THE LADY DECORATOR AND THE FLOWER-GIRL
“Pink, primrose, valley-lily, clove-carnation;
Red rose and white rose, wall-flower, mignonette,
The daisies all--these be her recreation,
Her gaudies these.”
During the rush of the London season many hostesses, much as they love
to have their houses made sweet and beautiful with flowers, find it
impossible to attend to the work of decoration themselves; they must
entrust the task to others. To meet the want of _châtelaines_ such as
these, there is the lady decorator, with her train of flower-fairies,
ready to fill the breach.
And they will not only bring us flowers; lights, too, they can adjust
at will, not fire-flies but electric, which, after all, are most to be
depended on.
Arranging flowers is one of those things that every woman in the
world thinks nobody can do but herself; she is as much addicted to
self-esteem in this direction as a man is over mending the fire; and
who does not enjoy the pleasing excitement of setting out the flowers
for a ball or dinner-party? The very smell of the wet moss, the cool
feel of the stalks, the bunches of pliant fern, the baskets ready to
be unpacked, every circumstance is in itself a pleasure, but it is not
so nice if you are hurried and interrupted. Better by far is it for
very busy people to think out the scheme of decoration with one of the
above-named fairies, who will appear exactly at the right moment,
while you are resting, and scatter your board with beauty.
One of the most experienced among these lady-workers has told me
that, of all colour-schemes, the best for lighting up well at night
is pink and silver. Pink Roses in silver bowls are lovely, but
invisible receptacles, meandering about a table, are pretty too.
Sometimes, at the last moment, the particular flower desired will not
be procurable--the market has been cleared--and pink Sweet Peas or
Pelargoniums must take the place of Roses, purple Stock do duty for
Pansies, or Scarlet Geranium for fallen Poppies. It is anxious work.
The lady decorator is wonderfully quick. She has to be. James the
First--all the Jameses, indeed--plushed, powdered, silk-stockinged, and
calmly insistent, say, “You cannot have the table till such-and-such
an hour.” Very well; then all the flowers must be prepared before
they are packed to bring--every single leaf and every blossom, all
must be wired. This makes them go much further, besides keeping them
in their places, and it does give the effect of lightness; but it
is a thing to which I am never able to reconcile myself. You take a
Lily-of-the-Valley from its vase, attracted irresistibly by its scent,
and find it fast set in a _corsetière_ of steel--each leaf and stalk,
almost each separate blossom, wired. This gives you a horrid feeling;
you idly untwist the cruel bonds, and then the poor flower droops or
falls to pieces.
In the ballroom dreadful things are suffered by the Roses. Fancy a
curtain all made of these lovely flowers, wired together in long trails
to match the festoons that wave softly overhead!
The lady decorator is pleasant to work with; she will use your own
flowers if you like, so that one’s country-houses can send their quota,
and one always enjoys the things from home. She is equally ready to
fill your window-box or balcony, to furnish your dwelling-rooms with
flowers both cut and growing, to smarten up your concert-platforms or
theatrical scenes, to dress your bazaar-stalls for you, to make your
Court bouquets, or sprays for hair and dress; she will even help you
to decorate your churches; and, after once experiencing the delight
of skilled assistance, few ladies in the world of fashion take these
graceful duties entirely on themselves. A lady flower-decorator is
almost as much wanted as a lady type-writer, and has a far pleasanter
time of it. But, like all trades, this one has to be learned. I believe
an apprenticeship of two years is considered necessary.
It is at a wedding, perhaps, the flower-lady is at her best. The
entire dwelling of the bride is made whitely beautiful, and the church
becomes a green and scented sanctuary. Palms and Ferns are lent. I hope
I am right in saying that the lady decorator never dyes her flowers.
I am certain she would not do so except to order; but the present
year, which promises to be one of Eastern magnificence and gorgeous
colouring, has begun badly in the matter of flower-dyeing; even the
simple spring flowers have not escaped the ban. Early in March, when
pacing Regent Street, and pausing, as one cannot help doing, to admire
the display of flowers in certain shops, it was with a shock of horror
one beheld dyed daffodils! They formed the upstanding group of blossoms
in crosses and garlands, the groundwork of which consisted entirely
of Wallflower; and the dye that reddened the Daffodils, leaving some
of the petals their natural colour, matched the red-brown of the
Wallflowers exactly. For one moment it was a puzzle--only one. Shade
of Herrick! who could mistake a Daffodil? A dyed Daffodil is several
degrees more agonizing than a green Carnation, and nearly as bad as a
blue Rose.
The fashion for certain flowers and colours at different seasons is
quite harmless, though one may smile at it; but sometimes there is a
reason behind the mode. For instance, one could understand the use of
national colours in Coronation year, and yearly is London brightened by
St. Patrick’s Day, St. George’s Day, and the unforgettable day of the
Primrose.
It is human nature, and ever has been, to use flowers as symbols;
they express our feelings better than anything, and more pleasantly.
Happily, the “wearin’ o’ the green” is a privilege no longer denied
to any of our Irish soldiers. It is a smaller thing, but still
worth noticing, as a proof of the part flowers play in daily life,
and the way they illustrate feeling, that at the Eton and Harrow
cricket-matches it is a flower that is worn for party-colour--a
Corn-flower or a Parma Violet--and in a less degree, two shades of blue
in flowers stand for Oxford and Cambridge colours on boat-race day.
Herein we do but follow the fashion of our forefathers and of days
still older, when crowns of Olive, Myrtle, Bay, and Violet were worn
symbolically. Time was when rival Roses, red and white, grew wild,
and soldiers gathered them for badges, where now the Temple Gardens
stand; and every nation has its patriot flower--for France the Lily,
for Germany the Linden, and for us the Rose. It is unfortunate that St.
George’s festival of Roses comes so early in the year. April Roses are
plentiful enough in florists’ shops, but not elsewhere; few of them
have been grown in England. Primroses come more seasonably; of them we
need only wear true home-grown blossoms, nor need a scarcity be feared
while country hedgerows continue to provide such yellow millions.
Primrose Day in London, independently of its meaning, is always
enjoyable;
“That subtle smell the spring unbinds--
The faint sweet scent of Primroses”
is everywhere, and Primroses, like Violets, want no arranging, but look
their best in simplest bunch or basket. An Irish poetess sings a
song about it, which I give, as it is always a pleasure to see London
through a poet’s eyes.
“Make me a song for Primrose Day.
Along the streets of London town
A Primrose snowstorm settles down,
And makes each street an amber way.
Here are tall baskets that o’erbrim
With posies bound for one day’s whim.
Here are shrill voices that would drown
All singing, crying their gold wares;
And many buy, if no one cares
How lonesome are the country places
Deserted by these Primrose faces.”
[Illustration: BULRUSHES AND BOG BEANS IN SMALL TANK IN GARDEN]
Thus it has been for more than twenty years on April the 19th, and
whether the pretty flower was really loved best by its hero as a
salad or as an ornament does not matter. The Primrose, so plentiful,
so popular, as a memory-flower is perfect, none the less so because
Shakespeare has pervaded it with a touch of sadness.
Floral trophies are, in my opinion, little to be admired; dreadful
things are done in their name. Flower hearts and harps and crowns, and
cushions with cords and tassels, made by stripping Violets from their
stalks and stringing them on lengths of wire like beads--how terrible
are all these! And so it is to see in Christmas churches chains of
Holly-berries hung about like rosaries, though of the two one would
rather stab a berry than a Violet.
Ballroom bouquets are less fashionable now than in early and
mid-Victorian days, when a pretty girl would have as many as a dozen
sent her on one evening by different admirers. What changes, too, in
the method of arrangement! Instead of the trailing posy or picturesque
bunch, every flower individualized, one had then stiff circles of
blossoms tightly packed. Violets and white Camelias thus arranged
were very popular, and one Camelia, with a glossy leaf or two, would
be worn upon a smooth and shining head of hair, dressed in bandeaux
(bandolined--that is, gummed down if necessary), long, loose ringlets
(the Alexandra curl), or rolled back _à l’Imperatrice_. The prettiest
nosegay of that period was the ample bunch of pink Moss-rose buds;
nothing modern could be lovelier than that, nor sweeter.
I have often wished that London’s bevy of street-selling flower-girls
were more picturesque. Why cannot the Society for beautifying London
do something in this direction? The snowy caps of the grisette, or
the Italian kerchief--anything would be better than the feathered hat
and grimy jacket, and I would like neat shoes instead of boots. W.
E. Henley, another poet who finds inspiration in London streets, has
sketched her with vivid pen--
“Forth from Drury Lane,
Trapesing in any of her whirl of weathers
The flower-girl foots it, honest and hoarse and vain,
All boot and little shawl and wilted feathers,
Of populous corners right advantage taking
And, where they squat, endlessly posy-making.”
If we watch the working-up of the button-holes--a thing I have often
done--what a joyless, monotonous task it looks! Two ivy-leaves
picked from the stalk with as little joy as if they were oakum,
wired together, and flung into a basket like malefactors’ heads. Two
more, and then two more, _ad infinitum_. When the basket is quite
full, to each pair of leaves a little cluster of Violets is added,
or a Rose-bud, or a few Pinks, or a Primrose or two, according to
the season. Later on, it will be sprigs of Maiden-hair. Oh dear,
that Maiden-hair! When will it cease to remind of Harry and Harriet?
Neither of these good folk feels fully dressed without the spray of
Maiden-hair; yet it soon dies, and its latest breaths are bitter--we
know exactly the smell of it, in its death-throes, mingled with that of
cheap tobacco-smoke.
But the love of flowers is such a good thing that one must, one should
not, begrudge any one of its manifestations; there is something
beautiful even in the worst of them. The bunch of Violets is a natural
and graceful gift, the birthday posy an offering the most fastidious
will not refuse, the basket of flowers the sweetest present to the
_dèbutante_ or the _diva_. In a French town I once saw a skeleton
parasol, trimmed with flowers, opened and handed to a lady-singer
on the stage. I did not admire that, but the general applause was
deafening, and it was impossible to repress a smile as the encore song
was gravely given beneath its shelter.
There is room in our towns for both the lady decorator and the
flower-girl; to both we cry a welcome!