a glowing complexion, it was vital to lead a healthy lifestyle, involving physical exercise, proper breathing techniques and a low-fat, low-toxin diet based on water, fruit juice and vegetables. Her future clients must realise it was not enough just to buy her cream, they must also apply her principles.
Her last stop was England. From there she would sail for Australia. In London, beauty was the preserve of the elite. Privilege was more sharply delineated here than elsewhere. A few English perfumers such as Atkinsons and Yardley dominated the market. Imported French brands, such as Coty, Bourjois and Rimmel remained expensive. Helena discovered them at Harrods on Brompton Road, a department store every bit as wonderful as the ones in Paris. She was accompanied by Ceska and Lola. The three young women were fascinated by the escalator in Harrods but were afraid to use it for fear of getting their long skirts caught.
They went on to inspect the beauty institutes on Bond Street, which didn’t live up to expectations despite their luxurious interiors. I’ll have my work cut out for me here, thought Helena, who had every intention of visiting England again. Everything she had seen, observed, and remembered had shown her, yet again, that beauty was something one must strive for and earn. The effort would be worth it; she firmly believed that there were no ugly women, only lazy ones.
She overlooked – or chose to overlook – the fact that all women are not equal when it comes to beauty, that the world was divided between those who had the time and the money to improve their physical condition and those who poverty condemned to premature ageing.
On the return voyage her trunks were crammed with new outfits and work supplies – slimming tablets, formulas to cure acne or the ill effects of the sun, and electric rollers to knead, massage and firm the legs, buttocks and breasts. She also brought back vases, particularly opaline ones, to add to her growing collection, paintings, knick-knacks, fabrics and ideas to redecorate her two salons.
A display advertisement in the Australian daily The Talk in 1906 announced that ‘Mlle. Helena Rubinstein’ had just returned from Europe. Her consultations with the most eminent skin specialists had enabled her to improve the treatment she offered at her 274 Collins Street salon. The text made special mention of her newly hired ‘Viennese’ assistants. The two young ladies took their role very seriously.
Ceska, however, found it difficult to get used to Australia and suffered from homesickness. And Helena was far too demanding. She made them work from dawn to dusk like slaves in a coal mine. Surely there were other things in life than beauty salons?
‘No!’ Helena replied categorically. ‘Do you think I go around having fun? How do you expect to make a living otherwise?’
Ceska made a face and kept up her complaints, but eventually got used to her new life and spent hours in the ‘kitchen’ watching her sister concoct her new preparations, L’Eau Verte and L’Eau qui Pique. In the evening, Ceska was invited everywhere. Like all the Rubinstein daughters, she had inherited her mother’s flawless complexion and looked younger than her age. And like Helena, she cheated, saying she was eighteen when in fact she was four years older, although being unmarried at twenty-two did not seem to bother her. Besides, no one in Australia seemed to mind whether you were married or not. A charming Englishman called Edward Cooper had begun to court her, and Ceska was not indifferent to his advances.
What of Helena? She was rich, pretty and still youthful despite being the wrong side of thirty-four. Her salon in Melbourne was virtually running itself, her beauty line perfect and her reputation firmly established. She, too, could give some thought to getting married.
But Miss Rubinstein was cut from a different cloth than most of the young women around her. It was not her ambition to start a family or raise children who would be just like her. In her dreams, there was no room for love letters, for wooing by moonlight, or languorous embraces. Her well-ordered brain buzzed with serious words like balance sheets, ledgers, turnover, or expansion. She was one of the few self-made women of her time and had every intention of continuing along that path. Her future was mapped out for her and she was determined to succeed – on her own. She had no need for men. She could not see what purpose they would serve.
Melbourne was beginning to seem too small for her.
She had set her sights on London, which was her kind of city – modern, elegant, bustling with activity. There was so much she could do there. During her brief stay in the capital, Helena had had ample time to observe Englishwomen: their cheeks, like Australian women’s, were dry and blotchy. Many of them suffered from persistent acne which they did not know how to treat and so hid beneath thick layers of powder.
Helena could hardly contain her impatience. She already knew what she wanted to do. She would move to England at the beginning of the following year. Before that, she would oversee the opening of her salon in Sydney – work had already begun. Ceska would keep an eye on things. Helena was also still thinking of expanding to Wellington, New Zealand.
It was closing time. All alone in the salon, Helena could not bring herself to go home and take a rest. Her two employees had left half an hour earlier than usual, and Lola and Ceska had done the same. It had been a difficult week, with more clients than usual, and the young women were exhausted and had asked for some time off. Helena had agreed, almost in spite of herself, to let them go.
Once she had finished the books she would mop the floor and lower the heavy metal shutter. No task was too shameful or lowly for her. She stood behind the counter, busily adding up the day’s receipts.
May could sometimes be as hot as the summer months in Melbourne. Heat was still radiating off the asphalt on this particular May evening, with little hope of cooler temperatures at night. Helena unbuttoned her bodice slightly more than was appropriate. Her cheeks had turned crimson and her forehead was damp with sweat. A few rebellious strands of hair escaped from her chignon. This unruly touch softened her habitually severe appearance and made her particularly charming.
‘Do I have the honour of addressing Miss Helena Rubinstein?’
Surprised to hear a man’s voice, she looked up and turned her hawk-eyed gaze on the man who had just raised his hat. He was a tall, elegant, dark-haired fellow wearing a starched shirt and a suit cut from the best fabric. He was carrying a few books and newspapers tucked under one arm. His bright eyes were surveying her closely from behind his round glasses. She had the impression he was taking note of her untidy appearance and open bodice, and hastily began buttoning it up.
‘Yes?’ she enquired.
‘I met two of your sisters in Kraków a few months ago, when I went to visit my family,’ the man said. ‘They told me about you. I’m a journalist. I was born in Poland like you, but I’m an American citizen.’
A compatriot? He was charming and easy-going with a warm voice. Perhaps a bit too sure of himself. She relaxed a bit, wiped her forehead, tucked her hair back.
He had still not told her his name.
‘Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking straight. My name is Titus. Edward William Titus.’
Helena nibbled on her pen, and looked down at her ledger. Her heart was pounding and she could not understand why.
NOTES
1 Vigarello, Histoire de la beauté, op. cit.
2 Gilman, Sander, ‘La chirurgie de la beauté’, 100 000 ans de beauté, Gallimard for L’Oréal, 2009.
3 O’Higgins, Madame, op. cit.
4 Vigarello, op. cit.
5 ibid.