REIGNS OF HENRI IV. AND LOUIS XIII.
1589 TO 1643.
Universal mourning on the death of the Guises; intolerance
of showy dress—Vertugadins, “espoitrement,” “corps
espagnolé”—Diversity of colours—The pearls, jewels,
and diamonds belonging to Gabrielle d’Estrées and
to the queen—Dress of Marguerite de France—Low-cut
bodices—Head-dresses of hair—Various styles—Venetian
slippers—Edicts of Louis XII.—Caricatures: “Pompe funèbre de
la Mode”—Words and fashions—Ribbons or “galants”—Dress of
widows—“Demi-ceint” girdles—Gloves of all sorts—Patches—Masks;
their use—“Cache-laid”—The Frondeuses—Mme. de Longueville.
There is no difficulty in ascertaining the relation between the events of
a certain period and the fashions of the same date.
It may be that if the spirit of the age be serious, if the social
community be exposed to severe trials, if continual misfortunes befall
the mass of the people, the mode of dress will reflect those vicissitudes
of the time; and, generally speaking, such is the case. Sometimes, on the
contrary, extravagance and luxury seem to be flaunted in the very face of
the general poverty, and the small prosperous minority are so profoundly
indifferent to the misfortunes of the greater part of mankind, that they
make not the slightest change in their mode of living, but indulge in
every whim and caprice, and continue to bend the knee before the “fickle
goddess.”
A remarkable exception to this rule is worthy of note. It occurred in
Paris in December, 1583, immediately after the murder of the Duc de Guise
at the États de Blois. Deep mourning prevailed among the “leaguers” of
the capital, and numerous expiatory or funereal processions took place.
No fashionable costume was tolerated. “If a demoiselle was seen wearing
a ruff ‘à la confusion,’ nay, even a single ‘rabat’ of extra length, or
sleeves too open, or any other superfluous adornment, the people would
attack her, drag off her ruff, and even tear her clothes.”
But this, we repeat, was an exception. In the most troubled times of
our history, fashion and luxury appear to have yielded none of their
rights. Frenchmen, and still more Frenchwomen, feel so imperious a need
of pleasure! Ennui comes to them so readily! The love of admiration, or
to speak more accurately, the love of elegance and of change is so deeply
rooted in the national character. If luxury did not exist in France, we
should be compelled to invent it. When it vanishes, we think that all is
lost—even our country!
It is unnecessary to recall the events of the reign of Henri IV., which
began in civil war, and ended with his assassination. The hero of the
day, the conqueror at Ivry, the king who “confounded both Mayenne and
Iberia,” loved fêtes as much perhaps as battles, for in both he was
triumphant over all rivals.
His court followed his example. Men still wore the curls and ringlets of
preceding reigns; ladies continued to use masks, so conducive to tricks
and adventures of all kinds. Nor did they give up their perfumes, whether
ambergris, musk, or cordial water; moreover they astonished the world by
the size of their “vertugadins.”
The vertugadin consisted of circles of iron, wood, or whalebone,
“resembling the hoops of casks.” These were sewn inside the skirts. It
dated from the first half of the sixteenth century, but attained no
extraordinary size under the Valois. Many eccentricities may be laid to
their charge, as we have seen, but on this point they were tolerably
reasonable.
From the first appearance of the vertugadin, which has become a type in
the history of Fashion, splints of wood were employed to compress the
waist, and give it slenderness and grace. Busks, whalebone bodices, and
corsets were used later. The object was to render the waist smaller;
hence resulted a whole architectural system intended to compass the
result at which our own contemporaries sometimes aim by means of the
corset. The waist was so tightly compressed that Henri Estienne speaks
of “l’espoitrinement des dames.”
The vertugadin came to us direct from Spain. “In order to obtain a real
Spanish figure,” says Montaigne, “what a gehenna of suffering will not
women endure, drawn in and compressed by great ‘coches’ entering the very
flesh; nay, sometimes they even die thereof?”
During the reign of Henri IV. the gigantic size of the vertugadin, in
spite of satire and sarcasm, was not lessened by one inch. In vain was
its absurdity manifest. The ladies nearly all looked “like church bells,”
to make use of a metaphor for which other historians are responsible.
Their bodices were usually buttoned in front, and were cut square at
the waist; but they often wore long pointed bodices partially opened
in front, and disclosing a white chemisette elegantly trimmed with
embroidery or lace. Lace was lavished on every part of the gown—on the
wrists, sleeves, and back.
Frenchwomen wore colours, and great was their number—from “rat-colour”
to that called “widow’s joy,” or “envenomed monkey,” or “chimney-sweep,”
according to D’Aubigné.
Gabrielle d’Estrées, who wore her hair frizzed and drawn back in the
shape of a heart, had a “cotillon” of the colour of “gold-dust of
Turkey.” Her black satin gown, slashed with white, is mentioned by some
writers. She paid 1900 crowns for the embroidered handkerchief she
carried at a ballet. Some court ladies loaded themselves with such a
weight of pearls and jewels that they were unable to move. At the baptism
of the king’s children, on September 14, 1606, the queen’s gown, covered
with “thirty-two thousand pearls and three thousand diamonds, was beyond
rivalry, and priceless.” Before that, in 1594, Gabrielle d’Estrées “was
so loaded with pearls and sparkling gems that she outshone the light
of the torches.” She possessed a “cotte of Turkish cloth of gold, with
flowers embroidered in carnation, white, and green,” and a “gown of
flowered green velvet, lined with cloth of silver, and trimmed with gold
and silver braid, and pipings of carnation satin.”
The display of diamonds was destined to increase as time went on.
The reign of the vertugadin, which Mme. de Motteville described as “a
round and monstrous machine,” came to an end in 1630. But red silk
stockings, called “bas de fiammette,” costing more than seventy-five
francs a pair, shoes with flaps fastened by a love-knot “à la Choisy”
in blue or red satin, and crimson velvet, pattens with high cork soles,
survived the vertugadin, as did likewise velvet, miniver, and ermine
muffs in winter.
Marguerite de France, the daughter of Henri II. and wife of Henri IV.,
is depicted wearing the following costume: Pearl necklace and earrings,
open-work fan, kid gloves completely covering the hands and wrists, where
they were drawn under white cuffs, a cap, since known as the Marie Stuart
cap, her hair frizzed and drawn up symmetrically over the forehead, an
under-dress of black satin, the upper one trimmed with gimp, an open
fluted collerette, and an immense ruff reaching to the nape of the neck.
Marguerite de France, whom courtiers called “the goddess,” was
extraordinarily beautiful, and was graceful, lively, and fascinating in
the highest degree. Her “carrures” (shoulder-breadths) and skirts were
made by her orders, it is said, much wider than was necessary. She was
enormously stout, and by way of improving her figure applied steel bands
to each side of her waist. There were, it seems, not a few doors through
which the fair princess could not pass.
Gowns were made not only of satin but of velvet, damask, and silk of
every colour. There were dresses “à collets débordés,” or with collars
falling over the shoulders and upper part of the arm; there were ruffs
“à grands godrons,” so cut out and open-worked that the skin was easily
discernible behind them; there were belts of exorbitant price, to which
were suspended needle-cases, gold-handled scissors, and gold-braided
velvet purses.
By degrees, through the fatal effect of bad example, the passion for
low-cut bodices assumed a boundless sway.
Innocent XI., who was at enmity with France, rebuked this craze from the
chair of St. Peter, and showed no greater favour to the weaker sex than
to the politicians of France. He issued a bull by which he “enjoined
on all women, married and single, to cover their bosoms, shoulders,
and arms down to the wrist, with non-transparent materials, on pain of
excommunication.”
But the thunderbolts of the Church were hurled in vain, and light,
transparent, and low-cut gowns enjoyed a long career. The Vatican and the
French Parliament might speak if they chose, but they could not prevail
against the customs of the day.
Dating from the year 1587, one of the last years of the troubled reign
of Henri III., women had taken a violent fancy to wearing hair only as
a head-dress, surmounted by a feather. They wore false hair or wigs
powdered with violet powder for brunettes, and with iris for fair women.
A sort of gum or mucilage kept the hair in its place; their heads seemed
to be pasted. The women of the people made use of the dust of rotten oak,
and the peasants of flour for the same purpose.
There were four different styles of head-dresses of the period:—First,
the “coiffure à boucles frisées,” or curled ringlets, the style of which
is sufficiently indicated by its name; secondly, that “à passe filions;”
thirdly, that “à oreillettes,” a hat with a high crown, the material of
which being crumpled of itself (naturellement chiffonnée) fell into a
quantity of little folds; and, fourthly, the “coiffure à l’espagnole,” or
Spanish head-dress.
The latter deserves some notice on account of its elegance and
singularity. My readers can imagine the effect of a handsome Spanish
toque, embroidered or braided in gold, and artistically placed at
the back of the head, with the hair in curls all round the front. In
addition, there were several plaits intermingled with ribbons and jewels,
which fell lightly on the neck and floated in the wind. This head-dress
met with little or no opposition.
Transparent dresses “à l’ange,” or “à la vierge,” skirts of yellow satin,
like those of Francion’s wife, and light head-dresses, were worn with
very delicate and fanciful shoes. Venetian slippers were much prized,
also coloured shoes with high heels.
During the reign of Henri IV., Venetian and Florentine lace became so
fashionable in France, that, in justice to native manufacturers, their
importation was forbidden. But a system of fraudulent traffic was set up,
and French vanity almost got the better of the law. The king chose to
banter his minister on the extravagance of women, and Sully immediately
took certain steps which succeeded in temporarily stopping the excess of
expenditure on dress.
Louis XIII., the son of Henri III., endeavoured to walk in the path
traced out by Sully, and in 1633 and 1634 issued two fresh edicts
lecturing Frenchwomen on their caprices. All the women instantly cried
“Shame!” and numberless caricatures were published in defence of their
cause.
One artist depicted a steady tradesman of Flanders, reduced to a state of
despair, tearing his hair, and wildly cursing things in general, while he
tramples his embroideries under foot and exclaims:—
“Que fait-on publier? que venons-nous d’entendre?
Mettons bas la boutique, et de nos passements
Faisons des cordes pour nous pendre!”[25]
Another print bore the following title: “Pompe funèbre de la Mode, avec
les larmes de Démocrite et les ris d’Héraclite.” Four women are leading
Fashion along, followed by a crowd of workwomen, barbers, embroiderers,
and tailors, who are endeavouring to make the best of their evil fortune,
and brandishing, after the fashion of banners, wands laden with lace and
finery. In the background is a sarcophagus bearing the following epitaph:—
“Ci-gist sous ce tableau, pour l’avoir mérité,
La Mode, qui causait tant de folie en France.
La mort a fait mourir la superfluité,
Et va faire bientôt revivre l’abondance.”[26]
Here lieth Fashion! The ladies of the day must have laughed heartily
in their sleeve at the notion of the death of Fashion; for how should
they admit that it _deserved_ to die? In spite of caricatures it did, in
fact, survive, and in face of all the edicts took refuge at court, as its
privileged sanctuary, and the natural home of ermine, gold-laced coats,
lace, and jewels.
Vaugelas, the grammarian, paid tribute to the power of Fashion, when
he said: “Words are like fashions. The wise, who know that they must
speak and dress like every one else, do not immediately adopt the newest
inventions of folly, but only those in general use, and it is equally
unreasonable to endeavour to make words or to make fashions, or to refuse
to abide by them after they have been publicly recognized.” In other
words, custom overrides everything as regards both language and dress,
and no one can decree innovations either in speech or in costume, with a
chance of being obeyed.
Nor did the Jansenists meet with better success when they attempted to
deprive a certain lady of Easter Communion because she had trimmed her
pocket-handkerchief with lace. Was it not the fashion?
Meanwhile the mere bourgeoises, who dared not openly defy the sumptuary
laws, wore, in place of the lace forbidden them, a quantity of ribbon
under the generic name of “galants.”
Knots of ribbon appeared on the dresses of all the bourgeoises, and
even on those of the maid-servants of Molière’s and Corneille’s time.
There were tufts of ribbon on the skirts, bodices, sleeves, and hair.
Bourgeoises felt the necessity of wearing ribbons at a time when
cavaliers were profusely adorned with them. The whole French people were
ribbon mad.
The “chaperon” or hood was still worn by bourgeoises. This was a small
coif pointed on the forehead, and with an appendage behind that hung over
the shoulders. The point was fastened down by pins. If we may believe the
author of “La Chasse au Vieil Grognard,” “nobody was so well dressed, so
clean, and so respectable” as the bourgeoises. “So well mannered, and so
agreeable in their speech and conversation, that for the most part they
with their daughters would be taken for noble ladies rather than for
bourgeoises and shopkeepers.”
Great ladies also condescended to wear hoods, but only in winter.
According to Ménage, Anne of Austria introduced the fashion of
“garcettes,” which took the place of the padded wigs. The hair was
frequently dressed “en tire-bouchons,” or corkscrew-fashion, and in
loops, with a “culbute” or ribbon-bow fixed in the chignon.
Widows were never seen without a little coif on their heads. After two
years’ deep mourning in “guimpe” and mantle, says a modern writer, widows
were restricted for the rest of their lives, unless they married again,
to black and white made in the simplest manner. Mme. d’Aiguillon, the
niece of Cardinal Richelieu, was the first who ventured to wear colours
after her husband’s death. Yet she did not throw aside the hood, which
remained in existence under different names—sometimes “languette,”
sometimes “bandeau”—until the close of the seventeenth century.
According to St. Simon, Mme. de Navailles, who died in 1700, was the last
widow who wore a “bandeau.”
For undress, great ladies wore small coifs or round caps, fitting close
to the head. Servants and women of the people added a kind of flag, which
hung down between the shoulders, and was called a “bavolette,” and was
probably the forerunner of the “bavolet,” or bonnet-curtain of our own
times. Countrywomen wore instead of a coif a thick stitched “béguin,”
which is still in use in certain country places. In Picardy it is called
a “cale” or “calipète.”
Women of the people wore no gowns, only two petticoats and a bodice; the
latter was sometimes laid aside for a “hongreline,” or loose bodice with
deep basques, and in all cases an apron. They almost all possessed gold
ornaments.
The girdle consisted of a “demi-ceint” of silver, and a broad band of
silk ornamented with chased or enamelled gold-work. The “demi-ceint” was
sometimes worth forty crowns; knives keys, scissors, &c., were suspended
to it by a chain. Taken altogether, the dress of a maid-servant was
rather complicated.
Feminine attire altered very little under Louis XIII. We may note,
however, the muff and the little “muff-dog,” seldom separated from his
mistress.
Essences were still used, also white lead and vermilion. Every article
of dress was scented, including shoes, and especially gloves. There were
gloves “à l’occasion,” “à la nécessité,” “à la cadenet,” “à la Phyllis,”
“à la Frangipani” made out of highly perfumed skins, and gloves “à la
Néroli,” so called from a princess of that name who had, it seems,
invented an exquisite scent.
In the “Discours de la Mode” (1615) we read:—
“Une dame ne peut jamais estre prisée
Si sa perruque n’est mignonnement frisée,
Si elle n’a son chef de poudre parfumé
Et un millier de nœuds, qui çà qui là semé,
Par quatre, cinq ou six rangs, ou bien davantage,
Comme sa chevelure, a plus ou moins d’étage.”[27]
For the benefit of their complexions, women applied lard to their faces
at night.
The “précieuses,” whom Molière thought ridiculous, and who refined our
language until they got out of their depth, used to call fans “zephyrs.”
This is rather an appropriate expression, and at any rate it is less
affected than the euphemism of “baptized mules,” by which they designated
the porters of their sedan chairs.
Bright coloured silk stockings were still in fashion, and red satin
shoes, or little slippers of various hues.
We must call attention to one novelty, the appearance of patches, which
are first mentioned in print in 1655, and continued to be in fashion
until the time of the Regency, when seven principal patches were
recognized.
A patch was simply a small bit of black silk sticking-plaister, placed
on the face, which looked all the fairer for the contrast. Each lady
placed the patch to suit the expression of her countenance. In the midst
of a promenade or street a great lady might be seen suddenly to stop, to
open the patch-box she carried everywhere with her, to survey herself
in the mirror which lined its lid, and quickly to replace a patch that
had fallen off. The fashion of patches was not, as might be imagined, a
production of the seventeenth century. It was a reminiscence of early
Roman times, during which even orators wore patches when speaking from
the Tribune. We may truly say that there is nothing new under the sun.
It is said that certain plaisters ordered as a remedy for headache had
originally suggested these black spots, and what had been at first
prescribed for health’s sake, was retained as an aid and accessory to the
beauty of ladies who wished for artificial attractions.
After endeavouring to animate and improve the countenance by patches,
the next step was to conceal those faces to which nature had been unkind
behind a mask; or else to envelope beauty in mystery, by making its
presence doubtful, and exciting the curiosity of the incredulous.
Masks originated in the reign of Henri II. They reappeared in tenfold
force under Louis XIII. Ladies avoided recognition by wearing black
velvet masks, lined with white satin, that folded in two like a
pocket-book. There were no strings with which to fix them on, but a
slender silver bar ending in a button was fastened on the inside, and
putting this between her teeth, the wearer could hold her mask in its
place. Moreover, the tone of the voice was so altered by a mask, that
many persons, anxious to avoid satirical remark, kept on their masks in
public promenades, at balls, and even in church.
The poet Scarron describes the prettiest kind of mask in his “Épître
Burlesque” to Mme. de Hautefort:—
“Parlerai-je de ces fantasques
Qui portent dentelle à leurs masques,
En chamarrant les trous des yeux,
Croyant que le masque est au mieux?
Dirai-je qu’en la canicule,
Qu’à la cave même l’on brûle,
Elles portent panne et velours?
Mais ce n’est pas à tous les jours;
Qu’au lieu de mouches les coquettes
Couvrent leur museau de paillettes,
Ont en bouche cannelle et clous,
Afin d’avoir le flaire doux,
Ou du fenouil que je ne mente,
Ou herbe forte comme mente.”[28]
Masks called “loups” were supposed to protect the complexion from
sunburn, but this was a mere pretext; the real object was to conceal the
face of the wearer. Some ladies thus concealed their plainness, and the
loup was also called “cache-laid,” or hide-ugly.
After the death of Louis XIII., when the minority of Louis XIV. afforded
an excuse for the troubles of the Fronde, when the great ladies meddled
with politics, directed insurrectionary movements, and acquired the name
of “belles frondeuses,” masks played a most important part.
Conspiracies that had been hatched in boudoirs broke out in the streets,
and women took up arms and placed themselves at the head of seditious
parties. Cardinal Mazarin used to say: “There are three women in France
capable of governing or of upsetting three kingdoms: the Duchesse de
Longueville, the Princesse Palatine, and the Duchesse de Chevreuse.”
These ladies used to go, masked, to the councils of Beaufort or of
Condé, so as to escape the observation of the enemies of their cause.
There are portraits in existence of that arch-Frondeuse the Duchesse de
Longueville. She is represented with helmet and cuirass; her air and
attitude are those of a heroine. Several princesses took her for their
model; and the period is one of note as regards fashion, especially for
great diversity in dress.
No commands were laid on great lords and ladies in those times of anarchy
among the nobles. There was ample liberty, not to say licence, in dress.
“The women,” says a contemporary writer, “shone in jewels at a ball given
by Anne of Austria, and as much as they could in beauty also; and others
in embroidery, feathers, ribbons, and good looks, each according to her
means and the gifts of nature.” But for them liberty in dress was not
destined to be of long duration.
[Illustration]