Paris in Autumn-Time

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 236, 24 December 1927, Page 18

Paris in Autumn-Time

One’s Face Must Be Lifted... In an Old Chateau. . .

PARIS is already beginning to welcome her early Prodigals. At the restaurants, at the thes a la mode, and, above all, at the grands couturiers, one sees crowds of women who seem to have been drinking of the Fountain of Youth; their bright eyes and general appearance are eloquent of the beach; of camping in the mountains; of long tramps through the lush French countryside; of early to bed and to rise; of simple foods, of vegetable and milk diets that are the best “cures” in the world for the “nerviness” and hundred and one maladies that are horn of town life.

There is a paler surface of skin at the napes of their necks where, on their return to town, they have known the attention of their favourite coi/feur’s scissors (only the very ignorant of what-is-due-to-one’s-hair permit the razor or the clippers, says “Eve”), hut everyone else —so far as their dress reveals, and frocks this autumn reveal as much as ever—they are the warmest golden brown. Their appearance in Paris does not mean that they have returned to stay . . . the winter is still far away, or so, during these gorgeous September days, we fondly choose to believe. They have returned merely in order to tater Pair de la ville, to discover, de visu, how much or how little they will adopt of the vagaries of la mode announced by their pet fashion journal; to console the husband, or l'amoureux, whose duties in the city hold him prisoner; to visit their dentist, or even perhaps to call upon Dr. Passot, the famous surgeon, whose deft fingers restore the perfect oval of a fatigued face and “lifts” the tired contours of sagging cheeks and double chins. It is when the physical activities of the summer have brought one down to one’s slimmest that it is best to undergo this operation that most smart women look upon nowadays as a necessity rather than a luxury. Afterwards, when one fills out a little, the tiny scars, that at all times are hidden under the hair at the temples, disappear more quickly. A first visit to Dr. Passot is quite a small adventure. He lives in a charming old house in the rue Henri Rochefort, known till recently as the rue d’Offemont, a quiet street not far from the main entrance of the Parc Monceau.

There is the usual port© cochere (would one translate this as the “coachman’s door”?) and the inevitable concierge who directs one to the first floor. There one finds a tiny door next to what would ordinarily be the main entrance of the abode. The familiar trill of an electric bell answers to the pressure of a hesitating forefinger, and the brass-bound wood swings open at once on silent hinges to reveal a mysterious, winding staircase that curves upward for one short flight at th© top of which a white-coated medico, one of the surgeon’s aides, is waiting to conduct one to one of the tiny waiting rooms that, at this time of the year, are so in demand. Sometimes, if on© does not want to be seen and one has been optimistic enough not to make an appointment in advance, one is obliged to take cover in the pantry, or the bathroom, or even the kitchen, which, it must be added, no longer serve for the purpose for which they were intended. The hext visit takes one into the little white operating theatre that looks on to the green and gold of an autumn garden . . . half an hour of slight discomfort, but no actual pain, ensues, and by the end of the week one is facing the world with all the happiness and courage that

is born of the knowledge that one is looking better and feeling better than one has felt for years past, and one departs to the country in order to

enjoy just a few more days’ tranquility before the -inevitable rentree to town for the winteV.

It is difficult to imagine a more delightful end to one’s summer holidays than a fortnight or month spent in an old French chateau. Not necessarily belonging to rich owners and provided with les derniers contorts, but just one of those almost tumbled-down, picturesque gentilhommieres that one finds in the wine countries, on the banks of the Loire or in la Correze. Crumbling walls that seem to be held together by the ivy and the honey and wax of the bees that have swarmed and built their homes in the gaping crevasses, this for the outside. Inside, one finds the passages and rooms plastered with old tapestries and that amazing material known as andrinople that was once bright red, but that the passing years have faded to orange and russet. When dusk falls and the damp evening air is rich with the sweet smells of the earth and the curiously melancholy odour of the wood fires, lit for the evening meal in the cottages of the plain below (all self-re-specting chateaux are built on a rise n’est-ce pas?), lamplight burns brightly in all the dear old rooms, whose small paned windows stand in deep recesses, . . . great logs smoulder on the hearth in the salon and dining room, and one forgets, in that grateful warmth, that one’s candle flame will dance and gutter in the draughty, bathaunted passages when one goes to one’s room to dress for dinner, but. instinctively, one prolongs the firelit moment, talking over the day’s doings, long after the dressing-bell has rung. The vendanges are in full swing. All day the vines have been stripped of their white and purple fruits. The peasants—men, women and children — have been hard at it since early morning. They are short handed for labour on the land, and everybody is pressed into service. Writers, whose opinion counts, are beginning to ask why, in France, the example recently given in Belgium is not followed by the ecoles Normales (the State schools for pedagogues!) In the Champagne region the harvest has already been gathered with the help of foreign labour, mQstly Belgian women and girls from the State schools of Mons. This meant two or three weeks in the open air, good food, decent quarters in farms q.nd village homes, railway fares to an fro, and quite good pay at the end of the season. Why Belgians, however, instead of Frenchwomen? In France the womenfolk nowadays are just as hardy as elsewhere, just as eager, after months of strenuous brainwork, for the relaxation of physical labour that, in such cases, becomes almost un sport! Evidently il fallait y penser; but now that it has been thought of it is to be hoped that, next year, such a campaigne may be well written up beforehand and properly organised. • Meanwhile the guests at the chateau play at helping, . . . and one is reminded of the clowns at the circus (with all due apologies) who, between the various turns on the programme, endeavour to aid the ring hands when they bring in the acrobat’s carpet and clear away the tackle of the previous N number. Perhaps—but who cares? —Jane Regny frocks and Patou creations pour le sport will look none the better for a day in the vineyards, where one takes one’s mid-day meal with the grape-pickers, sitting on the trampled earth, where the green and sulphurstained leaves have been trodden into the rich soil, and the favourite fare is a doorstep of country bread sandwiched with greasy pork, washed down with a pichet of vin rose. Think of one’s crumpled garments after the indispensable afternoon siesta . . . think of the stains of honest toil as one labours later to fill one’s basket. The ripe grapes burst and run over, spurting afar as they are crushed down into the vaste hottes, half fermented already in the hot sun and giving forth a heady emanation that makes one almost drunken from the smell alone. All too soon the shadows lengthen and the dew begins to fall and tbe day is nearly done. . . . Such a pleasant day that passes so swiftly. Days to be red-let-tered and set aside most preciously in one’s golden book of happy memories.

ELEGANT DRESS FOR THE NOT-SO-YOUNG By PAULINE BOUCHIER Those who have passed their slim youth need not envy the fascinating modes designed for youthful figures, for they have little difficulty in dressing becomingly as well as fashionably, nowadays; In the first place, the vogue for rich, subtle shades is just right for the older women; grey and black are fashionable, too. Some people still seem to think the older woman must be drab and rather dowdy; but I have seen an evening frock designed for her which was the “last thing” in elegance. It was made with a cross-over bodice, there were side panels and • modified flares in front, with embroidery in silver beads as a rich finishing touch. ■ The armholes were trimmed with narrow lace, arranged to fall in folds. LINE AND DRAPERIES It is a mistake, however, for > the middle-aged to wear innumerable drapings and piecey styles* for ,so often those frocks with definite “lines” are best worn by her. The present fashion for lace provides innumerable becoming models, though it is well to avoid anything of the ultra-picture style. Frocks of stiff silks and velvets, built so that they dip down at the back are only for the very young. But a frock entirely of lace, say black or lacquer red, with an underslip of gold tissue, and a velvet girdle swathed at the waist, finished with tassels or fringe, needs a mature figure to carry it gracefully and elegantly. Tailored frocks for the older woman are often cut on coat' lines, and linkfastened at the waist. There is such a frock in a fashion salon in town, made in rich • velvet of gun-metal Shade, which opens over a front of deep red marocain. At the hem is a band of raisin-coloured fur. VELVET COATEES Bridge coats of velvet are cosy and pretty* and there is no end to their variety of design, and here tassels are in prominence on the smartest models. Fashionable coats with roll-collars and deep cuffs of musquash or dyed squirrel are graceful, and, if still slim, the older woman will have the fluffy fur continued down the front. Beautiful out-of-door coats have godets at the side, and black fox is a rich trimming on black pony cloth. Millinery is not quite so easy of solution. Helmets, and French felts with crinkly brims are not becoming

to any but the youngest face, but one should experiment with straw and felt shades whose brims are “split” so that they fold back without causing a hard line, and sometimes they are tastefully trimmed with tufts of feathers. Those interesting variations of the toque also deserve attention. Shoes are no longer a problem, now that the new soft leathers make most attractive footwear. Indeed, kid, of the texture of glove kid, makes a semi-court shoe, conveniently fastened with a thong-strap which can be adjusted.

Paris is full of magpie models. Some of the very smartest of afternoon dresses are notable triumphs in the black-and-white alliance. One lovely, creation in supple black crepe satin was a rather straight dress, made with a waist-deep jabot (normal waist again!) of double white satin, and showing an underskirt of white satin like a panel in the front of the skirt. Long tight sleeyes, a straight collar, and three handsome crystal buttons fastening the bodice at the waist, were other noteworthy features in an ensemble that spelt Paris from every angle! Less “difficile” for the everywoman wearer, but wonderfully attractive and “Parisian,” none the less, was a black and white ensemble of heavy crepe de chine, with a two-tiered skirt of fine pleating, each tier headed by a straight band of material tied in a soft bow in front. The straight bodice also had a band of the material brought round under the arms and tied in front.