My Lady's Bower.

New Zealand Illustrated Magazine, 1 February 1905, Page 373

My Lady's Bower.

By Alma,

PICTURES IN SILK

JAPANESE CUSTOMS

AX AERONAUT

THE SERVANT.

LADIES WHO WORK

"IN DUSKY NIGHT AND SILVER."

Lady readers are invited to discuss current topics in these pages, suggest subjects for discussion, and also to contribute photographic studies on any subject of interest. Contributions should be addressed: " Editor My Lady's Bower New Zealand Illustrated Magazine," and should arrive early in the month. In all cases where stamps are enclosed for the purpose photos will be returned.

JjfT is curious to reflect that even fl' in women's work there are $(• cycles. Once it was the making 11 of pictures in tapestry that oc- - cupiecl the attention of all true 3adies. After that they wove and

spun their own clothes, always they brewed wines and cosset cups, tiie lady was the " hlafdige " or loaf kneader. We can make pretty pictures of the work of the bygone

lady, much prettier ones than we can of those of our own age who sit in offices and stand at telephone wires. But durinu 1 the last twenty years there have been more accomplished women than ever before. Witness the numbers of teachers of music and of art ! And there are

workers in line linen, too, and lace ! So that now we seem to have arrived at a period when women do a little of everything, a great many of them doing- it uncommonly well.

But about the cycles ? Well, the tapestry picture has come back again, this time from Germany. The reviews of the exhibition of the wonderful colour dreams of embroidery of Krau Florence Jessie Hosel make one angry with the limitatiors of money and distance, for I icav that there is no hope of our seeing her marvellous work. With needle ard thread this lady paints exquisite pictures. 1 saw a work," writes Max Lndwiir, " in which rare, o'listenino'

flowers stood out against the intense darkness of a background of fir-trees. It was as though a scene from India bloomed in a rough landscape." The artist works without designs. She conceives a picture just like any other artist, and she takes her needle and her silken thread, just as a painter would take his palette and brushes, and without preliminary sketching, she commences her picture. She has found that she could not buy thread in all the

colours of nature as she knows it, so she dyes her own to the required tints, and the result is a marvel. Her aim is to express ideas in needlework. The London "Times" uives her an excellent notice. Here is an extract : " The show piece is a wonderful table top representing the four seasons, the distinctive characters of which arc conveyed solely by colour. The total design is a laru'e circle. Within a smaller circle are the four skies prccoedinu; from the pale blue-

of Spring flecked with white cloud s r to the dull, slate-grey of Winter. In each case, the sun, which rests on the outer edge of the smaller circle, is red to preserve the simplicity of the design. Below comes a characteristic landscape of trees in bud,, full-bloom, decay or winter nakedness growing out of grass, flowers,, dead leaves, or snow. Particularly happy are the dead leaves and branches on the ground in the autumn landscape and the winter ice covered with withered snow-

lined sticks. The work took six months at eighteen hours a day to complete it." There's Old Country application for you, daughters of the South ! " A scene for the nursery is a wood with a foreground of grass on which brown and white rabbits are playing. Another has a riot of many coloured butterflies flitting above an undulating meadow. No. 5 shows an autumn landscape, a ffrcy sky overhanging a stretch of heather which runs up to distant,

gloomy woods, and in the fk>renround, sharply defined, are poplar trees turning gold. The effect of distance ynd atmosphere is wonderful. The forest landscape is remarkable for the manner in which the fir-crowned hills slope away into the distance. The sun is shining- on the trunks of the nearer trees ; and beneath and beyond them stretches a brilliant mass of red and white flowers. Especially beautiful is No. 16, butterflies worked on a piece of linen one hundred years old. Frau Hosel makes great use of linen, and

like the old carvers in wood or stone, she never repeats a detail without varying it by some new touch of invention. All her work is full of individuality, highly imaginative and impulsive, and is entirely unlike the lifeless and timorous needlework commonly seen." " Summer," remarks the " Daily Mail," " with its brilliant poppy fields ami dee]) blue sea, is extremely beautiful. Its price is £150. A spring landscape with tree? in blossom and the fields strewn with

pale spring" flowers is priced at £30. Much art and ingenuity appears in a cushion-cover with trees and rippling- water,, the ripples being- worked in Hashes of blue silk. The German Crown Prince bought thiscushion design, with others for curtains." A single strip of Fran jiosel'? embroidery mePsurirMv less than a yard in length, has been valued by an eminent art critic in Paris at £500. Frau Hosel describes her method of working in these words : '' All my designs are my own.

But I work straight on the linon, and never prepare the designs beforehand, i use my needle as fast as others use a brush. 1 work very fast, as fast as 1 can get my needles threaded, and 1 often work sixteen or eighteen hours a day. Colour was my great difficulty. At no shop in London, Paris, or Berlin could I get grey silks for a winter scene. Now 1 dye my colours myself I" The " Express," which so quotes

the artist, tells of a picture representing hundreds of outterllies swarming over undulating fields carpeted with bluebells, the effect of dawn in the atmosphere is obtained by dyeing the linen. Does not the bare description of such beautiful work till every artistic New Zealander with a desire for the magic carpet of the Fairy age, to bring us in front of these visions of colour embroidery ?

No wedding ring attests the marriage of the little Jap wife. The

length of her sleeves and the height of her coiffure are her distinction from maiden ladies. If she be a widow, she shaves off her hair. 80 they cannot have the wicked, fascinating widow in the Chrysanthemum land ! A woman with shaven head would not, to our minds, be very dangerous. The older she grows, the sadder in colour become her dresses. The -Jap little maid is a butterfly, the Jap old lady is a very dowdy moth.

Mdme. Lebaudin, of Paris, is the iirst woman who takes charge of an air-ship. She recently took sole control of one, and remained in the clouds for an hour before descending.

Was it not a Wairarapa man "who travelled the other day to Wellington to engage, as soon as she landed, one of the two women servants who emigrated from England. Well, we grumble, but what do you think of the position at Los Anyelos,

where a Chinese cook gets £12 a month, and is so frightfully extravagant that he uses a dozen eggs to make a custard for the servants' dinner ? We talk about not getting satisfaction when we pay the noble sum of two pounds a month, and as for eggs, well, they are much cheaper here than in that place.

Lady Duff Gordon, sister of the authoress of " The Visits of Elizabeth," is a costumier now. it was she who designed what were described as emotional gowns for Mrs. Brown-Potter, the celebrated actress. In business, the costumier is known as Madame Lucile. The Princess Henry of Battenheruis a composer. Her last sonc was "The Sunny Month of May," and was sung' a t Ryde, Isle of Wight, by Madame Ella Russell. George Daring, author of " The Golden Light," is a woman, and sister to Mrs. Brown-Potter. She is a poet as well as a playwriter.

At the request of some of the readers of this column, we give here the words of Breton Fleming's so nomentioned in the last number.

When all the night is dusky My heart's astir and cries For thee ! thy shy wild sweetness, For thee ! thy wandering sighs, For thee ! fur thee ! My heart's astir and cries For thee, whose hands are petals Plucked from a sun-warmed bloom, Whose tresses, falling twilight, Lie soft in scented gloom. Small love, blossom of rose, Sweeter than bulbul's song, Memory echoing, echoing, echoing, Floodeth my soul with thee, with thee. Small love, blossom of rose, Night is lonely and long, Star of the passion flower, opens and trembles, The nightingale sings in the tree. When all the night is silver, And dew pearled leaf and tree, The lotus deep in slumber, I bring my heart to thee, to thee, to thee, I bring my heart to thee. My love whose eyes are starlight, With voice of summer wind, Whose mouth of stolen sunrise My kisses swoon to find. Small love, blossom of rose, Sweeter than bulbul's song, Memory echoing, echoing, echoing, Floodeth my soul with thee, with thee, Small love, blossom of rose, Night is lonely and long. Star of the passion flower opens and trembles, The nightingale sings in the tree.