing for maidens with chaperons. To have the Nave, as it were, of the house, for the married people.

“I'll tell you what you ought to do,” says Cazell to me. “You ought to build a nice little snuggery in the country.”

I object to the cost.

“Cost? Bah! that's nothing. You can always get a Building Society,” says he, enthusiastically, “to advance you any sum.”

I ask how these Building Societies proceed.

CAZELL.

“Simply enough,” says Cazell, who invariably knows everything about anything, only if you act on his information and go wrong, he generally denies warmly afterwards that “he ever said such a thing.” “Simply enough,” he continues. “You go to the Society, you give 'em some security—any security will do, and you could get that easily enough.” I nod cheerfully, more to encourage him to proceed, than from any feeling of certainty as to the means of obtaining the security. Then, having, satisfactorily to himself, disposed of this difficulty, he continues:—“Well, your security in this case would be your title-deeds of the house and land.”

Happy Thought.—Title-deeds.

“Then,” he goes on, as if he'd been accustomed to do this sort of thing every day, “you say how much you want. Then they ask you” (it's becoming quite dramatic), “where's your house? You say … wherever it is, you know.” Cazell puts it in this way, as impressing upon me that before the Building Society I must tell the truth and not pretend to them that my house is in Bedfordshire, for example, when it isn't. “Well,” he resumes, “then they ask you what sort of a house do you intend to build? Then, you lay your plan before them.”

Happy Thought.—The Plan of my House.

“They examine it, that is, their architect does … they inquire about the land … and then they decide, whether they'll buy it for you, or not.”

(“Not” I should think, but I don't say so.)

“Then,” he goes on. “You make the purchase, and hand over the title-deeds. Pay them a rent and a per-centage every year until the whole is paid off, when it becomes yours.”

“In fact,” I put it, bluffly, to him, “I can build a house without having any money; I mean, by getting the money from the Building Society?”

“Precisely. Any day.”

I hesitate. It really is—if Cazell is correct—much better than hiring a house … or taking lodgings. And what does Cazell think the cost will be?

“Well,” says he, “put it at £2,000, the outside.” I reflect that the inside, too, will be a considerable expense. “A good, strong house. Why, I knew a fellow build one for £1,500. Just what you want. Then, there's the ground—say at another two. And there you are. Four thousand altogether. Well, you'd pay 'em a mere rent for that, and so much tacked on, which would, each time, reduce the principal. And when you pay your last year of rent and interest, it ought to have come down to a five-pound note.”

This is admirable. What a glorious society is the Building Society … if Cazell is only right.

I will draw out plans at once.

Will he come down with me, somewhere, and choose the land?

“Certainly. Why not try Kent?” he asks. I have no objection to Kent. “But,” I suggest, “wouldn't it be better, first, to settle the sort of thing wanted?”

Happy Thought.—Put it down on paper.

A billiard-room, absolute necessity.

Stables. Do.

“Bath-room,” adds Milburd, to whom, on his accidentally looking in, we appeal for assistance.

MILBURD.

Happy Thought.—“While I am about it” (as Milburd says), “why not a Turkish bath?” In the house. Excellent!

What after this?

Milburd suggests smoking-room, and library. Yes. That's all.

Not all: Milburd thinks that a Racquet Court wouldn't be bad, and while I am about it, it would be scarcely any more expense, to have a Tennis Court; and, by the way, a positive saving to utilise the outside walls of both, for Fives.

Query. Won't this cost too much?

“The question is,” says Boodels (he has been recently improving his own house), “What is your limit?”

“No, I argue, let's see what an imaginary house will cost, and then I'll have so much of it as I want. Say,” I put it, “a house is to cost two thousand——”

“Can't be done for the money,” says Boodels, positively.

This is rather damping, but, on consideration, it's just what Boodels would say in anybody's case, except his own.

BOODELS OF BOODELS.

I pass over his opinion and continue.

“For argument's sake, let's say the house costs four thousand——” (This I feel sounds very pleasant, but what will the Building Society say, and how about the security? These, however, are details for subsequent consideration. One thing at a time: and these extras rather hamper one's ideas. So I say £4,000, and leave it at that.)

“More,” says Boodels, “but you might do it for that.”

I repeat “For argument's sake.” Formula admitted.

Well then, I suppose it to cost four thousand, I can only spend two thousand. Very good, I'll only have, as it were, two thousand pounds' worth of house.

“Half a house, in fact,” says Milburd.

This is not the way to put it, but I am, I feel, right, somehow.

I appeal to my friend Jenkyns Soames, who is writing a book on Scientific Economy.

He replies that mine is correct, in theory, if taken from a certain point of view. We admit that this is a sensible way of putting it. And are, generally, satisfied.

“There's one thing I must have,” I remember, aloud, as I sit down to draw a first plan, “my Study.”

A. Billiard Room.

B. Tennis Court.

C. Racquet Court.

D. Library.

E. Study.

F. Dining Room.

a a a &c. all bay windows and lights high up, according to room.

d d d &c., doors.

On this plan every room is en suite.

“How about your staircases,” says Boodels, “and your kitchen, eh?”

I observe that this is only a commencement. That my object is to remember everything gradually, and so omit nothing.

Happy Thought.—Only one floor and one flight of stairs.

Here I find the library has been forgotten.

Add on the library in dots; like a railway map.

“How do you get there from the study?” asks Milburd.

“Why, by doors, through the dining-room.”

“Awkward,” suggests Boodels.

“No; I don't think so.”

“How do you light your study?” asks Cazell.

“Eh? … . Ah! …”

Happy Thought.—From above.

“Then,” says Milburd, as if there was an end of the whole thing, “you lose a bed-room by that, and another over the billiard-room.”

True.

Happy Thought.—Bring study more forward and light it by big window in front. (I do so in dots.)

Milburd says: “Throw out a bay.”

This is his invariable resource.

I throw out a bay-window (also in dots) and then we survey it carefully.

Happy Thought.—To have an In-door Amusement Hall for Wet Weather.

“Will your Amusement hall be the Hall?”

“Well … Yes.”

“Then the front door will be … ?”

I indicate in dots the front door, and the drive.

“Precisely,” says Boodels, “and just as you're in the middle of a game of something, up comes a party to call; you can't say you're not at home, and the servants can't open the door while the ball, or whatever it is, is flying about.”

True … Then … bring it more forward. Or make a new plan.

“Then the bath-room's forgotten,” says Milburd. Add it in dots to tennis court.

Then over every room there'll be a bed-room and dressing-room. So that'll be a good house.

“What style?” asks Cazell.

“Elizabethan, decidedly,” I reply. They think not.

“Gothic's useful,” says Boodels.

“Italian's better,” observes Milburd.

“Something between the two,” suggests Cazell.

Twelve rooms below, twelve above. Stables outside, added subsequently.

Happy Thought.—Submit this to Chilvern, my architectural friend.

CHILVERN.

I say, Estimate it roughly.

He does it, after a day or so.

Rough Estimate. About £8,000.

“That,” I say, a little staggered, “is rather over the mark than under it, eh?”

“Over? No,” he replies, “Under. I mean, of course, to have everything done well, thoroughly well. Of course,” says he, “there are men who will run you up a house in a few weeks and charge you about £4,000. But what's the result? Why you're always repairing, and it costs you, in the end, double what you'd have paid for having it thoroughly well done at first.”

I ask how long the building would take? Chilvern is of opinion that it would be six months at the least.

Then I say I'll give it up. I wanted it for Christmas.

Then the notion of the party must be abandoned.

Happy Thought.—An abandoned party! Dreadful character.

Boodels says he's sorry for that, as he can't go into his own house just now, it being under repair.

Cazell suddenly exclaims, “I tell you what we ought to do!” We listen. He goes on. “We ought to take a house for the Winter Season, the lot of us together, and then ask our own friends.”

Boodels observes, that, if we agree to this, he will supply some servants, as his are doing nothing. Chilvern can tell us where there's a place to be let. Just what we want, about an hour's train from town. Queer old mansion, a bit out of trim, he tells us, in fact he was going to have had the job of restoring it, only the people suddenly left; but he'd put that to rights. Would we go and look at it?

Carried nem. con.