Fairy Fingers / A Novel

by Anna Cora Ogden Mowatt Ritchie

We need hardly relate how soon, after reaching Washington, the fair Parisian discovered that civilization had made astounding progress if it might be estimated by the deference paid to "chiffons;" nor need we portray her astonishment at finding that American women "of fashion" were not merely close copyists of extreme French modes, but that they exaggerated even the most extravagant, and hunted after the newest styles with the national energy which their countrywomen of a nobler class expended upon nobler objects; and were more ready to deform or ignore nature, and swear allegiance to the despotic rule of the Crinoline Sovereign, than any Parisian belle under the sun.

Madame de Fleury's royal sway over the empire of "chiffons" was soon as thoroughly established in Washington as it had been in Paris. Dress, or head-dress, bodice, bonnet, mantle, gaiter, glove, worn by her, multiplied itself in important imitations, and every feminine chrysalis sent forth its ballroom butterfly in a livery to match. Whatever style, shape, color, she adopted, however extraordinary, became the rage for that season, and disappeared from sight, totally banished by her regal command, at the inauguration of the next.

At one period no skirt could sweep the pavement, or lie in rich folds at the bottom of a carriage, unadorned by an imposing flounce that almost covered the robe; a little later, the one sober flounce was driven into obscurity by twenty coquettish small ones; and these were displaced by primly puffed bands; which gave way to fanciful "keys" running up the sides of the dress (where they seemed to have no possible right); and those vanished when double skirts commenced their brief reign; to be dethroned by a severe-looking quilted ruffle marching around the hem of the dress and up the centre to the throat; and this grave adornment suddenly found its place usurped by an inundation of fantastic trimmings, jet, bugles, passementerie, velvet or lace. So much for skirts!

Then the bodices:—now nothing was to be seen but the "square cut" which revealed the fine busts of beauties in the days of Charles II.,—now graceful folds a cœur sentimentally ruled the day,—now infant waists became a passion, and the most maternal forms aped the juvenility borrowed from their babies. Then for sleeves: at one time they were wide and long and cumbrous, forbidding every trace of the most rounded member beneath; then they took the form of antique drapery, disclosing the arm almost nude, save for the transparent lace of the undersleeve,—then the close, tight fit of the Quaker left all but a distorted outline to the imagination.

And bonnets: at one moment the tiniest bird's-nest of a hat, embowered in feathers and buried in lace, was perched on the back of the head, reminding one of Punch's suggestion that it could be more conveniently carried upon a salver by a domestic walking behind; a little later, the only bonnet admissible closed around the face like a cap, laces and feathers had disappeared, a few tastefully disposed knots of ribbon, or a single flower, were the only adornments: but hardly had Good Sense nodded approvingly at the graceful simplicity with which heads were covered, when, lo! the bonnets shot up like bright-hued coal-scuttles, over which a basket of buds and blossoms had been suddenly upset, and went through a variety of fantastic transformations wholly indescribable.

So with other articles of attire. Mantles that had established for themselves a natural and convenient length suddenly grew down to the hem of the dress; basques, high in favor, were routed by Zouave jackets; girdles were at one moment drawn down with tight pressure until they barely surmounted the hips, the next were allowed to take an almost natural round (as far as their fitting locality went), and next were put wholly to flight by pointed Swiss belts, with enormous bows, and long, flowing ends,—while these, in turn, were chased from the field by picturesque scarfs.

Then as regards the disposition of that native veil of unsurpassable beauty which adorns the head of woman: now, all locks were braided low at the back of the head, almost lying upon the neck; now they surmounted the crown and rose in stories higher and higher; now they sprang into a pair of wings from either side of the temples; now they were clustered in a tuft of disorderly curls above the brow; now smoothed and bandolined close to the face and knotted with an air of quiet simplicity behind the ears.

Whichever of these modes the Parisian queen of "chiffons" rendered graceful in her own person, every fair one, with the slightest aspiration to style, strengthened her claims to be thought fashionable by scrupulously assuming. What wonder that Mademoiselle Melanie, prime minister to the absolute sovereign, could scarcely receive the crowd of clients that thronged her doors?

She hired a spacious mansion, near the capitol, and furnished it with consummate taste. She combined the vocation of mantua-maker with that of milliner, and supplied all the materials she employed from an assortment of her own selection. This was one secret of her astonishing success, for it gave her control over the entire apparel of her customers. Regarding herself as responsible for the tout ensemble of each toilet that issued from her hands, and her reputation as at stake if any defective touch marred the general result of her adorning, she exerted a thoroughly despotic sway over those whom she undertook to dress, and refused, in the most positive, yet most courteous manner, to allow them to follow the dictates of their own faulty fancies. As a skilful artist examines a picture in the best light, that all its beauties may be revealed, she placed each one of her subjects in the most favorable aspect, studied her closely, searched out every fine point which might be heightened, and pondered over every defect which might be concealed. She had the rare gift of knowing how to embellish nature, how to bring forth all the capacities of a face and form, and how to modify the fashion of the day to the requirements of the wearer, instead of slavishly following an arbitrary mode, and thereby sacrificing all individuality of beauty. Dress became high art in her hands. Wondrously harmonious were the effects produced. Blondes looked softer and purer than ever before, without becoming insipid; brunettes grew more piquante and brilliant; nondescripts gained force and character; pallid faces caught a reflection of rose tints; too ruddy complexions were toned down by paling colors, and sallow skins found their ochre hue mysteriously neutralized. Angular shapes were draped so gracefully that unsymmetrical sharpness disappeared; too ample forms exchanged their air of uncouth corpulence for a well-defined roundness; low statures seemed to spring up to a nobler altitude, and women of masculine height sunk into feminine proportions. In short, Mademoiselle Melanie was not a mantua-maker, or milliner,—she was the genius of taste, the artful embodier of poetry in outward adorning.

Her own person was strikingly attractive; but the severest simplicity characterized her attire. Her manners, though affable, were exceedingly reserved; without any apparent effort, she repressed the familiarity of the vulgar, and rebuked the patronizing airs of the assuming, winning instinctive deference even from the ill-bred.