The Book of the Courtesans (8 page)

The subject of style is often looked upon as trivial, but it is no less so than
any art. Clothes announce the changes in society that are yet to come. By the
time Cora Pearl was having her dresses made by the same couturier as the
Empress Eugénie, as power moved with a steady pace from the hands of the
aristocracy to the newly rich bourgeoisie, a great shift had already begun. The
drama was perhaps at its most intense during Holy Week at the opening of the
races when, as a parade of carriages would make its way down the avenue de
L’Impératrice toward Longchamps, the cabs that carried courtesans were
indistinguishable from those belonging to the ladies of high society. Though,
as with all members of the
nouveaux riches,
courtesans could be
revealingly ostentatious. Cora Pearl, for instance, shocked the sensibilities
of the socially well positioned when she dressed all her livery men in yellow
suits she had tailored to copy the style of British jockeys. During the Belle
Epoque, Cornelia Otis Skinner describes another courtesan who stepped slightly
over the line of modesty when she festooned all her horses’ bridles, her
footman, and her driver’s hats with cockades of pink carnations. Still,
like the cabs of those born to high society, a
cocotte
’s carriage
would usually be signed by one of the most sought-after Prussian carriage
makers.

But though they arrived in the highest style, once inside the arena, courtesans
were constrained by the old class distinctions. It is often the case that when
a social system is waning, the old order will be asserted at certain sites with
an almost vengeful rigidity. At Longchamps, the barrier between the terrain of
those called the “proud elect” and the “impure” was, as
Amédée Achard wrote in
Paris Guide,
“insurmountable.
” Here, the sanctity of bloodlines was asserted not only in the stables
but in the galleries. Courtesans were not allowed into the enclosure near the
jockey stand where titled and wealthy families watched the races.

The courtesans, however, met this defense with a campaign of their own. Through
weapons as flimsy as silk and cashmere, the old barriers were not only
challenged, they were seriously compromised. More than one competition took
place at Longchamps. While thoroughbred horses were readied to run, the track
became a “battleground of dresses.” One by one, women with no
pedigree, but who were nevertheless kept and dressed by the gentlemen sitting
in the enclosure that excluded them, entered the amphitheater in full regalia,
dazzling the excited crowds with an array of luxurious fabrics, deep and
luminous colors, ribbons, lace, rich embroidery, feathered hats, and blazing
jewelry. Every eye was upon them. And though some thought it scandalous that
these outcasts dressed as well as, if not better than, ladies from high society,
despite their disapproval, wellborn women felt compelled to study the detail
of the courtesans’ apparel carefully, for what the
grandes horizontales
wore would dictate fashion for the coming season.

The triumph was more than sartorial. Mirroring the social revolution that
already was in the making, through the splendor of her clothing a courtesan
could attract the kind of attention formerly reserved for royalty. Thus Zola
describes the arrival of Nana to Longchamps, “When she had made her
appearance at the entrance to the public enclo-

sures . . . with two footmen standing motionless behind the carriage, people
had rushed to see her, as if a queen were passing.”

The crowds were already the new arbiters of taste and power, and they belonged
to her. It was as if into this arena ruled by speed and the stopwatch, time
marched in, riding on the hems of flamboyant skirts, feathers, and glitter,
providing evidence of the constant motion into which all are eventually swept.

Change was only to continue in the same direction until finally, when Gabrielle
arrived on the scene, the style she invented symbolized the new independence
women were seeking. After the great success of her hat shop, a second lover,
Boy Capel, bankrolled a dress shop. Nearly a century later, the name of the
legendary house she established still has the power to evoke the old excitement.
It is called, of course, Chanel.

APOLLONIE SABATIER

Chapter Two

Beauty

I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me.
—HOMER,
the
ODYSSEY

T
HE VIRTUE MOST
commonly attributed to
courtesans is beauty. We think for instance of Madame de Pompadour, that
delicately pink blush, reminiscent of certain exquisite rose petals, which
colors her cheeks in the portraits Boucher painted of her. Or one of several
women rendered by Titian comes to mind: Flora, for instance. No matter that the
abundance of her flesh is no longer in style. The way her shimmering hair
cascades over her corpulent and presumably soft shoulder gives pause.

That beauty would have been a virtue of courtesans is hardly unexpected. It
is common knowledge that this attribute excites desire. But beauty is more than
a prelude to sexual pleasure. It is a pleasure in itself. In the presence of a
beautiful person, man or woman, the eyes, even at times as if unwilled by any
thought, but moving instead as if solely of their own volition, will wander
toward that face, that body, not simply to record the fact of beauty but to
rest there, absorbing the very substance of it. Whether you are moved by the
loveliness of luminous eyes or the deeply carnal colors of a portrait painted
by one of the Venetian masters of the Cinquecento, or the calm of an elegantly
proportioned square framed by eighteenth-century architecture, or a canyon cut
through red rock that is so immense the dimensions seem to strain the capacity
to see, you seldom turn away from beauty easily.

This is true even though beauty is not a simple pleasure. The experience can,
in fact, be hazardous. While beholding beautiful eyes, for instance, you may
become suddenly vulnerable to seduction. Encountering an old painting, you are
forcefully pulled away from the familiar toward a sensibility that can be, at
times, menacingly foreign; entering the square that seems so elegantly balanced,
you will feel suddenly off balance, even dizzy; and as for the canyon, its
grandness will probably push you toward the edge of awe, a territory of
annihilation, where whoever you thought you were momentarily vanishes.

No wonder then that beauty was once considered sacred. Despite whatever danger
the desire for beauty involves (the thrill of which may sometimes be appealing),
the attraction seems almost inevitable. And if in pursuit we throw caution to
the wind, perhaps this is because beauty seems to infuse the whole of existence
with a new sense of meaning. This is not a significance that belongs to the
world of logic. Even language falters at the task of defining what in the end
seems inseparable from life. Beauty is in itself a quaesitum, the solution that
lies at the end of a search, the answer to a longing that shapes our lives with
a force that rivals even the strongest spiritual aspiration.

Ancient Recipes

Rarely do we appreciate the creative talents of women who are thought to
be the great beauties. Beauty is usually described as a passive virtue—an
attribute bestowed by nature with no effort on the part of the recipient, who
is supposed to be more fortunate than able. The contradictions of this thinking
become apparent, however, when it is argued that beautiful women endanger men.
In these arguments, the accusation is common that beautiful women use artifice
to deceive and entrap their admirers. The idea that beauty is only “skin-
deep” usually accompanies this argument. Though in truth, since “
wayward” women were accused in such strictures of wearing too much makeup,
the beauty in question would have been even more superficial.

But the morality of constructing beauty is less relevant here than the
simple fact that the courtesan’s beauty was not just given, it was also
made. Even what was given, whether it be a beautiful face or body, would have
needed to be enhanced as well as properly framed. For this reason alone, if we
are to grasp the true dimensions of the second virtue of courtesans, we must
understand that legendary beauty is created with considerable skill.

The arts women have employed to create beauty are ancient. The hetaerae of
Greece, women who were priests and courtesans at the same time, were also
healers. They were known to use herbal formulas devised to nourish skin and
hair, as well as sustain the vitality which is so much a part of beauty. That
during the Renaissance courtesans also used such recipes must have contributed
to the perception that, like many women who were herbalists, they were
practicing witchcraft. Among courtesans, the recipes were often handed down
from mother to daughter. Pietro Aretino depicts this transmission in his
Dialogues
, in which he renders a fictional account of a Renaissance
courtesan he calls Nanna. Though he wraps his description in misogynistic
judgments, he has preserved a portrait for us of an old craft. By his own
account, he was well familiar with courtesans and their skills.

Before Nanna makes her debut in Rome, her mother, who had once been a courtesan
herself, takes great care preparing her daughter for her first appearance.
Aretino tells us that Nanna and her mother were Tuscans who had recently moved
to Rome for the express purpose of launching Nanna’s career, and that in
anticipation of this event, Nanna’s mother had applied a formula daily to
her daughter’s face, known to make the skin soft. And since Nanna’s
hair is described as golden, a color rarely natural in this region, most
probably in the weeks before their departure, her mother would have been
employing another procedure, too. After using a wash of honey, citrus, and
marigold petals on Nanna’s hair, she would have given her daughter a hat
without a top but with a wide brim over which her hair could be spread before
she sat in the sun for hours until it turned blond, the color preferred in this
period.

Doubtless the other strategies Aretino describes would have been handed down
through generations, too, including the way Nanna’s mother staged her
daughter’s first public appearance. Because word had traveled about the
city that a great beauty had come to Rome, men began to congregate outside the
house where the mother and daughter were staying. But Nanna’s mother would
not let her appear in public, nor even stand where she was visible in the
window. Instead, she let anticipation grow until she judged the moment
efficacious. Only then did she begin to braid her daughter’s hair into
encircling strands so that it came finally to seem like spun gold that had been
plaited.

Choosing what her daughter should wear, the older courtesan knew well how to
heighten the drama of this effect. Like many artists of the period who
understood the powerful repercussions of placing gold next to red, she dressed
her daughter in a gown made of crimson satin. From this detail alone, her
talent is evident. Satin, with a subtle gloss, one that did not outshine
Nanna’s hair but still had the compelling luminosity of a precious stone,
would have been the right fabric.

Here we should remember that recognizing beauty is crucial to enhancing it.
Thus, knowing that her daughter’s arms were beautiful, Nanna’s mother
chose a design that was sleeveless. And as with the completion of any art,
Nanna’s mother also knew when to leave well enough alone. Thus, Nanna wore
no makeup, which served to accentuate her youth. Still, the dramatic impact of
her natural coloring was heightened by another formula, handed down through
generations of women, designed to make the skin seem very white and fresh, with
which her mother washed her before she dressed.

The labor of preparation went on for several hours—and all to create a
particularly ephemeral result. Because carefully washed, coiffed, and costumed
as she was, Nanna stood for just a minute or two in the window until she caught
the eye of a young man who soon came searching for her. The beauty he glimpsed
had fired his imagination. Her gold hair blazing almost like a vision in the
lowering light, the deep luster of red following the mysterious curve of her
hips, ignited a strange but powerful alchemy in him. Certain in his heart that
he had to have this treasure for his own, he hardly had time to realize that he
himself was already possessed.

The Pleasure of the Eyes

What poet would dare, in depicting the pleasure caused by the appearance of a great beauty, separate the woman from her dress.
—Charles Baudelaire,
The Painter of Modern Life

Although conventional wisdom tells us that courtesans made themselves
beautiful in order to attract wealthy men, the reverse was also true. Many
sought wealth precisely because they wanted to create and possess beauty. Given
the profundity of the experience, it is no wonder that regardless of
circumstance, whether male or female, educated or not, we all seek what is
beautiful. No wonder then again that when, as a small child, Marie-Ernestine
Antigny was summoned by her mother to leave the beautiful countryside around
Mézières-sur-Brenne, the little girl hid in the attic. At the age of
ten, she must have known the subterfuge would not work. But a desperate longing
to stay in the country propelled her to try nevertheless. Ever since she was
seven, when her mother departed in search of her philandering husband, she had
lived with her aunt in this region famous for its lushness that is fed by
tributaries from the Loire. She spent long hours wandering in the fields or
riding on horseback along a web of trails that wound with slow charm and sudden
drama through this stunning landscape filled with wide open spaces, punctuated
by lakes, heather, and chestnut forests.

Paris in the middle of the nineteenth century could be a cold, dark place
for the poor. But very soon the child found consolation. Her mother did
housework and sewing for some of the most prominent families of Paris,
including the Gallifets. The marquise de Gallifet, who must have been
uncommonly kind, helped to send Marie to the very prestigious Couvent des
Oiseaux, a convent school where she was exposed to the wealth and
sophistication of her classmates while she learned to speak and carry herself
like a lady. But what Marie loved best about the school were the Catholic
services—the organ music, the singing, the intense drama of the rituals
and the prayers.

Even today, throughout Paris, the beautiful churches are as great a draw for
travelers seeking beauty as are the fashion shows. The splendors of even the
more modest chapels are at least equally if not more sensual. The changing hues
of daylight streaming through ancient cut-glass windows alone are stunning. And
then there are the paintings in each alcove; the soaring buttresses of central
naves; the altar of course, dressed lovingly in lace and velvet; Jesus’
tortured body also beautifully composed along the lines of a cross. And here
the golden robes of priests, the red-robed choristers, the smell of incense,
the incantatory poetry of the Mass—all would have fused together, as in a
countryside, into one experience of beauty that was more than the sum of its
parts.

Marie dreamed of becoming a nun. But that was not to be. Still another
disappointment, another loss, was in store for her. When the marquise died
suddenly, Madame Antigny, having no means to continue her daughter’s
education, sent Marie to work as a salesgirl. Just as the fields and the
chestnut trees had before, the church and its rituals vanished from her life.
From now on, she would be allowed to immerse herself in this beauty for only
two hours on Sundays. For the rest of the week, she dutifully appeared at a
draper’s shop on the rue du Bac, where for twelve hours a day she measured
and sold bolts of fabric and clothing.

Yet beauty was not entirely absent from the new life into which she had been
thrust. These were the first years of the Second Empire in France. Though
poverty was still evident, certain neighborhoods in Paris were newly filled
with the evidence of wealth. Luxury shops were opening everywhere, with
sumptuously arranged windows, rivaling the work of any artisan. There were
windows filled with Kashmir shawls, intricately woven in India, or with hats
piled with the feathers of rare birds, windows with embroidered bed linens,
with lacy corsets, with beaded evening purses, filigreed fans, with scented
candles, dozens of roses and bouquets of violets, exquisite perfumes in crystal
bottles, pairs of elegant gloves cut gracefully from brown or red or black or
white leather, with tiny ivory buttons at the wrist. There were windows
displaying hundreds of varieties of chocolate, moving in precisely calibrated
range from strong and bitter to milkily sweet.

And because of its location, the rue du Bac had its own charms. Even now, the
quarter has the patina of old wealth. Curving from the rue de l’
Université to the rue de Sèvres, it crosses two streets lined with
elegant old mansions. Built in the eighteenth century, these impenetrably
elegant white buildings with neoclassical facades seem to loom over you as you
walk by, as if chastening you into submissive silence with that air of
unassailable pedigree that only a certain kind of beauty can confer.