Oh, the
bad-tempered exclamations over the damage done by claws! If those
blasted cats hadn't attacked the back, because precautions had been
taken, then they'd scratched the arms! The lovely curved, though
rather bulbous, arms that characterises a Chesterfield.
And
if it wasn't cats, then a dog, a cheeky tan Staffordshire Bull
terrier, might have a go, by throwing himself at and on it. A red
rocket had launched himself because he so wanted to see what was
going on outside. If one of the windows was open he'd balance his
back legs on the buttoned-back of the Chesterfield and his front paws
on the window ledge and poke his head through the opening to breathe
in the fresh air and take in the world, enthusiastically grinning at
passers-by or frowning should the Master's car still not be on the
drive. Even if the window was shut this was a favoured spot – the
nosy dog! - which unlike the cats he was allowed to get away with.
The Master maintaining dog's claws are
different;
cats' are vicious. Though eventually a pale orange throw was
employed.
The
Chesterfield must, on all counts, be protected from mouths and hooks;
and that included human ones, too, that might produce crumbs or leave
stains.
A
statement piece, a coveted design, a collectible item, an
aspirational model.
I
have arrived.
A
Chesterfield says Class.
To
which one is aspiring to belong or to which one has just joined. It's
a signal to those that visit: we are one of you; or you are not one
of us.
It's
never just
a
sofa.
And so
should not be referred to as such.
Or used in
quite the same manner a sofa would be.
An
artist's muse might, for artistic purposes, recline upon it, but not
so the average human sitter; they should, however, sit as if arranged
for a portrait: a casual but not too casual pose must be struck.
Nobody should appear too
familiar with a Chesterfield, even if its seats prove comfortable,
very
comfortable.
Teenagers should not fold themselves over the arms or sit
precariously on the arms, or fold their legs under them whilst
sitting on it. That type of behaviour is reserved for the green one,
at the farther end of the room, which is not the Chesterfield and can
be called the sofa.
The
Chesterfield deserves Respect.
But this
is hard to do if it has been introduced into a home. A home where tea
is taken in mugs and biscuits are dunked, and cheese and crackers
have a tendency to crumble and fall, in bits, from hands. And of
course, where there are animals, who for some reason are attracted to
its shape and flat-white coffee tones. Like a magnet it attracts
humans and animals, of all dubious qualities and characters, who
might not know the correct way to treat a Chesterfield.
The
S-word should never, for instance, be uttered in front of it, so if
'Chesterfield' offends it should be called the thing
or that
thing
in front of the window. Even to say the S-word aloud when not in its
presence is an offence. It upsets the firmly established
'drawing-room culture' even if this is no longer in existence, since
the Chesterfield was once a part of it, and there it remains, in
people's minds and hearts.
Acquire a Chesterfield and that
'drawing-room' attitude will slowly pervade into the home, regardless
of where it is in the house, which room it's put in.
And so a more functional two or
three-seater will also be needed, on which cats can perch and dogs
can clamber and adults and teenagers can slouch. A model that, in
short, matters less and can therefore be used as intended and abused
a little.
For the Chesterfield is no
ordinary sofa.
Picture credit: Girl on a Green Sofa with a Cat, 1910, Max Pechstein (source: WikiArt).
Note for readers: see All the
Conspirators, Christopher Isherwood p.99-101 Vintage Classics.
This post was penned in 2019.
