I Bought a Dress in Paris

by SALLY ISELIN

1

ANY woman who has journeyed to Paris since the end of World War II knows the frustrations of buying clothes there. At the outset the problem would seem to be simply one of price, but once on the spot, the lone American who is neither a “name” nor a member of the fashion trade runs into a hard but undefinable wall, made up of Old World snobbism plus declining interest on the part of the French in an individual wardrobe. Her friends say, “You must see Dior. I’ve known him for years,” in a vague sort of way. Then, they remember that he is in the south of France, or will be, during her Paris stay. Others give her the names of vendeuses (some of whom act as liaison officers between dress designer and purchaser, collecting their prescribed cut on sales) with the warning that most vendeuses have their eye on such prospects as Egyptian and Iranian princesses who buy as many as twenty or thirty models a trip. With dresses costing around $500 apiece, the lone American woman will be outshone by Farouk’s sister, not to mention Neiman-Marcus, both of whose currencies are as “hard” as hers.

I was just such an American. I had made several pre-war visits, and now with $2000 in my pocket (enough, I hoped, for three or four dresses), I was willing victim for the cloak and suit industry in Paris. It was midseason, the trade term for the in-between collections, and I knew the air would be comparatively free of American buyers and Egyptian princesses, most of whom come in the summer. My best “string” was Pierre Balmain, whom I had met at cocktail parties in the States; and better still, I knew his publicity girl. She remembered me when I telephoned, and finally allowed that it would be possible to reserve a seat in he premier rang the next day. Instructions were given to be prompt, the implication being that the seat would be given to someone else if I arrived late.

When the day came, I felt as if I were about to be received at the Court of St. James, and I dressed accordingly in my best $49.50 New York model, camouflaged with a newly purchased Hermes belt and scarf (this famous leather store, by the way, operates with a minimum of hocus-pocus: its salesmen seem to be paid to serve you quickly). Thrown off by the French use of the word maison, I made the mistake of going to M. Balmain’s house rather than to his store. A very polite concierge explained that M. Balmain was not in. I was puzzled, finally gathered that he was at work, and with the correct address, some twenty taxi minutes away, made my second start. I was definitely late and it seemed likely that those almost unprocurable premier rang seats would be gone. But I need not have worried. The whole premier rang was wailing, occupied only by big cartes marked réservé, and so it remained empty during the whole show. A doorman, who might have doubled as Philip Morris’s Johnny, ushered me into the perfumed boutique; the publicity girl was waiting at the first landing. She sparred a bit as to my purpose, and mentioned the names of distinguished customers in good pressagent style, I wondered briefly whether it would aid my cause if I said I knew any of them, and decided not.

The store itself resembled the Frick Museum in New York in that it had the same carefully preserved atmosphere of a large private house which has changed its function. The actual show took place in a long French drawing room which had as much of a Louis Quinze atmosphere as one could get out of two or three cans of paint. It was quite shabby with cracks and peels. The stage was at one end with a long boardwalk down the center. I sat alone in the premier rang, but the second and third were filled with middle-aged, nondescript women, some accompanied by gigolos who tittered occasionally. I had missed only the boutique collection. The real show started about 3.30.

Conversation was confined to whispers as the models, roughly about thirty-five years old, did their stints up and down the boardwalk. It was a pity that some of the seams of the dresses were split, but a trained eye could see beyond these faults. I had read all the fashion magazines before leaving home — hence was familiar with the Balmains which were currently being pushed. What I did not realize was that those four or five were the only ones which would interest me; in other words, the fashion editors had picked the best, and the remains were a dreary sequence designed lor another market — some for les provinces, others for Argentina. Perhaps the late Queen Marie of Rumania would have liked the flowing silk afternoon tea-gown trimmed with old mink, of a very pale color which looked very Old World. An overformal thé dansant suit made of satin encrusted with hanging beads and jet looked just the thing for Eva Perón or Farouk’s sister to wear to Maxim’s.

By five o’clock I was bored, and might have relaxed into a sleepy stupor if it had not been for the needling of my vendeuse, who wished to have some kind of contract signed as swiftly as possible. Fuller Brush salesmen, incidentally, have nothing on the French haute couture vendeuses as far as aggressiveness goes. It is wise to have an exit phrase up one’s sleeve because the haute couture make it as difficult to leave as they do to come into their establishments. I promised them all that I would be back in the spring.

I went home feeling I had wasted a day in Paris, and since there were five other “collections’ on my list, I faced the prospect of wasting a whole working week. Instead I decided to devote my time to museums and art galleries, which welcome looking around as well as buying. Dior and Schiaparelli were the only other couturiers I visited. They were both better shows, and the setting was in better repair, if equally grandiose. Dior’s models were young and pretty, and the clothes good as to line and style (a few of them were spotty, but it was explained that “his things had traveled a great deal”). It was bad luck that I did not happen to go the same day that “Monty,” accompanied by his hostess, la Générale de Lattre de Tassigny, brought down the house by modeling his famous beret. Schiaparelli was the best of all with fresh new materials, well assembled as to color, and presented in grand luxe from start to finish. Also, unlike the other two, there seemed to be a lot of actual purchasers. Both shows, however, were long and formal and replete with models for some market other than the U.S.A., and consequently dull.

2

THE haute couture, whether they admit it or not, have their sights trained on the world-wide wholesale trade from the day the dress is drawn on paper to its final unveiling in the salon, and the lone purchaser has long since been lost in the shuffle. Gone are the days I remember well when Mme. Schiaparelli would go over the dress needs of American schoolgirls in Paris as carefully as she did some more obvious prospect. (She still continues to use a personal touch in her Paris showroom, but it is generally conceded that she is wasting her time.)

It does seem a pity that the screening process to which the lone American must submit if she persists in buying a “label dress” has to be so crude and tactless. A French prototype of Celebrity Service or Dun & Bradstreet could make a fortune. For instance, it is common practice to ask customers who come in “off the street” — minus letters, credentials, fashion background — what hotel they are staying in. If it is not the Ritz or the George V, the head rendeuse visibly loses interest, but she is sophisticated enough to realize that there are three or four other hotels on the Right Bank which are favorites with rich Americans. Anyone who stays at the top ten or twelve will get an invitation to a showing if she is in Paris long enough for the concierge to get her name in the Paris Herald. The rich eccentric who stays in a hotel on the Left Bank has little chance. Schiaparelli is the most tactful and polite to the unknowns; Molyneux second; Balmain tries; Fath and Dior make no effort at all. I was told of one poor woman, quite as rich as Farouk’s sister, who tried with no success to see Fath’s collection and finally had to return emptyhanded to Hattie Carnegie, who is said to have ribbed M. Fath quite a bit on what he had missed. The next year the lady returned with a letter of introduction and her credit rating.

The reasons for this lack of hospitality are manifold — terror of copyistes and the need to guard against spies from rival industries are the most important — but they are of small consequence to most Americans who come to Paris with visions of Harper’s Bazaar and Vogue dancing through their heads, and with plans to put those dreams on their backs. I later tried in vain to explain to one top designer that that particular type of American is a representative, perhaps in a small way, of wholesale trade’s buying market. It might be cheap at the price to make her happy. She might even be so pleased that she would persuade Neiman-Marcus and Hattie Carnegie to double their orders at a certain house. It is also conceivable that she might be an important figure in the wholesale world either through her husband or brother. All this was said to a blank wall. The French have lived too long and are now doing too well to change their traditional methods of letters of introduction and publicity. They may be killing the goose that laid the golden egg, but the egg will have to shrink before they change their ways.

I would have stopped my wardrobe spree then and there and continued through Europe in my $49.50s and the Hermes scarves if it had not been for a Swiss cousin who gave me some information on how Europeans face the problem. Most of them accept the haute couture as they operate today. If your husband is president of France, envoy to UN, or some such dignitary, Fath and the boys deck you out for free on special occasions in one of their “loanable” models which are designed to be let out and taken in, according to size and type. The American envoy’s wife, the French say, gets a 50 per cent cut (this, by the way, irritates them); so, presumably, do many others. During my stay in Paris, the King and Queen of Denmark were being officially entertained, and the Paris-Match photographed them and their official hosts from start to finish. Accompanying each picture of a générale or wife of an official was a fashion credit, the only commercial part of the transaction. The Frenchwoman has great trouble getting an “in” to the big houses if she is not a regular buyer, because the houses know she will pass on information to her copyiste. The very wealthy Frenchwomen — Marie Laure de Noailles, for instance — refuse to stand for Fath’s airs and graces, simply walking over him to the model they want, but they are in the enviable position of having known him and the other designers for years.

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As for the copyistes, their names are well-kept secrets. My cousin explained the reason as follows: “You cannot be sure that even a general’s wife will pay her bills”; and the copyiste’s hands are tied when it comes to collecting, for fear of getting in legal trouble. Most Frenchwomen prefer them not only because of price, but because of the haute couture’s high-handed methods. The purpose of seemingly endless fittings is to make you look as much like a Dior or a Fath as possible, not a bit vice versa. Three weeks’ delivery time is standard. The copyiste makes becoming changes, and also delivers a finished product within a week.

Copyistes have existed for years in Paris. In fact, I had used one myself at the time when I made the boarding-school excursions to the big dress houses. Even in those easygoing days, they operated in much the same way as bootleggers did here. However, today’s laws in Paris seem stricter. An American friend wrote me the name of a contemporary copyiste, giving address and phone and the name of a third person who had used her. From the moment the letter arrived until the day the clothes were given me “in the hand” to carry home to the hotel, I felt a bit like a member of the Mafia. When I gave the hotel operator the number to call, she cross-questioned for no good reason. First came “Qui esf-ce?” Then, “Une couturière?” Then a snort, and “Je peux vous dire, madaine, qu’elle n’estpas du tout connue.” breathed more easily when I remembered that all I had revealed to the operator was the number, with no name and address. I finally “got through” and made an appointment for that afternoon.

The copyiste lived in a shabby private house in a dreary section beyond the Étoile, peopled with secondhand auto supply stores, garages, and the like. From the outside, the building looked like a very down-at-the-heel boardinghouse with none of the usual Paris charm. The door was opened slowly in answer to a bell which somehow gave the impression that it might not work, and a tiny girl, about fourteen years old, who later proved to be the chief midinette, said timidly, “De la part de qui?” through a space of about six inches. When told, she ushered me up a narrow, winding staircase and into a small fitting room covered with pins. After fifteen minutes or so — which I spent gazing into a giant-sized wardrobe mirror — the propriétaire appeared. She was as gay and chic as her maison was not. We chatted for several minutes on everything but clothes, and in the course of the conversation the copyiste mentioned a cousin who had bought things there last summer. Somehow this broke the ice, and gained me admittance into the club.

I was escorted up another flight into a much bigger, more professional-looking fitting room, pursued by two midinettes carrying my fur coat and package. Toiles (unbleached muslin models) were hung about the mirrors, which were explained by Madame in much too fast French. You are supposed to recognize the model by the toiles, not a very easy process for the amateur used to American ready-to-wcars, and you pick the one you want. Then comes the choosing of the material tissue, perhaps the most important process. With true French sense of color, Madame held a purple close to my face and hair before she let me decide. (I reflected that the French would probably dye both to match, if necessary.) Fortunately, I did know the ropes, and my halting French slowed down Madame so that we could meet on common ground.

My selection was a big coachman’s coat — a cross between Dior and Balmain — to be made of fuzzy purple Rodier wool with lining to match. Then Madame summoned M. Henri, a very harassed tailleur, who took measurements (in centimeters) with the help of the midinette who had opened the door. There was much discussion about padding, a “must” last season to get the proper effect over the hips, also some talk of putting some on the poitrine. Final decision was that that was unnecessary. They all were very able, so much so that I would have taken their word for anything. All this, plus a skirt to match, cost about $150, and required only three fittings — a far cry from what it would have cost where it was created. Madame, for some reason of her own, was adamant on being paid in American Express checks, about a third of which went into her hands then and there. Perhaps checks can be used with more variety than straight dollars? All in all, I was pleased. However, I wondered how a compatriot who did not speak French and was not used to copyiste methods with the toiles would manage. Perhaps overcauliously secretive, I did not mention the copyiste to anyone, because there was no way of knowing whether my European friends would use the proper discretion. The first thing you know, Madame might be treated to a visit from Dior and company, and the police.

4

IN Rome, where high fashion is as much (if not more) de rigueur as in Paris, I discovered the simple answer to the problem of buying clothes. Palazzo life is still conducted in the grand manner: the grandsons of Edith Wharton’s circle carry on as they always have, despite a changing world and drafty corridors. One ball dress will hardly get you through a season; most women buy two or three. Hence, before contacting a palazzo friend, it would be wise to visit La Boutique on the Via Piemonte, close to the Excelsior Hotel. Run by a not-so-young, not-so-old member of Roman society called Princess Lola Giovanelli, it is one of several such shops catering to the carriage trade. The Princess is almost too chic smokes cigarettes from a tortoise-shell holder, wears jingling gold jewelry and jersey tricots which match what Americans might think were overtight skirls. She herself does not speak English, but she governs a tiny staff who not only do, but are beautiful models to boot. One was a displaced Esterhazy, another a half-English Italian countess. All are active members of the chic world both in and out of Italy, and they know what you want, seemingly by intuition, probably from long personal experience.

There is no special hour for showings, which can be put on any time (except during the long lunch hour, which is almost a. religious rite in this city) just for you; and best of all, there is no vendeuse of the Paris variety. I debated — at some leisure — a dream of a ball dress by Balenciaga with enough satin and velvet to satisfy Velázquez, finally decided that it was a bit too much for New York’s rather prosaic evening routine. It could have been mine for as little as $150 — or rather its exact copy, which would have been made right there in La Boutique in a week. I finally chose a Path day dress which was produced with much bustle and speed in three days. The head fitter (who in turn supervised two midinettes) proved to be a eery, very pregnant young woman who was indeed racing against time to finish it. It is to be hoped the baby wasn’t born sputtering pins.

I went to Vienna with the day dress, plus a Dior jacket which was sold to me off the rack because of the lack of time to copy it. Each cost less than $150. All during the fittings the Princess, using the Esterhazy as interpreter, watched closely, occasionally producing very apt suggestions, illustrating her points with pictures of the model as it was supposed to look. The materials were the real McCoy, per Fath’s and Dior’s ideas, a far cry from the rayon ersatz of my $49.50s. The shop itself was most unshoplike, very glamorous with mosaic tables for showcases, and baroque décor. Not a bit grandiose, it was cosy and, at the same time, very de luxe. It turned out that it had been a restaurantnight club in pre-World War II days, and the decoration had been done by artist Leonor Fini. Not only did I find the clothes I wanted, but I had a good time doing it. It wasn’t just the low prices, but the warm welcome and the attention.

The Princess is one of several members of Roman society who have gone into the business of dressing others as well as she does herself. She visits Paris twice a year for the two midseason collections (November and May), which include both the bigcollection models and the newer ones. These last are often precursors of the next big show; hence, she has a chance to keep ahead of the game. Her purchases are based for the most part on the tastes and needs of her Roman clients, but she also chooses models which will appeal to foreigners. She buys in exactly the same way, highly legal, as do the American buyers, in that she pays for reproduction rights. However, she does not have to face the limits of a mass production market and can pick the hard-to-copy models. Her own employees are skilled enough to copy them exactly. Since labor is cheap, the price is held down to a fraction of what the same dress would cost in its original house or in the U.S.A., where a Bergdorf Goodman copy, for example, would cost about $400.

On my return to Paris a month later, I heard lively tales of the Princess’s jaunts. While staying at the discreet Right Bank Hotel Lotti, she entertained two beaux. One of these, on hearing of the presence of the other, became so distraught that he knocked out the night concierge. Everything was hushed up when one of the beaux bowed to the request that he leave the hotel.

The Roman boutique is but one of many such places in Europe where Frenchwomen go to buy their wardrobes. In Madrid, the native city of Balenciaga, the same dress which costs $800 in Paris costs only $80. The difference is principally owing to the low price of labor. Switzerland is another good hunting ground for those with hard currency.

Vienna, too, still maintains standards, in suits from Knize (who began his career here) and fashionable clothes. The group that buys them may be small, but its social schedule demands the best in clothes, what with some forty balls each winter and biweekly concerts, plus occasional (rips to the opera, not to mention cocktail parties and night-club rendezvous at the Splendide, Peterie, and Renaissance Bars.

As in Rome, it is considered very countrycousiny to be seen in the same dress more than twice. For $100 you can have one of the season’s coats, a ball dress, or a concert dress. This concert dress might be described as indigenous to Vienna, because of the amount of time spent in the Concert Hall, a baroque Gay Nineties building furnished with gold nudes of heroic proportions, listening to music conducted by Karajan — who, incidentally, is given Frank Sinatra treatment by both his lady audience and chorus. Adulation to an almost asphyxiating degree permeates the hall, and for such occasions it is mandatory to wear the concert dress. It must be chic, black, of silk or taffeta, “not too décolleté,” as one old countess explained. For the balls, you can go as far as you like, or as the magnificence of your family jewels, always worn for big occasions, requires. There is some difficulty about procuring materials, but it can be arranged one way and another. (I got an exaggerated impression that most of the diplomatic pouches being carried over the Enns Bridge bore more bolts of cloth than they did important papers.) In any event, there are ways and ways for the Austrian; the visiting American who brings in material — both for Knize and dressmakers — will have a field day, because a finished product, suit or dress, costs well under $50. Again, the tailoring and couture is of top quality, comparable to any in the world.

The two top dressmaking establishments in Vienna are the Fasching Bauer, which has been popular for years with both Austrians and Americans, and a new one run by the newly married Countess Arnold Keyserling, a member herself of one of Austria’s oldest families, the Auerpergs, and daughter-in-law of the late famous philosopher. The Fasching Bauer is perhaps the best for the visitor with limited time, because it offers more variety. The wife of America’s former envoy, Mrs. John G. Erhardt, was so pleased with their work that she still orders her clothes there, which are made on a Singer Sewing Machine type model of herself.

Example of this year’s models: a big, flowing overcoat made of the teddy-bear type of pastelcolored wool; price, between $60 and $80, The lining is faneily quilted with matching stitching in true Hapsburg manner. Countess Keyserling, who spent apprentice years with Dior in Paris, operates more like the French copyiste, and perhaps would ask for more time in which to deliver. Her shop consists of two rooms on the second floor of an old office building in the First District of Vienna. A subscriber for all the important fashion magazines — which she studies as carefully as her philosopher-husband conducts conférences — she also keeps in touch with Paris fashions as they appear, through French friends and Swiss contacts. She wants to keep her shop small so that she can give individual attention, as she put it.

These places outside Paris are but scratches on the whole surface — there are many others which offer the same services. In other words, don’t buy your clothes in Paris. Save your money for the other capitals, where you’ll be welcomed and fitted and pinned to a queen’s taste. I returned to Paris, stayed a month or so, during which I checked on my out-of-Paris purchases, only to find them identical in quality, if minus label. Needless to say, this is not written for the label-bound woman, or for those who like chi-chi and procuring seemingly hard-to-get tickets to showings. The word “seemingly” is used because any persevering, healthy, insensitive woman, who does not mind being “snobbed,” can walk through the smoke screen put out by the haute couture, pay her money, and get a dress; but I found the process not worth the effort.