Stone was nibbling on the end of her pencil, a sure sign that she was extremely agitated.1 There was certainly no lack of beauty salons in the country. Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide and Sydney had an abundance of hairdressers and massage parlours, manicure and pedicure salons, often run by Chinese immigrants. She herself had tested a number of them for her articles. But the three rooms of this sun-filled apartment on the third floor of a fine building in the centre of Melbourne were like nothing she had ever seen.
The unconventional decor was austere yet feminine, a far cry from the imposing Victorian taste. The white walls, pleated silk curtains, wicker dressers and chairs all gave the Valaze Maison de Beauté a European, even Parisian, feel. Eugenia shivered with excitement. It was so very chic and, above all, exactly what the modern woman required.
Miss Stone had come all the way from Sydney to see for herself the phenomenon that everyone was talking about. Despite searching for a flaw, she couldn’t find anything negative to say about the cleanliness and charm of the premises, or the way the beauty products were displayed. The pretty black, white, and gold jars of cream filling the shelves made her want to snatch up every last one.
But the most incredible thing was the proprietor herself, a tiny woman with a tight chignon, and skin so pale it was almost transparent. Over her dark blue dress with moiré highlights she wore a white chemist’s coat. When she spoke, the R’s rolled off her tongue like a rush of pebbles. She massacred half the English words, mixing in two or three other languages. Eugenia Stone pricked up her ears but couldn’t determine the origins of her accent. Rumour had it that she was Viennese.
The journalist had come at closing time. Miss Rubinstein was giving a beauty class to some of her clients and when she saw Eugenia Stone, she greeted her then suggested quite simply that she join their little group. Miss Stone had never heard anyone talk about skin in such a scientific way, the way a doctor or a biologist would.
Everything this young woman said bore the seal of common sense. Her clients were more than willing to believe her, and went away enchanted, carrying little black and beige bags bearing the name Helena Rubinstein. Each of them had bought at least three jars of cream.
It was long past closing time, but the shop was still full of people. Finally Helena decided it was time to quit for the day. She lowered the metal shutter herself and invited the journalist to take a seat. She gave the interview like a true professional and never stopped talking. Miss Stone’s wrist was sore from taking notes. The readers of the women’s section of the Sydney Morning Herald were going to love this article.2 Even Miss Stone, who considered herself one of the leading female journalists in Sydney, was bowled over by Helena. In these early years of the twentieth century, in a country where women had made great strides, it was still not always easy to succeed in a man’s world. But this young lady with the tight chignon was proof that determination could lead to success.
Everything she told Miss Stone – about her Polish origins, her interrupted medical studies in Kraków, her classes with the great chemists in Vienna, her years in Coleraine among the pioneers, and her friendship with the Lamingtons and their circle when she had known no one on her arrival in Australia – was remarkable. And then there was her salon. Helena explained simply that she did not have a great deal of money, so she had bought some bamboo furniture for a few pounds, set up a little laboratory that she referred to as her kitchen, and sewn curtains from one of her dresses. She had hand-painted the letters of her shop sign all by herself with pride and an unfaltering hand.
Her story had the ring of truth and Miss Stone was certain of her judgement. There had never been a lack of courageous women in this country, from the first pioneer women in the bush – Amazons who rode astride and killed ferocious animals with their shotguns – to the suffragettes whose cause Miss Stone had so often defended. This tiny little brunette was no exception. Before long she would do Australian women proud. And Australian men, too, for that matter.
Helena continued her explanations. Once she began, nothing could stop her.
‘So you see, my dear,’ she said, rolling her R’s more emphatically than ever, ‘as I was saying, my early research led me to a fundamental discovery – revolutionary, even. Women’s skin can be classified in three categories: dry, oily, and normal. Just as there are three types of complexion: redhead, blonde, and brunette. No one noticed this before I did. But I’ve been observing women. That’s my job. And I can assure you, moisturising is not the same for all women. Nor is protection. Each woman must learn to identify her skin type before she chooses her skincare. For the time being my range of products is still limited, but I am working night and day to expand it.’
Helena had used her intuition with regard to skin types very early on. Later she would be able to verify it with the help of the most advanced specialists. For the time being she was still experimenting, basing her conclusions on empirical observations. Yet her intuition was so sound that she rarely made a mistake. Female beauty was, for her, a vast domain just waiting to be exploited, and it was up to her to make it prosper – a notion that was even more intoxicating to her than the prospect of making money.
She understood one vital thing: ‘Beauty is power. The greatest power of all.’ So she asserted in one of the first advertisements, which appeared in Table Talk in 1904. In a world run by men, women had to compromise and be clever. Intelligence was a considerable asset but without charm it would not get you far. Together, the two were a fatal weapon.
It was the early twentieth century, and Helena had already anticipated the future of her fellow women, opting resolutely for modernity. Her faith in the power of beauty and a healthy lifestyle in order to ‘win’ was a real revolution. It would be adopted by feminists all over the world who were struggling, among other things, against the slavery to the corset.
Eugenia Stone went away from Collins Street with a few jars of Valaze wrapped in a pretty paper bag. ‘It’s a present,’ insisted Helena. ‘Yes, yes, I assure you, I like you very much.’ How could she refuse? The journalist was delighted with the wrapping and the label printed in her new friend’s handwriting. It would all look wonderful on her dressing table. In Australia no one had ever seen anything so refined.
Miss Stone had also tested the cream on her face. The sensation was smooth, the perfume delicate. She swore she would follow the expert’s advice to the letter. Helena nodded with a smile. She knew how important the opinion of the press could be. Journalists were women like any others, and they liked to be spoiled – perhaps even more so than other women, given the impact of their articles, which could make or break a person’s reputation. So they had to be pampered even more than ordinary people. Helena would always make sure she did: even when her success was established, not only would she give her products to journalists, but also dresses from her wardrobe and even jewellery from her own jewellery box.
Success came the moment the salon opened. The address circulated at dinner parties, at whist tables, at picnics along the banks of the Yarra. Scrupulously following her friend Thompson’s advice, in 1904 Helena began to run advertisements in Table Talk in Melbourne, and in The Advertiser in Adelaide.
‘Valaze cream by Dr Lykusky, the most famous European skin specialist, is the best moisturising cream. Valaze will improve even the worst skin problems in less than a month.’
She also began promoting mail order sales. But it was Eugenia Stone’s article that gave her the boost she needed. ‘Madame Rubinstein’s cream is the answer to every Australian woman’s prayers,’ wrote the journalist in the conclusion of her much-read article.
Fifteen thousand letters and almost as many orders followed the publication of the article. Helena was taken by surprise. She opened the letters one after the other, and nearly all said the same thing.
‘Dear Miss Rubinstein, I have very white skin with a lot of freckles, do you think it would be possible to …’
‘Dear Madam, I live on a farm near Sydney. For some time now I’ve noticed dark spots on my face …’