The Room Kept for Best

In the terraced streets of Victorian Britain, the parlour was the first room a visitor saw and the last room the family used. It faced the street, its blinds were kept at a careful half-drawn angle, and for six days of the week it sat in silence. Families cooked, ate, mended and argued in the back room or the kitchen; the parlour was reserved for company, courtship, mourning and celebration. In artisan households it might be opened only on Sundays, at Christmas and when someone died.

Its contents announced exactly what the family valued. A horsehair sofa that scratched the backs of bare arms. A whatnot in the corner holding china, shells from a seaside trip and a stuffed bird under glass. Wax fruit beneath a dome, the family Bible on a side table, a photograph album, an aspidistra on its stand. Nothing was accidental. Every object was placed to be seen, and the room was dusted weekly so that it would look untouched when the moment came.

The Calling Ritual and the Front Door

Visiting in the Victorian parlour was a formal business with rules as tight as a corset. A caller left a card on a silver tray in the hall, and the mistress of the house kept an "at home" day — one afternoon a week when she would receive. A morning call lasted no more than fifteen minutes. Cards were left in return, corners turned to carry meaning, and a mourning card with a black border did the work of an announcement without a word being spoken.

All of this happened in the parlour, and that was the point. The room was a filter. It separated the family's real, untidy life from the version they wished to present, and it allowed a household of modest means to appear altogether grander than it was.

Courtship, Music and the Supervised Parlour

For young couples, the parlour was both opportunity and obstacle. A suitor was received there, never in a bedroom or a kitchen, and almost never alone. A chaperone sat at the far end of the room with her sewing, pretending not to listen.

The piano was the great instrument of courtship. A young woman who could play and sing was displaying accomplishment, discipline and a well-regulated temperament all at once. Around the piano stood the rest of the parlour's entertainments:

• A photograph album, passed slowly from hand to hand
• A stereoscope with its cards of foreign cities
• Parlour games — charades, consequence, the spelling bee
• Recitations, which guests were gently pressed to perform

An engagement was usually announced in the parlour, over tea, with the door open. It was a stage, and the performance was respectability.

Mourning in the Front Room

The parlour's most solemn duty was death. The body was laid out in the front room, because it was the best room and the deceased deserved it. Mirrors were covered so the soul would not be trapped, clocks were stopped at the hour of death, and blinds were drawn. Black crepe was wound around the door knocker, and the knocker itself was often muffled.

After the funeral, the mourners returned to the same room for a tea of ham, seed cake and strong black tea. Widows wore black for a year and a day, then moved into half-mourning of grey, lavender and white. The parlour held all of it, and the family's grief was measured out in fabric and time.

Celebrations, Tea and the Family Table

The same room that received the coffin received the Christmas tree. Christenings, birthdays, wedding breakfasts and anniversaries were all staged there, and the tea table was the centre of the performance. Afternoon tea, which became fashionable from the 1840s, gave the parlour its most enduring role: a meal that was really a display of thrift, taste and good management.

The tea caddy was kept locked, and the mistress of the house poured. Bread and butter was cut thin, cucumber sandwiches were trimmed of their crusts, and a seed cake or a plate of jam tarts filled the gaps. Good china came out, the best cloth was laid, and the kettle was brought in boiling. It was modest food, arranged with enormous care.

Bringing the Parlour Back to Life

You do not need horsehair or a whatnot to borrow the spirit of the Victorian parlour. Set aside one room, or one corner, for receiving guests rather than for storage. Put a lamp where it flatters the faces in the room. Keep a tray ready for tea, lay a decent cloth, and pour from the pot rather than the mug. The Victorians understood something worth keeping: that hospitality is a form of attention, and that a room prepared for company tells your guests they were expected.