Tag Yourself: what's your Belle Epoque stocking personality?
Where fetish meets fashion and national chauvinism
Hello everyone, including many new subscribers! I thought I’d sent you all an email explaining the background to Amazons of Paris but I was mistaken. So, to introduce the newsletter and book-in-progress, have a look at Who were the Amazons of Paris – it’s full of stories and images about the women in these newsletters:
A little about me. I’m a British-German writer based in southern Sweden. I’ve written two books about history and horses and have published essays on everything from mare’s milk to what it’s like to turn into an animal. I came across the Amazons of Paris in the late aughts and published my first piece on them in 2018. Initially, this was just a side project while I worked on another book that involved tombs in Siberia, but that, for so many geopolitical and personal reasons, has had to be shelved. So now the Amazons are my main focus. The newsletter is very irregular, just to warn you! This issue is a snippet found in my research. I share it so we can all marvel at the past, ever a strange country.
My big bound volume of old issues of La Vie Parisienne features this two-page spread enabling readers to identify women’s nationalities by stocking and leg position at the 1878 Grand Exposition in Paris. It’s from 29 June of that year and is Quite Something. A kind of Panini album of women in the shape of a fan. I’ve translated the descriptions of the women, but didn’t have time to do the descriptions of their legwear, which are meticulously, fetishistically detailed, as is so much fashion copy from this era. Enjoy, and tell me what kind of femme a French Belle Epoque misogynist thinks you are. The illustrations are by Yves Barret.
The Russian
Says nothing, does nothing or does everything, and lets nothing be said. Eclectic as hell, she combines everything that’s good from ancient and modern civilisations. As lazy as she is skimpily dressed: a black velvet dress to bring out her pale skin when she’s not obliged to go to la Bourboule. Makes one think of the beautiful courtesans who open the fête in Gautier’s Fortunio.
The Austro-Hungarian
Modestly styles herself as the German Parisian. All, all, all of them. We have found no exception. Like the Russian, has a chic setup that pricks jaded palates but with more frills and bad taste. Nevertheless, she gets to the point. We have nothing to say.
The Italian
Even if it means alienating all the business travellers who proclaim her the most ardent of women, our own research suggests she is more of a dormant volcano, if she was ever a volcano at all. Swamped with holy medals, scapulars, rosaries and coral horn pendants.
The French
Nothing to say. Wouldn’t it be an understatement? It would also cost us to embarass the foreign lovelies who have come to take part in our celebration of Amity and Peace. Can we give her higher praise? As the old man said, when the laughing is over… Somewhat inclined to masculine dress.
The English
Ethereal, vague, an apparition. Has remained the angel of Thomas Moore, illustrated by Vidal. Remains an angel at home, at your place, when travelling, at shows, out and about in the world, in everything, everything. Perpetually suspended aloft, she is tethered to the ground only by her tea and a winter in Florence.
The Spaniard
Still living on her earlier reputation as a smouldering woman. This is the problem with the hyperbolic tales of travellers and novelists (Balzac, Mérimée, Gautier). Once this reputation was established, the woman did nothing to justify it. She rests on her oranges or pomegranates.
The American
Undoubtably the queen of foreigners. Fits in in no time, despite her often modest origins, with good manners and the most aristocratic touches. A devilish innocent, without giving that impression, she bears the most seductive weapons in a manhunt that’s open all year round, from Saratoga to Paris, Nice and Florence.
The Mexican
Attribute to her all the virtues wrongly assigned to the Andalusians by tradition and you will be understating the truth. A bundle of nerves. She roars even far from her homeland. Temperament like the vegetation of a country where gigantic trees erupt in a single night. Powdered diamonds in her hair, gold powder in her clothes.
The German
The same above and below. Unfortunate poetic and gothic aspirations. Despite her heft, her square waist, her glove-size 8 3/4 hands, she is a fertile Venus who will be picking daisies right up until her twelfth child. Half understands. When you tell her to sit down…
Dormant volcano and fertile Venus. Hmm. Interesting. Thanks for this fabulous look at an early personality quiz. Also looking forward to reading more of your work!
I would like to say I am The Russian but I'm probably more of The American. This was fun to read.