THE FUNNY SIDE OF DRESSMAKING
“Dressmaking has its humorous side as well as anything else,” remarked a little black-eyed dressmaker on North Clark Street. “There is the thin woman who will dress in snaky stripes, the scrawny girl who insists on a décolleté gown, the matron of embonpoint who pleads for flounces to the waist, the matchlike maiden who wants a torturingly tight bodice, and the fluffy-puffy little body who wants gathers.
“But I never give in to them,” she continued with a snap of her eyes. “I think too much of the human race. I believe we all have one duty toward humanity. Mine is to keep women from committing artistic suicide. The little idiots come into my parlors, look at a fashion-plate, discover the picture of a lady in green gloves holding her fingers as if they were covered with molasses-candy, and decide that they want a dress like hers. Now, there are nineteen chances out of twenty that the dress was never meant for her at all. If they think so much of dress, why don’t they make a study of it?
“There is a certain rich lady here, with the face of a Madonna, who came to me with goods for a plaid dress. I wouldn’t make it for her. ‘Madame,” I said, ‘you must dress in gray silk.’ I had my way. There wasn’t a bit of trimming on that dress—nothing but draperies—and she looked like a goddess. Then another mistake is the universal adoption of color because it is announced to be fashionable, regardless of the fact that the majority of the wearers are making perfect guys of themselves. Heliotrope is a point in question. There is a young bride on State Street who came home from Europe last week with a dress of heliotrope. Her skin is as dark as a Spaniard’s, and her hair and eyes are jet black. She would have been magnificent in dark red or a cloud of black lace – but heliotrope!” and of this the dressmaker nearly died… [Chicago News]
The Lamar [AL] News 1 April 1886: p. 4
Mrs Daffodil’s Aide-memoire: We can but respect the dress-maker’s scruples and punctilious devotion to her calling! The great Charles Frederick Worth himself was similarly conscious of his duty to humanity.
How Worth Makes The Woman.
Very many ladies of this city send regularly to the great man-dressmaker, Worth, in Paris, for their dresses, both summer and winter. Do not for a moment suppose all these women have seen Worth. The greater proportion send a photograph to him, with a description of the complexion, the color of hair, eyes, etc. It is not an infrequent occurrence to have the photograph returned to the owner with regrets at being unable “to compose a toilet for Madame.” A lady of high fashion in this city relates how she went to Worth on one occasion to have a number of dresses made. He asked her to walk across the room. It was a medium-sized apartment. When she was about half across, he called to her from the sofa where he was sitting, “Madame, that is enough; I cannot invent a dress for you; your figure does not please me. Good morning, Madame.” A mother and daughter in this city, charming women, but newly rich and over-anxious about dress, wear the most exquisite toilets of Worth’s composition, which are entirely unique. They have never been to Paris, or “waddled through the Tuileries,” yet Worth has seen them—that is, he has their life-sized pictures; he admires them, and sends then; poetical and ravishing dresses.
The Millinery Trade Review 1876
Miss Maude Annesley, who spent a fruitful year in Paris chronicling French life and fashion, wrote about the tactful Parisian dress-makers.
Even in the rooms of the humbler dressmakers there is a faint echo of the method of the great ones. There is a drawer full of pieces of many colours, wherewith effects can be tried, there is a long glass in three parts in which to study “all sides of the question,” there are thick curtains ready to be drawn when artificial light is needed. Then, although there are no mannequins to prance about in wonderful confections, there is the dressmaker herself, who sees at a glance what Madame ought to wear, and will proceed to illustrate her notion with silk and pins to her customer’s entire satisfaction. They all have taste and ideas, these dressmakers. They would never think of allowing some one to choose anything unbecoming. There is the difference between an English and French dressmaker. In London a woman enters a well-known dressmaker’s establishment, or goes to some old favourite — it is the same thing everywhere. She chooses what she wants, and her taste is rarely disputed.
I will not say that a Parisian couturiere is always right, no one is infallible; but I aver that she very rarely is mistaken in her ideas of what will or will not suit her customers.
And she is so clever in inventing little notions to hide or lessen some imperfection. If Madame is too thin (very rare in these days of the thin woman rage!), if she is too fat, too short, too tall —then it is wonderful to watch the skillful hands manipulating drapery and trimmings. And the tact shown is remarkable.
I was once waiting in the waiting-room at my dressmaker’s when, from the fitting-room, I overheard an enlightening conversation as follows: —
Customer — “I want the neck cut low. No collar.”
Dressmaker — “Parfaitement, Madame.”
Pause. Some action which I naturally could not see.
Dressmaker — “How charming Madame looks with that white tulle edged with pink against her cheek!”
Customer, in “purry-purry” voice — “It is rather becoming. You can use that for the guimpe.”
Dressmaker, sorrowfully — “Alas, Madame, impossible. One cannot edge a guimpe with pink, one can do it only on a collar. It is a thousand pities Madame is to have no collar, her complexion looks ravissante with this pink. However, it is no good discussing it.”
Pause. Some talk about a sleeve.
Customer, in doubtful voice — “Do you think the dress would look as well with a collar?”
Dressmaker, still sorrowful — “Much better, Madame. However, we will not talk of it. . . Does Madame like this band of lace straight or crosswise?”
Customer, after much talk of lace and frills, and several pauses — “Do you know, I think I will have a collar after all! That pink is so charming.”
Dressmaker, joyfully — “Oh, I am glad, Madame. I would not have thought of trying to persuade Madame, but I am sure it will suit Madame admirably.”
Some time afterwards the lady who was “not persuaded” passed through my room. She had no collar to her dress, and her neck was short, her chin double, and two deep wrinkles surrounded the yellow “column.”
I told my dressmaker what I had overheard, and she chuckled. “Well!” she said. “What else can one do with ladies who are unreasonable?”
I agreed, and admired her diplomacy.
My Parisian Year, Maude Annesley, 1912
Mrs Daffodil invites you to join her on the curiously named “Face-book,” where you will find a feast of fashion hints, fads and fancies, and historical anecdotes
You may read about a sentimental succubus, a vengeful seamstress’s ghost, Victorian mourning gone horribly wrong, and, of course, Mrs Daffodil’s efficient tidying up after a distasteful decapitation in A Spot of Bother: Four Macabre Tales.