It was whispered that she had come to this country with intent to join the Mormons (of course we heard nothing of this till years after), but the plan had fallen through; she, Madame S——, did not understand why, but our mother, on looking at her, thought the explanation not so difficult. She had a religion of her own, this poor, good, ugly dame. It was probably an entirely harmless one, though she startled our mother one day by approving the action of certain fanatics who had killed one of their number (by his own consent) because he had a devil. “If he did have a devil,” quoth Madame, beaming mildly over the purple morning-glory she was crocheting, “it may have been a good thing that he was killed.”
As I say, this startled our mother, who began to wonder what would happen if Madame S—— should take it into her head that any of our family was possessed by a devil; but neither poison nor dagger appeared, and Madame was never anything but the meekest of women.
I must not forget to say that before she began to teach she had wished to become a lecturer. She had a lecture all ready; it began with a poetical outburst, as follows:
“I am a Dane! I am a Dane!
I am not ashamed of the royal name!”
But we never heard of its being delivered. I find this mention of Madame S—— in a letter from our mother to her sister:—
“Danish woman very ugly,
But remarkably instructive,—
Drawing, painting, French, and German,
Fancy-work of all descriptions,
With geography and grammar.
She will teach for very little,
And is a superior person.”
I remember some of the fancy-work. There were pink-worsted roses, very wonderful,—really not at all like the common roses one sees in gardens. You wound the worsted round and round, spirally, and then you ran your needle down through the petal and pulled it a little; this, as any person of intelligence will readily perceive, made a rose-petal with a dent of the proper shape in it. These petals had to be pressed in a book to keep them flat, while others were making. Sometimes, years and years after, one would find two or three of them between the leaves of an old volume of “Punch,” or some other book; and instantly would rise up before the mind’s eye the figure of Madame S——, with scarlet face and dark-green dress, and a very remarkable nose.
Flossy reminds me that she always smelt of peppermint. So she did, poor lady! and probably took it for its medicinal properties.
Then there was the wax fruit. You young people of sophisticated to-day, who make such things of real beauty with your skilful, kindergarten-trained fingers, what would you say to the wax fruit and flowers of our childhood? Perhaps you would like to know how to make them. We bought wax at the apothecary’s, white wax, in round flat cakes, pleasant to nibble, and altogether gratifying,—wax, and chrome-yellow and carmine, the colors in powder. We put the wax in a pipkin (I always say “pipkin” when I have a chance, because it is such a charming word; but if my readers prefer “saucepan,” let them have it by all means!)—we put it, I say, in a pipkin, and melted it. (For a pleasure wholly without alloy, I can recommend the poking and punching of half-melted wax.) Then, when it was ready, we stirred in the yellow powder, which produced a fine Bartlett color. Then we poured the mixture—oh, joy!—into the two pear or peach shaped halves of the plaster mold, and clapped them together; and when the pear or peach was cool and dry, we took a camel’s-hair brush and painted a carmine cheek on one side. I do not say that this was art, or advancement of culture; I do not say that its results were anything but hideous and abnormal; but I do maintain that it was a delightful and enchanting amusement. And if there was a point of rapture beyond this, it was the coloring of melted wax to a delicate rose hue, and dipping into it a dear little spaddle (which, be it explained to the ignorant, is a flat disk with a handle to it) and taking out liquid rose-petals, which hardened in a few minutes and were rolled delicately off with the finger. When one had enough (say, rather, when one could tear one’s self away from the magic pipkin), one put the petals together; and there you had a rose that was like nothing upon earth.