Marianne in the Market: Envisioning Consumer Society in Fin-de-Siècle France 9780520925656

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Marianne in the Market

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous contribution to this book provided by the General Endowment Fund of the Associates of the University of California Press

Marianne in the Market Envisioning Consumer Society in Fin-de-Siècle France

Lisa Tiersten

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS Berkeley . Los Angeles . London

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England © 2001 by the Regents of the University of California

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Tiersten, Lisa. Marianne in the market : envisioning consumer society in fin-de-siècle France / Lisa Tiersten. p. cm . Includes bibliographical references and index. isbn 0-520-22529-5 (cloth : alk. paper) 1. Women consumers—France—History—19th century. 2. Consumption (Economics)—France— History—19th century. 3. Middle class—France— History—19th century. 4. Aesthetics—History— 19th century. i. Title. hc280 . c6 t54 2001 339.4⬘7⬘0820944—dc21

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To Ingmar and Erik

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Contents

List of Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgments

xi

Introduction

1

part i. the problem of the marketplace 1. Marianne in the Department Store: Commercial Paris and the Civic Vision of the Republic 2. “The Mercantile Spirit of Our Epoch”: The Aesthetic Crisis of the Republic

15 55

part ii. civilizing consumption 3. Being Bourgeois: The Rise of Aesthetic Individuality 4. Marketplace Modernism: Reinventing the Chic Parisienne 5. The Chic Interior: Marketplace Modernism in the Bourgeois Home 6. Consumer Citizenship and the Republicanization of the Market

89 121 150 185

Conclusion

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Notes

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Bibliography

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Index

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Illustrations

1. Poster for Aux Phares de la Bastille Department Store, c. 1900 2. “Ah! M’ame Chopin!” La Mode, 1841 3. “The Department Head.” Mlle X, Commis et demoiselles de magasins, 1868 4. Henry Gerbault, “The Turkey of the Farce.” L’Art et la mode, 1885 5. “Honey, will you give me a kiss?” Alfred Grévin, Almanach des Parisiennes, 1871–72 6. “The Unfortunate Woman.” Femina, 1905 7. Toothpaste advertisement. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 1911 8. Corn medicine advertisement. La Publicité, 1903 9. Fashion plate. La Mode illustrée, 1864 10. Fashion plate. La Revue de la mode, 1902 11. Fashion plate. Le Moniteur de la mode, 1882 12. Yves Barzy, “Art Preventing Fashion from Following Madness.” L’Art de la mode, 1882 13. Fashion plate. L’Illustration, 1890 14. The petit salon of Madame B. Le Figaro-modes, 1903 15. The petit salon of Madame F. Le Figaro-modes, 1903 16. Countess Anna de Noailles in her living room. L’Illustration, 1913 17. Diary cover. Maison des Magasins Réunis Department Store, 1913 18. Advertisement. Pygmalion Department Store, 1913 19. Diary cover. Maison des Magasins Réunis Department Store, 1913 20. Advertisement. Galeries Lafayette Department Store, 1912

27 28 31 44 45 51 74 75 98 100 115 133 140 163 174 181 193 196 197 222 ix

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Acknowledgments

From this project’s inception, many different scholars, colleagues, and friends have helped to shape it. My dissertation advisor, Peter Gay, sparked my interest in the bourgeoisie and served as a model of productive, engaged scholarship. John Merriman demystified the French archives and offered sage advice, and Keith Luria provided me with essential perspectives on the Ancien Régime. Robert Herbert inspired me as a scholar and guided me as a mentor, for which I offer him my deepest thanks. I have been enormously fortunate in my colleagues at Barnard College and in the congenial, intellectually lively atmosphere they create. In particular, I extend heartfelt thanks to Mark Carnes, Robert McCaughey, Rosalind Rosenberg, Herbert Sloan, Deborah Valenze, and Nancy Woloch for indispensable professional guidance and moral sustenance. I am indebted to them for their many kindnesses. At Columbia University across the street, Isser Woloch and Volker Berghahn have been immensely sympathetic and supportive colleagues. I owe special thanks to Victoria De Grazia, who has been extraordinarily generous and helpful, and whose scholarship on consumption has been an instrumental model for me. I could not have finished this book without the many colleagues and friends who helped me to conceptualize and write it. Amy Barasch, Thomas Bender, David Farber, Lisa Gordis, Kathryn Johnson, Joel Kaye, Pascale Montadert, Martin Tiersten, Lars Trägårdh, Deborah Valenze, xi

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Acknowledgments

and Cecile Whiting offered advice or read portions of the manuscript. Lars Trägårdh’s insights into political culture helped me to better understand the French Republic, and Joel Kaye not only provided invaluable editorial suggestions but motivated me throughout the long writing process. I have benefited enormously from discussing the late nineteenth century with Geoffrey Crossick, and I have greatly appreciated his interest in my work. My deepest gratitude goes to those who read the manuscript in its entirety, in some cases more than once. Perry Friedman and Kathleen Nilan supplied insightful and judicious comments. James Herbert helped me to sharpen my prose and clarify my ideas, while Ruth BenGhiat managed to offer astute criticisms and cheer me on at the same time. Erika Rappaport’s own work on late-nineteenth-century British consumer culture inspired me to think deeply about cultural history and consider the specificities of the French case. I owe a special debt to Beth Bailey, who read and re-read the chapters, offering superb commentary and essential encouragement at every stage. The discernment and unstinting attention of these people made this a better book. I also thank Sheila Levine, editor at the University of California Press, who has been a model of patience and understanding, and the anonymous readers of the manuscript, who made many fruitful suggestions for revision. Dore Brown, who oversaw every aspect of the production process, and Evan Camfield, who copyedited the manuscript, both improved the book immeasurably and have earned my sincerest appreciation. The research and writing of this book has received financial support from Yale University, the French Government through a Châteaubriand Fellowship, Wellesley College, the National Endowment for the Humanities, the French Historical Studies Society, the Getty Center for the Study of the History of Art and the Humanities, Barnard College, and the Gilder Foundation. Some of the work on the project was done while I was a postdoctoral fellow at the Getty Center, and I thank the Center for providing a productive work environment. I also extend thanks to the research staffs of the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, the Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris, the Archives de Paris, the Archives Nationales, the Musée Carnavalet, and the Fashion Institute of Technology for their assistance in the research process. Some of the material in Chapters 1 and 6 appeared in my essay “Marianne in the Department Store: Gender and the Politics of Consumption in Turn-of-the-Century Paris,” in Cathedrals of Consumption: The European Department Store, 1850–1939, eds., Geoffrey Crossick and Serge Jaumin (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing, 1999). Some of the material in

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xiii

Chapter 5 also appeared in my essay “The Chic Interior and the Feminine Modern: Home Decorating as High Art in Turn-of-the-Century Paris,” in Not at Home: The Suppression of Domesticity in Modern Art and Architecture, ed. Christopher Reed (London: Thames and Hudson, 1996). My parents, Martin and Judith Tiersten, and my sister, Amy Tiersten, have helped me more than they will ever know. I have been sustained by their generosity, enthusiasm, and love over the years of this project. Finally, words can not begin to capture the contribution of my husband, Ingmar Nyman, to this book. He has worked tirelessly with me on every facet of it and his intelligence, sensibility, and editorial judgment have fundamentally shaped it. My debt to him is beyond measure—I dedicate this book to him and to our son, Erik, with love.

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Introduction Paris! What was Paris like? What a titanic name! She repeated it to herself softly, for the pleasure of hearing it; it resounded in her ears like the bell of a cathedral. . . . She bought herself a map of Paris; following the streets with her fingertip, she traveled all over the capital. She walked along the boulevards, stopping at every corner. . . . [S]he was interested in . . . the opening of every new shop. She knew the latest fashions, the addresses of the best tailors. . . . She studied the descriptions of furniture in the works of Eugène Sue . . . seeking the imaginary gratification of her desires. . . . In her longing she confused the pleasures of luxury with the joys of the heart, elegant customs with refined feelings. Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary

If Madame Bovary had lived in Paris instead of Yonville, she would have led a profoundly different life. Stifled by bourgeois boredom and bad taste, Emma Bovary imagined herself flourishing in the French capital. “Walking along the boulevards, stopping at every corner,” she would have been a flâneuse, luxuriating in the freedom to observe and admire the spectacle of modern Paris and to be observed and admired herself, like other Parisiennes of taste and sensibility. With her dreams of beautiful possessions and social recognition instantly gratified, moreover, she might never have embarked on ill-fated love affairs or plunged her husband into bankruptcy through her extravagance. If Madame Bovary’s reveries indicted both the emotional stinginess and aesthetic insensibility of provincial bourgeois society, they did so by implicitly measuring that society against a mythic vision of Paris as the capital of chic. Nineteenth-century Paris signified much more, however, than taste and refinement. Where Emma Bovary pictured a fantasy world of sophistication, her upright bourgeois family and neighbors saw a modern Babylon. From their perspective, Madame Bovary’s quest for Parisian pleasure and 1

2

Introduction

frivolity brought the corrupting vices of the modern metropolis into the French countryside and, most dangerously, into the bourgeois home. Flaubert’s narrative thus enacts the conflict between uncontrolled feminine desire and the sanctity of the bourgeois family. The novel concerns much more, however, than the question of proper female character. The tensions between individual will and social restraint that propel Emma Bovary’s story lay at the heart of bourgeois culture: the rapacious economic self-interest necessary for the growth of the capitalist market clashed with the civic and domestic virtues needed to safeguard the social fabric. Madame Bovary presents a peril to her family, her gender, and society because her craving for self-gratification is insatiable, unchecked by reason or concern for others. Moreover, where the self-interest of her male counterpart might be construed as a socially constructive force producing goods or profits, Flaubert depicts Emma’s individualistic drives as particularly hazardous because they take the form of consuming appetites, parasitic and wasteful rather than productive. Yet Emma Bovary is not simply the villain of the piece; she is very much the victim of the utilitarian bourgeois society against which she rebels. Her hapless husband, the drab and respectable doctor Charles Bovary, and his pharmacist crony, the caricatural positivist Monsieur Homais, are, for Flaubert, equally appalling bourgeois types. Exemplars of civic responsibility and rationality, they are grossly deficient in Emma Bovary’s qualities of energy, imagination, and aesthetic refinement. As much as Emma’s untrammeled individualism requires the regulating force of social conscience and rational will, these bourgeois characters urgently need the elevating and humanizing qualities of sensibility and culture. Each without the other is not only incomplete but destructive: Emma Bovary bent on a dramatic demise, the righteous citizens of Yonville on a process of slow suffocation. By the late nineteenth century, two crucial developments raised the contradictions illustrated by Bovary’s tale to the level of national concern. The phenomenal growth of a consumer marketplace catapulted the bourgeoisie to new heights of economic power and fanned the flames of marketplace individualism.1 During the same period, bourgeois society attained political authority through the establishment of the Third Republic, a polity built on bonds of civic and domestic virtue. The increasingly feminine character of the consumer public, moreover, heightened the discord between the social duties of the republican citizen and the private prerogatives of the marketplace individual. Contemporaries feared not only that the efflorescence of the market posed a menace to

Introduction

3

the establishment of a civic public, but that the bourgeois woman consumer now threatened to contaminate the domestic interior, the last and most sacred sanctuary from brute individualism, with the taint of selfinterest. In short, the economic vitality of the new regime, inseparable from the expansion of the bourgeois marketplace, was said to imperil its moral well-being in a fundamental manner. A pivotal dimension of the clash between the commercial culture of marketplace individualism and the political culture of the new republic was aesthetic in nature. Just as self-interest was said to corrupt the moral fiber of the republican citizen, it was also seen as compromising his or her capacity to make aesthetic discriminations. In contrast to the noble, known for his or her disinterested discernment of beauty, the bourgeois was historically typed as a materialist, whose motives of personal gain necessarily informed his or her aesthetic judgments. Bad taste, it was believed, was the natural and inevitable consequence of such self-interest. In a nation deeply invested in its reputation for aesthetic refinement, this presumption of bourgeois vulgarity sparked concern in diverse quarters. Middle-class elites and their critics alike thus feared that the entrenchment of a bourgeois republic in 1877 had put France’s aesthetic patrimony in jeopardy by launching the presumably tasteless bourgeoisie into a position of political power from which it threatened to squander that inheritance. Controversy over the social ramifications of the burgeoning marketplace beset the industrialized nations of the West in the late nineteenth century, France among them. This book explores the particularities of the French case, and the ways in which republican political culture and the nation’s aesthetic patrimony inflected the debates over commercial capitalism. It also examines the particularly French efforts at resolving these conflicts through the moral and aesthetic management of the bourgeois woman consumer. The civilizing influence of taste, I argue, was said to regulate the unrestrained individualism and dangerous desires ascribed to the female consumer, turning her on the one hand into a virtuous citizen, and on the other into a refined connoisseur of goods.2 Taste did so, moreover, in the very consumer marketplace designated as the source of the problem, thus offering a way to reconcile the conflicting strands of French bourgeois culture. The antagonism between the marketplace and the republic, powerfully articulated by eighteenth-century republicans such as Rousseau, was visible in the uneasy, shifting compound of liberal individualism and

4

Introduction

civic values characteristic of French republican ideology throughout the nineteenth century. Indeed, France’s political culture differed significantly from that of Britain and the United States, where liberalism as both an economic and a social doctrine was more widely accepted, as well as from Germany, where an authoritarian state precluded the triumph of laissez-faire. In the French setting, the persistence of corporatist and communitarian currents in republican ideology complicated the nation’s relationship to liberal thought and practice. Born of these tensions, the republican vision of the civic public was itself in many ways an unstable construct. Unlike liberal conceptions of the public sphere, it was a notion of political community tinged by nostalgia for a classical past and characterized by ambivalence about the marketplace and values of liberal individualism.3 By the late nineteenth century, persistent republican anxieties about the impact of commercial activity on civic culture surged as new, putatively less fit participants—both working-class men and bourgeois women—began to play a more visible role in public life. If republican conceptions of public and private life collided with the liberal ethos of laissez-faire and self-interest enshrined in the market, they did so with particular force as the consumer marketplace developed into a controversial new arena for bourgeois women. Indeed, as consumerism seemed to transform Paris into a female city of chic and fashion, a realm of individual and private pleasure, anxieties about the female consumer intensified. In the accounts of various commentators, the new consumer marketplace seduced women away from the moral sanctuary of the home and, by cultivating their baser instincts of egotism, vanity, and pleasure-seeking, inured them to maternal and wifely sentiment and rendered them indifferent to the concept of social duty. Critics across a broad political spectrum saw the modern marketplace as dangerous precisely because it provided women with the kind of financial and psychological independence that undermined their supporting, dependent roles within the family. Like the predatory capitalist whose self-interestedness was said to threaten the public good in both moral and aesthetic terms, bourgeois women who supposedly used the consumer arena to articulate independent identities were frequently the target of a critique of the destructive impact of individualism. That critique reflected widespread uncertainty about whether the expansion of the commercial public signaled the decline of public life or the rise of a new public forum. It was not clear to contemporaries what kind of self operated in the consumer arena, and whether that self differed fundamentally from an anterior “private”

Introduction

5

self. On the one hand, the self-interestedness of shopping behavior seemed to unleash the private persona in the public domain: women lost control over their socially correct façades and reverted to their “true” uncivil and irrational selves. On the other hand, the spaces, rituals, and commodities of modern consumer culture offered a whole new range of possibilities for theatrical self-display and feminine posing. Either way, the visibility of bourgeois housewives in this arena not only posed challenges to male authority, but called into question the meaning of republican citizenship. Bourgeois controversies about female individuality thus converged with debates about urban life and the boundaries between public and private. By the 1890s, social strife and economic dislocation sparked a crisis of liberal individualism that sharpened the critique of marketplace individualism. Opposition was most pronounced outside of the republican mainstream, in conservative movements such as Social Catholicism and in progressive Catholic Le Playist circles, both of which repudiated the rhetoric of liberal individualism in favor of social interdependence and cooperation. But anxieties gripped the ranks of republicans as well. Under the aegis of the Solidarist movement of the mid-1890s, republican reformers such as Léon Bourgeois charted a middle course between the collectivism of the socialists and the unchecked individualism of the liberals, seeking to accept capitalism but to regulate its abuses. In its attempt to anchor the individual more firmly in social context, without ever denying the importance of the individual self, the Solidarist movement constituted a kind of republican reckoning with what were perceived as the political failures of liberal individualism, and an attempt to infuse the republic with the moral vigor of the civic humanism privileged by Rousseau and other “backward-looking” Enlightenment republicans.4 Radical republican reformers thus agreed with centrist republicans, conservative Social Catholics, and progressive Catholics of the Le Playist school that the affective bonds forged within the family were among the key remedies for the rampant individualism fomented by the market and said to corrode modern French life. Just as republican political culture informed responses to the urban commercial public, the historical importance of its aesthetic capital definitively shaped France’s encounter with commercial capitalism. Since at least the seventeenth century, the French state had derived political power through its international aesthetic prestige. That prestige inhered in the economic success of the French objet de luxe and fashion industry, in the renown of French painting, and in the highly stylized, widely

6

Introduction

emulated aristocratic culture of the court of Louis XIV. In the caste society of the Ancien Régime, however, taste, defined as the connoisseur’s disinterested relation to art and the world of goods, was the perquisite of aristocracy. According to the cultural logic of the era, the materially acquisitive bourgeois, immortalized in Molière’s bourgeois gentilhomme, did not possess taste, nor could he ever acquire it. The archetype of the tasteless bourgeois became an important element of the French imagination that outlived the Ancien Régime. Indeed, in spite of the bourgeoisie’s rise to economic power and political rule by the late nineteenth century, the persistence of that archetype challenged in some ways the legitimacy of bourgeois authority. This cultural myth was revitalized by new commercial contexts, as the extraordinary growth and reconfiguration of the consumer market, in conjunction with the establishment of the bourgeois Republic, gave rise to fresh anxieties about the French aesthetic patrimony in the last quarter of the century. In particular, critics deemed the machine-produced imitation luxuries presumably favored by vulgar bourgeois consumers to pose a threat to the aesthetic prestige of the article de Paris and feared that the growing market for these cheap goods was jeopardizing the economic survival of the French handicraft sector. Beyond the harm done to the French artisan and small shopkeeper, the economic upheaval wrought by market development was said to threaten the nation’s valuable export trade in handicrafts. The tenuous future of Paris as the capital of chic was thus a subject fraught not only with intense cultural significance but with grave economic implications as well, and the bourgeois woman stood at the center of all such narratives of decline. For many, her lack of taste threatened to ravage France’s aesthetic reputation and, in so doing, to drive the nation to the brink of economic ruin. Although commercial capitalism was predicated on principles that were in some ways inimical to republican ideals and French aesthetic standards, the growth of the consumer market both enriched and was nourished by the Third Republic. As a consequence, republicans of the late nineteenth century looked to commerce to bolster the economic and cultural prestige of the nation, even as they expressed wariness about the market’s effect on civic life. Historically identified with the market and committed to the continued growth of the commercial sector, the very same bourgeois politicians, social reformers, business leaders, cultural critics, and advice experts preoccupied with the conflict between

Introduction

7

the civic and the commercial thus sought to discipline rather than destroy the marketplace and its models of selfhood. It was through the forging of a new aesthetics of the marketplace that these actors sought to civilize the commercial public and its unruly consumers. To do so, however, they could not simply lay claim to the aristocrat’s aesthetics or connoisseurship of luxury goods, both of which existed in opposition to the modern market. In contrast to the neoclassical definition of beauty as an absolute inhering in particular objects, the nineteenth-century bourgeois came to embrace a popular version of the modernist notion of beauty as subjective, one which located aesthetic value in the individual’s discernment rather than in external objects. According to this logic, the bourgeois consumer endowed goods with value, combining otherwise banal objects into an aesthetic assemblage based on her subjective vision. Indeed, what I will call marketplace modernism defined the exercise of taste in everyday life as much more than the passive appreciation of beauty, casting the expression of individual aesthetic sensibility, even in mundane acts of consumption, as an active, creative, and even artistic enterprise. The marketplace modernist aesthetic thus gave rise to a conception of the consumer as an artist, the commodity as an art object, and the marketplace itself as an artistic arena. Agents of the market—advertisers, department store managers, fashion journalists, self-styled taste experts—played a particularly decisive role in reinventing consumption as an art form and making the resource of taste broadly available to the bourgeois consumer public. They did so in large part by characterizing taste as a trait which could not only be learned but attained in the marketplace itself. Far from a threat to the bourgeois order, commercial media imagined the marketplace as an arena for both the acquisition and the expression of the individual’s unique aesthetic sensibility. Provided that the bourgeois woman’s desire for goods was governed by taste, they suggested, she was converted from an irrational, egotistical, and aesthetically inept consumer to a disinterested artist guided by lofty goals and interests. Her individualism was not to be squelched but rather channeled in socially constructive directions. The marketplace, in this scenario, metamorphosed from a destabilizing social force into one for the social good, a sphere of virtuous citizens and discriminating consumers. Utilizing the cultural resource of taste to regulate the tension in bourgeois culture between selfindulgence and social restraint, agents of the market established the

8

Introduction

management of taste by bourgeois women as a principal discursive realm for the management of civil society. To further ensure the disciplining of the consumer, a woman’s artistic self-expression was to be subsumed within her dominant role as guardian of the domestic interior. Market professionals thus invited the bourgeois woman to partake of the individual pleasures of the commercial metropolis, and at the same time exhorted her to consume in the interests of family and nation. In the commercial narrative, however, these goals did not conflict with one another: far from abandoning the home to shop, the maîtresse de maison became a better housewife in the market, learning the useful domestic skills of self-control and aesthetic refinement. This reinvented market was to serve as the locus of feminine citizenship: a new kind of civic public in which the morally sound and aesthetically refined mère de famille acted for the benefit of others. The new model of consumer citizenship, moreover, extended beyond the mere promotion of French goods to the cultivation of a unique artistic vision. Aesthetic self-expression was not only to benefit the individual consumer, but to enhance family well-being and enrich the collective aesthetic life of the nation. In mobilizing the myth of French taste to promote consumption, market professionals also served the needs of bourgeois elites seeking cultural distinction. By providing an alternative to older, caste-based definitions of social distinction and elaborating new, meritocratic notions based on individual ability, market conceptions of taste not only permitted bourgeois men and women to claim distinction for themselves but to deny it to social inferiors ostensibly lacking in cultural capital. Thus, the consumer market hardened social boundaries at the lower end of the bourgeois spectrum (and certainly below) while rendering social barriers more permeable for the upper strata of the bourgeoisie. For bourgeois men burdened by the archetype of the grasping philistine—and, even more, for bourgeois women said to be governed by their uncontrollable desire for objects—taste, with its connotations of moral disinterestedness and rationality, was “the mark of the master,” the signifier of cultural, if not hereditary, distinction.5 Indeed, I will argue throughout the book that the marketplace notion of taste, or French chic, supported bourgeois claims to status as an aesthetic elite because it was defined by a posture of disinterestedness vis-à-vis the world of goods.6 In moral terms, the ability to exercise detached and impartial aesthetic judgments over the universe of objects formed the basis of an ethical connection to goods. In social terms, that same de-

Introduction

9

tachment was a sign of distinction, of distance from need. Marketplace modernism thus discursively transformed the bourgeois from acquisitive materialist to aesthete and artist and established the consumer marketplace as a prime artistic forum. Much of the historical study of consumption has been heavily influenced by the sociological work of Veblen and Weber. Veblen’s emulative model of conspicuous consumption frequently has led historians to posit consumer demand as a historical constant and to privilege socioeconomic factors, income foremost among them, at the expense of cultural influences as the source of changes in consumption patterns.7 As a consequence, some have defined the bourgeois negatively, as an aristocrat manqué. At the same time, Weber’s influence has tended to polarize hedonism and rational calculation, consumption and production, a dichotomy which on occasion has led to narratives of consumer culture that in some ways echo the jeremiads of the late nineteenth century: incipient mass consumption eroded the “tough” producer ethos of the bourgeoisie, turning its constituents into “soft,” hedonistic consumers.8 Taken together, the impact of Veblen and Weber has been to tie the advent of the modern market to moral decline. In contrast to this perspective, I argue that the distinctively bourgeois consumer culture that emerged in late-nineteenth-century France was neither purely emulative nor simply self-indulgent. Quantitatively and qualitatively different from the commercial world of the Ancien Régime, it was a culture based on greater access to goods, but also rooted in new attitudes and ideas about the redemptive power of commodities and their uses in self-fashioning. Although the emergence of the modern market challenged the productivist ethos of bourgeois culture, I contend that both asceticism and hedonism, “toughness” and “softness,” coexisted in the French bourgeois world-view of the late nineteenth century. My evidence reveals, moreover, that bourgeois consumption was perceived as expressive as well as emulative, linked to the assertion of individuality, in addition to the display of social and economic status. In keeping with much recent work on the topic, my research suggests that consumption was a complex arena of pleasure and self-control, selfdefinition and social display.9 This book seeks to denaturalize and historicize the concept of taste, so often taken as a universal, through a reading of Parisian consumer culture in the late nineteenth century. It is not an empirical study of consumption patterns or a social history of the consumer, since it concerns

10

Introduction

neither the material expressions of taste in consumption nor the consumer’s experience per se. Rather, it is intended as a history of the circulation of ideas about taste and the market: a history, that is, of a particular intellectual currency or imagined aesthetic economy. My central theme is how taste was perceived to act as a regulatory social force. To uncover the meaning and efficacy assigned to taste, I use sources ranging from the women’s press, etiquette handbooks, decorating handbooks, and taste reform tracts to social scientific analyses, journalistic polemics, and marketing literature. What emerges from this evidence is a series of portraits of the modern market revealing, on the one hand, a host of anxieties and fears about commercial modernity, and, on the other, wishes and aspirations for a moral market. While the images of the market and material goods deployed by the female consumer were certainly important to the cultural construction of taste and consumption, I am primarily concerned with the market as it was imagined by the professionals who attempted to structure it, rather than as it was seen by the private individuals who participated in it.10 My work explores the French encounter with consumer culture by situating fin-de-siècle controversies about taste and the bourgeois Parisienne within a larger struggle over the meaning of the market and the gendered nature of the bourgeois order. I argue that debates about the female consumer were about more than gender boundaries: they illuminate the relationship between the market and the republic and, more broadly, the modern individual and the community. These were relationships fraught with tension for many. It is significant that market professionals, members of the periodical press, decorative arts reformers, social scientists, and even republican officials did not answer critics with a triumphal counterdiscourse on the virtues of the market. Instead, they too voiced doubts about the market, not only in discussions of gender roles but in political debates about republican virtue and individual autonomy, and even in marketers’ disputes over the nature of selling. This convergence of concerns shows that conflicts about the marketplace did not simply pit conservative antimodernists against bourgeois modernists; it suggests that we cannot dismiss even the most venomous and marginal of critics of the market as irrelevant cranks. Indeed, while the advent of commercial modernity evoked tension everywhere in the West at the turn of the twentieth century, I contend that it produced a particularly complex response in France, where aesthetics was a central component of national identity and the ethos of liberal individualism comparatively weak.

Introduction

11

Most broadly, then, this is a book about contests over the meanings of the marketplace and the larger cultural and political transformations in which these discussions were embedded in fin-de-siècle France. Madame Bovary, Flaubert’s midcentury novel of bourgeois aspiration, provincial stultification, and marital conflict, provides us with a mise-enscène of dramas that came to define middle-class life during the second half of the century. As a woman of “natural” temperament and aesthetic sensibility, appreciative of beautiful things and dedicated to the pursuit of self-development, Emma Bovary had the potential to be the perfect bourgeois consumer. Yet Flaubert’s account of her reckless quest for happiness exemplifies the moral bankruptcy imputed to women who pursued personal satisfaction over the interests of the family, indeed to all who participated in the marketplace at the expense of civic and domestic virtue. Emma Bovary’s predicament thus prefigures not only the convergence of middle-class femininity with consumerism, but also the widely felt anxiety about the relationship between individual will and social responsibility in modern market society that made the female consumer so controversial a figure during the early Third Republic.

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pa rt i

The Problem of the Marketplace

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chapter i

Marianne in the Department Store Commercial Paris and the Civic Vision of the Republic [The woman consumer] has neither a worry about her home, nor love for her children, nor a care for the future. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars

THE MARKET VERSUS THE CIVIC PUBLIC Describing a Parisian department store in the notes for his novel of modern commerce, Au Bonheur des dames, Emile Zola invoked metaphors of military conquest and domination: “Woman [is] queen, in her element. On the days of new exhibitions or big sales, she reigns en masse, headstrong and arrogant, ruling over her salesmen-subjects as if she were in a vanquished country. . . . It has been said that if the department store were suppressed, there would be a revolution among women. . . . Women go there to pass the time, just as they used to go to church: it is . . . a place where they become impassioned, where they enter into a struggle between their passion for fashion and their husbands’ budgets.”1 The consuming women of Zola’s imagination appear as imperious rulers, as conquerors who have claimed their territory by force and will resort to violence to defend it. In his account, their uncivil behavior is not only gendered but site-specific: displacing the enclosed, protected space of the church, the department store is a public venue in which virtuous domestic women become volatile aggressors. Zola’s apocalyptic images of commercial modernity referred to two important developments of the late nineteenth century: the development of new forms of consumer capitalism, and the emergence of bourgeois women as the primary consumers in this arena. His novel belongs, at

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The Problem of the Marketplace

least in part, to a vast new literature that emerged between 1880 and 1914 to discuss and often to deplore the commercialization of Paris and the feminization of commerce. Like other critics of consumption, Zola characterized the female shopper as an agent of social disorder, going so far as to invoke the specter of revolution. Yet unlike the conservative Cassandras who produced much of this literature and who vilified consumer culture as synonymous with republican corruption and modern degeneracy, Zola was a political progressive with solid republican credentials. Indeed, despite sharply divergent perspectives on bourgeois modernity, republicans and antirepublicans of the period were frequently united in their assessment of the female consumer as a potential social hazard. Zola’s metaphors may seem fanciful, but they demand to be taken seriously because they convey the powerful sense of trepidation, uniting a broad spectrum of liberals and conservatives, that Paris was in danger of being overrun by conquering hoards of consuming women, driven by uncontrolled desire and self-interest. In the late nineteenth century, as democratic market societies emerged not only in France but in Britain, Germany, and the United States, longstanding tensions about the nature of public life surfaced widely. In France, conflict between civic culture and the liberal ethos of competitive individualism came to a head after the secure establishment of the Third Republic in 1877.2 From that moment until the outbreak of the first World War, as the bourgeois republic faced the apparently contradictory tasks of fueling commercial growth and building a civic public, economic instability and social unrest called into question the ideals of liberal individualism that were enshrined in the market. As both the feminized consumer metropolis and the masculine locus of the civic republic, Paris became the battleground in which these struggles took place. This conflict between civic and commercial culture, as well as the notion that women’s relationship to the world of goods was at the heart of the problem, reached back to the Ancien Régime. Denouncing “the frightful luxury of woman” before the French Senate in 1865, M. Dupin, a conservative politician, thus invoked a venerable polarity between male citizen and female consumer.3 The late-nineteenth-century debate, however, did not simply rehash earlier arguments: the advent of a new phase of commercial modernity and the accession of the bourgeoisie to political power dramatically changed the stakes of the debate. Republicans as well as their opponents feared the danger posed by the uncivil, self-interested female shopper ever more keenly as novel forms of consumer capitalism appeared between 1860 and 1900, embodied in the

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department stores lining Baron Haussmann’s newly renovated, opulent boulevards.4 The age of the department store was characterized by new kinds of commercial spaces, new rituals of selling and buying, and a new middle-class female clientele. As a qualitatively different urban public, the department store offered women the freedom to indulge in pleasure. Populated by unchaperoned bourgeois women and, in theory, accessible to all social classes, it seemed to many, bourgeois men in particular, to threaten established conceptions of gender roles and class boundaries.5 In contrast to the traditional Parisian boutique, the department store was said to constitute a kind of self-enclosed feminine metropolis, whose citizens were manipulated by the techniques of modern marketing and governed by the rule of desire rather than law.6 Many perceived this world to be not only fundamentally immoral but unpredictable and uncontrollable, especially as new determinist models of human nature emerged depicting both women and the lower classes as biologically and environmentally predisposed to irrational behavior. In this context, critics cast marketers as unscrupulous predators who used artifice and theatrical effects rather than rational persuasion to exploit suggestible victims. They typed female consumers as impulse shoppers enslaved to self-gratification, neither fit nor willing to serve as mothers and wives. By the turn of the century, many observers saw the department store as part of a world of urban “pathology” on which they blamed the falling birth rate and the alleged decline of the domestic sphere. The dangers of the department store were most frequently asserted by conservative enemies of the republic, as part of a broader fin-de-siècle critique of urban modernity and decadence. Antimodern journalists, intellectuals, and politicians, many of them Catholic conservatives, inveighed against the bourgeois republic, free-market economics, the excesses of democracy, and the liberty of women, tracing these problems at least in part to the expansion of the modern marketplace and the reign of the bourgeoisie. The views of such well-known figures as the right-wing nationalist politician Maurice Barrès were thus buttressed by impassioned outcries from a slew of less familiar journalists, hacks, cultural critics, and littérateurs. Some of these were highly popular writers in their day: the Catholic novelists Mathilde Bourdon and Henry Bordeaux commanded large female audiences, while the journalist Pierre Giffard’s muckraking 1882 exposé of the department store, Les Grands Bazars, garnered considerable notoriety and drew inevitable comparisons with Au Bonheur des dames when Zola’s novel was published a year later.

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The Problem of the Marketplace

Taken together, the work of these writers constructed a powerful critique of consumer culture, one steeped in romantic longings for the stable social hierarchies of the past, but incorporating the conceptual language of modern social science. Drawing on sociological studies of modernity by Gustave Le Bon, Emile Durkheim, and Gabriel Tarde, among others, they sought to produce hard evidence of the need for a return to traditional forms of community and hierarchy.7 These antirepublican critics of consumption were invested with more authority than they might otherwise have enjoyed because they were arrayed against a divided republican front. Indeed, critics of the modern market could be found within the heart of the republican fold, from liberals such as Jules Simon to radicals such as the Solidarist Léon Bourgeois. Although bourgeois republicans were committed to supporting commercial expansion, they too worried about the centrifugal forces of individualism unleashed by the fin-de-siècle marketplace, and in particular about their impact on the bourgeois female consumer.8 They feared that the department store, by distorting normative feminine identities and producing autonomous, irrational consumers, posed a literal and figurative threat to the civic model of public life and republican conceptions of citizenship. As a setting in which, in Zola’s words, “women become impassioned,” in which the self-interested pursuit of pleasure brazenly flouted republican ideals of reason, order, and civic virtue, the department store exposed the fragile balance between the market and the republic.9 ORIGINS OF THE CONFLICT Although the critique of the marketplace mounted in the Third Republic was fueled by women’s entry into public life, it also had deep roots in the eighteenth century, arising out of the clash between France’s corporate ethos and the advent of early forms of capitalism. A kind of split national identity developed out of tensions between, on the one hand, the snobbery of Church and nobility toward money, commerce, and the commercial bourgeoisie, and, on the other, countervailing trends toward economic individualism, especially as trade expanded. At the same time, the existence of a powerful central government, wedded to mercantilist economic policies, rendered the state, not the individual, the most central force driving French economic life in the eighteenth century. The contrast with England is instructive here. England’s identity as “a nation of shopkeepers” was forged long before the nineteenth century, largely by the substantial class of untitled gentry who formed a cultural bridge between the world of the middle classes and that of the nobility, but

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also out of the strength of English civil society vis-à-vis a weakened absolutist state. While in France the rise of a powerful absolutist state tended to polarize the nobility and the bourgeoisie—and to divide cultural distinction from commerce—in Britain, no real stigma was attached to aristocrats’ involvement in commerce, nor, conversely, were commercial groups vying for ennoblement barred by their occupational identity.10 In contrast to the French bourgeoisie’s ambivalence toward commerce, the British middle classes came to identify themselves openly with commercial life, and to see their economic role as a dynamic and progressive one.11 Enlightenment debates on luxury gave voice to these concerns. Rousseau’s fierce denunciations of the market contrasted with the views of Scottish thinkers such as Hume and Smith, who tended to view commerce and luxury as potentially civilizing forces: by bringing men into contact with strangers, they argued, trade taught tolerance and minimized the possibility of war.12 While a republican model of civic life at odds with the marketplace came to play an important role in late-eighteenth-century French intellectual life, in England a liberal model, in which the marketplace played a beneficial role, held sway. An Anglo-American liberalism, born in commerce and in cities and influenced by Scottish Enlightenment thought, endorsed the idea of self-interest and the possibility of an interested but moral politics. By contrast, the influential French tradition of radical republicanism, devoted to virtue and the public good, denied the legitimacy of self-interest, linking luxury to egocentricity and commercial growth to the loss of civic virtue.13 The eighteenth-century debates on the subject took shape within the context of the rapid expansion of commercial markets.14 Commercial growth not only multiplied the type and quantity of commodities in circulation, but fostered a sea change in the sensibility of the consumer: for the first time, novelty came to be considered an intrinsic feature of fashion, as conceptions of growth and progress, tied to the Scientific Revolution and economic expansion, were naturalized and began to permeate popular culture.15 This is not to suggest that no one voiced resistance to these changes; both in England and in France, the new commercial ethos generated a wide range of criticism.16 In France, however, philosophical attacks on luxury were incorporated into a highly charged political critique of aristocratic power that linked the nobility’s love of luxury to the political corruption of the Ancien Régime.17 For Rousseau, whose thinking on the subject was seminal, luxury engendered degenerate effeminacy in both men and women.18 Thus, bourgeois ideals of masculine civic and military virtue were defined in opposition to the image of the effete nobleman, while ideals of feminine virtue and its place within

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the domestic sphere were constructed against a conception of aristocratic women as frivolous, self-indulgent, unscrupulous manipulators who sought surreptitiously to bend politics to their personal caprices. In France, the consumer market was already marked as feminine, although aristocratic, a full century before the age of the department store.19 Occurring against the backdrop of commercial expansion, the French Revolution and the establishment of the first French Republic brought this debate into the realm of political practice for the first time. The Jacobin Republic of Virtue rejected luxury as inimical to republican values of simplicity, equality, and civic virtue, and even liberal republicans invoked the antinomies of luxury and simplicity, artifice and sincerity, passion and reason, self-interest and civic virtue. From the outset, republicans were unable to connect the notion of individualism with that of concern for the public good, and the corporate ethos remained powerful in France even after the rhetoric of individual rights was enshrined by the Revolution of 1789.20 Despite the growth of a capitalist economy and culture in the nineteenth century, republican politics nourished this hostility to the liberal marketplace throughout the century.21 In the aftermath of republican failure in 1848, a new “radical republican synthesis,” expressed in the views of bourgeois politicians such as Léon Gambetta and Jules Ferry, temporarily resolved tensions within republican thought by fusing elements of liberal, social, and radical republicanism.22 It was this new generation of “pragmatist” or “positivist” republicans—who became known as opportunists in the 1880s—that brought the Third Republic into being and republicanized large segments of the French population during the 1870s.23 Yet even in the republic’s liberal heyday in the 1870s and 1880s, radical republicanism remained a powerful force in French politics, existing in uneasy tension with liberal values of individualism and economic competition. Far from being entirely supplanted by a liberal positivist republicanism, core elements of the radical republicanism of 1789 and 1848, among them the rhetoric of civic virtue, permeated Third Republic politics.24 By the 1880s, an economic downturn, commercial crises, and rising labor militancy sparked a thoroughgoing reconsideration, although not a repudiation, of classical liberalism within republican circles.25 Throughout the eighties, radical republicans like Georges Clemenceau and Alfred Naquet denounced unregulated big business as the “new feudalism”; in doing so, they enjoyed the staunch support of small busi-

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nessmen. Exemplifying this attitude, the trade journal Le Commerce blamed the economic crises of the early 1880s on the rise of speculation and the taste for fast money, linking these tendencies, in turn, to the French “state of over-civilization and excessive thirst for luxury.” Freemarket capitalism was an unjust system, the journal claimed, in which the capitalist and the rentier reaped profits at society’s expense.26 Not surprisingly, many big businessmen felt alienated from the middle-class republican mainstream and tended to subscribe to a conservative authoritarian politics.27 By the 1890s, however, this political configuration began to change, as big business and the French state formed an alliance around the idea of regulated capitalism. At the same time, the petit-bourgeois shopkeepers who had once formed the backbone of the republic gradually became estranged from republican politics.28 Yet republicans did not reject liberal individualism entirely in either the economic or the social sphere. Indeed, the laissez-faire orthodoxy of economic liberals such as the economist Paul Leroy-Beaulieu and finance minister Léon Say exerted a powerful influence on public debates into the 1890s. Nevertheless, the French economy was never as unregulated as that of England; within the liberal camp of republicans, for example, Jules Méline’s protectionists won the debate over trade tariffs in the early 1890s. In social politics, liberal republicans increasingly tended to endorse the notion that the state ought to provide aid to its most vulnerable citizens.29 Most importantly, in contrast to England and Germany, no liberal party ever emerged from the French political spectrum, in part because republicans had preempted that position as the party of the parliamentary left.30 Subsumed by the republican party, French liberals competed for primacy with radical republicans within their own ranks; outside the party, they also confronted powerful political rivals in the Social Catholics and the Socialists. The French challenge to liberal individualism culminated in the Solidarist movement of 1889 to 1910. In its essence, Solidarism constituted a political shift toward a state policy of paternalist reform, especially in the workplace. But it was also a social philosophy that broadly defined the mood of the bourgeois elite in the fin de siècle.31 According to the Solidarist leader Léon Bourgeois, the movement sought to reform rather than disavow the liberal model of public life: the Declaration of the Rights of Man, he argued, should be complemented by a Declaration of Duties.32 By locating a middle ground between liberal and republican politics, Solidarism gained widespread support not only from a variety of republicans but from conservative social economists and Social

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Catholics, who now joined forces with progressive republicans in arguing for the benefits of a regulated society and economy.33 For the Solidarists, the individual existed only in the context of the group, and social peace depended on the fulfillment of every citizen’s mutual responsibility.34 In the words of Léon Bourgeois, “Men . . . must no longer think of themselves as isolated, as individuals with the right to decide for themselves the purpose of their existence, but as associates, members in fact and before the law of a society where all responsibilities are mutual.”35 This opposition to competitive individualism stemmed from the assumption, legitimated by scientific and social scientific theories of the day, that the individual was forged by environmental and biological forces beyond his control: since some individuals were less fortunate than others, a competitive society was not only unjust but unnatural. Against the dogmas of Spencerian Social Darwinists, Léon Bourgeois, the economist Charles Gide, and others cited the evidence of nature as proof that individuals are cooperative rather than competitive.36 In this context, a capitalist enterprise such as the department store could be seen as a “national plague,” as one critic put it in 1888, which, by fostering the rule of the economically strong over the weak, transgressed the “law of nature.”37 In the late nineteenth century, these deep-rooted concerns about the corrosive effects of marketplace individualism on French society were intensified by new anxieties about women’s entry into the commercial arena.38 By the mid-1880s, in fact, respectable bourgeois women were beginning to be a visible public presence in the modern metropolis, promenading on the boulevards and in the parks, traveling by train, and shopping in the department stores. Their trademark outfit was the new costume tailleur, a matching skirt and jacket modeled after the man’s suit. The setting for their activities was Baron Haussmann’s reconstructed Paris, in particular the city’s central and western districts, which had overflowed with the Parisian poor until the 1850s, but had since been remodeled as a commercial zone of pleasure. The formerly seedy boulevards, the haunt of male bohemians and journalists under the July Monarchy, were now opulent, resplendent, and thronged with fashionable bourgeois men and women enjoying their leisure.39 Women’s presence in the marketplace, as in the workplace, challenged the gendered boundaries between the private domestic sphere and the public spheres of politics and production that structured the bourgeois social order. According to the logic of separate spheres, woman’s place

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was in the home, where her “natural” moral and aesthetic sensibility created a haven for her family and where she herself was protected from the brutishness of the male public.40 The role of consumer, then, was an extension of the nineteenth-century bourgeois woman’s domestic role; but she had to leave the home to provision it. For conservatives and republicans alike, the marketplace thus appeared to be a particularly dangerous public space because it afforded women a new degree of financial and psychic independence and physical mobility, subverting their caretaking and dependent roles within the family setting. Commentators fretted that women’s freedom in this arena was likely to result in the abandonment of the foyer and the corruption of feminine virtue. In the eyes of conservative critics, women’s mobility and seeming autonomy in the commercial public was a corollary of their claims for greater gender equality in the public spheres of work and education. These claims were supported by a series of republican legislative acts in the 1880s. Camille Sée’s law of 1880 establishing public secondary schools for women, Jules Ferry’s law secularizing the French educational system in 1881 (which provided official alternatives to convent education for girls), Alfred Naquet’s bill of 1884 legalizing divorce, and the Schmal law of 1907 according women the right to keep their wages did a great deal to expand women’s opportunities and to enrage conservatives. At the same time, the number of women in the French workforce, already greater than in England and Germany, was sharply on the rise in the last quarter of the century, particularly as women made inroads into new white-collar jobs in the service sector.41 Both of these developments were related to the emergence of an organized French feminist movement, which, while less militant and broadly supported than its counterparts in England and Germany, nonetheless articulated Frenchwomen’s claims to full citizenship. It is clear, then, that negative depictions of female consumers should be compared to similarly negative images of New Women, suffragists, and professional women at the turn of the century.42 In an accusatory speech made to a women’s organization in 1911, the best-selling Catholic regional novelist Henry Bordeaux voiced the opinion of many conservative antimoderns that the public persona of the modern woman had supplanted her private identity: “The housewife of today has her office or her laboratory. She publishes or she invents. She goes to court or to the hospital. . . . One rarely finds her at home; she is always out and about . . . busy running all over the city. . . . Her husband, if she has the time for one, is nothing but a prince consort. . . . [T]he greatest of all arts, the culi-

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The Problem of the Marketplace

nary art . . . is dying. . . . Her egotism is revolting. . . .”43 But if female participants in the workplace were considered deficient in domestic virtue, women’s mobility in the metropolis in general and in the marketplace in particular raised another set of problems.44 While the work world was a sphere that in theory closely bordered the civic public in subscribing to “masculine” values of discipline and order, the introduction of women into the commercial metropolis threatened to draw them into a dangerous network of unregulated desires, where self-interest and pleasuretaking could easily overrun the dictates of social duty and propriety. On the other side of the debate, republicans also expressed grave concerns about women’s roles in the public. Even the Solidarists, who were among the strongest republican supporters of feminist causes, embraced a highly gendered conception of citizenship, defining the citizen as a propertied, independent, and rational individual and thus implicitly denying women a participatory role in the civic public.45 Instead, Solidarists considered women’s rights and obligations wholly within the context of the family: women’s duty to society was to bear children, and, by the same token, society owed women a debt in return. Using woman’s role as mother to argue for the republican mission to protect its female citizens, Solidarist republicans acknowledged women’s importance to the state, but also cast them as its dependents. Solidarist paternalism thus grafted eighteenth-century republican masculine civic ideals of honor and virtue onto a modern republican vision of the scientifically engineered society.46 But it is important to stress here that Solidarist republicans saw women much in the same way that French feminists themselves did. French republican feminists emphasized women’s maternity as much as republican men, and, unlike their European counterparts, they did not develop a genuinely liberal position that based claims to citizenship on the sovereign female individual. Although republican feminists demanded civil and political equality, they did so on the grounds that a greater stake in society would provide women with a greater incentive to bear children.47 How then did Solidarists in particular and republicans in general view women in the consumer marketplace? Populated by self-interested and unreasoning female subjects, the consumer public appeared to them to jeopardize both the political public and the private sphere at their ideological foundations. To this extent, the image of the female consumer meshed with other republican images of femininity, which, as Joan Scott describes them, “depicted woman as subjected to . . . influences that were outside the bounds of rational control, a control women

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were incapable of exercising. . . . [W]omen’s susceptibility and lack of discipline [were considered] dangerous to the republic.”48 Not only was the woman of the marketplace a disorderly influence in public life, but she also served as a conduit channeling the corrupt values of the commercial public into the domestic interior. For many republicans, women’s perceived irrational investment in the world of goods rendered them a reactionary force out of step with progressive men. In the words of the fashion writer Octave Uzanne, “It is in vain that . . . revolutions have transformed political values. Nothing has changed. Fashion dominates the eternal feminine more than ever.”49 THE PERCEPTION OF THE MODERN MARKETPLACE Late-nineteenth-century critics of the marketplace added new anxieties about women in public to an older set of concerns about the corrupting nature of commerce. But they also confronted a marketplace that had undergone dramatic transformation since the late eighteenth century. No development was more emblematic of these changes than the rise of the department store, and with it the creation of a female commercial culture.50 The department store’s main organizational innovation was to expand dramatically the scale of the commercial operation by introducing the efficient, high turnover of merchandise. This was accomplished by assembling an enormous range of goods of all types and quality in a vast, beautifully appointed space, deploying a barrage of new and spectacular methods of display and advertising, and selling these goods at relatively low and fixed prices. From the shopper’s point of view, the efficient and pleasurable nature of department store consumption contrasted dramatically with the experience of shopping in the traditional boutique, where customers came in search of specialized merchandise and had to haggle over prices. For the less well-to-do, however, these pleasures came at a cost. While the local shopkeeper often extended credit to his clients, many of whom he knew personally, the impersonal, bureaucratic character of the department store was exemplified by its strict policy of cash sales. As both embodiment and symbol of the modern metropolis, the department store was a target of invective directed against the moral degradation of the modern city.51 In contrast to the small boutique, which simulated domesticity with salon-style fitting rooms replete with houseplants, paintings, and fireplaces, the department store was designed to signal a radical departure from the domestic and the mun-

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The Problem of the Marketplace

dane. The grand magasins billed themselves not just as visual sensations but as among the city’s major tourist attractions: according to an early twentieth-century ad, the Bon Marché was “the largest, most beautiful, and most important store in the entire world, worth visiting as one of the most remarkable attractions of Paris.”52 A turn-of-thecentury ad for the Phares de la Bastille department store featuring fashionable women walking and bicycling through the city, with the Bastille column and the grand magasin looming in the distance, captured this self-presentation, depicting the female consumer as a dynamic and independent urban adventurer and the department store as a monument in the modern urban landscape (fig. 1). The department store’s identification with the modern metropolis was underscored by the perception of the store’s interior as an extension of the city street. Unlike the boutique, which kept its wares discreetly out of sight, the department store used huge plate glass windows brimming with enticing commodities as well as a policy of free entry to ensnare the female passerby. Crossing the threshold of the grand magasin, the flâneuse became a browser, with no obligation to strike up a conversation with sales personnel or other customers or even to make a purchase. She could continue her urban promenade unmolested through the vast spaces of the department store, circulating freely, a spectator rather than a participant. The very scale of the place seemed to make the store a city in itself; an early cartoon in the popular press perfectly satirized the shock created by the amplitude of the first department stores, depicting two naïve shoppers as reluctant urban travelers, pausing at the corner of “Calico Street” with a “Tourist’s Guide to the Department Store” and commenting sarcastically on the possibility that an internal bus system might one day be installed to help navigate the store’s expanses (fig. 2). The similarity between the bustling, turbulent street and the store was further accented by the fact that male customers kept their hats on inside store precincts. Although etiquette experts tended to object to the disrespect for ladies implicit in the gesture, they conceded that it was unavoidable in public.53 They also worried intensely about the confusion of the consumer with the “public woman” and warned that the solitary shopper could be easily mistaken for a loitering prostitute by a zealous store inspector.54 Louise d’Alq, the well-known liberal journalist and author of several etiquette handbooks of the period, imagined such a scenario: “A young woman in a department store, fatigued by shopping, happens to stroll alone through a section and stops for a moment in front of a mirror to retie the ribbon of her hat. A store inspector

Figure 1. Poster for Aux Phares de la Bastille Department Store, c. 1900. (Musée Carnavalet. © Photothèque des Musées de la Ville de Paris; cliché Habouzit)

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The Problem of the Marketplace

Figure 2. “Ah! M’ame Chopin! These department stores are a real improvement!! . . . You have to wander around for three hours to find a measly twobit handkerchief! And they call that doing business! . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if one day [the stores] had their own bus system!! . . .” From La Mode, 1841. (Musée Carnavalet. © Phototèque des Musées de la Ville de Paris; cliché Degraces)

approaches her: ‘Madame, are you by any chance waiting for a gentleman? One was just here looking for a lady.’ . . . [I]f, by chance, she had thought that her father, her brother, or her husband had been looking for her, she could have said . . . : ‘It’s quite possible, show me the gentleman,’ thus placing herself in a compromising position.”55 The anonymity of the department store, like that of the modern metropolis, was said to create a competitive arena of self-interested, autonomous strangers, far from the civic public of the republican imagination. To critics, the lack of personal contact, structure, and supervision in the department store was precisely what allowed for the possibility of

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feminine deviance. Whereas shopping at a small boutique entailed personal, ritualized interactions requiring civil behavior, the department store made no such demands. Arsène Alexandre, the art critic for Le Figaro, insisted that women who were perfectly polite at the couturier metamorphosed into rude, aggressive shoppers in the department store: “[They] become utterly transformed the moment they find themselves unknown, in the presence of a strange sales clerk, amid ready-made merchandise, in galleries as accessible as the street. In this setting, a woman makes impossible demands and shows impatience that she would not dream of revealing to the couturier. . . . [H]er needs must be gratified instantly.”56 The juxtaposition of the uncivil shopper with machine-made commodities points to the multiplicity of ways, both moral and aesthetic, in which urban commercial culture was construed as violating civic ideals of social responsibility and personal probity. Similarly, Octave Uzanne charted the decline of the bourgeois order from a precommercial paradise in which Darwinian laws of competition were unknown. Since the advent of the department store, he suggested, community had disintegrated into individualism, and individualism had deteriorated into egotism and the rule of personal desire. “Politeness . . . is dead,” he wrote, “it is disappearing more every day in our little egotistical, Americanized world, in which everyone thinks only of himself, his own pleasure, his own feelings. . . .”57 Indeed, for many of its critics, the rise of the department store signaled changes not simply in the structure of commercial life but in the very nature of the relationship of the individual to society. It was not simply urban anonymity that seemed to render consumers self-interested. Aggressive new marketing techniques at the heart of the modern commercial enterprise also sought deliberately to rouse their passions. The department store was thus far more than just a public space conquered by consuming women; it was a dangerous urban environment that, in Uzanne’s words, sought “to envelop Frenchwomen in an atmosphere of desire.”58 The investigative journalist Pierre Giffard contended that the top department stores strove to do nothing less than “seduce women”; similarly, Zola’s fictional department store owner, Octave Mouret, “tried to think of every possible way to satisfy women, to give them what they might want, to envelop them with a caress. . . . [H]e considered gallantry and a flattering air to be the first rule of thumb.”59 Unlike the boutique or the couturier’s establishment, where shopping could be a matter of mere provisioning, department store owners constructed consumption as a pleasurable, even voluptuous experience. The department store clerk’s solicitous demeanor was instrumental to

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The Problem of the Marketplace

the creation of a seductive ambiance, contrasting with the traditionally adversarial relationship between shopkeeper and shopper. “Physiognomies,” or sketches, of Parisian life offer glimpses of the new sales philosophy: the department store clerk had to be adroit in the art of assessing a client’s social standing and how much she might be induced to spend, and to be equally skilled at coaxing her into unintended purchases (fig. 3).60 Giffard, for one, was scandalized by the fawning air with which the clerk approached the shopper under the department store’s new shopping regime: “He unfolds fabrics before [the shopper] . . . with enchanting gestures, undulating bows, charming pouts. . . . [H]e pays her court, discreetly if the client requires discretion, more overtly if she seems to want passion. . . . [T]he woman leans toward him to look at him more attentively. The clerk is pleasing to her. . . . In the end, he will sell her a large parcel of merchandise.”61 Describing the clerk’s insidious calibration of his behavior to the needs of the client, Giffard both condemned the unseemliness of the flirtation he imagined taking place and emphasized the theatricality of the department store, implicitly contrasting its deceptiveness with the moral superiority of older commercial mores of probity and sincerity.62 Other observers, for whom the vendor-client relationship was less laden with innuendo, nonetheless saw it as the unequal relationship of expert to amateur.63 In some respects, this made the department store no different from the couturier’s shop, where the sewing and fitting of clothing sur mesure relied on professional expertise. Critics argued, however, that while the couturier possessed knowledge and skill of value to his clientele, the department store clerk only simulated expertise; untrained and unskilled, the clerk preyed unscrupulously upon consumers’ hesitations and insecurities. The journalist and taste critic Roger-Milès suggested that shoppers succumbed to the sales pitch simply because they were overwhelmed by the volume and variety of merchandise in the department store. But others argued that it was the bourgeois character of the department store that made social anxiety and posing a fundamental element of the setting: unlike the self-confident aristocrat, the bourgeois consumer was both socially ambitious and uncertain of her taste, and could be easily manipulated by savvy clerks.64 The fashion editor Marie Double, for example, sneered at the bourgeoise’s willingness to spend money to flaunt her wealth. While the true aristocrat routinely haggled over price with the sales clerk because her social status was beyond question, “[t]he bourgeoise parvenue enters the store with her head held high, fabulously attired . . . [and] always selects the most

Figure 3. “The Department Head. M. A*** likes to see himself as a seducer of married women.” From Mlle X, Commis et demoiselles de magasins, 1868, 34. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

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expensive item.”65 Critics thus objected not only to the falseness of clerks catering to customers, but also to the baseness of consumers who substituted wealth for taste. The sales pitch was only one of the strategies in an expanding arsenal of marketing techniques aimed at the consumer, many of which relied on theatricality, illusion, and fantasy. Advertisers sacralized acts of consumption, for example, by staging ritual events in the form of special sales and spectacular exhibitions anticipating the coming season or celebrating a particular product. From the 1880s on, the department store agenda, given away as a promotional item, superimposed an artificial calendar of commercial events—white sales, fur exhibitions, and so on—onto the traditional calendar of religious and national holidays. Sales and special promotions appealing to the bourgeois shopper’s sense of thrift were intended to draw her to the department store, while the lavishly arrayed goods in store windows and display cases were designed to overload her senses and weaken her reason; caught off guard, it was hoped, she would succumb to her impulse to buy whatever caught her eye. Zola observed the phenomenon in his notes for Au Bonheur des dames: “Women are . . . dazzled by the abundance of merchandise . . . the variety and novelty of the designs. One sees ten different kinds, one can choose. Therein lies the success of the stores. The item that catches the shopper’s eye, which is meant to attract her, is always on sale; but the profit from such items is small. The big profits are made on the expensive items.”66 The late-nineteenth-century explosion of advertising in the grand magasin, on the city streets, and in newspapers and magazines was the most crucial element in creating an atmosphere of spectacle in the commercial public. By the 1890s, advertising was being transformed from a print medium, in which vendors sought to reason with and persuade clients of the value of a product, into a largely visual culture that contrived to tap into and manipulate the consumer’s hidden, irrational desires.67 Journalists nostalgic for a less commercialized Paris bemoaned this appeal to unreason and blamed modern advertising for the degeneration of civic order. In the view of Romain Coolus, the modern affiches plastered on city buildings and street kiosks drew the eye “like magnets,” with images rather than words. This sort of “free entertainment,” he argued, impoverished urban flânerie and reduced the detached and observant flâneur to the gaping badaud.68 Juxtaposing the disinterestedness of the male flâneur with the irrational passions of the female consumer, Coolus underlined the putative affinities of men with the rational world of print and women with the sensate world of images.69

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The shift toward the visual was part of a broader attempt to develop advertising as a science.70 Advertisers borrowing their models of mental topography from medical texts of the day sought to use visual and other sensory stimuli to circumvent the rational faculties and act directly on the “sentiment.” According to one marketing text, “The consumer does not reason about a purchase. . . . [The act of consumption] is incited by external solicitation acting on the senses.”71 Likewise, the trade journal La Publicité moderne instructed advertisers to aim at the “bedazzled eyes of the femme coquette,” in order to “target each of the senses . . . find the secret routes to that inner tabernacle where each of us hides a weakness . . . an unsuspected penchant or an unconquerable vice, a minor sin or a great passion.”72 Since the consumer’s actual desires were highly malleable, “the advertiser . . . can create new desires, or transform those that exist.”73 The department store posed a problem for bourgeois republicans and antimodern critics alike not simply because they believed it drew women away from the domestic sphere. At stake was women’s presence in a particular kind of public, one which, like the modern metropolis, seemed to foster irrationality, dishonesty, and self-interest. The fact that women’s exposure to the manipulations of modern marketing occurred in a feminized public sphere beyond the influence of husbands, priests, or employers exacerbated the situation. Anxiety about the department store thus blended longstanding objections to women’s innate love of luxury with newer concerns about feminine autonomy and mobility in the modern metropolis. THE CREATION OF THE IMPULSE SHOPPER Critics added misgivings about modern buying practices to their objections to new commercial spaces and sales approaches in the grand magasin. The techniques of marketing and the urban anonymity of the department store, it was said, had combined to create the impulse shopper and the compulsive consumer. The journalist and illustrator Ernest d’Hervilly described how the “thousand appetizing little bibelots” arrayed in the windows of the department store caught the urban pedestrian’s eye and triggered her latent desires: “The woman stopped short, her nostrils trembling, her wide-opened eyes riveted on all the charming objects. . . . She drank them in, she ate them with her glance. . . . [S]he stood before the tempting window . . . uncertain of what she wanted. . . . Finally, . . . shaking with desire, she cried out, ‘I want it all, all of it!’ ”74 The passage suggested that the ordinary woman exposed to temptation was at the mercy

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of boundless cravings and could not be trusted to consume in a moderate and sensible fashion. Irrational, selfish, and improvident, she was no more fit for the responsibilities of citizenship than a child. Of course, the extravagant woman was not a new type. In the eighteenth century, Rousseau’s denunciation of the market already had cast the profligate woman as a threat to both civic and domestic virtue. A central theme in his discussion is the binary opposition posited between the domestic woman, defined by dependence on and sacrifices for others, and the aristocratic femme du monde, characterized as capricious and self-interested. While the sheltered and regulated environment of the home was presumed to keep the domestic woman’s passions in check, the aristocratic woman’s more public purview allowed her to pursue the satisfaction of her desires unchecked. Rousseauian critics of aristocratic luxury in the eighteenth century thus condemned the spendthrift noblewoman as an immoral woman who deliberately sacrificed virtue to self-gratification. In some ways, the late-nineteenth-century discussion demonstrates the persistence of an earlier view that femininity, commerce, and corruption were inextricably linked, and that the consumer was by nature a coquette, by turns weak and manipulative. “For women,” Pierre Giffard declared, “the matter of money may be summed up by several synonyms: flirtation, the desire to please, to dominate, to seduce, the desire to display themselves and to be admired.”75 Critics thus saw the department store as a work of such diabolical genius precisely because it speculated on “the coquetry of women” and “invested in their vanity.”76 For many, indifference to the domestic sphere and a predilection for public display were particularly Parisian characteristics. The Parisienne was thus perceived as the coquette par excellence, so essential to the fashion industry that, as a minister of commerce jokingly remarked, she would have been invented if she did not already exist.77 In other ways, the archetype of the spendthrift was recast by the evolution of bourgeois consumer culture, and late-nineteenth-century attacks against extravagant women need to be read as part of a critical discourse aimed at the department store. First and foremost, the old polarity between domestic bourgeoise and aristocratic élégante was blurred as bourgeois women took their place in the commercial public. Commentators feared that urban anonymity gave the bourgeois consumer new license to indulge her impulses, promoting an unprecedented degree of extravagance and creating new possibilities for the mercenary exploitation of her husband. Second, commentators were increasingly

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worried about the modern market’s calculated appeal to the female consumer’s weak character and irrational impulses. Giffard described a tugof-war between the department store’s profit motive and shoppers’ lack of self-control: “On the side of the department store, intoxicating displays, the shimmer of fabrics, dazzling mirages, irresistible seductions . . . which enchant women. . . . On the side of those weak creatures, incessant theft and the trickery of returned merchandise.”78 In the journalist Arsène Houssaye’s comic sketch, the Parisienne hires a cab for a trivial errand, but justifies the extravagance by claiming that, had she gone by foot, she would have yielded to temptation at every boutique in her path. Like the older type of spendthrift, Houssaye’s consumer values luxury over necessity and appearance over substance, but her failing is not so much frivolity or immorality as an absence of restraint. The joke here is that she cannot control herself, and that her gestures toward thrift are, in fact, themselves forms of extravagance: Houssaye’s Parisienne “keeps horses even when she has no carriage.”79 Starting in the early 1870s, the impulse shopper began to figure widely in a range of writings about the marketplace, suggesting a high level of consciousness and concern about new types of consumer behavior. A central theme of this literature was the impact of unregulated consumption on the family and society. Even relatively sympathetic commentators, such as journalists for the ladies’ press, admitted to bourgeois women’s inability to put family responsibilities before personal pleasure, although they attributed these lapses more to mismanagement than malevolence.80 The author of a regular domestic economy column in the women’s magazine La Mode pratique described as a case in point the situation of the wife of a lycée professor who had written seeking her counsel. In the month of June 1893, the woman had apparently paid her seamstress and her hatmaker, ordered a new rug for her salon and a mirror for her bedroom, yet despaired when she found herself owing the butcher, the baker, and the landlord. The columnist bemoaned the woman’s obliviousness, but claimed that it was typical. The magazine was barraged by such letters from naïve young housewives, who in one breath begged for help in managing their debts and in the next asked for a recommendation for a good modiste: “Although this kind of blindness may seem unbelievable, it is much more common than one might think.”81 In contrast, the most unsympathetic commentators condemned the impulsive spendthrift as a reckless egotist, prepared to deceive her husband, ignore her children, and truckle to creditors in order to satisfy her

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cravings. “Crazed with pleasure, living only to display herself,” the Parisienne was “the woman-as-artwork,” who “adorns herself because she sees herself as a sacred icon.”82 Such a woman, in Pierre Giffard’s view, would gladly “deprive her household of anything to save for an article she has seen in the department store that has filled her head with irresistible longings.”83 The links between her overweening egotism, her profligate spending, and her heedless pursuit of pleasure were neatly drawn by an English writer who made invidious comparisons between his countrywomen’s domestic nature and the Parisienne’s obsession with fashion. He wrote: “That some of these [Parisiennes] really like their husbands and have a sort of fondness for their children is not at all impossible, but as it is extremely difficult to associate indoor love with outside vanities, the former is pretty often abandoned in order to be better able to attend to the latter.”84 The satirical illustrator Grévin parodied the social costs of the voluptuary nature of the Parisienne with an imaginary reconstruction of her account book, a source, he claimed, more revealing of a woman’s intimate secrets than an interview with her concierge.85 In his sketch, Parisiennes of all social ranks, from aristocrat to worker, forfeit necessities in order to purchase luxuries: the Baroness spends four hundred francs for a dress and a thousand for a hat but only five centimes on charity, while the grisette who starves herself on a meager diet of a roll, a radish, and a sausage never fails to buy flowers or rent Paul de Kock novels. Similarly, by scrimping on the quality of her family’s meals, the bourgeoise sets aside the lion’s share of the household allowance to buy herself a new hat. Her account book looks like this: Beef Stew Meat Potatoes Macaroni Hat

.75 4.00 .60 1.00 30.00

Each of the Parisiennes in the sketch shirked their responsibilities in one way or another, although Grévin does single out the bourgeois woman as one whose pleasure was indulged at the expense of her family, underscoring the way in which her strongly domestic identity makes her actions as a consumer particularly harmful. Yet, like most critical observers of his time, he depicts the Parisienne as irrational rather than wicked, ultimately driven to acts of moral recklessness by her uncontrollable desires. What his typology adds to the portrait of the impulse

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shopper, moreover, is the image of improvident spending habits and tastes, once limited to elite women, spreading to all social classes. Grevin’s parody invokes the eternal feminine by revealing that ostensibly different female types are in essence the same, but also refers specifically to the late-nineteenth-century concern that notoriously selfish female types such as the courtesan and the aristocrat were leading workingclass and respectable bourgeois women astray. By the 1880s, critics detected these behaviors not only at all levels of the social hierarchy but throughout the French provinces. According to the official report for the 1889 Universal Exposition, the department store had “first incorporated the suburbs around Paris, then encompassed the distant suburbs, and, finally, annexed the provinces as a part of their dominion” through mail-order shopping.86 A novel by the popular Catholic novelist Mathilde Bourdon, serialized in the Journal des demoiselles during the spring and summer of 1880, charts the ruin of a provincial petit-bourgeois family by a profligate woman, graphically illustrating the spread of new patterns of consumption beyond the Parisian bourgeoisie.87 Histoire d’un agent de change is the story of her metamorphosis from devoted wife to mad spendthrift, whose addiction to luxury causes her to neglect her child, betray her husband, and drive the family to bankruptcy. The novel opens with an idealized portrait of the humble, happy ménage of bank clerk Philippe Olivier and his wife, Georgette, and with Bourdon’s cautionary words: “The advantage of modest conditions [is that] . . . they do not inspire envy.”88 But a shadow is cast over the household almost immediately, when her sister’s marriage to a wealthy man piques Georgette’s envy: “Why does she have so many things when I have so few? Why all those servants, when I have only one maid? Why so many splendors?”89 Her materialist cravings begin to poison her marriage, although a crisis is averted when the couple inherits some money and Philippe is able to set himself up as a stockbroker. By the novel’s third installment, the family economy is thriving, and Georgette has embarked on a maniacal course of interior decoration and fashion consumption. Not incidentally, her most prized possessions are purchased by mail order from Parisian furbishers. When a series of financial reverses threaten to crimp the Olivier’s lavish style of living, Philippe, fearing Georgette’s rancor, secretly sells his clients’ stocks and plays the market himself in a desperate effort to make up their losses. His fraud is exposed, the Oliviers are bankrupted, their house is repossessed, and their belongings are seized for “expenditures beyond their means.”90 In the novel’s denouement, Philippe, tried

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and condemned to five years of hard labor in Guyana, tells Georgette that he has compromised his honor and risked their security in the futile attempt to “please you, to deny you nothing, to satisfy your pride; I did not want to admit to you that we were living beyond our means. . . . It is your whims and your crazed spending which have ruined me. . . . [Y]ou are a devourer of money, nothing more.”91 Georgette Olivier’s selfish desires, much like those of Emma Bovary twenty-five years earlier, destroy her family. In some ways, she fits the older archetype of the spendthrift, and Bourdon’s novel stands as a morality tale about sins of avarice, vanity, and envy that transcend historical context. As in all of Bourdon’s novels, the sinners are ultimately redeemed by religion. Christianity spiritually heals and morally reconstructs the family devastated by worldly vices: their son, neglected as a child by Georgette, becomes a priest and helps to bring about this restoration. But Georgette Olivier is also an impulse shopper whose story is meant to show us that the Parisian department store has invaded the provinces to disastrous effect. Bourdon’s image of the “devourer of money” makes this point well: Georgette pursues not consumption toward a particular end but bottomless, goal-less consumption, mirroring critics’ concerns that the modern market had engineered consumption as an endless cycle of ungratifiable desire. Georgette Olivier’s “crazed spending” also makes her distinctively modern; she is irrational before she is immoral, oblivious and unreasoning rather than cunning. This inability to reason is made clear in a passage in which Georgette makes a vain effort to read the stockbroker’s code, but can not penetrate the legal language, or grasp that its “dry interdictions” have anything to do with her life and her beautiful possessions.92 Her feminine inability to understand the law, moreover, marks her as unfit for citizenship. Bourdon’s novel also underscored the spread of new habits of consumption to the petite bourgeoisie. If, as one writer on fashion claimed, the department store had kindled the desire of “women of modest means [for] . . . the most magnificent fabrics,”93 then Georgette Olivier’s modernity lay partly in a sense of entitlement to luxuries deemed inappropriate to her social station. In large measure, marketers themselves shaped this new sensibility by implementing techniques that deliberately sought to stimulate the desire to consume across a range of social groups. Modern marketing’s appeal to the consumer’s latent impulses was in many ways a democratic appeal, designed not so much to democratize goods as to democratize desire itself. At the same time, an ex-

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panding credit industry, largely outside of the bourgeois department store, offered petit bourgeois shoppers the practical means to engage in new patterns of consumption. As credit developed from a private, informal understanding between shopkeeper and buyer forged in the quartier to a more formalized, public relationship between the consumer and an anonymous credit institution, petit-bourgeois consumers who had once limited their consumption to the local and small-scale were drawn increasingly into the socially heterogeneous commercial life of the metropolis.94 Many commentators considered the partial incorporation of the petite bourgeoisie into the culture of consumption as a signal that French society was being democratized. While some, such as the historian and economist Georges d’Avenel, heralded this democratization as a positive development, most commentators saw it as the spread of vice rather than virtue.95 Exposure to more affluent shoppers and to the display of goods in downtown Paris, critics argued, caused the humble housewife to blur the line between need and desire and to become impervious to the limitations of her position. The burgeoning production of imitation luxury, partly but not exclusively marketed through the department store, purportedly blinded less-affluent consumers not only to the distinction between necessity and luxury but to the difference in quality between the genuine article and the fake. Faux luxe was thus assailed not only for seducing shoppers into buying more than they intended, but also for enticing consumers of modest resources into buying shoddily made goods. The Countess Tramar, a society doyenne who wrote on manners and fashion, argued that faux luxe merely produced the illusion of democratization, while in fact impoverishing the less well-off: “This imitation luxury . . . is accessible to everyone . . . so long as they deprive themselves of necessities. But since these flimsy articles must be constantly replaced, they end up being more expensive than the sumptuous adornments of our ancestors.”96 Tramar makes two points here, one about the economic limitations, the other about the social vulnerability of petit-bourgeois participants in Parisian consumer culture. Like a number of other writers, she emphasizes the petit bourgeoise’s liminal position within the bourgeois culture of consumption, suggesting that it is precisely this marginality that makes the lower-middle-class consumer prey to its temptations and her participation in it fraught with danger. Zola makes a similar argument in Au Bonheur des dames, incarnating “the madness of impulse shopping, the growing desire for luxury instilled in the lower middle classes by the department store” in

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Madame Marty, the wife of a high school teacher. Madame Marty’s uncertain social status makes her yearn for luxuries to establish her position in society, but her equally precarious economic status means that her habits of consumption destroy the family’s financial security.97 In the short story “La Parure,” Guy de Maupassant adds another dimension to the portrait of the petite bourgeoise seeking to live beyond her means.98 Like Georgette Olivier, Mathilde Loisel is the wife of a bank clerk, deeply resentful of her modest station in life. An invitation to a ball thrown by her husband’s employers provokes a family crisis: Madame Loisel is humiliated by the shabbiness of her wardrobe and refuses to go. Her long-suffering husband scrapes together the money for her to buy an appropriate dress and proposes that she borrow a diamond necklace from a wealthy school friend to complete the outfit. But during the ball the necklace is lost, and the Loisels are forced to live a life of drudgery to pay off the enormous debt they incur to replace the necklace without revealing its loss to the owner. The pathos of their sacrifice only emerges years later, when Madame Loisel meets her friend by chance and learns that the original necklace was a fake, an inexpensive synthetic that was within her means to replace all along. Maupassant uses the fluid boundary between luxury and necessity, and the confusion between the real and the fake, to draw our attention to the petit-bourgeois woman’s tenuous position in the late-nineteenthcentury world of goods. Mathilde Loisel belongs to the lower ranks of the bourgeoisie by virtue of her husband’s occupation, but both his modest income and her naïveté about the world of goods render her an outsider in the elite bourgeois culture of consumption. For Maupassant, the economic vulnerability and status anxiety of the petit-bourgeois household is only part of the story: the fact that the Loisels do not know the difference between the genuine article and the fake highlights the petit bourgeois’s lack of cultural as well as economic capital. Bourgeois elites and social commentators watched the spread of modern consumption habits down the social ladder with trepidation. Some warned that the growing taste for luxury in the petite bourgeoisie threatened its time-honored role as guardian of social stability and traditional morality.99 An appetite for fine things was said to soften the resilient and proudly self-reliant petite bourgeoise and to expose her family to the public disgrace and degrading dependence of debt. According to the etiquette expert Louise d’Alq, “The humiliations one experiences at the hands of creditors and shopkeepers, the thousand pangs of anxiety one endures, more than pay for the few minutes of personal pleasure

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one was able to seize.”100 Likewise, as the works of Bourdon, Zola, and Maupassant insist, uncontrolled consumer desire spelled financial ruin, the collapse of domestic life, and the squandering of future happiness. At the same time, bourgeois elites feared that the absorption of the petite bourgeoisie into the new culture of consumption imperiled its own status as an emergent elite.101 Because modern marketing purported to tap into universal feminine impulses, moreover, there appeared to be no way to prevent the vicious cycle of extravagance, indebtedness, and social envy from penetrating the working classes.102 French salaries could not keep pace with the contagious desire for luxuries, critics asserted, portending not only economic devastation on a mass scale, but the further contraction of the nation’s dwindling birth rate: “Aspirations to luxury,” charged a member of the medical profession, “have enfeebled the maternal impulse and promoted depopulation.”103 The most extreme detractors condemned the department store not just for promoting uncontrolled spending but for breeding other forms of moral depravity. By doing away with the credit that couturiers and boutiques extended to their clientele, the department store was said to drive women not merely into debt but into a vicious web of deception, trickery, and even sexual betrayal. In Pierre Giffard’s eyes, the department store turned the impulse shopper into a shrewd opportunist who sought to bilk her innocent husband at every turn. In one of the most common ruses, he claimed, the shopper paid for half of her purchases in cash, then cajoled the cashier into writing an unitemized bill for the remaining half. When the merchandise was delivered to her at home, she presented her husband with the bill, demanding praise for her thrift: “She embraces him lovingly and he pays, the poor fool, without a suspicion.”104 By offering women new opportunities for concealing their spending habits from men, the department store thus exacerbated bourgeois fears of indebtedness and downward mobility. The alternative to this sort of deceit was even worse, since the department store policy of cash payment was said to drive bourgeois consumers strapped for money to adultery or part-time prostitution.105 In Giffard’s scenario: “The woman who does not have much money to spend on her toilette and who does not want to ask her husband for more than her allowance procures money elsewhere. Where? Let us not pursue that question here. . . . With this money, she goes to the department store and buys all the delicious baubles that have filled her . . . with uncontrollable desire for so long.”106 Even in cases of adultery for which the department store could not be blamed directly, some writers suggested that it played a complicitous

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role.107 In Zola’s relatively balanced description, the lushness of the department store atmosphere stirred unconscious erotic impulses in shoppers, as in the case of the adulteress Madame Guibal in Au Bonheur des dames.108 Some adultery was attributed to the conquest of weak-willed shoppers by lecherous sales clerks, although Zola contended that few sexual liaisons actually formed between clerks and customers, and that those that did were more often than not initiated by the woman.109 Nonetheless, opportunities for anonymity, some noted, rendered the store an ideal setting for the adulterous trysts and erotic encounters of fortune-seeking adventurers, molesters, and ordinary lovers: “The department store,” wrote one opponent, “closes its eyes to the amorous . . . intrigues which fill its galleries daily.”110 The illustrator Henri Boutet’s Parisienne uses an afternoon’s shopping as an alibi for borrowing her husband’s carriage to deliver a letter to her lover, while Roger-Milès imagines her conveniently combining a dalliance with an outing to the department stores: You find yourself in the [Louvre] reading room. . . . [He] springs up suddenly. . . . “How kind you are [to come],” he says in a low voice. “Do you not know that it borders on impertinence to speak to an honest woman that way?” “If you were not an honest woman,” he answered hotly, “I would have already told you I adore you, that I never have a dream in which your image doesn’t float past me. . . .” “. . . I was terribly wrong to listen to you; but I forgive you. Good-bye, we are no longer by ourselves here.” And with that, you take the elevator and exit the store to your carriage, blushing, fresh, pretty, and gay. You order the driver to take you to the Bon Marché, but your mind is no longer on fashion.111

Whether or not consumers actually committed adultery, shopping itself had illicit and sexual connotations.112 In Henri Boutet’s description, the consumer’s agitation, her rapture upon making a purchase, and the surge of remorse she feels afterward tellingly mimic the emotional cycles of the adulterous wife.113 Similarly, both Zola and Giffard emphasize the atmosphere of sexual deliquescence in the glove department, where the bodily contact between commis and shopper, the palpation of fabrics, and the modesty of the garment arouse the shopper’s desire. Giffard describes her with “eyes sparkling, her face red, her trembling hand resting on that of the commis as he buttons her gloves.” Meanwhile, he claims, prostitutes loitering at the entrance prey upon the unfortunate husbands who accompany their wives to the department store: “While she shops for hours and empties his wallet . . . he goes off with a shady woman to a shabby furnished room.” For Giffard, male infidelity and

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female consumption were equally depraved: although such husbands were “not worth very much,” the shopper who yielded to “the seductions of lace” was herself a “terrible sinner.”114 In contrast to men who betray their wives with prostitutes, the women in these accounts betray their husbands with objects. At the bottom of this sensual attraction toward the world of goods (an attraction captured in the French term for window-shopping, lêcher-vitre: to lick the windows) was the consumer’s erotic preoccupation with her own body.115 Some of the anxiety about consumption thus focused less on female debauchery than on the deflection of women’s desire away from men, and toward the self and its objects of adornment. The illustrator Henry Gerbault depicted the female consumer’s exploitation of the trusting male in the cartoon “Le Dindon de la farce” (fig. 4), in which a well-to-do gentleman offers money to a young woman gazing longingly into a jeweler’s shop-window, ostensibly in exchange for her favors. She buys the jewelry, but runs off without fulfilling her end of the bargain, leaving the man counting the few coins left in his wallet. The man was a “turkey,” and the story a farce rather than a tragedy, because he should have known better; the moral was that female consumers could be relied upon to behave selfishly.116 A cartoon in Grévin’s Almanach des Parisiennes of 1871 (fig. 5), picturing a little girl refusing to kiss her father without receiving a trinket in return, suggests that these behaviors were inborn or acquired early on. Here and elsewhere, mercenary women seduced men for material ends, rather than for love. By the 1890s, the negative image of the bourgeois shopper bore a discomfiting resemblance to that of the demimondaine, whose manipulation of men for venal purposes evoked for republicans the corruption of the Second Empire and the Ancien Régime.117 In part, the discursive proximity of consumer and courtesan was related to the demimondaine’s actual emergence out of the “social penumbra” to become a celebrity and fashion plate in the fin-de-siècle society pages.118 Octave Uzanne maintained that because this publicity made it impossible for the wife to deny that the demimondaine shared her husband and lovers, the two had become open rivals, further boosting the status of the demimondaine. Moreover, the courtesan’s very role as an outsider in bourgeois society made her chic in a fashion industry in which marginal styles were constantly appropriated by the mainstream and then discarded.119 For antimodern critics of consumption, the social ascent of the demimondaine symbolized the contamination of respectable society by money relations. For Uzanne, the demimondaine’s new respectability blurred

Figure 4. Henry Gerbault, “The Turkey of the Farce.” From L’Art et la mode, August 1885, 443. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

Figure 5. “Honey, will you give me a kiss?” “What will you give me for it?” Alfred Grévin, Almanach des Parisiennes, 1871–72, 59. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

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the boundary between propriety and transgression and rendered the illicit stylish. Her social prominence, he wrote, amounted to nothing less than the sanctioning of adultery: “Women of today . . . submit to the going morality and at times it carries them a good deal further than they had wished. . . . They sense that it is no longer considered in good taste, as it was during the Restoration, to hide one’s sins. . . .”120 In effect, such critics suggested, it had become tasteful to be a sinner. The denizens of the culture of consumption had lost the ability to distinguish between the real and the fake, both in material and in moral terms. “NEW STYLES OF NEUROSIS” By the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the image of the unregulated female consumer as the victim of psychological imbalance competed with the traditional conception of the coquette as a cunning manipulator of men.121 Mathilde Bourdon’s novel exemplifies this evolution, construing Georgette Olivier’s extravagance as a psychological addiction to luxury. The case of a gravely ill patient who purportedly died en route to a sale at the Galeries Lafayette made the argument even more dramatically. According to the prominent physician who attended her, “It was not that she wanted to buy anything in particular, but rather that she desperately needed the atmosphere of the department store.” 122 Likewise, the taste critic Emile Bayard explicitly redefined wayward women of all types as psychologically impaired: “Thieves, you are kleptomaniacs! Criminals, you are hysterics!” he wrote. “Unfaithful wives, you act on impulse rather than reason!”123 What was new here was the notion that a woman’s putative inability to govern her desire constituted a physiological condition rather than a moral flaw. The modern market was thus constituted not only through new commercial practices but through new cultural understandings of human behavior, particularly as the dissemination of Darwinian views beginning in the 1870s drew increasing attention to the role of heredity and environment in shaping the individual. This new determinist idiom reworked an older conception of human nature, eroding notions of free will that made self-control possible. It was in this context that the “degeneration” of the modern metropolis came under attack from the 1880s on and the department store became identified as a breeding ground for urban pathology.124 Along with alcoholism, prostitution, and other forms of criminality, shopping infractions came to be per-

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ceived less as manifestations of flawed character than as symptoms of psychic debilitation, to be studied and managed by scientific experts. In the words of one journalist, women shoppers were afflicted with “new styles of neurosis.”125 Journalists and popular commentators could draw on a nascent and influential social scientific literature to support the view that the female consumer’s intrinsic psychological weakness made her particularly susceptible to environmental influence. Some cited the sociological writings of Gabriel Tarde and Georg Simmel in tracing the feminine predilection for imitation in fashion to an ill-defined sense of self.126 Both Tarde and Simmel postulated a universal drive to imitate rooted in the fundamental suggestibility of the human psyche, and argued that the impulse was stronger in women than in men. In Simmel’s analysis: “It may be said of woman . . . that her psychological characteristic in so far as it differs from that of man . . . consists in a lack of differentiation, in a greater similarity among the different members of her sex. . . . A weak person steers clear of individualization . . . [and] finds protection only in the typical form of life.”127 Critics of consumption inferred that men’s stronger and more balanced sense of self allowed them a kind of mastery over their impulses that placed them beyond the reach of “the vast spider’s web” woven by the department store.128 As Giffard wrote of the male consumer: “You resist . . . temptation . . . because you are a man.”129 Other commentators drew on the crowd theory of Gustave Le Bon to emphasize the female consumer’s underdeveloped individuality.130 Just as Le Bon held that the crowd—especially the female crowd—was a single organism possessed of an independent will and governed by unconscious, irrational impulses, critics of the market characterized the crowds at the department store using metaphors of violent revolution or crazed hysteria. Zola likened the yearly white sale at the Bon Marché to a riot, but even on ordinary days at the major Parisian department stores, he reported, it was impossible to make one’s way through the swarm of shoppers: “One sees masses of women, their arms stretched high above their heads to permit them to move. . . .”131 Like Poe’s celebrated man of the crowd, whose vocation it is to follow the flow of the crowd with no fixed destination or stable identity, the individual shopper was said to be caught up in the horde of consumers, and to act out its collective will.132 Her psychic disorientation was manifest in her transfigured appearance: just as the crowd man’s “chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled wildly from under his knit brows,” the faces

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of shoppers emerging from the department store, according to a medical expert, wore “a bizarre expression. Their pupils are extraordinarily dilated . . . and they have dark shadows beneath their eyes.”133 Recalling the droves of hysterical women at the spring exhibitions of the Louvre, the Bon Marché, and the Belle Jardinière department stores, one journalist wrote, “I could not have picked a better moment to observe the neurosis particular to the department store.”134 The lone female in the commercial public was perceived as susceptible to other forms of psychic imbalance. The palpeuse, the shopper who titillated herself by stroking and fondling store merchandise, exhibited a perversely erotic connection to the world of goods. Paul Dubuisson, a prominent doctor and the author of a major study of theft in the department store, described her transports of joy amid its overflowing counters: “She finds herself . . . in an extraordinary atmosphere which assaults all her senses. . . . And she not only has the right to look at all these riches, she is also allowed to touch them, to fondle them at her leisure. . . .”135 In contrast to those of the crowd-woman, the pleasures of the palpeuse were private and self-absorbed, although no less transgressive in the eyes of critics. One journalist objected in particular to the fact that the palpeuse “derives [her] pleasure for free,” as if the act of “simply looking and touching” were illicit.136 Yet both the shopper as an unreasoning particle in a disturbed mass and the solitary flâneuse indulging in furtive pleasures—one an example of the dissolution of the self into the group and the other of excrescent individuality—represented deviant forms of identity, each lacking the balance between self and society required by the civic order. In women, both the experience of merging with the group and that of individuation and autonomy led to the same end: the triumph of the senses over the faculties of reason. The department store’s reputation as a pathological environment was accentuated in the early 1880s, when media attention focused on the scandal of well-to-do women shoplifters, identifying “kleptomania” as one of the new shopping disorders.137 Observers were quick to blame the spectacular display of commodities in the department store for whetting the kleptomaniac’s prurient appetites. Medical experts disagreed, however, about the precise relationship of the ordinary consumer to the sick one. For Dr. Dubuisson, the pathological consumer was qualitatively different from the “normal” one: the kleptomaniac, he wrote, was incited to action by an irresistible drive or impulse absent in most women.138 From among 120 cases of theft, he found nine garden-variety thieves and 111 “femmes coquettes,” who suffered from

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the monomanie de vol. Among these, he diagnosed 33 cases of pure “mental troubles,” ranging from delirium to dull-wittedness, 26 cases of “moral or physical exhaustion,” including neurasthenia and other nervous disorders, and 52 “maladies of the nervous system,” including hysteria, pregnancy, and menstruation.139 In 78 of the cases, he linked pathological behavior directly to biological dysfunction. In constructing this system of categorization, Dubuisson appears to set pathological consumers in a class by themselves, apart from both criminals and ordinary bourgeois women. But he implicitly links the normal and the pathological in two ways. First, by including pregnant and menstruating women as a subcategory of “femmes coquettes,” Dubuisson asserts normal feminine biological function as the source of pathology. Second, his invocation of the term coquette is itself significant. Since coquetry was deemed to be a “natural” feminine behavior, Dubuisson’s category of femmes coquettes was not readily identifiable to nonspecialists as a class of pathological transgressors. Indeed, the conjuncture of coquette with scientific terms such as monomanie de vol points toward the medicalization of an older discussion about women consumers. This framework, within which deviant behavior was biologically and environmentally determined, represented a marked departure from early and mid-nineteenth-century notions of criminality as willfully chosen.140 The pathologization of the female consumer was made explicit in the works of Henri Legrand du Saulle, the official doctor of the prefecture of police, and Professor Charles Lasègue, a specialist in nervous disorders.141 Like Dubuisson, Legrand du Saulle and Lasègue connected pathological tendencies to women’s biological constitution; Legrand du Saulle thus divided his cases into two broad categories, pathologiques and demi-pathologiques, the latter referring to “normal” women who acted abnormally during menstruation or pregnancy or at the onset of menopause.142 Unlike Dubuisson, however, these experts portrayed shoplifting as the inevitable consequence of prolonged exposure to the department store, arguing that the line between legitimate purchase and theft became blurred once women’s hidden impulses were brought to the surface by the department store setting. While Dubuisson construed the kleptomaniac as an aggressor, Legrand du Saulle and Lasègue described the shopper’s metamorphosis into a delinquent as a remarkably passive process of succumbing to universally experienced female impulses: “These immense galleries . . . display to the envious eyes of onlookers the most sumptuous fabrics, the most opulent items,

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the most seductive luxuries. Women of every economic condition, . . . fascinated by so many bibelots, are surprised by a sudden, unpremeditated, almost brutal impulse: they place an inexperienced and furtive hand on one of the items on display . [I]n that instant, they have become thieves, delinquents; soon it is necessary to turn them over to the authorities and to justice.”143 In effect, kleptomaniacs possessed the same impulses as every other shopper, but were less able than most women to resist them. In Legrand du Saulle’s words, “We find in our pathological thieves, whether hysterical or not, an insufficient resistance to an unlawful impulse.”144 The perception of psychic proximity between the ordinary woman and the pathological shopper was well illustrated by Michel Corday’s short story “La Gardienne,” which appeared in the magazine Femina in 1905. The protagonist, Madame Jaline, the virtuous widow of a civil servant, ekes out a living painting fans in order to support her young daughter, Hélène. At the department store on an errand one day, she notices a woman stashing a dozen fine handkerchiefs under her coat. From that moment on, Madame Jaline can think of nothing else but whether she herself is capable of committing the same crime. She goes repeatedly to the department store to test herself, and finally, before the very display of embroidered handkerchiefs at which “the unfortunate woman” had witnessed the theft, “she was suffused by an imperious need to take, a suffocating anguish, the expectation of a deep pleasure. She succumbed” (fig. 6).145 Madame Jaline is a decent woman who is deeply ashamed of the error of her ways; yet we are made to understand that without a husband to supervise her, she cannot help herself. At her wits’ end, she implores her eleven-year-old daughter to save her from herself: “My darling little Hélène, I am like a poor sick person who must be taken care of, whose relapses must be prevented. If the desire seizes me, I will want to be alone, I will invent any excuse to elude you. But you must not listen to me. You must not leave me. And if we go . . . [to the department store] together, you will give me your hand, you will watch my every move. You will be my little guardian. So you see, my dear little one, I have no one but you. . . . [S]ave me, save us. . . .”146 Her daughter’s constant surveillance ultimately cures “the poor sick person,” and happiness is restored. For commentators who considered women’s physiological inability to master their own desires to be the cause of theft and other pathological behaviors, the imposition of external discipline made abundant good sense. But for a minority of observers who attributed the con-

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Figure 6. “The Unfortunate Woman.” From Michel Corday, “La Gardienne,” Femina, May 15, 1905, 233. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

sumer’s behavior more to environmental than biological factors, excessive discipline fostered rather than cured shopping disorders. These critics judged men to be complicitous in creating the problem consumer: although the market alienated men from women, it was men’s unfair expectations, not women’s behavior, that drove the sexes apart. So argued the femme de lettres Olympe Audouard, for example, in a pamphlet of 1865. Bourgeois republicans were hypocrites, she charged, because they embraced democracy and egalitarian values but sneered at “homespun frocks,” demanding that their wives present an elegant profile in public while severely restricting their spending.147 Audouard agreed that women should dispose of their husbands’ incomes responsibly, but insisted on male sympathy for the female dilemma of having to dress well on a tight budget: “First give us reasonable husbands,” she urged, “and then we will try to be reasonable ourselves.”148 Similarly, the Countess Tramar lambasted husbands as “terrible accountants” who required that their wives be glamorous but counted every sou that they spent, while Zola’s upper-class voleuse, Madame de Boves, is “kept on a tight leash by her husband,” finding only in shoplifting the freedom unknown to her in married life.149

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Sympathetic observers such as these attributed the bad behavior of consumers to a combination of overly stringent discipline and neglect. Instead of dutiful husbands abandoned by spendthrift adulteresses, writers such as Tramar and Octave Uzanne depicted virtuous women ignored by their husbands and driven to seek neurotic compensation in illicit pleasures. Uzanne effectively summarized the problem of the gilded cage in his book of 1892, La Femme et la mode, in which he portrays the wayward consumer as an unhappy wife who chafes at being treated as a child, feeling bored and frustrated by her enforced passivity. Groomed from childhood for married life, the quashed expectations of “the disillusioned young wife” drive her to seek “revenge or at least compensation.” “The adultery and Greek morals” characteristic of bourgeois society derived, in Uzanne’s view, from ignoring “women’s need for tenderness and sweet gestures . . . which many husbands no longer have the time for or the interest in giving.”150 Flaubert’s Madame Bovary comes to mind as a prime example of a young wife whose tepid married life bears little resemblance to the romantic stories she devoured as a young convent pensionnaire. Like the women Uzanne describes, Bovary suffers dashed illusions and pursues consolation in adultery and reckless extravagance, pointing out the double bind of women taught to desire and to be desirable, yet punished for fulfilling that role. To defenders of women consumers, their disproportionate narcissism, “bibelotmania,” and resulting loss of interest in wifely and maternal duties were legitimate, “natural” responses to emotional deprivation.151 Compulsive shopping, adultery, and theft, although neurotic and extraordinary, were also understandable reactions to being secluded at home and barred from the active, dynamic world of public life. Treated as children, Uzanne argued, women regressed to fit the role and lived only to please themselves: “[They] have nothing to do but to go out and spend their husbands’ financial trophies, not out of need but out of idleness, because . . . in their homes devoid of any tenderness . . . they feel only the chill of solitude and the shiver of their misunderstood desires. . . . [W]e should not be surprised if . . . our poor friend feels the need for pleasures other than the momentary escape to her intimate thoughts and obsessions.”152 Instead of discipline, surveillance, and passivity, these critics argued, women needed activity, purpose, and authority. Men would love and value their wives more, and their wives would be fulfilled, if women were accorded a greater degree of domestic responsibility and autonomy. The newspaper editor Fernand Laudet thus proposed that husbands consult

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with their wives on important family decisions, while wives should strive to be worthy of such respect. Domestic competence, in his view, was the best weapon with which “to conquer all vestiges of egotism.”153 Similarly, Louise d’Alq insisted that feminine desires would merge with feminine duties once women were granted full control over the domestic domain; a modicum of economic power would transform a wife from an irrational, greedy child into a rational adult.154 Speaking before a prominent women’s organization in 1911, Laudet identified the moral failure of modern womanhood as a refusal to brook opposition, either legal or ethical, to the gratification of personal desire. “There is something that women . . . detest,” Laudet declared, “and that is the law, that is to say, any obstacle. . . . They desire so passionately when they desire . . . that nothing will make them say, ‘It is impossible, it is against the law.’ ”155 Nowhere was this phenomenon more evident, according to critics, than in the modern marketplace: the bourgeois woman consumer’s pursuit of pleasure, not unlike the rapacious capitalist’s pursuit of profit, knew no bounds and observed no rules. Yet although both the capitalist and the consumer constituted a threat to the republican conception of disinterested citizenship, it was the consumer who seemed to pose the greater menace: in contrast to the capitalist, whose self-interest was founded on rational calculation, the female consumer was said to be in thrall to her egotistical impulses. Both as a political subject and as a domestic figure, then, she was a hazard to the civic republic because she was so likely to indulge her private passions at the expense of the public good. In contrast to the probity of the male bourgeois citizen, the vanity of the chic Parisienne was said to obscure her ability to be authentic and dutiful; if her inner being was narcissistic and self-interested, her public identity was an artificial construction designed to conceal these private traits and to allow her to manipulate others toward her own ends.156 Arsène Houssaye, writing in La Grande Dame in 1893, defined this theatricality as the real essence of the Parisienne: “Her great skill is in never resembling herself. Today it is one woman, tomorrow a new metamorphosis. One never knows her. Does she know even herself? The answer is no.”157 Critics drew frequent parallels between the artificiality of faux luxe and the fraudulence of the consumer herself. In his characteristically snide manner, Pierre Giffard mocked the bourgeois shopper as a faker whose elegant dress concealed the dirty undergarments she wore beneath. In his view, her attractive appearance, like that of the flimsy

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merchandise she purchased, masked her moral inadequacies.158 The simulations of the bourgeois shopper thus mirrored the counterfeiting of luxury goods, and in both cases the disparity between external appearance and inner essence threatened the republican ideal of the social transparency of citizens. As the ethos of the market collided with that of the civic public in latenineteenth-century France, bourgeois elites found themselves forced to grapple with the question of how to map the boundaries between the market, the political public, and the domestic sphere. They were forced to do so because the consumer marketplace expanded at a critical juncture in the building of the civic republic, at a moment when a new generation of bourgeois men was claiming political and cultural authority. By 1914, the republic had charted its course, the moyenne and bonne bourgeoisie were firmly entrenched in power, and French culture and capital had achieved a working symbiosis. But during its early years, including the period leading up to the war, the republic was contested from within, as republicans debated and reassessed its revolutionary legacy and renegotiated the social contract. It was within this context that critiques of the market, and of the female consumer’s rabid egotism, were heard: responses to the chic Parisienne, in other words, were refracted through the prism of civic virtue.

chapter 2

“The Mercantile Spirit of Our Epoch” The Aesthetic Crisis of the Republic Le goût ne va pas sans le dégoût. Littré

“PARIS, CAPITAL OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY” In an essay on the moral crisis of the modern era, published in the Parisian daily Le Figaro, the liberal playwright and editor Alfred Capus described the French Republic as an aging, slatternly Marianne: “How the Republic has changed! She has become less seductive . . . [and] lost her adolescent grace. . . . Over the years, she has taken on so many different costumes that one hardly recognizes her any more. . . . Today, her clothes are made of rags and tatters, no longer the costume of the people nor that of a warrior. They are badly matched and incongruous, and she is visibly uncomfortable in them. She has the air of a disheveled, untidy woman staggering through the streets of the city.”1 It is telling that Capus chose the deterioration of a woman’s clothing and style to represent the degeneration of the republic. In so doing, he emphasized the importance to the French state of its aesthetic capital and, in particular, of the chic Parisienne, who served as the benchmark to which the “disheveled woman” was implicitly compared.2 The connection drawn by Capus between the vigor of the republic and its aesthetic cachet was not an uncommon one. In the last decades of the nineteenth century, a broad spectrum of politicians, culture critics, and social scientists voiced their fears that Paris’s role as the aesthetic capital of Europe was being jeopardized by the commercial transformation of the city. Critics pointed to the department store, its cheap 55

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commodities, and its vulgar shoppers as the most flagrant manifestations of the commercial age. As an onslaught of advertising and badly dressed bourgeois women transfigured the streets of the city, they argued, an invasion of cheap bibelots and fake luxuries was defiling the domestic interior. At the root of the problem was the waxing cultural influence of the middle classes. Historically associated with commerce and capitalism, the bourgeoisie had, as one critic put it, fostered “the mercantile spirit of [the] epoch” and banished “all poetry and charm” from French culture.3 In the face of these changes, warned a prominent art educator, the “patrimony [of taste] bequeathed us . . . is being powerfully contested,” endangering France’s natural genius, its national character, and its global influence.4 Indeed, for many critics, the threat posed to the nation’s aesthetic mystique was also a danger to its economic strength and political prestige.5 This chapter examines several different, but ultimately convergent, narratives in the fin-de-siècle controversy over the aesthetics of the consumer metropolis. One of these was the conservative antimodern discourse that linked urban modernity to cultural decadence. Rehearsing venerable slogans about the loss of spiritual values, antimodern journalists, intellectuals, and politicians decried not only the degeneration of Parisian taste, but social democracy, the cult of individualism, and the liberty of women. Looking backward to the moral ethos and aesthetic values of the Ancien Régime, these conservatives cast themselves as the frank opponents of the bourgeois republic and the modern market, especially its female consumers. Bourgeois republicans were also deeply concerned by the specter of Parisian aesthetic decline. In contrast to conservative enemies of the regime, however, republicans could hardly afford to cast themselves as out-and-out opponents of the very market that constituted the republic’s economic foundation. Refusing to concede the superiority of the past, they pressed to find ways to resolve the tensions between commerce and culture. The writings of decorative arts reformers, who were closely allied to official political circles, reveal the complexities of the republican position. While they criticized the aesthetic sterility of French design and complained about the waning of the nation’s cultural influence abroad, these reformers contended that the decline could be reversed and France’s aesthetic hegemony reclaimed through a variety of state-supported and private initiatives to provide the artisan and the consumer with an aesthetic education. Sociologists formulated a third strand of the critique of consumer culture. Pierre du Maroussem, Emile Cheysson, and Charles Gide, among

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others, were trained in the tradition of Frédéric Le Play’s conservative Catholic sociology of the 1850s, but came to discard his Catholic polemicizing for an avowedly scientific approach. Most of the new professional sociologists were not antirepublican or antidemocratic.6 Maroussem, for example, headed the government’s newly created Office du travail, while Cheysson worked for the Musée social, an organization closely affiliated with the government.7 Prompted by alarm over the decline of French exports, Maroussem’s agency undertook a series of investigations into the structure of urban commerce in the 1890s.8 Focusing on transformations within the production sector, his studies censured the department store for its pernicious aesthetic influence and exploitative labor practices, and championed the artisanal workshop as the mainstay of the economy and the guardian of French aesthetic standards. That some of these same issues surfaced in debates within the marketing profession bears witness to the depth of the ambivalence about commerce within French culture. In part, the discussions of advertising agents, designers, and producers about the role of art in marketing reflected their anxieties about the social status of their fledgling industry. At the same time, their concerns about marketplace aesthetics must be understood in the context of broader cultural controversies. Marketers were divided into two main factions, a traditional group that clung to established methods and a vanguard, considerably more active and vocal in seeking to advance the interests of the profession. Members of the marketing old guard believed that the goal of advertising was not merely to sell goods but to foster France’s aesthetic genius—in and of itself a prime economic asset—through the development of advertising as an art form. Vanguard marketers, by contrast, saw advertising as a scientific discipline whose primary purpose was to maximize commercial profit. While traditional marketers concurred with antimodern critics and republican officials in the diagnosis of an aesthetic crisis for which they blamed commercial modernity, marketing progressives took precisely the opposite perspective. They argued that the business sector’s overinvestment in aesthetics, not its abandonment of art, had precipitated France’s economic decline. Their solution was to seek a compromise between art and commerce: an approach to advertising that applied the methods of modern science but also adhered to the high French aesthetic standard. A great deal was at stake for these critics, investigators, and marketers in their discussions of France’s aesthetic identity in a market society. Marketers, both traditionalists and reformers, considered the very

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future of the trade to be at issue. For antimodern conservatives, the decline of the nation’s aesthetic prowess imperiled its political power and economic strength. Linking beauty to goodness, moreover, they interpreted the aesthetic defects of the commercial order as a sign of inner corruption, and believed that elevating taste would help to redeem French morals. Republicans also sought to revitalize the French aesthetic mystique to bolster the nation’s political prestige and generate international trade revenues, as well as to promote a national identity that could transcend regional and class differences and unify France under their leadership. And, like the conservative moralists, they too stressed the moral dimensions of aesthetic decline; since the ascendance of material values over higher goals implied a degree of self-interest that ran counter to civic ideals of disinterested citizenship and public virtue, the tasteless consumer made for a flawed citizen. Beyond the specific political and economic debates engaged in by these polemicists, the threat of aesthetic decay also embroiled bourgeois elites. Just as the consumer’s presumptive materialism and bad taste was at odds with the republican social vision, it thwarted the efforts of these elites to assert their legitimacy as cultural arbiters. With its political and economic power now established, the bourgeoisie pursued aesthetic distinction as a means of consolidating its authority. But the quest for cultural status was also one for psychological self-affirmation, a way to slough off a stubborn reputation for parvenu vulgarity and creative sterility. Even as it enjoyed the pleasures of the marketplace, the fin-de-siècle bourgeoisie sought to claim the aesthetic mystique of Paris as its own.

CULTURE AGAINST COMMERCE: FROM THE BOURGEOIS GENTILHOMME TO THE BOURGEOIS ACHETEUSE Fin-de-siècle fears of commercialization and the aesthetic decline of Paris can only be understood in the context of the historical role played by taste in defining Frenchness. For most commentators of the era, France’s status as a world power was inseparable from its reputation as an arbiter of taste. J. Fresson, the administrator of a privately run art school for artisans, expressed this view in a lecture to furniture makers in 1889, arguing that “artists and writers have spread French influence to all civilized nations [through taste], a peaceful conquest by intelligence, which time has yet to wear away.”9 By including his audience of

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furniture workers in the category of artists, Fresson also emphasized the importance of material production to France’s aesthetic reputation. Making a similar point, the journalist Marie Double claimed articles de Paris (luxury fashion goods) as the bearers of French taste: if art was “the most indisputable of French glories,” she ranked women’s fashion its “most delicate and exquisite branch.”10 Indeed, many taste critics and reformers of the late nineteenth century agreed with the art educator Marcel Braunschvig that the preservation of the nation’s “uncontested artistic superiority” and “historical personality” hinged on maintaining the artistic character of its industrial production.11 The value of this aesthetic reputation to the state was well established by the seventeenth century. During the reign of Louis XIV, the burgeoning export of exquisitely crafted articles de Paris, the aesthetic renown of the court at Versailles, and the emergence of the French Academy as the European hub of artistic education and production combined to endow Paris with a global reputation for excellence in fashion, interior decorating, and the fine arts. Under the aegis of the king’s state-building project, that Parisian reputation was claimed as French, and the qualities of taste and artistic refinement became core elements of an official national identity. In the nineteenth century, France’s complex relationship to the market was thus informed not only by the historical influence of Rousseau’s backward-looking republicanism but by the early rise of a strong central state, politically, economically, and psychologically invested in aesthetic capital. Aesthetic culture flourished in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century France in part because the mercantilist views of the modernizing French state called for the subsidy and promotion of luxury craft production and the fine arts. But aesthetics also prospered because of absolutist policies that imposed new social codes and “civilizing processes” on the nobility, an important element of the state’s initiative to consolidate monarchical power by curbing the independence of traditional feudal military elites.12 One of the new social roles of the court nobility was to serve the king as a ceremonial aesthetic cadre whose caste marks were elegance and taste in manners, dress, and all matters of artistic connoisseurship. Pitted against one another by the king, members of the court nobility relied on refinements of luxury, etiquette, and cultivation to display subtle distinctions in status, reinforcing and formalizing the court’s rigid social hierarchy and the king’s position at its pinnacle. The nobility’s transformation into a ceremonial and aesthetic elite, however, by no means signaled the monarch’s triumph over them. On

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the contrary, far from subduing a restive nobility, absolute monarchs such as Louis XIV entered into a compromise politics wherein the nobility adapted to constraints imposed upon them by the King in the longer-term interest of preserving its own privileged corporate status.13 In submitting to the political culture of the absolutist court, in other words, the nobility made a self-conscious decision to join forces with the monarchy in a mutual defense pact against less favored social groups. Much more than a defensive strategy, however, the noble emphasis on education and aesthetic cultivation as a source of social distinction also allowed aristocrats to carve out new and dynamic roles for themselves in the absolutist order, especially in the expanding royal bureaucracy.14 By arrogating the ceremonial aesthetic identity conferred upon them by the monarch, the seventeenth-century nobility created the myth of its own hereditary aesthetic distinction. Nobles rewrote partial subjugation by the monarch as the self-creation of an aesthetic elite, claiming taste as the “natural” attribute of aristocracy, to be called forth by education and cultivation. Outside the court, moreover, an important segment of the Parisian nobility mobilized taste to wage a subtle cultural challenge to monarchical power. Distancing themselves from the courtly aesthetic of faste or ceremonial pomp, Parisian aristocrats constructed the comparatively restrained aesthetic of luxe in the salons and the hôtels particuliers of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth century, where the practice of refined sociability and the display of simple elegance repudiated the crude ostentation associated with the court. Nonetheless, although luxe was a more subdued aesthetic than faste, it also relied on opulence and display to signal membership in the nobility.15 The noble’s use of clothing, decor, and connoisseurship to express caste identity and (after the revolutionary abolition of caste) to embody wealth was typical both within the court and outside of it: aristocratic attire, manners, and affect signified an elite status based on hereditary distinction unattainable, in theory if not in practice, to outsiders.16 These developments were formative for the cultural identity of the bourgeoisie as well, with repercussions that long outlasted the Ancien Régime. One effect of the transformation of the court nobility into an aesthetic caste was to foster cultural division between the aristocracy and the bourgeoisie and to set aesthetics against capital.17 In effect, it created a powerful and enduring myth that excluded the French bourgeoisie from the realm of the aesthetic and stigmatized its economic pursuits as antithetical to aesthetic cultivation. While new plutocratic elites,

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drawn from both noble and bourgeois strata, played an increasingly important political role from the late eighteenth century on, aristocratic cultural values—in spite of the aristocracy’s dwindling political authority— continued to be influential.18 The bourgeois who lacked aesthetic sensibility, moreover, remained an important French archetype.19 The distinctiveness of the French case, in particular the discursive opposition between bourgeois economic activity and noble culture, becomes clear in comparison with the historical trajectories of Germany and England. In each of those cases, the relationship between bourgeoisie and nobility took a different path, with corresponding ramifications for the development of a market society. In Germany, the growth of a strong Prussian state fashioned an aristocratic elite of bureaucrats and soldiers that remained identified with a military and, later, bureaucratic ethos rather than with an aesthetic one, so that culture and cultivation became the purview of the large segment of the middle classes known as the Bildungsbürgertum.20 In England, an early and successful aristocratic challenge to the authority of the monarchy weakened the central state and allowed for the hegemony of a composite elite comprised of aristocrats and gentry with links to the commercial class; this capitalist-oriented elite viewed what the French regarded as cultural philistinism as an index of commercial vigor.21 In contrast, I argue, French bourgeois identity retained a sense of cultural inferiority vis-à-vis the nobility, even in the face of dramatically altered historical circumstances.22 Unlike its counterparts elsewhere, the French bourgeoisie was discursively constructed as lacking the aesthetic qualities of aristocratic culture. In the French setting, moreover, where aesthetics played a pivotal role in consolidating national power and defining national identity, it was a deficit of critical importance. This negative image was strengthened in certain ways in the postrevolutionary era. At war with elements of the bourgeoisie from the late eighteenth century to the late nineteenth century, an embattled aristocracy could and did evoke the caricature of the tasteless bourgeois, pitting aesthetic distinction against plutocratic values. At the same time, the growth of a market economy from the late eighteenth century on served further to invigorate traditional bourgeois archetypes. This is not to suggest that the fin-de-siècle bourgeoisie was without its own culture, its own tastes, or its own critique of aristocratic culture.23 In fact, bourgeois elites had criticized aristocratic taste volubly from Rousseau on, and by the nineteenth century they certainly had achieved a measure of cultural prestige on their own terms.24 But the

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old stereotypes remained an indelible part of the cultural repertory nevertheless, and even as the French bourgeoisie grew more powerful and confident in many dimensions, the myth of its aesthetic inadequacy remained a cultural undercurrent important to its self-image. That the term “bourgeois” could be (and still can be) used to connote a certain lack of aesthetic distinction suggests the endurance of this myth in the social imagination. The French bourgeoisie acceded to full political power by 1877, but it had not yet done so in cultural terms.25 Illiberal opponents of the republican regime thus invoked the archetype of the tasteless bourgeois to raise troubling questions about the republic’s ability to safeguard France’s cultural and aesthetic power, and with it its international influence and economic well-being. In its new position of power, they argued, the bourgeoisie’s historic ties to money and the market—and its putative lack of aesthetic sensibility—threatened to transform the essence of French identity. While antimodernists had foretold spiritual and aesthetic bankruptcy throughout the “century of material progress,” their predictions had come true, according to the antirepublican journalist Fortuné Paillot, with the fin-de-siècle apotheosis of the bourgeois spirit and its consecration of “mediocrity and banality.”26 Bourgeois republicans and their allies also perceived a growing tension between aesthetic and commercial values. In the opinion of republican journalist Arnould Frémy, for example, bourgeois materialism had so debased aesthetic values that the nineteenth century would forever be known as “a century of decorators rather than a century of artists.”27 Similarly, the republican decorative arts reformer Louis Lumet declared that “capital, [by] pursuing its own immediate, economic interest . . . greatly shackles the natural evolution of art. . . . [It] coarsens and corrupts the public taste.”28 A feuilleton in the women’s journal La Mode pratique, following the declining fortunes of the proprietor of a luxury goods shop in the fin de siècle, dramatized the dismal economic and cultural consequences of the embourgeoisement of French society envisioned by critics. The shopkeeper is a sycophantic snob who idolizes his aristocratic patrons and believes that their taste and largesse have transformed his business into an exalted enterprise. But all that is now changing with the influx of bourgeois customers, who are imperiling not only the standards of the luxury industry but his own reputation and prosperity. Contemplating his new clientele, he feels antipathy and contempt for “the bon bourgeois,” whom “it was traditional to ridicule and who lent himself

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so well to easy mockery.” “If he had to count on [his democratic clientele] for his living,” the shopkeeper fears, “he might as well close down the shop.”29 And yet, by the late nineteenth century, no one could accuse the bourgeois elite of being indifferent to matters of taste. On the contrary, those who feared the waning of Paris’s aesthetic prominence were concerned not so much with the bourgeoisie’s abandonment of art as with its new pretensions to aesthetic distinction, which loosened standards of taste and challenged definitions of artistic quality as never had been done before. Describing the bourgeois infatuation with art in 1885, Arnould Frémy remarked: “One can hardly dispute the fact that the taste for art has made noteworthy progress in France over the last . . . forty years. Many a bon bourgeois, a fine wholesaler, who in former times knew no other art object than his cash register, today has a passion for paintings, for bronzes, is smitten with pottery, porcelain, [and] carvings. . . . Although this will certainly bring its rewards sooner or later, for the moment one sees more ridiculousness than anything else. The taste for the arts . . . has gradually seized the bourgeoisie, even the most modest strata.”30 Aesthetic ignorance was only the beginning of the problem. Stigmatized as a greedy social climber, the bourgeois was accused of worshipping art for the wrong reasons. In Frémy’s view, the middle-class art collector’s interest in the subject was spurious because it was driven by ulterior, self-interested motives of material profit. Not one bourgeois would buy a single painting, he insisted, were it not for the prospect of selling it at a high price: “[The bon bourgeois] spends his time . . . taking inventory more than truly appreciating. He buys paintings less out of real passion than in the hope of selling them second-hand. In his eyes, the most beautiful canvas is the one he can make a profit on when he resells it.”31 Whereas noblemen had patronized artists of merit, the bourgeois era had replaced the traditional structures of art patronage with an art market in which art itself was a commodity and the artist a businessman. From the July Monarchy on, insisted the cultural commentator Gabriel Pélin, “artists and grocers [have become] mixed up in the same sort of speculation and commercial thinking.”32 If rapacious bourgeois men were said to pose as art connoisseurs to make money, bourgeois women were accused of feigning interest in the arts to inflate their social status. Writing at the turn of the century, the taste critic Emile Bayard discerned these behaviors even in the petite bourgeoisie, mocking the daughter of the concierge who “ ‘does’ piano,”

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or the one who has a “ ‘real talent’ for watercolors,” because they pursued these pastimes, in his view, purely out of the desire to be fashionable.33 Marcel Braunschvig made the same point, charging that the bourgeois woman supposedly interested in art and beauty was in fact an affected snob who only sought the veneer of refinement for social recognition.34 Instead of judging art on the basis of its transcendent aesthetic and moral qualities—as in theory the socially superior and economically independent noble did—the bourgeois was said to degrade art to the level of valuable capital to be exploited for social and material gain. Such an audience, Bayard concluded, rendered aesthetic values meaningless and art itself an unattainable phantasm, “nothing more than a dream.”35 Predicated on self-seeking material calculation rather than the disinterested appreciation of art for its own sake, bourgeois taste was not only aesthetically inferior but morally suspect. COMMERCE AGAINST CULTURE: THE DEPARTMENT STORE AND THE “EMPIRE OF SHODDY GOODS” As a metonymy for the modern market and the “mercantile spirit,” the Parisian department store stood at the heart of debates about the aesthetic standing of the republic. From Emile Bayard’s openly hostile perspective, the department store’s commitment to material profit over aesthetic merit and quality workmanship, sharpened by growing competition in the 1880s and 1890s, had made it the “formidable enemy of Beauty.” He went so far as to demand legal sanctions against the department store for its traffic in ugly objects, calling for the founding of a League of Good Taste that would, “in the name of Beauty, purify and elevate our fabrics, furniture, bibelots, et cetera, just as there are organizations that purify society in the name of morality and hygiene.”36 But even far more sympathetic observers among the Universal Exposition organizers, reporters, and jury members singled out the department store for its bad taste and condemned it for sacrificing “aesthetic concerns” to flagrantly “commercial priorities.”37 While they praised the displays of smaller retailers, the 1889 Exposition jury scolded the Bon Marché for its “tortuous, bombastic . . . absurdly overdecorated” style, and caustically advised the Louvre department store exhibitors to take “a long walk in the [Louvre] Museum of Fine Arts!”38 In the eyes of its critics, the department store’s unattractive goods were inauthentic and badly made. Faux-luxe (cheap counterfeit luxuries) and vieux-neuf (new goods made to look like antiques) merchandise, dis-

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tributed and sometimes manufactured by the department store, were frequently cited as examples of poor production standards. Detractors complained that the grand magasin’s promotion of ersatz, synthetic goods had imposed a “reign of the fake,” making the late nineteenth century the heyday of “fake luxury in all its manifestations: fake chic dresses made of bad fabric, fake jewelry, fake artistic bibelots. . . .”39 The decorative arts reformer Marius Vachon thus inveighed against “the impudent, audacious mercantilism” at the root of the “commerce of imitations, facsimiles, and fakes.”40 Emile Bayard defined “our democratic century” as “the era of sham goods . . . [in which] celluloid has replaced tortoise-shell; alabaster has supplanted marble. . . .”41 In producing these goods, the department store and satellite manufacturers and merchants were charged with sacrificing quality and beauty to expedience and low cost.42 In his official investigation into the furniture industry published in the early 1890s, the sociologist Pierre du Maroussem mounted one of the most condemnatory attacks on the department store’s production standards. His investigation drew invidious comparisons between the Parisian workshop, where master craftsmen scrupulously directed the manufacture of quality products, and the department store’s vast, impersonal urban putting-out system, where sweated laborers worked for rock-bottom piece-rates. Maroussem acknowledged that this system permitted the department store to sell merchandise more cheaply than competitors, but he remained emphatic in his judgment that low prices in no way compensated for the inferior quality of the goods.43 Many commentators shared his view. The jury for the 1889 Universal Exposition found the self-interested department store entrepreneur to be indifferent to the “quality of workmanship, level of education, ideas, or results” of the “disinterested craftsman.”44 Appalled by the piles of factory-made “antiques” in the department store, the fashion journalist Blanche Regnault depicted shelves buckling “under the weight of bibelots with no history at all!”45 For some critics, the worst aspect of the department store’s inferior production standards was that they were contaminating other enterprises as well. According to Henry Havard, a republican beaux-arts inspector and decorative arts reformer, competition from the department store had turned the noble artisan, “who works slowly, solidly, and according to his individual taste,” into the greedy merchant who produces furniture “that is uneven, closes badly and chips, crudely carved armchairs that are nonetheless gilded in the most resplendent fashion, wall-hangings of cotton disguised as silk.”46

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No less disturbing to contemporaries than the department store’s shoddy synthetic wares was the fact that so many of them mimicked the aristocratic designs of the Ancien Régime. To some critics, the marketing of these debased copies, capitalizing on the snob appeal of period style, was impeding aesthetically impoverished bourgeois consumers in the development of a taste of their own. Republicans eager to distinguish the culture of the republic from that of the Ancien Régime found the widespread imitation of historical styles especially disconcerting, as the reports on the Universal Expositions suggest. As early as the 1867 Exposition, commentators had noted with alarm the tendency toward historicist mélange in design. In the formulation of the official report, “Our century lacks . . . a style of its own. We do not invent, we copy skillfully, but that is not enough. . . . To slavishly imitate [the past] is to forget . . . [that] industrial art must represent its own era. . . .”47 By the Exposition of 1889, chroniclers diagnosed the outbreak of a full-fledged epidemic of historical copying. Heaping praise on the French fashion and decorative arts exhibits for their technical genius, the official reporters nonetheless expressed regret over the lack of artistic originality among French designers: “The cult of the past absorbs all energy and intelligence. . . . One sees only Henri II, Louis XIV, XV, XVI. All original and new ideas are proscribed.”48 Others voiced considerably more impatience with what they characterized as the trend toward facile mimicry. In Henry Havard’s view, artisans who indulged in the worship of the past did not deserve their reputation for aesthetic excellence: “We complain that the scepter of industrial art is unsteady in our hands; we deplore that Europe has stopped being inspired by our taste. But this taste, where is it? What have we done with it? From the creators we were, we have become ingenious copyists. . . . For nearly three centuries, our national genius [was] the arbiter of the world, our ancestors . . . the ‘legislators of Europe.’ . . . Nowadays . . . we revere the past. The auction house has become the temple of taste, the auctioneer its arbiter.”49 Observers also objected to the absence of aesthetic originality in the fashion industry, where the copying of designs was said to be overtaking the creation of new styles. A government-commissioned report by Lucien Coquet, a foreign trade advisor, on the fashion industry of the early twentieth century condemned the “scandalous” production of cheap fashion fakes by foreign interests as well as by “French concerns that live off the copy.”50 Prominent couturiers such as Caroline Reboux and Georgette and Suzanne Talbot complained bitterly that such imita-

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tions were not only an economic drain on the grandes maisons de modes but an aesthetic threat to an enterprise “whose domain was the imagination.”51 The Fédération des industries de la mode was formed in 1902 to protect luxury fashion industries from this kind of poaching. Nevertheless, according to Coquet’s report, cheap knock-offs of highend fashion were on the increase after the turn of the century, in part because it was so difficult to catch the perpetrators, but also because the commercial court treated the convicted with such leniency. To defend French supremacy in fashion, Coquet recommended that the Fédération and other organizations along the same lines be further developed and urged the fashion industries to redouble their collective efforts against all “fashion pirates.”52 The consequences of this perceived decline in aesthetic standards were seen as disastrous, not least in terms of the domestic commercial economy.53 Many critics emphasized the destructive effects of the department store’s immense success on the world of craft production, accusing the grand magasin of snatching away not only the client base of the artisan and small manufacturer, but their best talent as well.54 By the 1880s, Pierre du Maroussem declared that this “immense machine for draining profits from people” had created a full-blown commercial crisis.55 According to the jury report for the 1889 Exposition, no legislation or organization opposing the department store was powerful enough to “restore to life the unhappy vanished merchants, the poor ruined industrialists! [The department store is a] tree whose mighty branches smother all vegetation within its reach!”56 Likewise, the artist and artisan who wished to survive in the modern market, wrote Marcel Braunschvig, had to abandon higher ideals and standards in order to “work for the bourgeois, [and to seek] the admiration and style of people who remain complete strangers . . . to beauty.”57 The 1889 Exposition jury directly linked the French section’s decline in artistic brilliance to the commercial crisis created by the department store, since it was extraordinarily “difficult [for artisans] to pursue beauty” in the current climate of economic austerity.58 France’s reputation for artistic craftsmanship in the global market was obviously endangered by these developments. In Emile Bayard’s view, “art is decaying while we produce imitation Parisian luxuries for which Europe no longer envies us!”59 Havard pointed his finger at “The merchants! It is they who stand accused of causing this pitiful transformation, of compromising our national genius.”60 Similarly, reporters for the 1889 Exposition voiced consternation that the “sterility of the

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[French] artistic imagination” had triggered a decline in exports and that the “mania” for producing copies was “becoming a dangerous tendency from the point of view of our national taste, and even more importantly, menacing the future and the prosperity of our furniture export trade.”61 Just as French trade had flourished in eras of artistic fecundity, it was now dwindling because foreigners could just as easily manufacture their own copies of French originals.62 Still worse, as French creativity lagged, Denmark and England had emerged as international aesthetic leaders by developing precisely the kind of national artistic idiom so desperately needed in France.63 Even Germany, long considered by the French to epitomize aesthetic vulgarity, had become a “dangerous rival,” observed the art critic Léon Riotor, “even in matters of taste.”64 Since Western European nations were no longer importing French goods in the same quantity as they once had, France had been forced to seek out new export markets in Argentina, Brazil, Algeria, Spain, and Portugal. To add insult to injury, France itself was importing more furniture than ever before from rivals such as Germany, Austria, Belgium, and England. Underscoring the gravity of the situation, the Exposition report included tables of export and import figures from 1827 to 1889, demonstrating that the rate of growth in imports now exceeded that of exports: whereas exports had been more than eight times greater than imports in 1827, they were only a little more than three times greater in 1889.65 For late-nineteenth-century commentators, the commercial downturn of the 1880s and the aesthetic crisis of the 1890s were inseparable, and the department store bore a large share of responsibility for both. In the strong language of the 1889 Exposition jury, these “absolute masters of the Parisian marketplace” had “transformed the essence of industrial production and led to a profound upheaval in the traditional order of things.”66 Pierre du Maroussem characterized the changes wrought by the department store even more harshly: the grand magasin had sparked not only an economic revolution but an aesthetic one, supplanting the world’s premier luxury industry with an “empire of shoddy goods.”67 THE ROLE OF THE ADVERTISING INDUSTRY: THE ETHICS AND AESTHETICS OF MARKETING Alongside department store retailing, commentators identified the use of advertising as a characteristic feature of the modern market, one said

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to epitomize the aesthetic bankruptcy and moral inauthenticity distinguishing new forms of exchange from traditional commerce.68 Critics denounced advertising itself, like the “shoddy goods” it helped the department store to peddle, as an aesthetic blight. By the 1890s and early 1900s, a number of voluntary associations devoted to the arts charged that the department store’s aggressive use of advertising was tantamount to the “invasion” of a “reign of ugliness . . . [in] our cities.”69 The Swiss architect Henry Baudin formed an organization to protest advertising’s defacement of the urban landscape; in his words, advertising was “on our walls, in our public squares, and on everything in between, [and] has now climbed up to our very rooftops.”70 The Société populaire des beaux-arts espoused a similar position in 1890, requesting the government’s permission to organize an amateur photography contest that would document the “contamination and despoiling of Paris” by commercial advertising, in the hope of generating support for legislation to regulate it.71 The complaints of outsiders were one thing; the fact that a sizable segment of the French business community itself was skeptical of marketing bears witness to the gravity of the concerns about the moral and aesthetic character of the modern market. Indeed, anxiety about the ethics and aesthetics of advertising even gripped the ranks of the advertising industry itself, so that many French advertisers of the 1880s and 1890s sought to prove the probity of the trade and their own disinterestedness through the production of artistic advertising. Marketing reformers and modernists objected to these efforts. Conceiving of advertising as a science concerned with human psychology, they contended that the profession’s preoccupation with aesthetics was actually an impediment to its commercial effectiveness. More fundamentally, they argued for the moral rectitude of the medium, suggesting that the aesthetic and commercial dimensions of advertising complemented rather than opposed one another. Within the advertising industry, and particularly among marketing reformers eager to improve the public image of the profession, the larger business community’s suspicion of advertising was a matter of great concern. According to the editors of a new trade journal, La Publicité, French merchants and industrialists revealed “their repugnance for advertising . . . in every circumstance.”72 Reformers found the antagonistic attitude of the business community particularly frustrating in the context of rapid British, American, and German economic expansion at the turn of the century. While French businessmen either avoided

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marketing altogether or employed it in its most discreet and artistic forms, their British, American, and German counterparts were experimenting with a variety of new marketing techniques and making enormous commercial strides. According to John Jones, a foreign commerce advisor and the head of a French advertising agency, the amount of advertising that appeared in foreign newspapers was “astonishing.”73 Chastising the French businessman for his reluctance to advertise, a writer for another trade journal, La Publicité moderne, fretted that “we have let the Anglo-Saxon nations surpass us.”74 In a lecture of 1905, a prominent expert chastised an audience of French businessmen for their ignorance about marketing, blaming them for the anemia of France’s export commerce during the 1890s.75 An editorial in La Publicité moderne warned the business community that these attitudes had political as well as economic consequences: “Old World peoples, especially the Latin races, are in the midst of a commercial battle they are losing. While they are in a state of torpor, the United States is harvesting the fruits of political economy and proceeding with the commercial invasion of Europe. Everyone in France is aware of this dire situation, but seems to be ignoring it.”76 A favorite explanation of the situation was the French businessman’s lack of entrepreneurial nerve, which led him to view marketing as a financially risky undertaking.77 A journalist writing about the advertising industry summarized this viewpoint: “Despite the progress made by French advertising in the last century, it must be recognized that the Frenchman is neither particularly inventive nor rich in initiative. . . . A glance at the American magazines will convince you that the businessmen on the other side of the Atlantic are much more enterprising.”78 But reformers suggested that the roots of the problem went deeper than financial conservatism; many businessmen viewed the advertising industry as morally suspect. This conception of marketing as a fundamentally unethical enterprise was embodied in the caricature of the courtier (advertising agent) as a swindler of upright businessmen. An article of 1903 in La Publicité acknowledged the courtier’s shady reputation, but insisted that his public image had vastly improved over the past few years.79 Nevertheless, a crude one-act play published in the same journal the following year reinvoked the stereotype of the courtier as confidence man: when a client asks the agent, Monsieur Daim, to assess the effectiveness of an advertisement, he blurts out: “We do not know anything about that. All we can do is take your money. . . .”80 The deal is saved only because his partner, Monsieur Laferme, interrupts

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him and manages to distract the client from Monsieur Daim’s incriminating revelations. La Publicité also sought to put the business community on its guard against corrupt agents by reprinting newspaper reports of court cases against them. “Beware of suspicious advertising agents!” trumpeted the headline of another article detailing a case in which two agents were condemned to prison for cheating a Parisian newspaper manager. They had bilked him out of a four-thousand-franc commission for arranging contracts between the newspaper and what were eventually revealed to be either fictive or bankrupt businesses.81 Opportunities for dishonesty had expanded, La Publicité moderne argued in 1908, as urban life grew ever more complex and merchants were forced to enter into commercial transactions with complete strangers, “about whose morality one knows nothing.”82 Just as the proliferation of fake luxuries within the anonymous setting of the modern metropolis blurred visible distinctions between people and made it more difficult for merchants to pigeonhole their clients, these same conditions supposedly made it easier for unscrupulous advertisers and suppliers to trick the honest merchant. “Do not assume that all those who are elegantly dressed and well brought-up are serious people,” cautioned the editors of La Publicité moderne, “that they pay their bills on time, or that their merchandise is always what they claim.”83 The advertising industry’s only defense against rogue agents, the editors argued, was for members of the trade to conduct business with the utmost propriety. Like its practitioners, the advertising medium itself was considered morally dubious by many businessmen. As the marketing expert P. Raveau-Lefrançais explained in La Publicité in 1903, many merchants believed that to advertise a product was tantamount to admitting that it was flawed. Assuming that the well-made product sold itself, they concluded that any promotion implied an attempt to deceive the public.84 The well-known international marketing authority A. Hemet agreed with this analysis, contending that French businesses hid their advertisements on the back pages of newspapers because they were ashamed of them; the advertising medium would “gain in credibility and respectability,” he suggested, if businessmen were more forthright about their commercial objectives.85 Responding to this hostile climate, a group of advertisers published the first Annuaire de la publicité in 1895 with the express goal of reforming French businessmen’s attitudes toward the modern market in general and the marketing industry in particular.86

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If some businessmen saw artistic marketing as a way to camouflage commercial motives, marketing reformers believed that such an approach condemned the industry to impotence. According to La Publicité moderne, the retailers who exhibited at the furniture exposition of 1905 arranged their goods with consummate taste, elegance, and artistic grace, but provided no information about their products and in no way solicited consumers to buy them. The Exposition Hall resembled “a museum more than a commercial installation,” according to the journal, and the French merchant was “an artist more sensitive to glory [rather than a businessman interested in] increasing his turnover.”87 Unlike the American, German, and English entrepreneurs who aggressively pursued clients and actively promoted their goods, their French counterpart remained convinced that window displays should look “like still-life paintings.”88 La Publicité moderne thus admitted to France’s comparative aesthetic superiority, sniping that “any time an AngloSaxon sees a painting, he covers it with spit, tobacco juice, or disfigures it with a knife or a pencil.” But the journal nonetheless insisted that when it came to commercial savvy, the French stood to learn a great deal from other nations.89 Most damaging to France’s commercial progress, reformers claimed, was the French advertiser’s conception of the medium as an art form. Unsurpassed from an artistic standpoint, vanguard marketers argued, French marketing was largely ineffective in terms of yielding profits. According to the Annuaire de la publicité of 1895, “certain advertisements . . . are veritable paintings, almost worthy of figuring in the collection of an amateur, [but] should . . . be rejected as absolutely defective from the point of view of good advertising.”90 Similarly, from its inception in 1905, La Publicité moderne reproached the business community, the advertising industry in particular, for a bias toward artistic advertising: “It is clear that although many of our advertisements are genuine works of art, they serve no commercial or marketing function at all.”91 According to Gérin and Espinadel, the authors of a major marketing textbook, French marketers needed to reorient themselves to balance artistic with commercial objectives: “It does not matter if the head of the woman who adorns the ad is too long or too short as long as it sells the product.”92 While forward-looking entrepreneurial nations such as the United States defined marketing as a science, French businessmen were too “burdened by their past,” the editors of La Publicité moderne declared, to function effectively in the modern commercial world: “Our commercial methods do not fit modern commerce.”93

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In the eyes of marketing reformers, artistic advertising was commercially flawed because it showcased the talent of the ad designer while relegating the product, the brand, and the merchant to the shadows. As the Annuaire de la publicité put it in 1895, “Artistic advertising belongs too much to the artist.”94 An ad for Odol toothpaste, showing the head of a beautiful woman but concealing her teeth in a tight-lipped smile, exemplified this tendency to privilege artistic composition over promotion (fig. 7). Similarly, a columnist for La Publicité moderne complained in 1905 that French advertisers were so involved in the creation of art that they frequently ignored the product completely: “I have almost never seen a French advertisement of which one could say that it had a direct relationship with the advertised object.” In his account, most French advertisements were indistinguishable from one another; no matter what object was being sold, the advertisement portrayed a pretty, suggestively clad woman before a mirror, engaged in her toilette. Although such an image would be used only to sell corsets in the United States, in France it might advertise “L’absinthe Alphonse” or “Biscuits Gaston.”95 In contrast to the artistic ad, marketing reformers defined the effective advertisement as one that seized the consumer’s attention, creating a subconscious association between the image and the product. While the viewer quickly forgot the artistic image because it tried “to do too many things at once,” the effective advertisement was said to make a lasting impression because it was direct and graphically striking, even if aesthetically primitive.96 As an illustration of an inartistic but memorable advertisement, La Publicité featured one for corn medicine depicting the soles and toes of two feet as laughing faces (fig. 8). The editors called it a “marvel of advertising, certain to generate returns.”97 In their view, this kind of simple, straightforward advertisement worked because it trained the consumer’s reflexes: by connecting particular images to particular goods, the advertiser would prompt the consumer to buy “Pastilles Geraudel” when she coughed or to head for the Belle Jardinière Department Store when it was time to buy a raincoat.98 Overall, La Publicité moderne argued that, while French ads were beautiful enough to be displayed alongside the paintings in the Academic Salon, they failed to create the necessary mental links between the consumer’s needs and the commodity. The fact that French ads were known for their “charming aesthetic quality” but tended to “mean nothing” revealed the woefully inadequate understanding most marketers had of the profession’s “scientific bases.”99

Figure 7. Toothpaste advertisement. From Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 1911, 96. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

Figure 8. Corn medicine advertisement. From La Publicité, September 1903, 14. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

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Although marketing reformers took a fundamentally different perspective on the conflict between art and commerce than republican officials, conservative moralistes, or their own rearguard colleagues, they too recognized the importance of French advertising’s “special artistic cachet.”100 One of their central points, in fact, was that advertising could be used to elevate taste. In Gérin and Espinadel’s formulation, taste was one of many “receptivities” of the individual that could be affected by marketing: “Advertising shapes the consumer and educates her, transforms her tastes and habits.”101 According to this logic, advertising could happily fulfill two goals at once, maintaining the nation’s standards of taste but also fueling its commercial expansion. La Publicité moderne urged the reconciliation of these goals as the last hope of French business: “Let us save that part of our commerce that can still be saved; but let us also prepare ourselves to resist those who are bringing the commercial struggle into our very country, let us resist the commercial invasion. Let us learn to use their weapons, their modes of action, their methods of marketing, while preserving those aspects of our French method of advertising which conform to the tastes of our race.”102 For French marketing reformers, in other words, advertisers were not to abandon the industry’s “special artistic cachet” but to direct its use toward both private profit and the public good. THE “VULGAR MENTALITY” OF THE BOURGEOIS WOMAN CONSUMER Although critics accused producers and marketers of material greed, they also implicated the consumer in France’s putative aesthetic decay. For Pierre du Maroussem, the subjects of the department store’s “empire of shoddy goods” were bourgeois women. Preoccupied with fashion, the republican educator Joseph Périer argued, the modern woman had grown indifferent to aesthetic values.103 In thus arguing that women bore a large measure of the responsibility for France’s aesthetic decline, these commentators were not simply suggesting that the modern consumer lacked taste. On the contrary, their charges were predicated on the widespread assumption that women, in particular Parisian women, possessed an innate aesthetic instinct. Observers believed, however, that this instinct remained dormant without cultivation and, even worse, became perverted with exposure to malign influence. Subject to the manipulations of department store marketing, Périer contended, “feminine taste . . . is turning itself exclusively toward co-

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quetry.”104 The pernicious influences of the modern market were said to have led the fin-de-siècle Frenchwoman to forsake her designated role as “the guardian of Faith and the Ideal against the materialism of the century.”105 Many critics attributed the modern woman’s neglect of aesthetics, moreover, to her new independence in the public domain, in particular in the consumer marketplace. With his customary acerbity, Emile Bayard linked the modern woman’s aesthetic crudeness both to the thrall of the department store and to feminist claims to gender parity: “Feminism growls and snarls at us. . . . [T]he modern woman wants to strip herself of her grace—her beauty weighs upon her; by equality, she means to be as ugly as we men are! When you ask to meet her at the Louvre, she inevitably goes, jumping for joy, to the Louvre Department Store, without ever tasting the poetry . . . of the Mona Lisa at the Louvre Museum, where you have gone in search of her.”106 Although antimodernists such as Bayard took a strident tone in blaming women’s expanding role in the commercial public for the demise of French family life, once again their position was surprisingly close to the republican view. In a series of courses and lectures on modern aesthetics, Marius Vachon bemoaned the fact that the lure of public life had led the maîtresse de maison to abdicate her role in the “the artistic governance” of the family foyer.107 Similarly, Joseph Périer rued the fact that the temptations of modern life had led French women to stray from “the true interests of their sex,” in particular, the “noble task of purifying French taste and morals” in the foyer. Not only was the aesthetic patrimony at risk, in his opinion, but domestic happiness as well: “A woman without taste . . . does not know how to speak . . . to dress, to maintain her household, to raise her children, to receive visitors . . . in the appropriate fashion.”108 Many republicans thus agreed with conservatives that women themselves had more to lose than to gain from equality, since increased political and social rights were forcing them to forfeit control of the domestic and aesthetic realms. While in principle these arguments were made about all women, bourgeois women were presumably the most serious offenders, not least because of their high visibility in the modern marketplace. Detractors suggested that the pretentious bourgeoise was irresistibly attracted by the forgeries and tacky goods offered by the department store, more so than either women of other social classes or bourgeois men. As a woman, she was assumed to be motivated by vanity and desire; as a bourgeoise, she was seen as a materialist who used commodities to manifest wealth and

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status. Emile Bayard contrasted the sober and correct, if dull, appearance of the bourgeois man with the tawdriness of his wife: “Just look at her! Decked out like a gussied up maid on Sunday, she betrays her mediocrity, her vulgar mentality in a single glance. . . .”109 While the bourgeois man was also seen as a materialist, his self-interest was said to be driven by rational calculation. By contrast, the bourgeois woman’s putative irrationality and lack of control over her selfish desires were considered inimical to the formation of detached and reasoned aesthetic judgments. One of the chief aesthetic complaints against the bourgeois woman was that she was predictable and derivative in her style. In this the department store was said to serve as her indispensable ally. Unlike the artistic couturiers and master artisans whose creations had glorified the reputation of Paris as an international taste center, critics charged that the department store merely vulgarized and imitated designs, thereby fostering a numbing visual homogeneity among its shoppers.110 The standardized styles of dress sold by the department store, moreover, did not flatter all women equally; as the writer Enrique Gomez-Carillo snidely remarked, democracy made Frenchwomen ugly.111 Others raised more serious aesthetic objections to standardization, suggesting that it eroded individuality itself. In the view of the journalist Emile Blavet, the commercial chic purveyed by the department store and proudly sported by the bourgeois woman obliterated the picturesque and destroyed originality, the “je ne sais quoi that is . . . individual.”112 As the art critic Arsène Alexandre saw it, the middle-class shopper and the department store together were transforming Paris from the city of artistic creation to one of imitation.113 Critics singled out the bourgeois woman’s predilection for lavish display as the foremost sign of her vulgar mentality. Again, the department store was portrayed as her accomplice. Pierre du Maroussem characterized the grand magasin as a “palace” designed to appeal to the bourgeois parvenue’s weakness for opulence.114 Alexandre reported that although the wealthiest bourgeois women did not shop at the grand magasin, they routinely dismissed the couturier’s recommendations and insisted instead that he replicate the department store’s fashions. Even if the artistic couturier knew better than to oblige her, the danger of the ignorant consumer leading the producer astray loomed large in Alexandre’s eyes.115 The same penchant for excessive ornamentation was said to pervade the bourgeois home. According to the fashion journalist Octave Uzanne, the wife of the doctor, lawyer, and dentist crammed every room of her home with ornate bibelots, ignoring the

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most fundamental aesthetic rules of simplicity, harmony, proportion, and individuality.116 Similarly, the popular woman’s magazine Femina charged that the ostentatious bourgeois interior revealed the aesthetic insensitivity of occupants who “have had the time to become wealthy, but . . . not . . . to form their taste.”117 For Joseph Périer, such “opulence . . . in furnishing and fashion” was “proof of a lack of taste compounded by vanity.”118 The bourgeois consumer’s unhappy combination of ignorance and social ambition was said to generate aesthetic incoherence as well as excess. In particular, critics argued, her crude efforts to emulate aristocratic style had produced a bourgeois aesthetic characterized by mindless historicism and chaotic eclecticism. Just as her fashions plundered the styles of different epochs and threw them together in outlandish combinations, her decor was a hideous pastiche of genres, reflecting, in Pierre du Maroussem’s words, her “blind fanaticism for antiquities . . . [and] passion for bric à brac.”119 For the art educator J. Fresson, the exaggerated eclecticism of the fin de siècle evoked the sensation of living amid the debris of the past, “as if the end of the world were near.”120 Henry Havard echoed these concerns, denouncing the “singular disarray” characteristic of the modern French interior: “Consider our homes, go through our interiors, everywhere you will find the most curious mixture of ideas, ornaments of every style, inspiration from every period. Most often the dining room is done in a different style from the salon; one goes through two centuries in walking from one room to another.”121 Havard’s colleague Marius Vachon cautioned that innate French qualities of “grace, elegance, simplicity, tact, and measure” were being replaced by the “most discombobulated, crazy, and unhealthy creations that vanity, frenzy, tacky luxury, and neurasthenia can produce.”122 For many of these critics, the consumer was the driving force behind the modern market’s aesthetic transgressions: it was her demand for cheap bibelots and ersatz finery that had forced manufacturers and distributors to compromise standards of production. The result was a vicious cycle in which department stores produced and merchandised garish, inferior goods for consumption by vulgar, preening bourgeois consumers, who, in turn, clamored for more of the same. Arsène Alexandre thus sneered at the economizing arriviste for her insatiable demand for the department store’s low-priced, flashy styles: “If one were to manufacture—for chic women—dresses which cost twenty francs, made a stylish impression, and lasted only one hour, one could sell as many of them as one liked.”123 As Emile Bayard put it, the de-

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partment store was “flattered by the stupid masses. . . . [But if] the shoppers themselves had any taste, the abominations that are sold would never be marketed.”124 While critics often lumped the department store and the bourgeois shopper as collaborators in the destruction of French standards of taste, the department store itself took pains to separate its taste from that of the consumers it served and to position itself as an agent of their aesthetic improvement. Department store owners like Chauchard of the Louvre and Boucicaut of the Bon Marché saw themselves as patrons of the arts and aesthetic educators of the public. Monsieur Honoré, the Louvre’s director during the 1890s, was a member of the Union central des arts décoratifs, an organization at the forefront of the decorative arts reform movement with close links to official government circles. Honoré reported a conversation to a writer for the Revue des arts décoratifs—the central organ of the Union—to underscore both the aesthetic benightedness and pretentiousness of the bourgeois consumer and the valiant efforts of the department store staff to guide her. “ ‘Ah! ah!’ said the woman. . . . ‘[H]ere is a Louis XIII lamp, excellent! Excellent.’ ‘But Madame, that style is not Louis XIII,’ responded the clerk. ‘Oh! Yes, of course, it is Henri II.’ . . . ‘But no, Madame! It is neither Louis XIII nor Henri II; it actually has no “style”: it is modern.’ ‘Oh,’ sniffed the woman with a look of disdain, ‘That is too bad, because I was really looking for a Louis XIV lamp.’ ”125 Honoré’s anecdote highlights for us the department store’s sense of its own calling not merely to educate the consumer, but to forge a modern aesthetic for the modern age, one that would allow the bourgeois consumer to shed her reputation as a pale and ineffective aesthetic imitator and to acquire a style she could call her own. THE MORAL DIMENSIONS OF THE AESTHETIC CRISIS All of these attacks on the aesthetics of the middle-class consumer and the department store contained a moral indictment. While antimodernist conservatives unequivocally denounced bourgeois materialism, republicans also questioned the ethical implications of inauthentic goods and bad taste. Taking this line in his book of 1886, Importance du goût et de sa cultivation, Joseph Périer argued that the beautiful and the good were intricately connected and warned that the “false taste” of the modern era was a “sign of [its] bad mores.”126 Similarly, Henry Havard echoed the view of his mentor, Ruskin, that “art reflects the morality of a society . . . [and] our time is one of the greatest confusion. . . .”127

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While critics deplored visual uniformity and imitation luxury on aesthetic grounds, they also contended that these trends were blurring social boundaries. A journalist writing for the Parisian daily Le Figaro was one of many commentators who found it intolerable that “the same designs, the same fabrics unite women who certainly do not have the same education, the same soul. . . .”128 Other critics welcomed democratization, but protested that the standardization of style had not dissolved the social hierarchy; on the contrary, bourgeois Paris was a phony pseudodemocracy where everyone looked increasingly alike, but underlying differences continued to determine the individual’s place in the social order. In Fresson’s formulation, “The same costume is used by everyone and, despite the appearance of equality, one can see perfectly the quality of the people who wear it.”129 But some observers suggested that not everyone was capable of seeing these distinctions: where the educated person easily distinguished the original from the fake, the adroit imitation from the inept one, the unschooled individual could be deceived. From this perspective, the bourgeoisie was not only spreading its bad taste to the masses, but preaching a false gospel of social equality. As Pierre du Maroussem put it, the department store claimed to have created a commercial democracy, but in fact had constructed a new oligarchy.130 The “new oligarchy,” moreover, had been long in the making. The tension between republican values of social democracy and the desire of new bourgeois elites to claim social distinction had been visible ever since bourgeois republicans first obtained the resources with which to consume conspicuously. Writing in 1836, Delphine de Girardin, the witty femme de lettres (and wife of the press mogul Emile de Girardin), had described the “strange combat” between the aspiration toward luxury and display on the one hand and the pursuit of equality and fraternity on the other as the defining characteristic of the bourgeois monarchy of Louis-Philippe: “Do you know what our young fierce republicans do, as soon as they have acquired some money? They furnish an apartment à la Louis XV.”131 By the late nineteenth century, the clash between universalist values and the class imperatives of bourgeois elites had become sharper, intensified both by an increase in their wealth and by the establishment of a nominally democratic republic. Nowhere was the bourgeoisie’s hypocrisy more glaring, decorative arts reformers and conservative critics agreed, than in its deliberate exclusion of the working classes from the realm of the aesthetic. Fresson traced the republic’s sham egalitarianism back to Rousseau, who had “considered the arts a waste for the poor.”132 Similarly, Marcel Braunschvig admonished the “savage democrats” who belittled the aesthetic

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education of the masses as a distraction from the greater cause of economic emancipation. Braunschvig saw this logic as self-serving, a form of “dupery” meant to disguise bourgeois elitism and snobbery. In his view, bourgeois democrats who had once complained bitterly that the aristocracy “monopolized beauty” during the Ancien Régime were now themselves denying it to the masses: “Nowadays art is reserved for the bourgeois class alone.”133 Still worse, other critics argued, the republic’s commitment to material equality was an empty one. These commentators lambasted the economic exploitation of the French worker in the bourgeois market, in particular the female worker’s abuse at the hands of the department store. Antimodern conservatives contrasted the capriciousness of modern capitalism with the social stability and economic security of the Ancien Régime: while noble extravagance had fostered the economic wellbeing of the nation and its workers, they asserted, the demand of the miserly bourgeois for cheap imitation goods threatened the articles de Paris industry and, with it, the livelihood of many Parisian workers. Arsène Alexandre equated political democracy with working-class economic hardship: “The replacement of monarchical courts by democratic courts, where expenses are calculated in a bourgeois manner, has not diminished the number of poor. It is the calculating bourgeois who endangers our nation. It is terrible that the day of the expensive toilette is gone, too bad especially for Paris, the home of expensive elegance.”134 Writing in the mainstream journal La Nouvelle revue, the Viscountess de Réville took the same perspective, urging bourgeois consumers to resist the temptation of bargains and instead “have a good time, recreate the sumptuous toilettes of the old days, take out your jewels, empty your coffers,” in order to “assure the bread of those who worked.”135 The statisticians of the government’s Office du travail lent credibility to her viewpoint, presenting hard evidence that the department store was not simply eroding the profits of the fashion and furniture industries but impoverishing its workers as well.136 Censured for sapping the vitality of the luxury industries, the bourgeois consumer was also condemned for exploiting the workers who manufactured faux luxe. Journalists and critics such as Jeanne de Bargny, Emile Bayard, Octave Uzanne, and Arsène Alexandre were among those who sought to confront the complacent shopper, accustomed to the glamour and abundance of the department store, with its underworld of toil and poverty: it was scandalous, in their view, that the well-dressed woman had no conception of the kind of mistreatment

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that went on behind the scenes.137 Bayard indignantly described the unfortunate cendrillons de luxe as “working women who earn one-francfifty for a workday of fifteen to eighteen hours . . . sewing thousands of skirts and hundreds of dresses and other luxury commodities that the egotistical public complains are too expensive!” For him, feminine vanity was at the root of the worker’s plight: “Beneath the rustle of silk, one can hear the sobs of a young girl. . . . [T]here is blood on these fabrics. . . . [I]t is you, Ladies, who profit from the deplorable exploitation practiced by the department stores! It is you who encourage them with your pitiless coquetry. . . .”138 In contrast, the sociologist Pierre du Maroussem blamed the exploitation of the French worker less on the bourgeois consumer’s brazen indifference than on the department store’s deliberate sabotage of the French production sector. While the “mathematical destruction” of le petit commerce by the grand magasin was a well-publicized phenomenon, not least because of the shopkeeper’s vocal agitation on his own behalf, the impact of the department store on the structure of French manufacturing and on the relations between stores, workshops, and factories was much less discussed.139 In Maroussem’s view, however, it was the most significant economic question of the day. Not only was capital abusing labor, but it was also crushing the lower middle classes, once the mainstay of traditional French morality, and robbing the small artisan of his creativity and autonomy by compelling him to fit into “the disciplined hierarchy of big commercial corporations.”140 As Fresson pointed out, the sweating of labor and the mechanization of parts of the production process had fostered the decline of corporate solidarity so important to the process of artistic production and “the spirit of creating an artistic whole.” Exalting the era of guilds, Fresson was among those who rued the disappearance of corporate economic institutions that stood not only for artistic integrity and creativity, but for the kind of collective spirit that could “combat the dissolving principle of individualism.”141 Although conservative opponents of the regime launched the most vitriolic attacks on the aesthetics of the republic, many of the same issues troubled the generation of bourgeois republicans newly acceded to power in the 1880s. Any erosion of the nation’s cultural authority, republicans feared, would compromise the political legitimacy and economic strength of the regime in the face of industrial recession at home and economic competition from Germany, the United States, and Britain. The political tensions of the fin de siècle, in particular republican

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struggles to consolidate the power of the regime and to quell workingclass militancy, exacerbated these anxieties. The critique of the commercialization of Paris also took aim at bourgeois morality. According to a broad spectrum of critics, bourgeois democracy was not only ugly, it teetered on the brink of moral inauthenticity and corruption. The cult of the copy, the lack of a coherent aesthetic, the worship of luxury, the fetishizing of the antique, the exploitation of the worker, and the destruction of traditional modes of production were all construed by critics as signs of the moral malaise afflicting the republic. Ersatz goods appealed so powerfully to the bourgeois woman, it was argued, because she herself was a counterfeit person, an image without inner substance, her being as reproducible and artificial as the merchandise she so greedily consumed. For the conservative critic Emile Blavet, for example, the bourgeois consumer’s efforts to use money to simulate breeding and taste and to pass off the prepackaged chic she purchased in the department store as a fake pedigree were as morally contemptible as they were ludicrous.142 “Everything is sacrificed to a false appearance,” lamented the art educator Georges de Montenach. “It is in this fact that we see the degeneration of our aesthetic and social mentality.”143 Writing from the vantage point of a producer of commercial culture, the fashion writer Diane de Sombreuse also emphasized the dichotomy between the real and the fake by characterizing the chic Parisienne as a woman obsessed with appearances, in whose life neither ideas nor emotions played any role. Whereas “real women” were virtuous, sincere, and unaffected, the fraudulent Parisienne had no moral center: “it is not that she is bad. . . . She is good or stupid, egotistical, cruel, or generous, depending upon what is chic.”144 Because the posing of the bourgeois shopper, like the ersatz nature of faux luxe and vieux-neuf goods, compromised republican ideals of authenticity and social transparency between citizens, the assault on the aesthetics of the market was also a moral polemic about the bourgeois relation to the world of goods. In effect, critics argued that consumer capitalism promoted immoral elements of individualism, such as selfishness and greed, but eradicated valuable ones, such as artistic creativity and aesthetic originality. The modern market thus threatened not only the aesthetic prestige of the nation, but the integrity of the republic and the cultural authority of new bourgeois elites. At the same time, however, the bourgeoisie could not afford to extirpate the very “mercantile spirit” that had made their fortunes and through which they in many ways continued to define themselves. If the

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commercial ethos presented a major obstacle to bourgeois efforts to stake claims both to cultural distinction and moral virtue, it was also considered the crowning achievement of bourgeois culture. The general report for the Exposition of 1889 clearly recognized the pointlessness in simply condemning the excesses of commercial capitalism and the need to adapt in some measure to its exigencies: “Does the expansion of the department store constitute a plague, a public calamity, as is often argued? It would be unjust to think or say so; it would be iniquitous not to recognize the real services which these establishments have provided and continue to provide in terms of the diffusion of comfort. Their constant growth and the public infatuation with them, from which they benefit so greatly, is the best proof of this. But we must not look to the department store for aesthetic progress.”145 Indeed, although the bourgeois leaders of the Third Republic shared Rousseau’s suspicion of luxury as the wellspring of private passions dangerous to the public good, they also desired material affluence and longed for the social status and cultural authority to be had from setting standards of style. For this reason, nineteenth-century republicans necessarily took a more ambivalent view of worldly goods than their eighteenth-century counterparts. They understood that the market, historically identified with bourgeois culture, would ultimately have to serve them as the central arena in which to forge a bourgeois aesthetics and to reclaim Paris as the capital of taste. According to the 1889 Exposition jury, “In the present moment . . . transformations have taken place and we find ourselves in new economic conditions. Due to a phenomenon resulting from our modern social state, the [creative] force of the individual is waning and personality is disappearing before the formidable power of the association of capital and of intelligence. We are left with only a hope of finding a new equilibrium. Thus we cannot without regret look back over the masterpieces of the past that have made our national glory. It is up to us now to envision a future for our industrial arts within the current economic context.”146 By the turn of the century, republicans sought to respond to France’s aesthetic crisis by forging a new alliance between culture and capital. Rather than regulate department store production or simply promote the handicraft sector, the republican solution was to transform and aestheticize the middle-class relation to worldly goods by educating the taste of the bourgeois consumer. The republican establishment was aided in these efforts by department store entrepreneurs eager to align themselves with the regime through the promotion of their enterprises

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as civic as well as commercial institutions. Taken together, these private and state initiatives constituted an effort not simply to improve aesthetic standards but, more fundamentally, to elevate consumption from the realm of the material to that of the ideal: from an activity predicated on the selfish pursuit of individual profit to one grounded in the disinterested, and therefore moral, exercise of taste. In this manner, republican leaders and their commercial allies envisioned consumption not only as a means of harmonizing the economic and moral imperatives of the republic, but as an expression of responsible citizenship. Just as the artist had been forced to become a businessman under the pressures of bourgeois capitalism, the bourgeois consumer must now come to terms with art in order to be a good republican.

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chapter 3

Being Bourgeois The Rise of Aesthetic Individuality To be chic is to be an artist, in the sense of presenting a harmonious and original exterior. Marguerite Herleroy, Femina

THE CAPITAL OF CHIC Writing in the popular women’s periodical Le Salon de la mode in 1885, only fifteen years after the establishment of the bourgeois republic, the journalist Blanche de Regnault remarked that artistic cachet had supplanted birth and wealth as the index of social distinction in modern French society. Those who still took pride in their noble origins not only carefully concealed their conceit, she noted, but also took great pains to vaunt their aesthetic sensibility. “Nowadays,” Regnault wrote, “one has but a single worry: to be an artist or to appear to be one.”1 How are we to explain what one historian has aptly labeled the “widening cult of art” in this period?2 If Regnault exaggerated in contending that aesthetic distinction had obliterated traditional marks of social prestige, her observations nonetheless draw our attention to a seismic cultural shift in the constitution of self and social identity in the late nineteenth century. What she and a host of other commentators were in fact observing was nothing less than the reconfiguration of the social hierarchy from a hereditary caste structure to a meritocratic class order, one facet of the massive social and economic changes that accompanied longue durée processes of urbanization, industrialization, and market development. While individualized, meritocratic definitions of self—aesthetic distinction among them—had long competed with caste identities, the establishment of a social democratic republic, mas89

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sive urban expansion, and the efflorescence of an affluent middle-class consumer culture accelerated democratization and forged an explicitly meritocratic social order by the late nineteenth century. In this setting, taste became an essential means of asserting individual (as opposed to caste) distinction, and the consumer market deemed so threatening to the republic’s aesthetic and moral ethos became a primary arena for its expression. The rise of the market as an aesthetic arena for individual actors thus reflected the erosion of the corporate society of the Ancien Régime. But marketers, journalists, taste reformers, and other producers of commercial culture also played an active role in this reconstruction. In a climate of trenchant criticism of consumer culture, they remodeled the market as a center of aesthetic distinction and recast the chic Parisienne as a figure of taste and moral probity. Their efforts may be viewed as part of a strategy designed to assuage the status anxieties of bourgeois consumers and to bolster the nation’s reputation for aesthetic superiority. At the same time, these tactics also addressed the contradictions between commercial and civic culture. Bridging the ideological gap between the two became all the more important as attacks on the market intensified, with Solidarists and other republican constituencies joining conservative critics in condemning economic individualism. Against the backdrop of republicans pressing social legislation to protect individuals from the market’s vagaries, the commercial sector sought to defend itself by promoting forms of individuality compatible with republican notions of virtue, authenticity, and public-spiritedness. In effect, the commercial mission to aestheticize the market amounted to an attempt to republicanize it. In identifying the market as an aesthetic realm, producers of commercial culture were supported by bourgeois elites seeking their own cultural legitimization. While the modern market made certain models of selfhood more available to the bourgeois public by commodifying them in chic forms of fashion, decorating, and conduct, middle-class men and women in turn utilized these models for their own agendas. In short, the aesthetic market provided these groups with new cultural resources for the construction of self and group identity. As a language of aesthetic distinction and moral disinterestedness, taste made it possible for affluent bourgeois to shed the stereotype of acquisitive philistine and cultural interloper and to imagine themselves as part of an elite of connoisseurs, collectors, and artists. At the same time, the elaboration of ever more intangible criteria of social distinction based on individual

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talent and ability offered the bourgeois elite a means of preventing the democratization of distinction from extending further down the social hierarchy. Moreover, since bourgeois women were in large measure responsible for defining and enforcing the cultural boundaries of their social class, aesthetic meritocracy offered them considerable autonomy and authority. For marketers and bourgeois elites alike, a key aspect of taste was that it endowed marketplace interactions with rationality and disinterestedness, permitting a relationship to goods connoting power rather than vulnerability, probity rather than corruption, and refinement rather than vulgarity. Taste discursively civilized the market, producing consumers who preserved the French aesthetic patrimony but who were also good citizens. For women in particular, the pursuit of chic in the commercial marketplace legitimized their presence in the urban public and reconciled the consumer role with domestic responsibilities. In contrast to those commentators who perceived the female consumer as a threat to the bourgeois republic, market professionals presented her as its potential agent, whose capacity to mobilize meritocratic models of aesthetic selfhood and consumption enabled her to provide solutions to the very problems that she was said to pose. Feared as the wellspring of dangerous modes of individualism in general and femininity in particular, the French consumer market reinvented itself in the late nineteenth century as the locus of benevolent forms of aesthetic individuality and even citizenship. As a consequence of these developments, a shift toward the valorization and naturalization of both consumption and the female consumer was visible at the very moment when critics of the market were reacting vehemently against consumer culture. The next four chapters will chart the uses of taste—or “chic,” in the commercial discourse—to civilize the market. Chapter 3 begins the task by examining the growing importance of taste and aesthetic judgment in constituting bourgeois social identity. It looks first at the late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century emergence of modern bourgeois models of selfhood, focusing on the figure of the dandy as a progenitor of bourgeois self-fashioning through consumption. The dandy’s exploitation of aesthetic individuality, I will argue, provides an important example of the reconstitution of self and social class in the context of a dynamic, democratizing urban commercial society. The chapter concludes by exploring the elaboration of these paradigms of the self in the context of the late-nineteenth-century crisis surrounding the market, using etiquette books as a forum of debate about individuality and so-

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cial identity. These handbooks offered female readers lessons in selffashioning that provided both a moral and an aesthetic basis for sound consumption and citizenship. Centering normative bourgeois femininity around a core aesthetic disposition, they constructed a disinterested individual who was, as a consequence, both discriminating in taste and virtuous in action. Setting out to adapt traditional codes of civility to urban market society, etiquette experts inevitably became part of the larger cultural project of reconstructing the bourgeois consumer and reconciling the market and the republic. THE SOCIAL POWER OF AESTHETIC SUBJECTIVITY: THE CASE OF THE DANDY Although social elites had long laid claim to aesthetic distinction, it was the dandy of the 1820s and 1830s, faced with the task of earning social status without money or pedigree, who turned to new advantage the strategy of locating distinction in the unique aesthetic sensibility—in a word, the chic—of the individual. Without exaggerating the dandy’s importance as a direct influence on the fin-de-siècle consumer, his aesthetics crystallized several historical strands important to bourgeois modernity: the idea of the self-made individual, the notion of taste as a detached and disinterested form of aesthetic judgment, and the protomodernist conception of taste as an original and creative subjective disposition. Each of these dimensions of identity existed beforehand; in particular, the dandy utilized notions of selfhood that had been central to traditional aristocratic civility as well as to the culture of feminine self-fashioning that emerged in the second half of the eighteenth century.3 But the dandy was among the first to bring these aspects of self together in the setting of the postrevolutionary, democratizing urban market society. He had the freedom to instrumentalize his persona, moreover, in ways that women of his epoch could not. In constructing himself as a free-floating individual who transcended not merely social class but family ties, he expanded the purview and power of self. In so doing, he became a cultural subversive who tested the limits of aesthetic selfhood in the social arena. His disproportionate cultural importance bears witness to the authority that this model could command.4 The dandy constructed his aesthetic identity at a key moment of the historical passage from a declining Ancien Régime corporate culture to an emergent democratic bourgeois society. Serving as a cultural bridge between aristocratic and bourgeois style, he translated elements of aris-

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tocratic codes of conduct and being into the modern setting. First and foremost, his conception of the public self as a carefully crafted aesthetic performance orchestrated by an inner sensibility harked back to older aristocratic practices of self-fashioning and civility.5 During the seventeenth century, the court nobility marshaled the idea of civility as aesthetic presentation—an outer shell constructed by an inviolate inner self—against older ideas of the authentic civility of the obedient public servant. Both within the court and outside it, they used this idea of a privately cultivated aesthetic refinement to assert cultural autonomy and independence from the crown, and to mark their distance from the bourgeois gentilhommes who swelled their ranks.6 The dandy’s aesthetic individuality incorporated several traits of the courtier and the honnête homme.7 Like the successful courtier, the dandy’s public persona was created through the rigorous mastery of his private passions. For the dandy, as Ellen Moers puts it, the “exercise of power lay in . . . making rules, setting tastes, establishing standards for the management of all things.”8 As a consequence, his wit was insolent but not insulting, based on allusion rather than direct attack, his affect aloof and impassive, and his fashion austere and understated. He cultivated the strictest personal hygiene and submitted his body to the discipline of sports. His air of cool superiority fashioned the self as a work of art, a decorative surface endowed with more aesthetic significance than moral meaning.9 Beau Brummell’s classic dandy style clearly recalled aristocratic codes of self-discipline, but these codes were also a central (though less obvious) aspect of the “butterfly” dandyism of the Count D’Orsay, whose playful, flamboyant dress and air of persistent amiability concealed an iron determination not to lose control in anger. Like the courtier, then, it was the dandy’s ability to suppress his emotional and bodily needs, to turn himself into an object, that seemed to render him disinterested and therefore socially powerful. While Ancien Régime notions of civility and aesthetic distinction left their mark on the dandy’s conduct and appearance, however, his practices of self-fashioning—although he himself might not have liked to think so—belonged irrevocably to the modern, bourgeois era. Less aristocratic scion than bourgeois progenitor, he diverged in crucial ways from the courtier who used civility, as taught in traditional handbooks by Castiglione or Faret, to display his place in the corporate order. The dandy, by contrast, belonged to a postrevolutionary bourgeois society organized around individuals, in which the scope of self-fashioning had expanded considerably. Not only were one’s private self and public per-

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sona less determined by fixed points of reference in the social hierarchy, but the relationship of these parts of the self to one another had changed, as the private self came to occupy a larger role at the expense of the public person. A hagiographic study of dandies written in 1909 emphasized the contrast between the aesthetic distinction of the Ancien Régime aristocrat and that of the dandy, linking the latter explicitly to ideas of chic from the turn of the twentieth century: “The gallant chevaliers and the fine marquis of the eighteenth century had no ‘chic’ at all. . . . In the Ancien Régime, a well-dressed man was above all a richly dressed man. . . . [T]o be in style, one needed to belong to the privileged class and to have a title and a coat-of-arms. Since the Directory, one no longer needs either wealth or birth. . . . It suffices to possess a certain je ne sais quoi . . . [which] is precisely what we today call ‘chic.’ ”10 In philosophical terms, the dandy’s concept of aesthetic selfhood was predicated, on the one hand, on modern ideas about the self and its purview and, on the other, on modern conceptions of art. The development of empiricism, coming out of the work of Locke and Hume, created the intellectual basis for his autonomous subjectivity. Centering the self around the atomistic individual’s sensory experience, empiricism implicitly questioned the authority of received knowledge and, in so doing, undermined the authority of the caste hierarchy.11 At the same time, the emergence of new understandings of art and beauty enabled the dandy to claim distinction based on his aesthetic subjectivity. Art’s orbit began to widen dramatically and its focus to shift away from the religious and the heroic with the rise of an increasingly democratic, secular market society. By the second half of the eighteenth century, the appearance of a commercial art market freed the artist from his dependence on noble and state patrons and induced him to broaden his subject matter to suit the more prosaic interests of a democratic clientele. These developments paved the way for an art of everyday life. The new emphasis on the everyday and the individual was expressed in the rise of romanticism as a protomodern aesthetic, and in the birth of the novel, which signaled the collapse of the Renaissance notion of genres, as the first modern art form.12 Eighteenth-century moral philosophers established the legitimacy of these new artistic approaches by claiming aesthetics as a sphere separate from, but equal in value to, that of ethics. Kant, Hume, and the Abbé Du Bos, among others, asserted the moral dimension of aesthetic experience and argued that art should be judged by the subjective standard of its individual effectiveness rather than by its capacity to represent the univer-

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sal. Eighteenth-century essayists on taste together with romantic and realist artists dismantled the neoclassical aesthetic order and laid the foundation for the modern. One consequence of art’s reorientation toward the particular and the individual was the metamorphosis of the role of the artist from technician and producer to creator and genius. At the same time, art’s sphere expanded beyond artistic production to include aesthetic experience writ large, including artistic judgments and tastes.13 Out of this reordering of the aesthetic and ethical hierarchy emerged the conception of the self as an aesthetic entity, manifest in the dandy’s claims to social worth through his subjective aesthetic sensibility. The dandy put this aesthetic individuality to use in new settings and in new ways. Unlike the nobleman of the eighteenth century, he did not socialize exclusively in closed settings such as the salon or the court but in the modern, anonymous city as well. A liminal figure, he sought entry to private and elite social enclaves such as the Jockey Club and other exclusive clubs, but he also frequented the commercial venues of the modern metropolis. He hobnobbed with aristocrats—Beau Brummell’s intimate relationship with the crown prince is the best example of the dandy’s social cachet—but he also mixed with working people on the boulevards, in the cabaret, and at the racetrack, as well as with more marginal types, especially prostitutes, in the shady commercial nether world of the Palais Royal of the 1820s. Mobilizing modern notions of subjectivity to adapt to these diverse milieux and to garner distinction among strangers, the dandy shows how the individual came to replace the social order as the arbiter of his own worth and the architect of his own destiny. While the dandy’s emergence thus marked a new stage in the gradual opening of the hereditary elite to outsiders, he represented something other than the principle of plutocracy: in defining taste as the mark of subjectivity and originality, he assumed social distinction to be independent of either wealth or nobility.14 This made sense given that his own tenuous economic position often forced him to cadge credit to finance his fashionable lifestyle. He nevertheless managed to set trends even in straitened circumstances; when the dandy Nestor Roqueplan could no longer afford to drink wine, for example, he made water a fashionable beverage.15 Because the dandy’s chic was an attribute of the individual rather than a property of objects, his creative orchestration of them attached new value to commodities that would not be considered chic in and of themselves. The phrase “je ne sais quoi” suggests that he was something more than the sum of his parts, since his subjective aes-

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thetic sensibility, rather than the quality of his clothing, determined the value of his being; as Sartre said of Baudelaire, “cosmetics, finery and clothes were a sign of the true greatness of a man—his creative power.”16 From Brummell in the early nineteenth century to Baudelaire at midcentury and Oscar Wilde in the fin de siècle, the dandy thus exemplified the use of fashion as an active, creative form of expression. On the whole, the dandy emerges less as a guardian of traditional aristocratic values or an Ancien Régime anachronism than as a forerunner of modern, bourgeois models of selfhood that became particularly associated with the fin-de-siècle female consumer. Substituting cultural capital and individual talent for birth and wealth, the dandy served to democratize the cultural elite, but he also helped to resist its further democratization by erecting meritocratic boundaries based on taste and cultural distinction. At the same time, the dandy’s definition of the self as a fictive creation and of goods as the materials of selffashioning effectively established the market as an implicit arena of aesthetic expression, rather than the antithesis of art and taste. In the late nineteenth century, an array of bourgeois constituencies deployed chic in ways reminiscent of the dandy, among them producers of commercial culture seeking to reconcile the values of the market with those of the republic; republicans pursuing political legitimacy through disinterestedness; bourgeois elites seeking cultural authority; and, above all, the women of these elites, cast as the aesthetic arbiters of their class. CHIC AND THE CULT OF AESTHETIC SELFHOOD: SARTORIAL SIMPLICITY AND THE INDEXING OF TASTE The dandy’s greatest stylistic impact was in the domain of men’s fashion, where he served as an outré trendsetter for the respectable bourgeois gentleman in the 1820s and 1830s. His trademark simple elegance, embodied in an austere dark suit, became popular with the upper-middle-class public as the men’s ready-to-wear industry expanded.17 Sported by the bourgeois king Louis-Philippe during the July Monarchy (1830–1848), the dandy’s plain costume became identified with the social democratic values of the regime.18 His model of fashion understatement continued to hold sway in the late nineteenth century as well, when the fashionable Frenchman was enjoined to wear “no overcoat before four o’clock in the afternoon, unless one wants to be taken for a notary. A black suit after seven o’clock. . . . No jewelry at all, except for a ring on one’s finger and a pin in winter.”19 The sought-after impres-

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sion of restraint could be destroyed by any one of a number of seemingly minor transgressions: clothing improperly cut, a carriage too shiny or new, servants dressed too gaudily. As a biographer of dandies put it in 1909, although styles had altered dramatically since the dandy’s heyday in the 1830s, Parisians of good taste continued to obey the principles of dandyism in fashion.20 Juxtaposed with masculine understatement in the early nineteenth century, the feminine fashions of the July Monarchy and (even more so) the Second Empire (1852–1870) were comparatively extravagant. The etiquette expert and fashion magazine editor Constance Aubert puzzled over this dichotomy in a handbook of 1859: “Have you ever noticed that the taste of men is much more refined . . . than that of women?” While she trusted the aesthetically “ignorant” man to reject fashions that were “ridiculous, exaggerated, false . . . [and] bizarre,” she did not expect the same restraint of even the “most experienced woman.”21 Aubert wrote these lines at the height of the Second Empire, when the court of Napoleon III endorsed an official imperial aesthetic of splendor and lavishness, and Parisian women of wealth and social standing emulated the glamour of the Empress Eugénie and her circle. Amplified by the metal cage of the crinoline, women’s skirts were wider than they had been since the eighteenth century, while intricate ornamentation created an opulent look. The emphasis on luxurious and lavish clothing saturates the women’s periodicals of the midcentury. An 1864 fashion plate from La Mode illustrée, depicting two women enveloped in voluminous skirts garnished with ribbons, lace, and velvet trim, illustrates the proportions as well as the elaborateness of the dress of the period (fig. 9). Similarly, in the January 1851 issue of Le Moniteur de la mode, every aspect of the season’s fashions, from fabrics to garnitures, was characterized by splendor: “The ornaments are very rich: for velvet, we have lace, furs, ribbon fringe, and twisted silk fringes mixed with chenille. . . . [J]et is used . . . on velvet bonnets, dresses, cloaks. . . . [M]any full dress gowns are in the Watteau style, that is to say . . . the bodice ornamented with a profusion of lace and ribbons, which also appear on the skirt. . . . Luxury has never been carried so far in ribbons as this season. . . . [H]eaddresses of extraordinary richness . . . are made of velvet and gold.”22 Compared with this midcentury cult of extravagance, the feminine fashions of the Third Republic appear remarkably simple and understated. Two developments promoted this trend. First, the stylishness of simple dress was boosted by the expansion of women’s ready-to-wear

Figure 9. Fashion plate. From La Mode illustrée, October 9, 1864, 329. (Courtesy of the Fashion Institute of Technology Library, New York)

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(confection), an industry fueled by the efflorescence of the department store from the 1870s onward: the simple designs favored by ready-towear manufacturers because they were inexpensive and easy to produce in bulk found a vast market in the department store’s middle-class clientele. Second, the establishment of the Third Republic sparked a deliberate break with imperial style, much as the austere style favored by the Jacobins in the 1790s had rejected the superfluities of the Ancien Régime aristocracy; in the early years of the Third Republic, a dresseddown democratic look became de rigueur for good republicans, both male and female. Writing in 1874 for La Mode française, columnist Lucie Crété declared that “the time has come to react against the errors” of the past and “return to simplicity in fashion.” In place of the “mountains of flounces, frills, and ruffles” favored by the élégantes of the Empire, Crété welcomed the advent of “thick, brocaded fabrics that do not allow the least ornamentation.”23 This is not to say, however, that upper-class conservatives opposed to the republic subscribed to this view. The Countess de Vérissey reported that the 1870s were characterized by a fierce battle between “two completely distinct [fashion] camps: the camp of simplicity and that of extravagance.”24 Among the proponents of luxury, the Viscountess de Réville was so aggrieved by the disappearance of lavish fashion that she could only interpret it as a sign that “the souls of French women were in mourning” for the defunct Empire.25 Although the forms of fashion thus varied substantially from decade to decade—elegant women’s wear of the 1880s and 1890s, for example, eschewed the deeper, brighter hues favored during the 1870s for a more traditionally “feminine” pastel palette—women’s styles became increasingly simplified in the last quarter of the century. This trend was visible in the reduction of the amplitude of skirts and, to a lesser extent, the ornamentation of clothing.26 During the 1880s and 1890s, women’s increased mobility in the modern metropolis further promoted the popularity of certain types of simpler clothing (in particular the costume tailleur modeled after the male suit) that permitted much more movement than styles intended for indoor wear. A 1902 fashion plate from La Revue de la mode picturing urban consumers in streamlined suits adorned with a spare geometric pattern captures both the neat lines and the public settings associated with modern fashion (fig. 10). At the same time, the fin-de-siècle vogue for outdoor leisure activities like seaside visits and bicycling created a need for sportswear designed to facilitate physical activity. It was during this time, as Elizabeth

Figure 10. Fashion plate. From La Revue de la mode, no. 49, 1902. (Musée Carnavalet. © Phototèque des Musées de la Ville de Paris; cliché Degraces)

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Wilson has pointed out, that “bustles as well as crinolines . . . at last ceded to the long slender skirt.”27 During the first years of the twentieth century, the first avowedly modern fashion silhouettes emerged from the avant-garde atelier of Paul Poiret, less frilly and more androgynous than ever before. By the outbreak of the First World War, these styles were adopted by mainstream fashion designers. The privileging of simplicity in style was in no way unique to the late nineteenth century. On the contrary, sartorial simplicity was an ideal of different historical epochs, set in each era against different definitions of excess.28 As we have already seen, nobles of the seventeenth century employed aesthetic understatement to reject the pomp of the court. In the late eighteenth century, radical republicans equated aesthetic simplicity with moral virtue, while elite women used nuance and subtlety in dress to symbolize their aesthetic refinement. The historical trajectory, moreover, was not a direct one from lavishness to understatement. Rather, the fashion pendulum swung back and forth, so that luxury regularly reappeared as a stylistic ideal. In the nineteenth century, the streamlined fashions of the First Republic and the Empire thus were followed by the resurgence of relatively lavish women’s wear during the Bourbon Restoration, with the cult of luxury reaching a new apotheosis during the Second Empire. Luxe thus remained a resonant and powerful fashion system—a way of indexing wealth and social rank—even as it was challenged by the ascension of a new model of fashion that used simplicity to express individuality.29 A woman thus displayed elegance, as the fashion editor Madame d’Abrantès wrote in 1853, both in the luxe of her toilette and in her mode of wearing it; together they constituted a permanent “coatof-arms,” as she put it, that could not be destroyed by revolution and that revealed a woman’s breeding and origins at a glance.30 As a number of scholars argue, the sexual dimorphism of July Monarchy and Second Empire fashion enabled middle-class men simultaneously to signal democratic principles and social distinction, the splendor of their wives’ clothing flaunting the wealth discreetly concealed by their own garments.31 Although aristocratic and bourgeois women alike made use of luxe and chic, the stakes of fashionable display differed for each group. Dressed in an opulent style, an aristocratic woman could not easily be labeled as vulgar, since her relationship to goods was imagined to transcend the market and its venal concerns. Though she might be scorned

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for being démodé by fashionable bourgeois, her social distinction remained intact. In every circumstance, the noblewoman’s aesthetic implicitly invoked the heritage of the group, with its far-reaching cultural authority, to her advantage. Cultural myth and group identity, by contrast, worked against the bourgeoise in her social use of fashion. Longstanding assumptions about her class could be easily used by critics to cast the opulent bourgeoise as an imitative, social-climbing parvenue (and, for that matter, to cast the understated bourgeoise as miserly). Her historical connection to the market cast the shadow of materialism over her aesthetic choices, and her very desire for cultural affirmation and her pursuit of it in the market marked her as lacking the aesthetic distance and discrimination to which she aspired. From the late eighteenth century on, the chic aesthetic provided the bourgeoise with an alternative model of the relationship between individual and goods. While luxe emphasized a woman’s public identity, chic turned on the idea that fashion revealed the private, inner self. As the stamp of a woman’s subjectivity and, more particularly, her aesthetic sensibility, it promised to sever the individual from her social group and to render her choices disinterested. By the second half of the nineteenth century, moreover, new social contexts transformed both the model and its uses. First, the expansion of the market democratized the chic model of fashion and selfhood, making it much more widely available than ever before—thus rendering the bourgeoisie vulnerable not only to snobbery from above but to encroachment from below. Second, as the growth of bourgeois political and economic power intensified the middle-class pursuit of cultural authority, the bourgeois woman’s aesthetics took on greater significance. Finally, as we shall see in later chapters, the emergence of artistic modernism provided a powerful new argument for fashion’s importance: constructing fashion as a modern art, it transformed the chic woman from a taste icon to an artist. Artistic modernism thus endowed fashion chic and aesthetic selfhood with new power and authority. By the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the chic aesthetic dominated the world of feminine fashion. Fashion magazines emphasized the notion that chic was an aesthetic expression of the private individual that had little to do with money or rank. And although the concrete forms of elegance remained a “much-disputed topic,” as the mainstream Revue de la mode noted in 1903, it was well-established that “one does not need opulence. . . . [T]he best taste is not always that of the richest person.”32 Similarly, the fashion editors of Le Figaro in-

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sisted, “A woman of taste may obtain, at very little cost, far more elegant results than her richer and less economical friends.”33 Writing in La Mode pratique, Marie Double made the same point: “Sumptuousness has its heaviness,” she declared, “elegance is a flower that must not be crushed beneath gold ingots.” Not only was money a potential danger to chic, but social standing, in her view, was irrelevant: for the elegant woman, “there is no need to belong to the privileged class.”34 Sartorial simplicity was chic, in other words, because it was seen as a manifestation of inner distinction. According to fashion experts, elaborate costume and ornate embellishments drew attention to a woman’s clothing and to the public status it signified, but obscured the private individual behind the clothes. Writing in the early days of the Third Republic, the journalist “Marguerite” expressed scorn for the woman who dressed lavishly with the intention of “making an effect”: “She might be as stupid as a goose, but she makes a splash. She might be dirty and slovenly, but she has dresses brocaded with silver and gold, with pearls, with red flowers, bizarre combinations. . . . [This woman] is an object de luxe. It does not matter whether she thinks, or feels, or loves. It only matters that she makes noise, that she glitters with flashiness . . . so that everyone notices her!”35 By contrast, fashion authorities argued, subtle clothing allowed the inner personality and aesthetic refinement of the woman to govern the impression she made.36 For the Countess de Vérissey, writing for Le Salon de la mode in 1876, extravagant fashion might be visually striking, but the effect was a temporary one; understated elegance was superior because “the eye keeps coming back to the simple toilette,” attracted by the hint of the artistic sensibility behind the dress.37 By the 1890s, such formulations were standard. Madame de Broutelles, the director of La Mode pratique, declared that “a woman’s dress ought to go completely unnoticed, so that the observer would never dream of it being the source of her charm.”38 The etiquette authority Baroness Staffe argued similarly that “a woman is not chic because she is well dressed: she is only well dressed . . . if she does not possess all the charming qualities . . . that constitute chic.” Because of a “certain je ne sais quoi,” the chic woman “in a gown of wool or linen, wearing cotton gloves and a hat she made herself” outshone the tacky, lavishly dressed woman.39 According to the etiquette expert Louise d’Alq, even physical beauty was far less valuable than this essential inner core: “We all aspire to distinction. . . . We would gladly sacrifice beauty if only we could be distinguished!”40

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AESTHETIC SELF-FASHIONING: SAVOIR-VIVRE AND THE MAKING OF MANNERS FOR A DEMOCRACY Aesthetic selfhood was to express itself not only in fashion but in codes of conduct as well. Defined by “Stella” in L’Art de la mode in the 1880s, chicness was a whole way of being: “Fashion is not only about fabrics: it applies to all things, to one’s habits as much as to the cut of one’s clothing, to one’s mores as much as to the fit of one’s dress. The sphere of a pretty woman does not end with the last fold in her skirt. Her apartment, her carriages, her receptions, and her friends are like satellites of her personal radiance. . . .”41 Likewise, for the editors of the elite fashion journal La Grande Dame, elegance did not follow from conformity to a particular code of dress, but from a feminine vocation of aesthetic self-development. Fashion was only one element of this personal distinction; it suffused one’s conversation, home, demeanor, and level of culture. It was, in the editors’ words, “a way of feeling, of thinking, and of living. . . . One is [elegant] . . . in one’s conversation, one’s reading, one’s daily tasks . . . even in one’s attitude.”42 In the Baroness Staffe’s formulation, “Chic . . . is not one thing or another. It is an ensemble of many things, of a thousand details crystallized. It is a blend of charm, distinction, grace, naturalness, simplicity, originality without eccentricity. A chic person is endowed with tact, with good sense, with judgment. . . . [H]er taste is perfect and she has the sense of elegance and of things aesthetic.”43 This model of aesthetic selfhood was articulated in an expanding feminine literature of self-fashioning. Unlike the more modern fashion journal, the savoir-vivre manual (or etiquette handbook) looked back to the civility manuals of the Ancien Régime, which also had taught individuals how to signal aesthetic distinction.44 Most manuals thus evinced some of the same tensions between hierarchy and universalism, and between artifice and authenticity, that had permeated the discourse on civility and self-fashioning for centuries. Yet in other ways, the guidelines of conduct and distinction in the savoir-vivre handbook assumed the modern aestheticized self. In envisioning the individual primarily as a private personality that dominated public behavior, savoir-vivre marked a departure from civility, which had constituted the individual as a social being.45 Over and above her social position, in other words, savoir-vivre privileged the experience and judgments of the authentic individual as the fundamental source of aesthetic distinction and its public manifestations. In effect, savoir-vivre linked Eras-

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mian and republican traditions of moral transparency with eighteenthcentury romantic notions of aesthetic sincerity. It brought ideas born in the eighteenth century of the moral aesthetic self into the nineteenthcentury setting, where they were applied in new and different ways. At the heart of savoir-vivre was the belief that the individual could shape and transform her inner being, rather than simply fashion a public persona. Several ideas coalesced in this expanded conception of the fashioned self. The first was a growing salience attached to personality, in the sense of a unique and subjective experience of the self. The second was the notion that the personality was a mutable, developing entity, rather than a set constellation of character traits. Finally, the individual of savoir-vivre was seen as the ongoing creator of her own personality. Her defining talent was no one ability, but rather the general capacity to improvise and adapt her conduct to a multiplicity of different people and environments: rather than master a finite code of conduct, the individual of savoir-vivre had to be master of herself and her behavior. As a set of rules subject to continual revision, savoir-vivre suited the needs of an increasingly mobile urban bourgeoisie, whose contacts were less and less narrowly restricted to members of its own social milieu.46 The etiquette writer Jules Clément noted that savoir-vivre enabled the bourgeois to display distinction in different ways when dealing with subordinates, peers, and superiors.47 In Louise d’Alq’s opinion, different rules of conduct applied to one’s intimate circle, semistrangers, and strangers, so that one reserved “personal politeness” for friends and family members alone and applied a different code of public politeness to business or work relations. One’s behavior toward colleagues and professional contacts also differed according to context: “Outside the office or the store, they are strangers.”48 The ability to adapt to a world in which, in d’Alq’s words, “everything is changing, everything is being transformed” could be best acquired through experience and observation, rather than formal schooling.49 According to the “Countess L.,” the codes of conduct traditionally handed down through generations could no longer prepare the young woman first entering society to behave appropriately in the different milieux— aristocratic, official, artistic, foreign—in which she was expected to socialize: “The most well brought-up individuals may find themselves embarrassed because they do not know how to comport themselves in a particular setting.” While Christian teachings remained moral benchmarks, the “Countess L.” suggested that modern women had to learn to be social chameleons in

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order to conduct themselves appropriately in the fluid social world they inhabited: manners were “as changeable as fashions,” she wrote, “consisting of a thousand nuances that only can be learned through practice.”50 In Marie Double’s vision, this chameleon character was not a role to be assumed, but the very essence of the modern Parisienne, whose self was a kind of palimpsest bearing the traces of the many environments to which she had been exposed.51 So strong was their belief in the need for flexibility in modern life that some etiquette experts extended their call for learning by doing to the arena of formal education for both women and men. In her popular manual Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre, Louise d’Alq assailed the republican educational system as a stronghold of outmoded values and beliefs about the learning process. Its liberal humanist curriculum, she argued, was perpetuating ossified codes of behavior and definitions of selfhood illsuited to modernity: “The inferior state of our educational system . . . has multiple causes. . . . To the great detriment of the public, everyone in France is classified according to examination results. People fail to understand that even excellent results only reveal what a man knows, not what he can do!”52 Complaining that French educators remained oblivious to the superiority of experience over rote learning, a concept which businessmen, employers, and capitalists instinctively grasped, d’Alq quoted from a report by the former Minister of Public Instruction Victor Duruy praising the English educational system: “In the eyes of the majority of Englishmen . . . the primary goal of education is to form the will. They rightly think that the capable man is less powerful than the man who knows what he wants.”53 In criticizing republican pedagogy, d’Alq seemed to offer grist for the mill of the regime’s conservative critics, for whom the educational system constituted a major target of attack. During the late 1890s, the novelist and right-wing nationalist politician Maurice Barrès launched an enormously successful literary and political career by articulating these complaints. In his best-selling novel of 1897, Les Déracinés, Barrès castigated the analytic nihilism of his generation, blaming the influence of the literary critic and historian Hippolyte Taine for the bloodless positivism of the French education system. Meanwhile, Barrès the politician issued a revanchiste call to heroism, urging turn-of-the-century youth to seek action and experience over what he saw as the arid pleasures of contemplation and reflection.54 But if d’Alq concurred with Barrès in privileging practical “education” over passive “instruction” and the active citizen over the contem-

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plative scholar, her vision of the modern world diverged fundamentally from that of conservatives. Where Barrès and other right-wing critics of the Republic proposed a return to traditional community, hierarchy, and authority, ideas embodied in his romantic cult of “the soil and the dead,” d’Alq embraced modernity and championed individual self-reliance over blind adherence to authority. Thus, for d’Alq and other etiquette reformers bent on building a civil modern polis, traditional schooling was to be supplanted by the school of experience and direct observation. Instead of classical studies that “absorb all the student’s time,” d’Alq contended, “it is sufficient to observe and think for oneself.” Because “reason and observation form our judgment and teach us discernment,” she wrote, “the science of living is based on observation above all else. . . . It is through observation that one acquires a deep knowledge of humanity and society.”55 In contrast to the individual of civility, whose social rank dictated behaviors culled from books and formal schooling, d’Alq’s self-made, autonomous individual was forged through first-hand experience and independent observation. Enshrining the pragmatic individual “who knows what he wants,” she argued for a civil market society in which desire was guided by reason. In thus locating the development of selfhood in experience, savoirvivre served to democratize distinction. And in large measure, the handbooks of the nineteenth century consciously sought to establish manners for a democratic society, rejecting the notion of caste status and defining distinction as a matter of individual merit.56 According to the author of an early nineteenth-century etiquette handbook for the “man of the world,” the foundering of the old hierarchy and the advent of an era of individuals and careers open to talent was transforming definitions of selfhood and codes of conduct: “We are no longer in the age of noble distinctions: it is in and of himself that a man is worth something. . . . One is no longer well-born, or to put it better, we are all wellborn; a good education, generous sentiments, morals, spirit, friends— that is all that is needed for anyone to become bonne compagnie.”57 But whether the democratization of distinction was a fundamentally desirable development remained a topic of debate among the experts. As with luxury fashion, disgruntled critics resisted the modernization of mores and called for a revival of traditional definitions of distinction and conduct. According to aristocratic femmes de lettres such as the Countess Antoinette Drohojowska, democratization had created problems of public order that could only be remedied by a return to the hierarchies of the Ancien Régime. Writing in the aftermath of

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1848, Drohojowska complained that the revolution had “strangely inverted the regular order of society” and warned her readers to “avoid the negligence that [1848] has tried to introduce into our mores.”58 More resigned than Drohojowska to the increasingly egalitarian tenor of French society, the Countess Dash also regarded its impact on manners as disastrous. “There are no more classes,” she wrote, “only individuals . . . who have too high an opinion of themselves.” In particular, modern women who subscribed to ideals of equality were “badly brought up and disdainful of the lessons of the past.”59 Yet if the rules of etiquette were universally applied, Dash conceded, the decline of politeness might be reversed: “The code of savoir-vivre that I uphold is equally obligatory in a modest apartment and in a gilded salon. . . . We have dethroned the privilege of birth, we have expanded the framework of society, so that everyone who deserves it can find a place for themselves. Since this state of affairs already exists, let us make it legitimate and natural.”60 In contrast to Drohojowska’s antipathy and Dash’s reluctant acceptance of the modern age, some etiquette experts of the Second Empire saw themselves as the architects of civilized modernity. According to Marc Constantin, for example, the proliferation of etiquette manuals addressed to a broad audience was transmogrifying French society, spreading codes of politeness “from bourgeois to businessman and shopkeeper, and finally, to the bas peuple.” “Nowadays,” he asserted, “one can find good manners in all classes of society.”61 The advent of the Third Republic brought an explicit agenda to build an egalitarian society, reinvigorating both support for and opposition to democratic distinction. Ermance Dufaux’s 1883 handbook, Le Savoirvivre dans la vie ordinaire, blamed the political upheaval accompanying the birth of the republic for the breakdown of old social codes and the spread of a bewildering array of new customs that seemed to change as often as women’s fashions.62 Like the Countess Dash before her, Dufaux nonetheless set about the task of clarifying and codifying these customs and practices with a brisk practicality. Others more sympathetic to the regime, Jules Clément and Louise d’Alq among them, welcomed the creation of a new political order as an opportunity to devise new and superior mores. They regarded bourgeois savoir-vivre as a higher form of civility, more rational and more egalitarian than antecedent codes. In Clément’s formulation, bourgeois politeness assumed aristocratic civility, but aristocratic civility did not encompass bourgeois politeness.63 And where Clément saw new mores supplementing old ones, d’Alq saw an evolution of codes of conduct toward a more rational and moral

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stage. In reconsidering and streamlining codes of conduct, she wrote, “we discard our old prejudices and ingrained habits.”64 By the Third Republic, savoir-vivre had become increasingly identified with a bourgeois audience and the republican values of work, discipline, and order. Jules Clément’s manual, for example, drew invidious comparisons between archaic aristocratic forms of civility suited to idleness and modern bourgeois codes of politeness that promoted the smooth operation of the business world. In his view, a man’s identity was, by definition, rooted in his occupation: “Man is born for work; that is the order of nature. Work is the soul of everything.”65 Although paid work generally was frowned upon for bourgeois women until the outbreak of the First World War, the same productivist ethos characterized prescriptions for femininity. As the Baroness Staffe put it in the early 1890s, “The chic woman flees idleness.”66 In contrast to eighteenth-century women who had considered their household work to be a disgrace and spent most of their time “languidly embroidering,” the Baroness claimed that the bourgeois woman now wished to be “occupied with useful tasks” that “cultivated her natural abilities.”67 By the late nineteenth century, the increasingly heterogeneous and anonymous character of the urban scene complicated the task of signaling aesthetic distinction. Already during the Second Empire, Baron Haussmann had begun to transform the social geography and public life of Paris in this direction. While residential neighborhoods were more class-segregated after Haussmann’s reconstruction, the commercial center of Paris became a hub of contact, however superficial, between social strata, in particular the different layers of the bourgeoisie.68 By the 1880s, the expansion of a visually spectacular culture of consumption brought women of different social classes into unprecedented proximity with one another to create a new public, where, Louise d’Alq asserted, people were “inclined to judge you on the basis of appearance.”69 For some experts, the importance of image in the modern metropolis posed no problem, since the visual cues presented by the woman of savoir-vivre could not fail to be perceived by others of her ilk. The urban landscape, understood in these terms, was no longer a disturbingly anonymous field in which one ran the risk of blending in with the crowd. The Princess d’O, quoted in L’Art de la mode of 1881, thus portrayed Paris as a metaphor for the elite of taste and distinction rather than a geographic location: “What is Paris for us if not a meeting of people who live the same life, enjoy the same pleasures, both artistic and worldly,

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united by the same intelligent tendencies and refined tastes, rather than a jumble of streets, a mass of houses or buildings. . . . Paris is not always . . . at the precise spot marked by its meridian; it is everywhere one finds the ambient atmosphere which envelops the Parisian. . . .”70 But others feared that the anonymous setting of the city presented new opportunities for confusion. Marie Double warned of an army of inauthentic fakers and undistinguished inferiors, whose “phony chic” was allowing them to fool respectable people.71 Likewise, satirists such as Henri Château, the author of Manuel de l’arriviste, and Fortuné Paillot, the author of Parisitisme, mocked the ease with which posers could simulate savoir-vivre. Château imagined imposters feigning an air of disinterestedness while covertly advancing their self-interest, while Paillot wittily cast the Parisian in the role of social “parisite,” who substituted “the new chic” for genuine distinction: “This new chic . . . is no longer an innate quality and it is possible to acquire it. If you do not possess that inimitable something, you can cultivate the necessary qualities and . . . make yourself into a passable counterfeit.”72 These anxieties about fraudulent distinction underscore the meritocratic pretensions of savoir-vivre. On the face of it, savoir-vivre suggested that distinction belonged to the individual of inner sensibility, independent of economic and social standing. It did so by purporting that anyone could develop these qualities, ostensibly in ways that did not require the privilege of formal education. As a mutable, self-made creature formed through personal experience and, above all, through visual observation, the individual in theory could learn all he or she needed to acquire distinction in the streets of the modern metropolis. Yet despite an explicit commitment to a meritocratic society, savoir-vivre functioned as much as an implicit instrument of a new class system as a way for individuals to transcend class through merit. According to Marie Double, savoir-vivre in many ways served to harden the boundaries of the bourgeoisie and keep inferiors out: the more politics promoted equality, she remarked in La Mode pratique of 1893, the more new distinctions separated social groups.73 Although savoir-vivre tied distinction to the individual’s aesthetic sensibility, affluence and privilege remained a necessary condition for social distinction insofar as that aesthetic competence was a product of education and leisure. For women of the lower middle classes, and even more so for working-class women, aesthetic distinction remained well out of reach. Echoing the civility handbooks of the Ancien Régime, the savoir-vivre manuals of the nineteenth century promised meritocracy in one breath,

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but narrowed the definition of distinction in the next. In so doing, they attempted both to gratify the bourgeois woman’s aspirations to distinction and to assuage her fears about the encroachment of social inferiors. Louise d’Alq’s popular three-volume etiquette manual—reprinted thirtyone times in seven years—was a case in point. D’Alq assured her readers that learning savoir-vivre would help them attain the chic that guaranteed entry into the very best circles. In a chapter titled “The Way to Represent Oneself in the World,” d’Alq tried to prove her point with the tale of a wealthy and well-born foreign family that moved to Paris only to be rejected by the upper echelons of Parisian society. D’Alq claimed to be baffled by their situation: the family’s social credentials were impeccable, apart from what she insinuatingly described as its general “lack of distinction” and “superiority of spirit.” As a counterpoint to the misfortune of these cloddish, transplanted nobles, d’Alq described another family of newcomers, “much less rich, and with fewer natural assets,” who were quickly welcomed at the most select gatherings. Her point was that neither wealth nor breeding nor reputation counted so much as distinction: “When one knows how to be as distinguished as a millionaire, one willingly admits that one is neither rich nor noble. . . .”74 In her eyes, the democratic social order had so altered people’s fundamental goals and values that “distinction” was worth more than money or titles. Marie Double articulated the same view rather more succinctly: “It is chic to be noble, but not all nobles are chic.”75 The cult of the self-made woman notwithstanding, d’Alq was among those who openly admitted that talent and ability still tended to coincide with wealth and breeding, even chiding the petite bourgeoise for social aspirations beyond her ken. Although “the humblest piano teacher considers herself the equal of a duchess,” she remarked, “if one were truly to measure the title against the talent, one would find that the teacher possesses neither and the duchess possesses both.”76 In spite of being a republican and a feminist, d’Alq believed that democracy had advanced too far and was erasing distinctions between people to a dangerous degree; once granted equal status, she argued, erstwhile inferiors would only lord their new-found power over former superiors, while the latter more than likely would humbly acquiesce to the new arrangements: “We wish for equality; but equality is not possible. . . . What would become of us if we were no longer to respect the superiority of wealth, of spirit, of birth, of social position? If the hatmaker believed herself to be the equal of her client, the employee the equal of his boss? . . .”77

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D’Alq’s formula for social harmony was to preserve social hierarchy, promoting self-development as an alternative to social mobility and suggesting that distinction was available to everyone within his or her own ambit. In this context, “the new universal savoir-vivre” meant knowing one’s place in the hierarchy and cultivating one’s distinction within that context: “There is a particular savoir-vivre for every social position, every age, each sex; it is not the same for the grande dame as for her subordinate, for the adolescent as for the old man, for the young man as for the young girl. What would be considered the greatest expression of politeness in one case would be a most vulgar lack of manners in another.”78 Although savoir-vivre was a competence that could be attained by any individual, d’Alq was careful to distinguish between the savoir-vivre appropriate to individuals of different social status. Protestations of meritocratic, individually earned distinction notwithstanding, her treatment of the topic demonstrated that social distinction remained very much tied to wealth and social status, and that the putatively new savoir-vivre was still in many ways the progeny of Ancien Régime civility. Defined increasingly as cultural capital created by education and leisure experiences, aesthetic distinction allowed for a new permeability of social class, but also provided the basis for the exclusiveness, of the emergent bourgeois elite. In suggesting that life experience was more important than formal schooling, savoir-vivre made democratic claims; yet by designating a special eye—a certain way of looking at things— rather than formal education as the basis for social distinction, savoirvivre was available primarily to people of wealth and leisure with the opportunities to cultivate that mode of vision. In many ways, the task of developing an aesthetic sensibility was a more obscure prerequisite for distinction than learning a set of rules that could be taught by book or in school. As conceived in the conduct manuals of the nineteenth century, then, aesthetic selfhood at once strengthened and undermined the meritocratic politics of the bourgeois republic. THE CHICNESS OF ART AND THE ART OF CHIC Although the bourgeois woman could demonstrate aesthetic selfhood in a variety of ways, one of the most important was through the development of a special relationship to art and artistic pursuits.79 In many ways, the connection between femininity and the aesthetic was a traditional one. Not until the fin de siècle, however, were aesthetics and art

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meant to occupy such a central and serious role in women’s lives. While the artistic accomplishments of the late-eighteenth-century woman were construed essentially as ornamental aspects of her femininity to make her desirable on the marriage market, the aesthetic sensibility of the late-nineteenth-century woman was imagined as the locus of her personality and, as we shall see in later chapters, the source of considerable power, dynamism, and creativity.80 These subtle changes in the image of the aesthetic woman can be traced in feminine prescriptive literature. Many observers of the early to middle nineteenth century considered a passion for the arts to exceed the bounds of propriety and to subvert domesticity. Writing during the Second Empire, the belle-lettrist Delphine de Girardin cruelly mocked the cultivated woman as a “femme exceptionelle” whose home was the “museum of her pretensions.”81 Each corner of the salon where she received guests was conspicuously devoted to the arts: in one corner a piano stood scattered with sheet music, in another an easel displayed an unfinished sketch. In Girardin’s description, the femme exceptionelle was a fake as well as a pedant, turning the conversation to music with the tone-deaf guest and chattering about the latest novel from Dresden, Flibbertiggibbit Hauzen, with the caller who knew no German. Girardin found her affectedness not only precious but transparent to the refined observer. Writing in the Journal des soirées de famille in the same period, the Viscountess de Renneville voiced similar opinions of the aesthetic woman. She regarded a serious cultural education to be an essential asset for the femme comme il faut, but considered the ostentatious display of one’s love of the arts to be strictly taboo; in her words, guests must never feel as if a woman’s home were a museum. While the genteel woman was expected to display her cultural attainments in the proper setting, Renneville advised her to paint and read in a private sanctuary where she received only her daughters and a few bosom friends, in order to hide her cultural ambitions from the public eye.82 Both writers suggested that if the arts occupied an important place in women’s lives, it was nevertheless a circumscribed one. During the second half of the nineteenth century, these taboos were gradually overthrown in the pages of the women’s press and conduct handbook. Advice experts promoted women’s involvement in the arts, both in public and in private, as part of a whole way of being.83 The journalist Jeanne de Plessis, for example, admired the “avalanche of books” with which the early Third Republic home overflowed and attributed the trend to the thirst for cultivation among the new generation

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of women.84 By the 1880s, Marie Double proclaimed, it was no longer a social disgrace to be called a bluestocking: far from the bespectacled spinster, fading beauty queen, or eccentrically attired lady-artist of old, the contemporary bas bleu was a fashionable woman who sculpted, painted, sketched, or wrote poetry, and whose blue stockings were of azure-colored silk, set off by lace-tasseled black satin shoes.85 Similarly, the author of a study of women’s education in the 1880s celebrated the charms of the femme-artiste, describing how his personal encounters with her had overcome his own prejudices and preconceptions.86 The aesthetic woman did not have to be an artist, however, to be artistic. Writing in La Mode pratique in the 1890s, Double waxed rhapsodic in her description of Madame Octave Feuillet, wife of the celebrated novelist and playwright, as just such a paragon of aesthetic refinement: “Her personal quarters and the drawing room where she holds receptions are museums, feminine museums without the vanity of the collector. She deserves . . . to be considered the most outstanding among women of taste.”87 While Girardin and Renneville had used the word “museum” to conjure inferior taste, overbearing pedantry, and bad manners, Double now used it to flatter Madame Feuillet; echoing Double in the mainstream journal La Nouvelle Revue in 1899, the Viscountess de Réville noted that “every living room aspires to be a little Louvre.”88 An 1882 fashion plate from Le Moniteur de la mode, in which two fashionably attired women inspect a newly unveiled objet d’art, suggests that by the late nineteenth century the elegant bourgeois salon could be a library, a studio, and a museum (fig. 11). The feminine advice literature of the fin de siècle represented an education in the arts as a vehicle for the general improvement of mind, spirit, and body. Women’s journals assumed the role of cultural mentor to their readers, chronicling chic cultural events in the capital as always, but also organizing artistic competitions and proffering poetry, novellas, and sheet music. Paris-mode encouraged the practice of amateur art by holding monthly contests in different media: in May 1892, for instance, the journal organized a watercolor contest, followed by a June essay competition in which readers were invited to compose a twelvehundred-word piece, either in verse or prose, on the topic “The Most Beautiful Month of the Year.”89 The popular journal La Mode pratique offered singing lessons to its readers. Their singing instructor, Jeanne Remacle, provided aspiring singers with a few technical pointers, but confined herself largely to inspirational messages exhorting readers to develop their aesthetic disposition. “The most important advice for

Figure 11. Fashion plate. From Le Moniteur de la mode, no. 48, 1882. (Musée Carnavalet. © Phototèque des Musées de la Ville de Paris; cliché Ladet)

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those who want to practice the art of singing,” she wrote: “is simply this: cultivate your sensibility.”90 Remacle recommended reading books and attending art exhibitions, concerts, and the theater as excellent ways of awakening the “General Artistic Sentiment.” Responding to letters from readers concerned that their artistic pursuits might in some way interfere with their worldly and domestic duties, she claimed that the cultivation of an inner artistic sensibility in fact reinforced these roles by teaching women to strive for perfection: “To live . . . is to have an ideal. It is toward this goal, this ideal, that you must seek to cultivate, to exert, to direct your sensibility, if you wish to understand art and become worthy and capable of its expression.”91 If the artistic and the domestic woman had once been construed as competing models of femininity, they had now merged into one. At the same time, the woman of fashion took pains to display her serious appreciation of the arts. The Journal des demoiselles of 1880 reported that the painting and sculpture exhibitions organized annually by the elite social clubs of Paris were attracting growing public interest and becoming a nexus of art and fashion; the art shows at the Cercle de la Place Vendôme were the most exclusive, in part because they drew “the loveliest women in Paris.”92 Writing in L’Art de la mode of 1880, Marie Double cooed over women’s growing interest in the arts: “Isn’t it charming to see all the prettiest women visiting the museums quite seriously? . . . ”93 It had become the height of fashion to attend the art shows organized by the Cercle de l’union artistique, she asserted, while once-prestigious circles lacking an artistic focus, such as the Cercle Volney, were rapidly losing their cachet.94 Mingling art and fashion reportage, Marie Double described clusters of chic women in trainless gowns of black, brown, and blue velvet, otter-lined overcoats, and hats of lace and jet, admiring Carolus-Duran’s portraits of society women. Mondaines attended in fashionable duos, studiously consulting their catalogues and murmuring appraisals to one another, as a crowd of lower-class curieux trailed them through the gallery.95 In her evocation, both the subjective experience of the arts and the public display of that experience were crucial dimensions of aesthetic distinction.96 The fin-de-siècle cult of the aesthetic was not exclusively middle class. In Marcel Proust’s portrait of the period, for example, the aristocratic salon of the Guermantes rivals that of the bourgeois parvenus, the Verdurins, in aesthetic snobbery.97 The journalist Jean d’Agrève conjured a similar image of the fin-de-siècle nobility. In his description, the enter-

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prising Princess Brancovan regularly organized “musical gatherings” and “intellectual lunches,” while the Marquise de St. Paul worshipped art and “lived in a fog of music and high society,” oblivious to social issues such as the condition of the working class, the separation of church and state, and disarmament.98 While this sort of display of cultural refinement was a traditional means of symbolizing distinction for the aristocracy, the bourgeois pursuit of culture was not only a comparatively recent phenomenon, but one laden with different meanings. It was a quest fueled by the development of leisure, both as a refuge from work and an extension of it in the form of self-improvement projects. But it was also driven by the snobbish efforts of the upwardly mobile bourgeois to emulate the aristocrat as well as by countervailing efforts to establish an independent bourgeois cultural realm.99 Perhaps the best evidence of the growing importance of aesthetic cultivation to the bourgeoisie was the proliferation of middle-class cultural circles in this period, and the concomitant decline of political clubs and salons.100 In the same way that the aestheticism of the fin de siècle traversed class barriers, it also crossed the gender divide. Male aesthetic culture, however, was in many ways constructed in discursive opposition to its female analogue. Certainly artistic creation remained gendered as masculine, and the productive genius of the male artist remained set against the refined woman’s passive consumption of the arts.101 Art collecting was similarly gendered, shifting from its aristocratic origins to become a new hobby for wealthy bourgeois men during the nineteenth century.102 Although collecting was itself a form of consumption and might thus be said to subvert the male role of producer, it was nonetheless elevated above women’s consumption, both because it involved high art rather than domestic objects and fashion commodities, and because the connoisseur was seen as disinterested and rational in a way that the consumer of ordinary goods was not. Thus, one of the best-known bourgeois art collectors of the fin de siècle—his hôtel crammed with works by Velázquez and Millet—was none other than Alfred Chauchard, the director of the Louvre department store, who easily reconciled his interest in art collecting with his role as “king of Parisian commerce.”103 Finally, art amateurism flourished among well-to-do bourgeois men in the predominantly male setting of the cultural circle and amateur artist society, where men painted, sculpted, or read their poetry aloud.104 Observers regarded these pastimes as fashionable pursuits, but no less genuinely expressive of men’s creative impulses for that; in

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Marie Double’s account, the bourgeois amateur might use a pseudonym for his novels and poems, but revealed a genuine passion for painting by signing his canvases with his real name.105 Yet the arts could be no more than a hobby for even the most inspired male amateur of the fin de siècle, whose identity was constituted primarily in the workplace. The artistic genius aside, aesthetic sensitivity was imagined as a refining complement to other, more brutish characteristics of masculine identity, which were seen as essential to men’s primary role as producer. Overly aesthetic men were marked as transgressors, the fin-de-siècle dandy being a case in point. The perception of the dandy, already an equivocal figure at the peak of his social power during the early nineteenth century, as a gender deviant was accentuated by his growing association with homosexuality in the latter part of the century. In part, this identification derived from the notorious homosexuality of prominent late-nineteenth-century dandies like Oscar Wilde, Barbey d’Aurevilly, and Marcel Proust. But it also intensified as new “muscular” models of masculinity linking physical vitality and fitness to moral vigor took shape, a byproduct of Darwinism, imperial and nationalist jingoism, and a variety of other discourses on modern decadence.106 Even those who welcomed the dandy’s influence as salutary implicitly referred to these models, portraying the dandified Frenchman as a virile sportsman who could ride horseback, swim, play tennis, and polo just “as the English did.”107 By the same token, critics castigated French followers of the dandy as Anglophile fops who compromised not only their Frenchness but their very masculinity.108 In contrast to the aesthetic man, the aesthetic woman was a model of propriety. Her aesthetic sensibility was inseparable from her personality; her cultural pursuits were a vocation, not a pastime. This gendering of the aesthetic realm had historical roots in the Ancien Régime, emerging in part from the discursive and real separation of men’s and women’s spheres and further developing with the consolidation of bourgeois domestic life in the nineteenth century. By the fin de siècle, moreover, women’s special relationship to culture and the arts came to be considered a necessary counterweight to increasing specialization among men in the emergent professions. In a plea to the male professional to resist the tide of specialization, Louise d’Alq conceded that it had clearly fallen to women to maintain what she referred to as “the spirit of generalism.”109 Speaking before a women’s organization on feminine education in 1911, the Catholic novelist and conservative moralist Henry Bordeaux articulated this feminine mission: “Men are

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specializing more and more; they don’t have the time, they say, to do otherwise. It is thus left to women to preserve the taste for general ideas, the taste for literature . . . which gives so much charm to our lives and lends reality a new importance.”110 The links between literature and life drawn by Bordeaux suggest that the female task of perpetuating general culture and humanistic values meant not only reading, teaching one’s children, and dabbling in the arts, but living life aesthetically and developing one’s sensibility so that all events could be experienced in their aesthetic dimension. Bourgeois feminine subjectivity was constituted by aesthetic sensibility, and taste provided a social marker for this inner disposition. Beyond the individual distinction ascribed to the chic bourgeoise, her aesthetic sensibility also played a larger social role in discursively diffusing the tensions surrounding the conflicted relationship between the civic republic and the commercial public. This conflict, as we have seen, was centered around two primary objections to the archetype of the bourgeois woman consumer: her uncivil, selfish behavior and her aesthetic crudeness. Both characteristics were said to be rooted in the same problematic, essentially immoral relationship to goods. According to her critics, the bourgeois woman’s self-interestedness, without the mitigating influence of rationality, made her unable to master her desires; consequently, she behaved without civility and consumed without aesthetic discrimination. In teaching bourgeois women the savoir-vivre needed to attain chic, etiquette-makers contributed to a larger process of reinventing bourgeois consumers as citizens and civilizing the unruly market. Savoir-vivre was a model of self-fashioning designed to produce an aesthetically sensitive woman whose inner sensibility was expressed in her external chic, a kind of totalizing elegance that infused every aspect of her life. Thus, for putatively vulgar, uncivil bourgeois women, chic connoted the disinterested desire and rational judgment that derived from a detached position in the world of goods: an aesthetic disposition that in theory domesticated her dangerous private passions and refined her vulgar eye. In other words, chic injected civic and aesthetic values appropriate to republican subjects into the bourgeois market. The connection between aesthetic self-fashioning and the ability to make rational judgments about material objects was not lost on nineteenthcentury commentators. In his writings and speeches on public taste, the art educator J. Fresson urged French artisans to acquire what he termed

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“savoir-voir” in order to produce aesthetically superior goods for the educated consumer. Even more to the point, Louise d’Alq made explicit the notion that disinterested, rational desire was the end goal of aesthetic sophistication; savoir-vivre, she wrote, was only a stepping stone toward savoir-vouloir, which she identified as the “supreme goal toward which education must lead.”111 Describing the chic woman’s civic behavior in the ultimate testing ground of the department store, Baroness Staffe argued that her aesthetic distinction was the source of both her exquisite taste in goods and her disinterested behavior in the public sphere. Possessing both savoir-voir and savoir-vouloir, in Staffe’s view, she always knew exactly what she wanted before she entered a store. The sales clerk enjoyed waiting on this kind of enlightened consumer, not only because she was aesthetically sophisticated but because this sophistication rendered her manners impeccable: In the department store, where innumerable sales clerks are still insufficient for the prodigious army of female shoppers, the chic woman is never guilty of the cold impertinence of many women. She does not unfold twenty different pieces of fabric without a thought for the fatigue of the clerk who is helping her, she never rises from the chair he has so politely drawn up for her . . . with the dry little phrase, “That does not suit me.” No, she is not the one who mixes up all the fabrics and yet . . . it is she who always says to him, “I am sorry to have given you so much trouble, but I’m afraid I have not found what I need.”112

In the view of many etiquette experts and cultural commentators, the figure of the chic bourgeoise was much more than an icon of fashion elegance; as the Baroness Staffe put it, her aesthetic disposition “purged [her] of all vulgarity,” making her a potent force in the civilizing of the commercial public.113

chapter 4

Marketplace Modernism Reinventing the Chic Parisienne Paris is the marvelous workshop where three jewelers of inexhaustible genius—Art, Taste, and Fashion—create a sparkling metamorphosis. Ernest d’Hervilly, Mesdames les Parisiennes

COMMODIFYING CHIC Praising the Parisienne’s aesthetic cultivation in the elite fashion magazine L’Art de la mode in the early 1880s, Marie Double described her as equally impassioned by the French Academy and the form of a hat. “At home at a performance of a play by Dumas fils or a ball thrown by the Princess de Léon,” the Parisienne had a distinctive taste that ranged from the lofty realm of authors, composers, and painters to the mundane sphere of couturiers and hatmakers: in a word, the marketplace.1 Double’s point was a commonplace in the advice literature and commercial media of the fin de siècle, where self-styled commercial “experts” forged portraits of both the marketplace and the chic Parisienne quite different from those offered by critics. Not only did they depict the chic Parisienne as a devotee and practitioner of the arts whose avidity for high culture in no way precluded an ardent interest in fashion and decorating, but in their vision, the spheres of art and consumption met and merged as dimensions of her aesthetic attitude toward life: fashion and decorating were themselves art forms and the chic Parisienne an artistic creator in her own right. Marketplace taste experts did not invent these ideas, although they successfully popularized and commodified them. Their conception of the consumer and the market drew on popular notions of aesthetic selfhood propounded in the advice literature of the nineteenth century, as 121

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well as on new definitions of art and art-making originated by modernist painters and writers. The assertion that consumption was an art, for example, extended logically from the high modernist view that beauty could be found in everyday life, and that the ugly, the mundane, and the artificial could be transmogrified by the eye of the creator. Just as the modernist ascribed epistemological and moral authority to the individual’s creative consciousness to make sense of the raw and transient sensory data of the material world, in the same way, marketplace media suggested, the artistic consumer’s sensibility conferred aesthetic value on the commodities of the market. This chapter and the next will analyze the crafting of this aesthetics of the marketplace, which I will call marketplace modernism, in the face of a trenchant attack on the aesthetic and moral debility of the commercial public. The vast majority of commercially produced images and texts in no way denied the allegations of critics that aesthetic vulgarity and moral corruption were endemic in the commercial sphere. But in response, commercial taste experts formulated a new typology distinguishing the frivolity and irrationality of the merely fashionable Parisienne from the rational and artistic qualities of the chic consumer of taste. Proclaiming taste to be a learned as much as an inborn trait, they sought to establish themselves as aesthetic educators of the vulnerable, unschooled Parisienne. Toward this end, they constructed images of themselves and their institutions as disinterested bastions of taste and morality, committed to helping the consumer navigate the morally treacherous and aesthetically compromised commercial sphere. In a flood of fashion magazines and etiquette handbooks, decorating manuals and department store advertising, taste experts purveyed advice on how the consumer might best develop and express her original artistic sensibility through fashion and decorating, emphasizing the importance of the consumer’s aesthetic individuality and moral probity in the cultivation of her chic, or her signature style. But the market did more than provide the means of expression for the chic consumer. It was also, according to the logic of marketplace modernism, itself a locus of aesthetic cultivation: as a modernist aesthetic, chic was by definition shaped by subjective and mundane experience rather than formal education and technical training. While Chapter 4 examines the discursive creation of the chic Parisienne as a marketplace modernist, Chapter 5 explores the apotheosis of her art in the bourgeois home, as interior decorating became a central aesthetic domain of the maîtresse de maison. Her task was to combine a variety of traditional styles in innovative and fresh combinations,

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forging a “modern” interior that was rooted, paradoxically, in the French aesthetic patrimony. Yet the marketplace modernism that took shape in the salons of the bourgeoisie differed from high modernism. It did not appropriate the iconography so much as the philosophical underpinnings of high modernism, celebrating the originality of the artistconsumer but sanctioning a plethora of different styles, some of which looked less than modern at first blush. At the same time, marketplace modernism distinguished the male modernist from the female artistconsumer, delimiting the parameters of feminine originality by confining it to the domain of the decorative arts and fashion and by figuring women as objets d’art as much as artists. One of the most important consequences of the marketplace’s commodification of aesthetic selfhood was that feminine identity, long associated with consumption, became ever more tightly tied to it. This link was configured in a new way, however, as consumption was cast increasingly as an individualized artistic practice: the consumer’s relation to goods, both in the market and outside of it, was constructed as a disinterested one, shaped by her aesthetic judgment or taste rather than her material acquisitiveness. Journalist and etiquette writer Louise d’Alq hinted at this development in her handbook of 1881, in a vignette describing the instantaneous bonds of friendship that materialized between two female strangers, each of whom had identified the other from afar by her aesthetic refinement. “Oh! Madame,” exclaimed one of them, “What a lovely outfit you wore three years ago. . . . You have such excellent taste!” “In fact, I do remember,” replied the other woman, “I recall meeting you often, Madame, in the museum gallery before the Murkaczy canvases. . . .”2 D’Alq’s juxtaposition of toile (painting) and toilette (fashion) suggests that women’s selves came into being, both for themselves and for others, through the expression of an aesthetic sensibility that extended beyond the realm of high culture to encompass everyday life and objects of mundane consumption. As the elegant consumer converged with the cultivated woman and the marketplace with the museum, the commercial public offered taste as the civilizing corrective to its problems.

FORGING AN AESTHETICS OF THE MARKET

the new lexicon of chic How did the producers of commercial culture approach the mission of aestheticizing the market and figuring the consumer as a modern artist? In one sense, the task was a simple one, since marketers and fashion

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journalists seeking to reinvent the Parisienne as an artist-consumer were able to exploit the axiomatic Parisian reputation for elegance. Writing on the eve of the First World War, the Swiss art educator Georges de Montenach asserted, “The modern city where taste is most widespread is without a doubt Paris. There, an entire population has the feeling for measure in all things, an astonishingly precise eye, an instinctive horror of all that is flashy and ungracious, a spirit of adaptation that enhances the most vulgar objects.”3 The Parisian’s “astonishingly precise eye,” moreover, was considered to be even more highly developed in women than in men, as a survey conducted by the fashion magazine Femina in 1911 made clear. Asked by the editors to define chic, respondents typically saw it as synonymous with the Parisian woman’s aesthetic cachet, the very “trademark of the Parisienne.”4 To highlight the mystique of the Parisienne, taste experts frequently juxtaposed her chic with the less finely tuned aesthetic of outsiders.5 Describing a Parisienne, a provincial Frenchwoman, and a foreign lady on a shopping expedition to a Parisian department store in the early 1880s, for example, Louise d’Alq characterized the latter two as “very welldressed women, [although] lacking the Parisian cachet.” The appearance of d’Alq’s provinciale was marred by an odd mixture of ostentation and neglect. Her elaborate cloak of Flemish silk, glossy kid gloves, and a hat garnished with an oversized bird clashed with a gown recycled from the previous season and slightly scuffed shoes. The foreigner had committed a different fashion gaffe. Outfitted in a plumed Rembrandt hat and tightfitting sable cloak, she sported the latest styles, yet nothing about her toilette revealed the “least touch of individuality.” The Parisienne, by contrast, wore a simple, well-made woolen dress that stood apart from the “vulgar style of the streets,” and she had arranged the various elements of her toilette in a way that was highly original, but nonetheless “sober and in the best taste.” Instantly perceiving the distinction in these women’s tastes, the department store sales clerk cannily matched each woman with a different category of merchandise: he offered “junk” to the provincial, “oddities” to the foreigner, but showed “only the best” wares to the Parisienne.6 Experts drew a similar line between the Parisienne and the provincial in interior design. Writing in the mid-1880s, the decorating expert Emile Cardon insisted that visitors to a woman’s home could sense immediately whether or not it had been decorated by a Parisienne: a telltale “lack of harmony in the colors, something that clashes and jars in the details, [and] nine times out of ten the woman will prove to be an out-of-towner.”7

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Although the Parisienne’s elegance was axiomatic, it was also tainted by negative associations. Marketers hoping to capitalize on her reputation could not simply invoke its traditional form: the Parisienne idolized for her elegance, after all, was widely condemned for her fanatical devotion to fashion. As we saw in Chapter 1, the Parisienne’s stylishness often was traced to an irrational and immoderate desire for material objects rather than the rational and morally disinterested judgment of them, rendering her relationship to the world of goods psychologically, morally, and aesthetically unsound. Her detractors consistently pressed this point, equating her love of luxury with a wanton materialism, and the Parisienne’s admirers often acknowledged the validity of this perspective as well. The fashion writer Octave Uzanne, for example, devoted his career to praising the Parisienne but readily admitted that fashion was her “religion,” a “form of madness,” to which she gladly sacrificed her happiness.8 Marketers, retailers, and taste experts responded to this image of the Parisienne by reinventing the myth of Parisian chic, divesting the Parisienne of her frivolity and purging fashion of its destructive connotations. They did so by elevating fashion to the rank of art and the Parisienne to the stature of artist, thereby invoking the emotional and intellectual detachment from goods implicit in the aesthetic perspective. Far from a religious fanatic or a madwoman, the ideal Parisienne imagined by commercial media was an artist-consumer for whom the market was a creative sphere in which she cultivated and expressed her aesthetic and moral sensibility. As we have seen, the connection between art and fashion was a longstanding one, reaching back to the ladies’ press and civility handbooks of the eighteenth century and earlier. But at least two new elements distinguished the aestheticization of fashion in the late nineteenth century. The first was a simple difference of degree. An enormous, continually expanding commercial literature achieved virtual consensus on the definition of fashion as a form of art, and its expanding public reach disseminated these ideas well beyond the purview of the social elite. The other, more significant development was one of kind. Late-nineteenth-century taste media proclaimed fashion and home decorating to be not simply art forms, but art forms inscribed in modernity. The chic Parisienne conjured by marketers was not simply artistic in her relationship to fashion: she was a modernist artist whose artistic forum was the market. In developing an aesthetics of the modern market, fashion writers, taste experts, and marketers redefined the terms of an older discourse,

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elaborating a new lexicon that equated chic with taste, linked these terms to modern art, and distinguished them from both fashion and traditional “Art.” At the most basic level, chic was defined as the expression of the individual’s aesthetic sensibility: as the actress Marguerite Carre expressed it, a woman’s chic was the feminine equivalent of the male artist’s griffe, or personal style.9 Just as a “few strokes of the pencil, a few touches on a ceramic pot, a few scribbled words are sufficient to reveal ‘a master,’ ” the fashion journalist Countess de Sesmaisons concurred, the femme de goût made herself known in the subtle details of her appearance.10 Octave Uzanne defined chic as the individual stamp in fashion, “that je ne sais quoi that evokes the intimate, the personal, the attractive . . . which is the mark of individual expression. . . .”11 In the words of another writer, chic was like “a perfume; one can not explain it, it simply manifests and imposes itself. It emanates from the individual like the scent from a flower.”12 Identifying chic explicitly with the subjective aesthetics of the individual, contemporaries contrasted it with an older conception of Art rooted in neoclassical aesthetics. In the journalist Paquet-Mille’s formulation, “Beauty” was “part of a special domain that we [consumers] should not transgress, which belongs exclusively to Art. Beauty is immutable; the statues of [the ancient Greek sculptor] Phidias hold a permanent place among masterpieces.”13 In contrast to this Platonic ideal of absolute beauty, taste belonged to the unstable world of the individual, the real, and the contemporary. By definition, it was “infinitely modifiable,” varying over time with fluctuations in social mores and, in any given moment, from person to person. Rooted in the unique sensibility of the individual, it could only be expressed by an original aesthetic statement reflecting that sensibility: in the formulation of republican educator Joseph Périer, “the varieties of hair styles, the form of clothing, the choice of fabric” were vehicles of individual expression through which the aesthetically refined woman revealed her inner self, “the relative beauty known as character.”14 Commentators were equally at pains to differentiate the consumer’s chic or taste from mere fashion in their articulation of a marketplace aesthetics. Since fashion was characterized by variability and change, it bore a certain surface resemblance to taste. Unlike taste’s, however, fashion’s permutations were read as capricious and irrational in nature because they were said to be produced by the individual’s uncontrolled desires. “Fashion,” wrote Marie Double in La Mode pratique of 1892, “is born above all of the desire for change with which feminine souls are

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agitated.”15 Since no moral or aesthetic logic governed its transformations, fashion’s mutability connoted inauthenticity rather than subjectivity, and stylistic banality rather than originality. For Paquet-Mille, the fashionable woman who wished to create the patina of originality for the sake of status was instantly distinguishable from the femme chic, whose originality was the product of an arduous labor of artistic selffashioning. She ridiculed the former in a wicked caricature: One dresses one’s hair in a ridiculous fashion rather than adopt a hairstyle which recalls the current style in any way. . . . One chooses extraordinary colors and forms which have no raison d’être, . . . one unearths fossil-like furniture, . . . one surrounds oneself with a bunch of odds and ends . . . with the goal of making a reputation for originality for oneself. . . . Once you possess this “certificate of originality,” you have only to continue to strike bizarre attitudes—to look searchingly toward the horizon—to convey a distracted air. . . . Then most mortals will decide that you are a superior creature, a rare person.16

In Paquet-Mille’s view, such a woman was an insincere snob whose dissembling could be detected immediately by individuals of taste. Moreover, since her aesthetic judgments were irrational and inauthentic, lacking a “raison d’être,” her self-interested charade inevitably resulted in aesthetic vulgarity. Such a fake originale was embodied in Proust’s demimondaine-turned-bourgeoise Odette, who, lacking aesthetic distinction, admired others without it but could not appreciate either Swann’s own chic or his finely calibrated understanding of the chic of others. In Proust’s words, “Those who, like Swann, had tastes, but did not speak about them, left her cold.”17 In short, the fashionable woman failed to meet the necessary moral and aesthetic criteria of chic because her style was not her own. In contrast to the merely fashionable woman, the chic woman’s artistic judgments were said to be grounded not only in aesthetic sensitivity but in rationality and moral authenticity. Writing during the early years of the Third Republic, the fashion journalist Lucie Crété defined the consumer’s taste as a complex alloy of “judgment and tact” that enabled her to exercise reason and discrimination in the consumption process.18 By the turn of the century, this definition was widely accepted. For Paquet-Mille, taste combined two essential ingredients: the faculty of rational judgment, which allowed for the evaluation of the aesthetic as well as the material value of goods, and “the artistic sentiment that perfects one’s choice.”19 Similarly, the decorative arts reformer Marius Vachon described taste as a delicate amalgam of “refinement and reason.”

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For Vachon, moreover, taste was analogous—although not equivalent— to virtue, playing the civilizing role in the intellectual order that virtue played in the moral order.20 The republican politician and academician Gabriel Hanotaux placed particular emphasis on the moral dimension, defining taste as a conscience that divulged the individual’s ethical instincts as much as her intellectual judgments.21 For the Countess de Sesmaisons, the artistic élégante was distinguished from the fashionable coquette by her artistic imagination, but also by “the operation of certain faculties of observation and study, a practical and judicious spirit, a persistent will, order . . . qualities [which are] . . . incompatible with an exaggerated coquetry.”22 Reason and emotional sincerity were thus the crucial complements of aesthetic feeling.

the importance of environmental influence Once conceived of primarily as an inborn trait, by the late nineteenth century taste was understood increasingly as one that could be acquired by virtually anyone. Even commentators who described taste as the Parisienne’s birthright stressed the importance of environmental influence in activating and shaping aesthetic sensibility. As the decorating expert Henri de Noussane saw it, “Taste is a natural ability,” but one which “must be cultivated to bear fruit.”23 Likewise, Gabriel Hanotaux suggested that taste was inborn but also could be absorbed “from the environment, the ambience around us,” while Marie Double characterized taste as “an innate gift” which could nonetheless be “acquired through exposure to those who possessed it.”24 Many taste theorists, however, insisted that it was environment, not heredity, which played by far the more significant role in shaping aesthetic ability. Paris was the crucible that forged the chic Parisienne, the art critic and novelist Gustave Coquiot reminded her in 1913: “You may be nothing by yourselves,” he wrote, “but you are made everything by Paris! It is Paris that marks you, that transforms you, that makes of you . . . that bibelot . . . that we know as the Parisienne. . . .”25 Similarly, Emile Cardon believed that the Parisienne’s “innate sense for artistic things and . . . most fine and delicate taste” would remain forever dormant without the proper cultivation. In his eyes, women who resided in Paris but had been raised in the less aesthetic milieux of the provinces so lacked the true Parisienne’s aesthetic cachet that they scarcely deserved the appellation. Conversely, he argued, a provincial woman “could easily become and remain Parisienne” if she had been brought up in an ap-

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propriately aesthetic environment.26 The fashion writer Jeanne de Bargny also identified the modern metropolis rather than the Parisienne as the fountainhead of taste; in her analysis, urban anonymity freed the Parisienne from the fear of gossip about her appearance, lending her an aesthetic autonomy unimaginable in the claustrophobic milieu of the provincial town. Since urban freedom was the condition of creativity, however, Bargny warned that a woman risked surrendering “that je ne sais quoi that makes the Parisienne who she is” as soon as she crossed the city limits. “It is not possible,” she concluded, “to escape the influence of one’s milieu.”27 The same kind of environmental argument was applied to the provinces by commentators who saw the Parisian aesthetic mystique as the core of a wider French identity. Certainly, the penetration of provincial France by the railroad, the department store—both through provincial branches and through mail-order shopping—and commercial media such as the fashion press and advertising forged closer contacts between the countryside and the capital than ever before. The tentacular reach of commercial culture had disseminated Parisian taste to the provinces, some argued, activating the latent aesthetic capabilities of the provincial Frenchwoman. Even Bargny, who was wedded to the idea that chic was a Parisian attribute, admitted that, by the turn of the century, Parisian taste so permeated the French provinces that it had become impossible to distinguish the Parisian native from the provincial visitor, much less the transplanted provincial, on the streets of the city. Commentators emphasized the importance of environment in shaping taste just as much in discussions of the production sphere, laying particular stress on the cachet of French craftsmen. In a speech on artisanal training, the art educator J. Fresson underscored the Frenchness of taste, noting that “the air of our country transmits . . . a particular virtue” to its native artisans and artists.28 The business leader and foreign commerce minister René Famchon echoed Fresson in the official French report on the 1908 Franco-British Exposition: “Our Parisian fashion workers have no rivals. . . . Employed in the provinces or abroad . . . they bring with them Parisian taste and savoir-faire.”29 To both Famchon and Fresson, such a rich concentration of aesthetic capital in Paris implied a paucity of resources elsewhere. So unique was the atmosphere of the capital, according to Famchon, that it was imperative for workers to “return to Paris from time to time if they wish to maintain the brilliant qualities they have acquired there.”30 Extending the same argument to the nation, Fresson claimed that French artisans who

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worked abroad gradually lost their artistic facility, finding that “their imagination [became] . . . heavy and [was] . . . ultimately extinguished,” while aspiring foreigners “bereft of any artistic sense” were able to transform themselves rapidly into masters by moving to France.31 When it came to the question of national character, however, most disputed Fresson’s notion of taste’s absolute fluidity. Emile Cardon spoke for many in insisting that taste was a singularly French trait, with Parisians as the standard-bearers for the nation. For him, the cultivation of chic was only possible within national boundaries: under no circumstances could an Englishman or a German become French, no more in their aesthetic make-up than in any other dimension.32 By the late nineteenth century, however, the commercialization of Paris was said to be altering the capital’s aesthetic environment and, in turn, the chic of its inhabitants. In the view of many commentators, the advent of the modern market both created new possibilities and posed new challenges for the expression and the cultivation of taste. For those who already possessed taste, the modern market was said to be a gratifyingly open and free field in which to exercise it: the fluidity of modern fashion was liberating, allowing far more individual discretion and creative license than ever before. Writing for La Mode française in 1875, Lucie Crété observed that one sees “a great deal of eclecticism, leaving the field open to all tastes. Little Louis XV jackets, scarves, jackets with long sleeves, short cloaks . . . everything is worn, everything is in fashion. . . . We are certainly far from the time when there was one fashion for everyone.”33 By the early 1890s, the journalist and editor Jules Coffignon remarked that fashion—in any absolute sense—no longer existed: “No one is ridiculous in dressing entirely according to [her] imagination, as long as [she] avoids loud eccentricities and offends neither good taste nor good sense.”34 Similarly, Jenny Dervilliers proclaimed in Le Chic français: “Never before has one had so much liberty in dressing, not only according to one’s taste, but even according to one’s imagination. . . .” The Countess de Vérissey argued in Le Salon de la mode that “Fashion, which has never been so eclectic, lends itself marvelously to every kind of imagination and every brand of personal taste.”35 The Countess de Sesmaisons concurred in Le Figaro: “More than ever, the latest styles tend to be liberated completely from the despotic hold that fashion recently exercised.”36 But for the unschooled consumer, commentators argued, the modern marketplace was an extraordinarily confusing, even perilous environment. Unconstrained by the more rigid aesthetic conventions of earlier

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generations, bombarded by marketing, and tempted by low prices and abundant choices, such a consumer tended easily to forsake, in Joseph Périer’s formulation, the “artistic and philosophical preoccupations” of taste for the “frivolity” of fashion.37 In many ways, critics suggested, the very freedom of the modern marketplace all but assured the unsophisticated consumer’s aesthetic downfall, since the absence of strict aesthetic guidelines meant that it was far easier to make mistakes. Sesmaisons summed up the problem in Le Figaro: “The more individuals have the freedom to choose and to use their imagination, the more one needs to be discerning to be able to disentangle . . . [the] multiple fabrics, the different forms and the masses of garnitures: laces, furs, trim, embroidery, etc. . . . that can be happily combined to create a harmonious ensemble and adapted to the physical type and the personality of each woman.”38 Beyond merely confusing the impressionable consumer, the modern market was said to expose her to a plethora of corrupting examples. Joseph Périer emphasized the need for particular vigilance in the urban context, where, in spite of her natural “lively and delicate” taste, the naïve and inexperienced woman was subject to the pernicious influence of the “false taste” and, even worse, the “depraved taste” visible everywhere in the streets of Paris.39 Georges de Montenach echoed Périer’s argument, lamenting the fact that, despite women’s natural aesthetic endowments, “feminine taste is constantly being perverted by fashion,” while in Gabriel Hanotaux’s moribund formulation, modern fashion “wants taste to change . . . [and] in insisting [it] kills taste.”40 Likewise, in a harangue to young housewives appearing in a 1907 issue of Femina, the novelist Marcel Prévost enumerated fashion (along with indolence and demanding husbands) among the primary causes of women’s abandonment of aesthetic concerns after marriage.41 Paquet-Mille described how easily the consumer could become inured to “the [thin] line separating false taste and good taste. . . . One quickly becomes accustomed to loud colors that at first made one grind one’s teeth, after a while the owner of the bric-à-brac boutique no longer perceives the cacophony created by the merchandise surrounding him.”42 Although he in fact deemed the modern Parisian woman to be “much more reasonable” about fashion than her early modern forebears (whom she characterized as frivolous to the point of letting “their happiness depend on acquiring a dress of some obscure color”), she still considered her far too susceptible to fashion’s corrosive influence: “It is not always true taste that governs fashion.”43 The deliberate efforts of a host of new adversaries, ranging from

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sales clerks to ad men, to exert their influence on the consumer were said to render the marketplace all the more treacherous a terrain. In the view of the critics, such inducements to consume were inevitably corrupt because they were motivated purely by the pursuit of economic profit; without moral scruple or aesthetic consideration, businessmen could be expected to lead the consumer astray if it were in their interest to do so. Henri de Noussane bemoaned the power of these new market forces: “We are the slaves of new trends, of advertising. Fashion leads us where it will. And the genius of our race, the originality of our spirit, the charm of our individuality is drowned in the flood of outside influences.”44 For him, as for others, it was the insidious nature of modern marketing that made the consumer so vulnerable to its influence; manipulated without ever being aware of it, she had no chance to withstand the seduction being worked on her. In this precarious context, the careful and assiduous cultivation of the consumer’s taste was seen as imperative. Even apart from the obstacles posed by the market, moreover, Périer argued that women’s aesthetic sensibilities were harder to train and refine than those of men; the need for feminine aesthetic education “to warn them of certain stumblingblocks” was therefore much more urgent than the need for masculine schooling.45 In his formulation, the instinctive and “spontaneous” taste with which women were born languished without the guidance of experts; it required careful “cultivation to develop into the love of beauty” essential to “true taste.”46 Similarly, Georges de Montenach insisted that women’s taste had to be “rationally educated and cultivated” in order to resist the depredations of the market.47 In effect, marketers, taste experts, and republican educators projected an image of the modern marketplace as a dangerous battleground, in which women were torn between two diametrically opposing poles: predisposed by birth to be aesthetic creatures, they were also perceived as more vulnerable to the influence of pernicious environmental forces. Gabriel Hanotaux described the process of aesthetic development as a dangerous passage between Scylla and Charybdis, imperiled on one side by pretentiousness, on the other by banality: “Taste hesitates between two stumbling blocks,” he wrote, “on the one hand, originality, which pushes it toward peculiarity, toward being affected . . . on the other, banality, which is the sister of [fashion,] that strange inclination of crowds which creates, reigns, and corrupts taste. . . .”48 Likewise, in an 1881 issue of L’Art de la mode, the Baroness Jeanne characterized fashion as a pendulum that swings between the whims of feminine imagination and

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Figure 12. Yves Barzy, “Art Preventing Fashion from Following Madness.” From L’Art de la mode, 1882. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

“the moral and intellectual guidance of the day.”49 A canny illustration appearing in the December 1882 issue of the same magazine, “Art Preventing Fashion from Following Madness” by Yves Barzy (fig. 12), best figured the antithesis between art and fashion, and underscored the belief that taste could serve as a civilizing influence on consumption. Barzy positioned Fashion as a beautiful woman being tugged in different directions, beguiled on one side by Madness, embodied in the form of a jester, and on the other beseeched by Art, incarnated in the figure of an angel. Barzy’s lithograph vividly portrayed the chic Parisienne’s susceptibility to the pull of irrational impulses, but it also imagined a different destiny for her: redeemed by the rational and moral influence of art, the Parisienne could be transformed into a discerning artist-consumer.50

COMMERCIAL MEDIA AND THE CULTIVATION OF CHIC

the invention of “shopping” and the role of the taste expert While images of the market as a battleground between taste and fashion, art and folly, seemed to make the cultivation of the consumer’s taste

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essential, such representations often portrayed the lone consumer as unequal to the task. Marketplace agents were the first to admit that the fin-de-siècle bourgeois consumer was more fashionable than artistic and that women of taste were few and far between. Already during the Second Empire, the fashion editor Madame d’Abrantès observed that, while everyone in Paris congratulated themselves on their good taste, “[N]othing is so rare; one can hardly count . . . more than a few really elegant individuals . . . of true and delicate taste.”51 Her point was echoed by many writers of the latter half of the century, for whom the efflorescence of consumer culture only intensified the tendency toward aesthetic vulgarity. Writing in the Figaro-modes in 1903, the Countess de Sesmaisons reported that, “despite the immense progress achieved in the last few years, the truly elegant and artistic femme du monde is still something quite rare, almost an exception.” Hastening to acknowledge “a considerable number” of elegant women among her own readers, she nonetheless expressed confidence that they would concur with her assessment: “I would never to dare to state this opinion if I had not heard it said many times by very competent men and women.”52 According to Henri de Noussane, most women sadly lacked both the discipline and the aesthetic training needed “to cultivate [their] . . . natural dispositions, to create delicious things,” preferring, instead, to “scurry off to the dressmaker or the baker and then to Madame Z’s ‘at home.’ ”53 The situation had worsened considerably by the fin de siècle, according to the advice expert Madame Daniel Lesueur: “social transformations, the instability of fortunes . . . [and] the democratization of luxury” allowed women greater independence to form themselves, but also made them more vulnerable to manipulation by dubious forces than ever before.54 Although fashion journalists and taste experts acknowledged the difficulties facing the modern consumer, they also invented a new model of “shopping” that presented a solution to her problems.55 Far from the conception of consumption as a trivial pastime, the picture that emerged in the pages of the fashion journal and the decorating handbook was of a complex operation requiring not only taste but rationality, discipline, and knowledge. Against the negative image of the frivolous Parisienne frittering away her time in the department store, the fashion press conjured images of sober, serious consumers hard at work at the business of shopping. In the words of “Frivoline” (whose pseudonym paradoxically evoked the trivialized view of shopping), “To know what is happening and to keep up with the latest word in art, high society, and fashion, one has to roam the stores relentlessly. . . .”56 In

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contrast to the image of hysterical shoppers conjured by critics, V. d’Aurelly depicted the General Exhibition of Spring and Summer Fashions at the Petit Saint-Thomas department store in 1880 as “a solemn commercial occasion” which “every elegant and economical woman will want to attend.” In her portrayal, it was the mondaines of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, rather than more vulgar social elements, who flocked to the Petit Saint-Thomas, not to appease an insatiable appetite for goods but to admire the store’s “magnificent panorama” and “splendid ensemble.”57 Similarly, in the fashion journalist Karl Stern’s formulation, women who scoured the department stores for new ideas to bring to their couturiers were neither debauched nor deceitful but diligent and resourceful.58 Indeed, Louise de Salles of Paris-mode decreed a visit to the grand magasin to inspect the latest styles to be an essential part of the Parisian shopper’s task.59 With its emphasis on originality through novel combinations and inspired details, chic was said to require more raw talent and more labor in the form of market research than classic styles, which critics disparaged as easily replicated by the couturier and requiring no aesthetic contribution from the consumer. For the same reason, the chic consumer was called upon to reject prepackaged notions of modern fashion as well. According to Henri de Noussane, women foolish enough to simply “place [their] . . . trust in the store catalogue” did so because they did not “dare to abandon [themselves] to inspiration.” By contrast, the successful shopper prepared herself for the expression of taste by laborious efforts to “form the judgment needed to choose, to acquire the knowledge needed to compare.”60 According to Marius Vachon, the successful modern consumer had to learn to negotiate the market, “to order things, instead of buying dolefully, with one’s eyes shut . . . to impose one’s ideas, one’s desires, one’s views on the decoration of a livingroom, a dining-room, a bedroom, etc.”61 For Mathilde Sée of Femina, shopping “is not only about going to a famous couturier or renown modiste and letting oneself be guided by a sales clerk. One must know how to choose and how to dress according to one’s personality, one’s social rank, one’s size, the color of one’s hair. Although most women follow fashion to the letter, a truly original woman will know how to preserve her own way of being without bending too much to the current style.”62 Likewise, for Louise de Salles, the genuinely chic woman was too independent to submit to the authority of the couturier: “The toilette . . . is a part of her individuality. She dresses for herself. . . . [S]he is not dressed by anyone else.”63 In contrast to representations of the

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modern consumer as a passive being manipulated by market forces, fashion journalists and decorating specialists imagined her as an active agent, in the sense of being both a disciplined, skillful pragmatist and a creative consumer. In developing this conception of creative shopping, marketplace agents carved out an important new niche as shopping consultants and taste authorities. Casting themselves as impartial experts, fashion journalists in particular claimed to help the consumer in the shopping process in several important ways. One was to assist her in market research, scouting the stores for bargains and items of quality. L’Art de la mode, for instance, simulated a journalist’s report to his editor on the furniture market: “Convinced that the arrangement of the home, that is to say its elegance and comfort, demands intelligent guidance, you have asked me to search for the artistic treasures in the hidden corners of Paris and to reveal them to our readers.”64 Similarly, “Frivoline” reminded readers of the indispensability of L’Art et la mode because of “the care with which it devotes itself to bringing [them] the details of the latest, most imaginative styles.”65 Journalists also saw their role as that of alerting the consumer to her own vulnerability in the commercial public. In her regular column for La Mode française, Lucie Crété urged shoppers to resist the seductions of commercial display and marketing so that they would be sufficiently detached both to economize and to make sound aesthetic judgments: “I advise my readers not to let themselves be tempted by the marketing efforts they can not help but be obsessed with. Premature shopping is almost always followed by regret. . . . It is very prudent to let the first infatuation pass.”66 Above all, the fashion journalist proffered expert advice on matters of taste. The Countess Verrasques, who wrote for L’Art de la mode in the early 1880s, boasted of the voluminous correspondence she received requesting her fashion advice: “Each one of these lovely ladies . . . insists on a personal consultation.”67 And while Madame Daniel Lesueur urged women to follow expert advice or run the risk of cutting a ridiculous appearance, the editor-in-chief of Le Salon de la mode conceded rather more autonomy and common sense to the consumer, characterizing herself as the independent shopper’s “intelligent collaborator.”68 But the fashion journalist was more than a detached professional. He or she asserted a unique complicity with the consumer, posing as her intimate companion. After its introduction as a regular feature of the fashion journal in the 1870s, the forum of reader’s correspondence played an important role in legitimizing this posture, enabling editors to

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establish a dialogue with readers that kept the journals abreast of consumers’ concerns. In contrast to the etiquette advisor, a disembodied voice of authority who handed down advice from on high, the fashion journalist stood as a self-described middleman who could inform merchants and marketers of consumers’ predilections and anxieties, but also serve the shopper as a guide to the complexities of the market. The editors of the luxury decorating magazine L’Interieur, for example, purported that it had been established for the express purpose of serving as “an intermediary” between the consumer and the manufacturer and retailer.69 To some extent, this distinction between the formality of the etiquette handbook and the intimate and informal tone taken by the fashion magazine is unimportant, since the authors of some of the most popular handbooks—Louise d’Alq, Constance Aubert, and Madame Daniel Lesueur among them—were columnists for or editors of major women’s magazines. Moreover, much of the readers’ correspondence was most likely fabricated wholesale, particularly when it was first introduced in the 1870s and 1880s. But whether fashion writers were in fact in direct contact with their readership or not, they were at pains to appear to be. By the early 1870s, a more personal tone thus began to replace the formal, telegraphic style typical of earlier fashion journalism. Jeanne d’Elff, writing in the late 1860s for La Joie du foyer, reported laconically: “One may find outfits in silk cloth with fancy trim for 70 francs at the Ville de Saint Denis. Silk cloth with extra-fancy trim for 100 francs.” Writing for the same journal a few years later, “Rosine” assumed the tone of a chatty intimate: “With such a fresh, smart toilette, I would advise you to wear small slippers with high heels and colored tassels. . . .”70 Journalists increasingly addressed their readership in the first person, using the vous form instead of the impersonal thirdperson singular, on. They devised sobriquets evoking schoolgirls’ nicknames, such as “Frivoline,” “Grillonne,” or “Etincelle,” or they suggested intimacy by using first names, “Jeanne,” “Micheline,” “Stella,” and “Rosine” among them. “Grillonne,” who wrote for Le Courrier de la mode in the 1890s, struck a tone between an indulgent mother and a supplicating companion: “Tell Grillonne anything you want, she will listen to it all. . . . To make her your friend, you only have to love her a little and encourage her.”71 The purpose of these declarations was to prove the periodical’s commercial disinterestedness. Both as neutral expert and partisan friend, it was suggested, the fashion magazine could be trusted by the consumer

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because it was not governed by mercantile motives. “If I am always in quest of new things,” “Rosine” effused in La Joie du foyer, “it is because I am happy, truly happy when a friendly letter consoles me for my disappointments and thanks me for my finds.”72 This impartiality was rendered all the more valuable, journalists argued, set against the posture of other market agents, whose actions were blatantly biased. Fashion journals thus took a paradoxical and occasionally openly adversarial stance vis-à-vis advertisers and retailers. “I am here to fulfill but one mission,” “Rosine” solemnly informed her readers, “and that is to give you accurate information and to warn you against deceptive advertising.”73 Decorating experts staked out a similar terrain, warning consumers to be leery of the modern retailer’s bewildering arsenal of sales techniques. In this vein, Henri de Noussane cautioned the shopper to “beware of sales . . . [and] sale rooms,” because they duped the buyer into believing they offered valuable goods at bargain prices when, in fact, they purveyed nothing but worthless junk.74 Although much of the fashion magazine’s self-presentation centered on denying its commodity status, the line between advice and marketing was a thin one, and at moments the gap between its image and its mission to sell (not only magazines, but consumption itself) became visible. Fashion magazines did promote stores and goods, for instance, even though they did so in the guise of friendly advice. In a particularly glaring example, a columnist for L’Art de la mode recommended a certain boutique in the passage Sainte-Marie in one breath, and in the next noted that he and the proprietor shared a distaste for advertising.75 Similarly, Paris-mode praised the Parfumerie Orizia for its remarkable scents, while in 1880 Le Salon de la mode described a sale at the Petit Saint-Thomas department store in language that could have served as advertising copy produced by the store’s marketing department: “Imagine that you want a piece of high-quality black silk, supple and soft, which will not stain or tear; this silk is worth 6 fr. 75, and yet, they are selling it at 3 fr. 80 per meter! . . . What an absolute orgy of bargains. . . . At 10 fr. 50, this light, versatile, midseason jacket costs almost nothing. . . . It is unbelievable that these ravishing beige ensembles in pure wool, with fancy trim, cost only 20 francs. . . .”76 Indeed, despite the stated policy of several journals to refuse to publish advertising in the early years of the Third Republic, many of them willingly made exceptions for particular stores and merchandise: Le Salon de la mode recommended the Montmartre department store A La Ville de Paris because its “products have been approved and their superiority con-

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firmed.”77 In this instance, Le Salon de la mode emphasized its professional expertise to leaven a sales pitch. Other journals used the voice of intimate ally to make marketing efforts resemble friendly advice. “Rosine’s” column in La Joie de foyer, for instance, endorsed products and stores in the giddy, breathless tone of a confidante: “I saw the prettiest fabrics you could ever dream of in a really chic store at 53, rue de Rivoli. . . .” Readers who were “seduced” by her descriptions and requested sample fabrics from the store La Colonie des Indes were to receive them “at no cost to the subscriber,” suggesting a close commercial connection between store and magazine that belied her disinterested posture.78 Fashion journals such as La Mode française and Paris-mode even plied their own small trade, albeit in artistic objects. La Mode française offered portraits done by members of the Société générale des artistes parisiens as bonuses to subscribers.79 Paris-mode established what it called un service de primes artistiques—a department of artistic bonuses— selling such items as a fish wall ornament, a candy box, and a series of watercolor reproductions of well-known eighteenth-century paintings, not for any “mercantile goals” but rather to cater to readers interested in fine works of art, on a level with those “which may be found in our museums.”80 A widely used advertising textbook of the turn of the century expounded the marketing premise behind such promotions, suggesting that the aesthetic character of the prime artistique created the illusion of a meaningful bond between seller and buyer that transcended impersonal and mercenary marketplace relations. But if art was to be used to signal commercial disinterestedness, the authors noted, merchants had to downplay their commercial intentions: “If one encumbers the prime artistique . . . with a long advertisement, it will lose its artistic cachet.”81 Even more than its squeamishness about advertising, the fashion magazine’s self-presentation as artwork was central to its denial of its commodity status. Journals sent this message in part through aesthetic manifestos, but also by elaborating a new iconography of fashion. Nowhere was the message driven home more forcefully than in the luxury periodical L’Art de la mode, which broke with the aesthetic conventions of the fashion plate, seeking to refigure fashion as an art by introducing naturalistic fashion illustrations that resembled paintings. In contrast to the traditional fashion plate, which presented a stylized arrangement of two or more stiff, expressionless female figures with little relationship to one another except as decorative form, those that appeared in L’Art de la mode, as well as in several other self-consciously modern publications,

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Figure 13. Fashion plate. From L’Illustration, June 2, 1890. (Musée Carnavalet. © Phototèque des Musées de la Ville de Paris; cliché Degraces)

featured realistic and dynamic images of women. And while the standard fashion plate set feminine figures in timeless landscapes featuring gardens and balconies, the modern fashion illustration imitated genre paintings by representing scenes from contemporary life, including specific Parisian sites: the boulevards of the city, its racetrack, opera house, parks, museums, and exhibition halls (fig. 13). Other deliberately modern images depicted women in private spaces, but always engaged in an

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activity such as flower arranging or sculpting. The fact that modernist paintings provided the inspiration for many of these images was made explicit by the directors of L’Art de la mode, who linked them to “Art . . . the true art which derives from sincere impressions and not from memories, from modernity and not from archaism.”82 L’Art de la mode pioneered this approach at a time when painterly modernism was abhorred by the middle-class mainstream, but several other fashion magazines followed suit in the late 1880s and 1890s, the decade when impressionism became popular with the bourgeois public. The journal Paris-mode, which cost a relatively modest seventy-five centimes semimonthly (compared to L’Art de la mode’s hefty price of ten francs a month), published similarly naturalistic fashion illustrations and preached the same modernist gospel to a broad, middle-class readership. Founded in 1890 to offer an alternative to the “inartistic” fashion illustrations of most journals, Paris-mode also attacked the traditional fashion plate both for poor draftsmanship and idealized images that bore no connection to readers’ experience.83 Their plates replaced the elongated waists and exaggeratedly tapered forms of the conventional fashion plate with realistic bodies, and depicted animated, active women in modern, everyday settings. Resembling camera snapshots more than posed portraits, these illustrations echoed impressionist paintings in both form and subject matter. In the late 1880s, several journals departed still further from the idealized fashion plate with the introduction of fashion photography. L’Art d’être jolie, appearing at the turn of the century, was one of the first fashion magazines not only to use photography on all its covers but to use portraits of contemporary society beauties, most of whom were known to readers.84 The highly popular Femina did the same. Both the medium and the visual content of the fashion magazine were becoming explicitly artistic and implicitly modernist.85

“the education of the eye” Fashion magazines presented themselves as artistic media committed to forging a modern aesthetics of the market—much as they positioned themselves as commercially disinterested allies and advisors to the consumer—as part of their campaign to cultivate the taste of the consumer. According to Marie Double, editor of the modernist journal L’Art de la mode in the early 1880s, the magazine had been created for the sole purpose of fostering women’s latent artistic tendencies: “It is in order to encourage their efforts, to guide them in their inexperience that this journal was founded.”86 By the turn of the century, such declara-

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tions were increasingly commonplace. For the Countess de Sesmaisons of Le Figaro, the fashion magazine’s primary purpose was to assist readers in the arduous process of aesthetic cultivation, while the editors of L’Art d’être jolie declared their mission to be that of helping all women to develop their innate abilities.87 Calling for a “taste director” for the middle classes, Octave Uzanne submitted that the fashion magazine was uniquely positioned to assume this role because of its special relationship to the shopper.88 “By studying the best publications,” Paquet-Mille assured readers of La Revue de la mode in 1903, they could develop “the faculty to judge and to feel” that they needed to become not simply skilled consumers but women of taste.89 Fashion journalists and decorating experts were in agreement with republican arts officials in designating the first step in the process to be a basic instruction in artistic technique, begun if possible at an early age and preferably pursued in a formal institutional setting.90 According to the journalist Arsène Houssaye (quoting his friend, the dandy-poet Théophile Gautier), the hope was that art lessons would transform women into “great colorists,” able to select clothing and furniture that blended perfectly with their pigmentation.91 Indeed, the study of color was often designated the centerpiece of the consumer’s art education, since colors were believed to have specific expressive qualities; as Joseph Périer explained, every color has a “distinct character in relation to our emotions.”92 While Emile Cardon and Marius Vachon proposed that women study Chevreul’s classical color studies for art students in order to learn color harmonies in fashion, the taste critic Emile Bayard attempted to make such technical arcana comprehensible to the layperson by elaborating his own “brief theory of colors for use in the toilette” in his handbook on the art of womanhood.93 Some writers specified the need for an education in modern art as well; “Frivoline,” for example, reserved her highest praise for the woman who beautified herself using “the techniques of modern art.”94 Taste experts considered technical knowledge alone, however, to be inadequate to the task of developing taste. Since chic was defined as aesthetic originality, the passive ability to recognize beautiful objects was no guarantee of aesthetic success. Nor could a women be chic merely by imitating the aesthetic choices and combinations of others. As a modernist aesthetic rooted in the subjective vision of the individual, rather than in absolute standards and established styles, chic demanded that the consumer learn to operate on her own, as an independent and creative aesthetic agent. According to Marie Double, for example, women

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were not only to master the grammar of chic, including such technical knowledge as the harmony of tones and colors, but to learn how to apply these principles to develop a signature style.95 While a formal education was said to provide women with basic information, it did not stimulate their creativity or train them to use their imaginations. For this, they needed more general instruction, an education in taste rather than in technique. Much the same argument was mounted in defense of a general aesthetic education for French artisans. In his lecture series on the topic, J. Fresson urged French artisans to improve their craft through the study of artistic masterworks of the French aesthetic past. Discussing the training of French fashion workers, modistes, and seamstresses, the reporters for the Franco-British Exposition of 1908 came to similar conclusions. They contended that the establishment of a professional technical school would be pointless because so few rules existed and styles changed so frequently in modern fashion. Arguing that “the superiority of France in fashion derives from its long Parisian tradition of taste in all artistic professions,” the Exposition report concluded that it was taste, not technique, that had to be deliberately cultivated from an early age through the systematic exposure of young girls to artistic images. Once the study of old engravings, painting styles, illustrated magazines, and the like were integrated into female primary school curricula, girls with artistic aptitude could be easily selected for “apprenticeship to an atelier to learn the technical aspect of a trade.” Because fashion was a creative discipline, the reporters contended, “fashion workers need skill, intelligence, an eye, originality.”96 Along with formal training, then, aesthetic cultivation was said to require immersion in art and learning through experience. Art, however, was defined increasingly broadly, including not only the masterpieces of western culture but the aesthetic productions of the market: store windows, fashion magazines and fashion plates, and advertising images.97 While Arsène Houssaye declared it a duty of the chic Parisienne to pay a monthly visit to the studio of an established artist such as Cabanel or Carolus Duran, Paquet-Mille urged her readers not to “be afraid to take a lesson in artistic taste by visiting the most reputable stores, taking inspiration from their models.” In her view, “the education of the eye” was being accomplished gradually, “thanks to the efforts of our very artistic contemporary fashion magazines, thanks to the store windows which display such marvels of taste and elegance. . . .”98 Likewise, the Countess de Vérissey claimed that the femme de goût was being enlightened

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not just by art museums but by the illustrations in fashion magazines and the sensory stimulation of the city streets.99 Fresson made the same point: “The street provides us with a perpetual lesson. We must be attentive in public to everything which can form good taste and reject anything that seems to threaten it.”100 According to taste experts such as these, then, it was not simply art that formed the consumer’s original aesthetic sensibility, which in turn was expressed through acts of tasteful consumption. As much as traditional art cultivated aesthetic sensibility, they claimed, so too did the act of consumption itself; the market was an aesthetic arena rather than the enemy of art. By the same token, no longer was it only art that influenced fashion; fashion, in the form of the chic Parisienne, now influenced art. Expounding his philosophy of fashion in La Nouvelle Revue of 1907, Valentine de Saint-Pont warmly praised the modern woman for injecting beauty and art into ordinary life: “We owe to women,” he wrote, “all the beauty of everyday life, which exudes from their persons and their homes.”101 In the same vein, the fashion writer Paul Bonhomme belittled the craftsman and designer as mere servants of the feminine imagination in L’Art de la mode of 1890, while an article in Paris-mode of 1891 credited the revival of the decorative arts to women’s demand for aesthetic quality in fashion and home decorating.102 Likewise, an art critic reviewing the Exposition of the Arts of Woman held at the Palais de l’industrie in 1893 celebrated the modern woman’s “reign over taste.”103 Yet another critic asserted that the dependence was mutual: as much as women’s fashion sense relied on the artist’s vision, the artist was impotent without the inspiration of stylish women.104 In Marie Double’s clever phrasing, “Never before has art done so much for fashion . . . [and] never before has fashion done so much for art.”105 But the chic Parisienne was more than the artist’s muse. As envisioned by the fashion magazine, art was not merely a tool of the fashionable woman; fashion itself was an art, and she was an artist of the marketplace. “Artists in their own way,” wrote Uzanne, “they occupy their leisure time with attempts to create new and original combinations in their toilettes and their homes.”106 Several writers described the Parisienne as a combination of the artwork and artist, Pygmalion and Galatea in one person. Writing in L’Art de la mode in 1881, the Countess de Verrasques likened the Parisienne at her toilette to the artist painting a self-portrait.107 As Marie Double put it, women were artists because they created their own beauty, improving upon nature through a combination of cosmetic science and aesthetic sensibility: “A woman

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[is] . . . the artist of her own beauty, composing her toilette as a painter colors his canvas, perfecting the details, arranging the nuances, highlighting a feature, concealing a flaw. . . . Woman, the Parisienne above all, has made herself her own creator.”108 THE USES OF MODERNISM Despite the historical antagonism between art and commerce, modernist art and the modern market shared a common genealogy and a strong set of affinities. Although the impressionist art of the 1860s and 1870s was intended by its practitioners and seen by the bourgeois public as deliberately antibourgeois, modernist aesthetics were gradually assimilated by bourgeois culture over the course of the next twenty years. The immense popularity of impressionism among the middleclass public of the 1890s is one index of that influence. Another is the commodification of a modernist rhetoric of originality by fashion magazines, advertising, and home decorating advice literature during that period. By the turn of the twentieth century, the notion of the “art of everyday life” was as much a guide to chic for an emergent middle-class elite as it was a slogan of the avant-garde. Modernist art’s kinship with the market in the late nineteenth century is a topic well explored by scholars. They have understood this relationship as an outgrowth of modernism’s rejection of the traditional artistic subject matter of history and myth and of the neoclassical values of absolute beauty and technical virtuosity prized by the French Academy, as modernism expanded the boundaries of art to encompass the everyday experience of the modern individual. Detached from the studio and the closed professional milieu of the Academy, avant-garde painters forged a new concept of art-making as a dynamic, creative process, rooted in the individual’s private sensory experience. The goal of modern art was to create not an elevating, technically perfect reproduction of a well-known mythical scene, but a fresh and original, highly subjective representation of modern life, as seen through the eyes of the individual beholder: in Zola’s words describing Manet, impressionist art revealed modern life “through a temperament.”109 Scholars have argued, in short, that modernism’s “collusion” with commerce was based on a common epistemological paradigm: for the modern artist and the consumer alike, urban life was experienced as a series of disconnected surface sensations, a chaos to be ordered by the individual’s consciousness.110 Drawing on Meyer Schapiro’s landmark

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essay of 1936, “The Social Bases of Art,” which designates the rambling bourgeois consumer as the model of artistic freedom, vision, and creativity, the art historian Thomas Crow contends that commercial leisure was seminal to the development of modern art, providing both its central subject matter and a model of experience that was individual, private, and sensory in nature.111 The artist’s relationship to the bourgeois consumer was not without tension, however, since the former’s expert status was constantly eroded by the modernist aesthetic’s implicit democratization and deprofessionalization of art. Indeed, the idea that art was rooted in the individual’s private experience and that every experience could be approached aesthetically meant that, as Emile Bayard put it in 1908, “everyone is more or less an artist.”112 High modernists reacted against this apparent democratization and commodification of the modernist aesthetic by the 1890s; the fact that modernist painting and poetry retreated into the esoterica of symbolism during this decade might well be interpreted as a redoubled effort to enshrine the artist as a specialist distinct from the artist-consumer. Modernist art’s entanglement with commerce was mirrored by the market’s intimate, ambivalent relation to high art in general and the modernist project in particular. Just as modernist artists began to incorporate the materials, techniques, and subject matter of popular cultural forms, deliberately remapping the boundary between the commodity and the work of art, fashion magazines and other commercial media mobilized modernist definitions of creativity to reinvent the consumer as an artist and to ascribe aesthetic value to a wide range of commodities. Ernest Hoschedé and Jules Laquet, the directors of L’Art de la mode, articulated this position in an open letter to readers published in 1880: “To address the subject of Fashion from the most brilliant, the most elevated, and the most modern standpoint; to elevate it to the same stature as the subject of Art . . . that is the goal of L’Art de la mode.”113 This elevation of fashion to the status of art implicitly ascribed aesthetic value to the private sensibility and everyday experience of the individual, and thereby discursively transformed the role of the consumer. Whereas older definitions of fashion as art had ascribed the role of artist to the professional fashion-maker—the couturier or the artisan— according to marketplace modernism, the late-nineteenth-century consumer shed her status as a fashion object to become a dynamic and creative fashion subject, an aesthetic authority and an artist in her own right. She was fundamentally a modern artist, not only because her aes-

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thetic sensibility was her own individual creation but because her talent or chic was expressed less by technical proficiency than by the modernist values of individuality and originality. As described by taste commentators and fashion journals, then, the quality of taste was much more than the passive appreciation or connoisseurship of goods: in the lexicon of the late-nineteenth-century market, taste was transformed from a passive to an active, creative faculty, and acts of consumption were conflated with acts of artistic production. While neither fashion nor interior decorating were designated spheres of art in and of themselves, they were transfigured by the creativity of the artist-consumer. In her hands, declared decorative arts reformer Marius Vachon, interior decorating became “that other form of creation.”114 Octave Uzanne made the same case for fashion, arguing that the fashionable woman’s imagination had changed the very course of modern art and “created a [new] type of modern beauty.”115 In reconstructing the role of the consumer, marketplace modernism also transformed the meaning and value of the commodity. According to the aesthetic logic of the Ancien Régime, the beauty of things inhered in their intrinsic and absolute qualities, which in turn accrued to their high economic valuation. Since one had to spend a considerable sum of money to obtain goods deemed to be of beauty and quality, tasteful consumption tended to be linked directly to elite social and economic status. Marketplace modernism, like high modernism, severed this connection between quality and beauty; according to its logic, an inexpensive item could in principle be judged beautiful, even more beautiful than a more expensive object, just as a reproduction could be considered as valuable as an original. More important than individual objects, moreover, was the totalizing effect, the synthaesthesia created out of the melding of disparate parts into a harmonious whole. By the same token, quality goods to which high aesthetic and economic value traditionally had been attached could be rendered ugly in the wrong combinations. Consumers of limited economic resources could now aspire to the same heights of artistry as their economic superiors. According to the terms of marketplace modernism, then, what had once been perceived as vulgar could now be asserted as artistic. Like the high modernist aesthetic from which it derived, marketplace modernism attributed beauty to the eye of the beholder and permitted the bourgeois consumer to overcome her reputation for bad taste. In the face of the aristocratic complacency that blamed her for the erosion of French aesthetic standards, it thus offered bourgeois women consumers

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cultural legitimacy and aesthetic authority on their own terms: the chance, as Georges de Montenach put it, to use their individual talents to transfigure and elevate “the most vulgar objects.”116 The writer and art critic Jules Claretie made this point by likening the Parisienne to a bibelot as compared to a “beautiful marble statuette” or a phony pastel next to an Academy painting, and then bluntly proclaiming his preference for the fake over the genuine article.117 Similarly, Marie Double dubbed chic the parvenu with whom the most exalted aristocrats now sought to consort.118 The aestheticization of the commercial sphere through marketplace modernism was in many respects a response to a hostile cultural climate, an effort to reconcile the consumer market with the republic. Under siege from an array of critics, commercial agents sought to overthrow deep-rooted assumptions about the antithetical nature of art and commerce. They marshaled the language of art and aesthetics in order to civilize the unruly marketplace individual, creating in her stead a consumer whose relationship to the world of goods was rational, aesthetically discriminating, and morally disinterested, and who therefore would serve the republic rather than harm it. In seeking the imprimatur of the republic, marketers, retailers, and journalists served their own economic ends, to be sure; the artist-consumer was an iconic figure in the counterpropaganda launched by the market in its own defense. But efforts to aestheticize the market were also rooted in the internal doubts and conflicts of republican officials and commercial agents deeply enmeshed in the world of the modern market. Less pessimistic than conservatives and antimodernists, they nonetheless voiced concern about the threat posed by commercialization to both French civic culture and French aesthetic supremacy. Although journalists of the women’s press, for example, saw themselves as advocates and agents of the new consumer culture, to some extent they too perceived the modern market as a complex and continually evolving environment in which vulgar taste and dubious mores, as much as chic and virtue, could triumph. In discursively representing the market as a potentially civic and aesthetic arena, producers of commercial culture thus sought in concrete ways to shape it into a community befitting the republican social agenda. It is likely that they did so as much for their own peace of mind as to quell critics or seduce consumers. In many respects, the efforts of market agents were successful: the construction of consumption as an individualized artistic practice did

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indeed help to discursively align the interests of the commercial sector with those of the republic. But it also served a range of needs, both for bourgeois women and cultural elites, that marketers did not intentionally set out to satisfy. In figuring the consuming Parisienne as an artist, marketers played a critical role in forging and, above all, in disseminating a style of bourgeois femininity in which individual aesthetic sensibility played a central role in defining both self and social identity. In recasting the consumer marketplace as an aesthetic arena in which that sensibility could be cultivated and deployed, they democratized that model of selfhood, making taste—if not goods—readily available to female consumers of relatively humble social status and limited economic means. These developments had a range of implications: bourgeois women’s roles as taste managers afforded them individual autonomy and agency, power and pleasure, while also serving an important class function through the development and regulation of an emergent bourgeois aesthetic culture. At the same time, the aesthetic consumer was useful to governing elites eager to create a civic public, to redeem the French aesthetic patrimony, but also to promote commercial expansion. For the bourgeois republic, the civilization of consumption by taste and art promised political legitimacy and economic viability to the regime and cultural authority to its new bourgeois elites.

chapter 5

The Chic Interior Marketplace Modernism in the Bourgeois Home The bibelots left behind by an era are the testimonials by which posterity will judge its culture, its aspirations, its morality. Bon Marché advertising

THE FEMINIZATION OF INTERIOR DECORATING In his 1896 popular handbook on decorating, Henri de Noussane described a young woman’s apartment in rhapsodic terms. To create this “strangely beautiful interior,” he explained, she had custom-ordered furniture from a carpenter: “Then, with a sure talent and admirable patience, she carved the wood, chiseled the panels, placed Caryatids on the pediments, and fastened garlands everywhere. . . . She made works of art out of the doors of her apartment. Fresh landscapes covered the fireplaces, flowering branches appeared on the window panes. . . .”1 Noussane admitted that the young woman was “an artistic genius,” and that not everyone had the time and the talent to create this sort of “marvel.” But the moral of the tale was that women ought to avoid assiduously the assistance of the professional decorator if they aspired to artistic originality. “Do your own decorating,” Noussane exhorted his readers, “embellish your own home, according to your personal ideas and your natural means.”2 By the 1880s and 1890s, the bourgeois home had become the epicenter of artistic consumption and marketplace modernism. Even more than fashion, which retained a somewhat frivolous connotation, interior decorating came to be defined explicitly as an art of everyday life, a genuinely modern art form. In large measure, this development reflected the impact of a burgeoning decorative arts reform movement in the 1890s, 150

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closely linked to artistic modernism.3 At the same time, interior decorating became associated with the republican values of moral sincerity and authenticity attached to the domestic interior. The concept of the consumer as disinterested agent, as both aesthetic modern and moral being, thus was most fully realized in the bourgeois home of the fin de siècle, where the middle-class woman’s role in the market converged with her domestic identity. Commentators traced the growth of middle-class interest in interior decoration over the course of the nineteenth century to the bourgeois family’s lack of financial and psychic investment in its possessions. Henry Havard, a republican beaux arts inspector and decorative arts reformer, suggested that the rise of bourgeois domestic decoration coincided with both the advent of mass production and the revolutionary abolition of primogeniture: “In each generation, after each death . . . badly made things [are] divided up, dispersed, given away, or sold, and the house . . . [is] completely cleaned out.”4 The decorative arts reformer Marius Vachon characterized home decorating similarly as a singularly modern, bourgeois activity. Since the bourgeois household rarely inherited an ancestral home full of heirlooms, he noted, middle-class families changed abodes far more frequently than their noble counterparts. Each time, the bourgeois woman was called upon to reconstitute her surroundings afresh.5 The transitory nature of life in the modern metropolis accentuated this bourgeois rootlessness, according to the novelist Marcelle Tinayre: “Parisians by origin or Parisians by chance, almost no one owns a family home. Our foyers are dispersed to the four winds by fantasy, fashion, or necessity. We live in a provisional, temporary manner, without memories and almost without future projects and plans. Every stage of our life is marked by a move. When fortune favors us, instead of adding a wing or a floor to the house of our ancestors, we say: ‘I am . . . going to move to another apartment.’ ”6 The bourgeois style of life influenced not only the frequency but the forms of decorating. The art educator J. Fresson thus believed that the bourgeois housewife’s constant refurbishing had shaped her predilection for small pieces of furniture, and especially for bibelots, since these were not only less expensive than the massive pieces of the noble hôtel but could be more easily transported.7 Vachon concurred: the bourgeois woman tended to favor smaller, flimsier pieces of furniture, he asserted, not only because she redecorated more frequently than the aristocrat, but because of the rapid obsolescence of clothing styles characteristic of the modern consumer economy. Whereas the eighteenth-century noble-

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woman had stored her extensive, semipermanent wardrobe in magnificent, oversized chests, the nineteenth-century bourgeoise discarded her clothing so often that she had no use for the monumental armoire. By the 1890s, the fact that so many bourgeois households had to manage without a maid increased the popularity of less massive, simpler pieces that were easy to maintain.8 As the bourgeois interest in interior decorating grew, so did the bourgeois woman’s authority over the aesthetic disposition of the home.9 During the early years of the nineteenth century, however, decorating was a prestigious male métier.10 Moreover, a glance at the decorating journal Le Moniteur de l’ameublement suggests that the homme de goût—a category including not only decorators but artisan-producers and collectors as well—remained a privileged figure in the discourse on decorating throughout the Second Empire. Featuring descriptions of the lavish interiors and authentic collections of male connoisseurs, Le Moniteur extolled them as “serious men of high intelligence and perfect taste” who, by assembling beautiful “specimens of art and industry . . . have performed an eminent service to the country.”11 The journal also exalted the talents of French designers and master craftsmen, attributing the dominance of French taste “everywhere in the world today” to the “superiority and worth of our industrial artists and manufacturers.”12 The argument was driven home in a series of articles entitled “The Celebrities of Furniture,” showcasing the “particular cachet” of the premier French furniture-makers.13 When Le Moniteur did invoke the woman of taste, it was often to emphasize her dependence on the professional. A feature on the apartment of a certain Mlle X, for instance, acclaimed the taste of her tapissier but barely mentioned the shadowy Mlle X herself, her unimportance underscored by the elision of her real name.14 The same bias came through in a story about an élégante who, two days before throwing a party in her unfurnished apartment, had not yet approached a tapissier. Fortunately, she found one able to make up for her impetuousness: with remarkable skill and efficiency, he manufactured, delivered, and arranged furniture, fabrics, bibelots, and trim for the entire apartment in forty-eight hours. The woman not only managed to host the ball but was showered with compliments on her beautifully appointed home.15 Yet, if anything, the dismissive attitude of Le Moniteur toward the bourgeois maîtresse de maison and its relentless boasting about the tapissier may be read as a sign of an industry in some ways on the de-

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fensive. From the Second Empire on, the professional decorator was under attack: the increasing bourgeois demand for decorating contributed to the growth of the trade, but it also seemed to transform its ethos. Critics spoke of the commercialization of a traditional métier and the supplanting of the artisanal ethos by a new credo of greed and entrepreneurship, as unscrupulous tapissiers sought to exploit gullible and status-conscious bourgeois clients. In a handbook of 1866, the architectdecorator Edouard Guichard thus deplored the “despotic reign” of the professional decorator, accusing him of pursuing commercial self-interest at his clients’ expense. An “entrepreneur of interior decorating” rather than a disinterested craftsman, the tapissier decorated as expensively as possible, with little regard for the aesthetic needs of the maîtresse de maison. Guichard sniffed at the erosion of professional standards: “How the [tapissiers] of today take care of themselves!”16 What Guichard and other critics most feared was the commercial corruption of the industry’s aesthetic standards. Judging a dining room done by a master tapissier to be a “serious effort,” Guichard nonetheless derided it as an aesthetic travesty: decorated in fashionably “somber and severe tones,” the mood of the room was so mournful and dreary that, as he sarcastically put it, it needed only the added touch of a sarcophagus to make it the perfect setting for an ancient Egyptian funeral rite.17 While the entire apartment was decorated in the same drab, solemn style, completely lacking any “[color] contrasts or harmonies of tones,” the salon was the worst abomination. With walls decorated in white and gold and furniture upholstered in poppy-red velour, the room distorted the lovely carnation-pink complexion of the young maîtresse de maison to an angry red: “But what has happened to her? . . . Calm yourselves. No one is suffering here. It is the fault of the tapissier, who has forgotten that the complement of red is green.” The remedy for this particular oversight was obviously green upholstery, but Guichard’s more general point was that “it is urgent . . . that the decorator learn how to use colors.”18 The department stores of the early Third Republic were said to exacerbate the trend toward commercialization by competing with the tapissier for clients. According to the official report for the Exposition of 1889, “one can say without exaggeration that for fabrics and upholstery alone, half of all sales in Paris” belonged to the department store.19 The result of this new competition, claimed the Exposition jury, was an industry in shambles: by cornering the traditional market of the tapissier, the department store had reduced his art to “a simple com-

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mercial operation.”20 By the turn of the century, the 1900 Exposition jury reported, only seven out of 103 exhibitors in interior decorating were tapissiers, while the rest were department stores, furniture stores, and furniture manufacturers of various kinds.21 In the wake of these changes, observers claimed, a new generation of decorators and designers had emerged. Their enterprises were characterized not so much by commercial chicanery as by an appalling lack of education and aesthetic enlightenment that, as the 1889 Exposition jury report put it, violated “the general laws of reason and taste.” Ideally, an architect was to collaborate closely with “an educated and intelligent tapissier” to devise a blueprint for the interior that conformed “to the rules of decorative grammar” and harmonized with the dwelling’s architectural structure. But nowadays, the jury asserted, the architect vanishes from the building site no sooner than his work is completed, and “a terrible decorator takes over and fills the structure with horrible things, paintings that are too bright, gildings that are too brilliant, passé tapestries, worthless wall hangings, et cetera.”22 The taste critic RogerMilès complained bitterly in Le Figaro-modes that the commercial preoccupations of the industry had all but eliminated artwork from the domestic interior. Concealing indifference to art behind the pretense of stylistic integrity, he charged, the new breed of tapissier committed a multitude of crimes, “first against art and second against the psychic joy of . . . [his] clients.”23 In Henri de Noussane’s opinion, the bad taste and commercial exploitativeness of the tapissier were intricately linked: professionals crammed bourgeois homes with as many bibelots as possible because “they profit from having you buy so many things,” and created overstuffed interiors as impractical to live in as they were ugly to behold.24 For Roger-Milès, the problem was a more fundamental one: whether the maîtresse de maison lent an ear to the educated tapissier or the con artist, following someone else’s advice inevitably meant that she was “forced to get used to a bunch of things . . . [she] finds ridiculous.”25 In many ways, this censure of the tapissier during the Third Republic echoed criticisms voiced during the Second Empire. By the late nineteenth century, however, different solutions to these problems were envisioned. In Guichard’s attack on the tapissier of 1866, the proposed corrective was the aesthetic education of the homme de goût: the decorator, the industrial artist, and the manufacturer. He urged male producers and enlightened men of the world to stop putting their economic self-interest before the public good and, instead, join forces to solve

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“our decorating problems” and “lead the public taste.”26 By contrast, the remedy suggested by the 1889 Exposition jury was not simply to reeducate the industrial producer but to deploy the consumer as an important agent in the aesthetic regeneration of the nation. The jury concluded its assessment of the Exposition’s decorating displays with an explicit plea to the consumer to elevate the standards of home decorating: “May this well-deserved critique enlighten the shopper and lead her to a clearer appreciation of the matter of home decoration! In our contemporary society, educated and intelligent, where a new social hierarchy is emerging, the consumer must reappear in her guise of yore, guided by the masters, the architect, painter, sculptor, . . . the tapissier, all of whose combined science and talent is needed to transform monetary wealth into more precious and durable treasures, works of art. This enlightenment is easy to acquire these days and the person who does not see things this way simply does not want to!”27 Although jury members still ascribed the homme de goût an important role in converting wealth to art, they now presumed that he could not do so without the aesthetic “enlightenment” of the femme de goût. Roger-Milès took this logic even further: where the consumer had once followed the producer, he declared, the producer must now follow the consumer for France to “remain in the luminous sphere of taste.”28 In the quarter-century since Guichard had written, the aesthetic authority of the bourgeois woman had grown considerably, and, by the mid-1880s, the discourse on decorating had elevated the femme de goût to the status of creative agent alongside the professional decorator. According to the journalist Blanche de Regnault in Le Salon de la mode of 1885, decorating now “passionately absorbed” women in “every social sphere . . . from the petite bourgeoise . . . [to] the patrician.”29 By the first decade of the twentieth century, the Femina handbook on housekeeping declared, the bourgeois woman reigned over the aesthetic disposition of the home: “It is the maîtresse de maison who chooses and arranges everything to do with the decorating and furnishing of the home.”30 Writers for the women’s press represented decorating not only as a household responsibility but as a natural source of feminine gratification: “Is it not a real pleasure,” cooed “Shoppingette,” “to busy oneself with the decoration of the dining room?”31 This is not to suggest that the bourgeois woman of the late nineteenth century no longer hired the tapissier-décorateur. But the conception of decorating had changed, and with it the nature of the enterprise. Decorating in the midcentury and earlier tended to follow neoclassical

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aesthetics and to favor an opulent, luxurious style of furnishing. Since beauty was considered an objective quality that resided in objects, an outsider such as a professional decorator could play a central role; and whether the decorating was done by a decorator or by the maîtresse de maison, it was conceived largely as a form of conspicuous display that indexed the social and economic status of the family. In the late nineteenth century, by contrast, even the bourgeoise who still hired a decorator increasingly understood her own role to be that of a collaborator rather than a mere client. Furthermore, whether the bourgeois housewife worked alone or in tandem with a tapissier, she understood home decoration to be an artistic enterprise and the final product to be a creative work that expressed something essential about her inner being. Thus, even where the professional decorator was still in charge, the trend was away from the impersonal grand style typical of the Second Empire, and toward the expression of aesthetic individuality.32 What had happened to catapult the consumer to center stage? By the fin de siècle, marketplace modernism, with its definition of consumption as an individualized artistic practice, had forged a new understanding of decorating as a modern art form, whose chief creator was the bourgeois housewife.33 Beginning in the mid-1880s, an already substantial advice literature on interior decorating expanded, with the primary objective, in the words of Blanche de Regnault, of transforming “the home through the intelligent efforts of the mistress of the house.”34 While feminine prescriptions of the early nineteenth century had emphasized the roles of social ornament and moral guide, this new advice literature assigned a broader range of aesthetic responsibilities to the bourgeoise and took her competence to fulfill them as a given. As the taste experts saw it, art education and drawing lessons were so widespread, and decorating handbooks and journals so helpful, that the modern housewife no longer needed the expert.35 Where the woman who could not afford to hire a professional once had been embarrassed by the “intimate look” of her salon, she now could feel proud of her homegrown efforts.36 In Regnault’s encouraging words, “We no longer live in a time, dear readers, when women who decorated the foyer with their own hands carefully hid the role they played in the embellishment of their homes. . . .”37 The decorative arts movement identified decorating, even more than fashion, as the quintessentially modern art. Calling for an aesthetic of everyday life, decorative arts reformers insisted that the domestic sphere, as the most mundane of arenas, was the obvious starting point

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for such efforts. As the editors of the decorating journal L’Intérieur explained, “The interior is the milieu in which we live our family life.”38 This shift reverberated through the decorating industry, promoting a conception of the home as the locus of subjective artistic expression. According to Charles Jeanselme, a decorator and member of the 1900 Exposition jury, “Since the Exposition of 1878 . . . and even since 1889 . . . the art of the decorator has undergone a complete transformation.” The old era of decorating has “fortunately ended” and “given way to a new approach in which art has definitively entered into the decoration of apartments.”39 Traditional bourgeois ideals of domesticity that figured the domestic interior as an extension of its inhabitants were also transforming interior decorating.40 In contrast to a traditionally aristocratic view of the home as a public showcase, bourgeois decoration expressed a middleclass definition of the domestic interior as an intimate and private living space, in which criteria of comfort and practicality were as important as those of beauty.41 When commentators such as Vachon traced the increasing popularity of small, use-oriented pieces of furniture, they alluded to this idea of the home. As Fresson put it, “Changes in furniture styles reveal new . . . customs and new needs to be satisfied. Lately we have seen . . . a more and more pronounced refinement in the notion of the comfortable interior.”42 Likewise, Henri de Noussane contrasted the public nature of aristocratic decor with the private and personal character prescribed for the bourgeois home: “An apartment must have the character of the people who inhabit it, it must carry their stamp. There is no other way to really be at home. To live differently, one must live elsewhere, in an aristocratic hôtel.”43 The French importation of the English word home, evoking the Arts and Crafts conception of the home as a place of both beauty and comfort, offers another sign of this transformation. Just as the public nature of the aristocratic hôtel had demanded the skills of the professional decorator, decorating handbooks argued, the maîtresse de maison was the primary aesthetic arbiter in the intimate setting of “le home.” The woman who abdicated this role by hiring a professional courted aesthetic banality. “One can, of course, give oneself up blindly to the taste and know-how of a tapissier,” remarked Noussane derisively, “but every room will be identical to other rooms somewhere else, which will not do at all for those with even a bit of imagination.”44 The department store—ironically seen by many as the root of standardization—also took a vehemently modernist line in de-

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crying homogenization. A furniture catalogue for the Galéries Lafayette belittled the laziness of women who settled for prepackaged taste, deeming it a “monstrous crime” for Madame X, a brunette with a tragic expression, to have furniture identical to that of Madame Y, a tall, dreamy, indolent redhead: “What?!! The same armchairs for every woman? The same bibelots on the same tables? The same curtains? Rugs and wallpaper of identical color? You stop at nothing to be original in your toilette and you are right to do so; your hats are yours and yours alone. . . . You can be sure that the decor you live in is every bit as important.”45 Since marketplace modernism defined consumption as expressive of the inner self, decorating one’s home oneself had moral implications as well. The well-decorated interior, contended the editors of L’Intérieur, “must match perfectly the secret tendencies, the mentality, the psychology, the physiology, the social condition, the habits of the inhabitants. . . . To those who know how to look and comprehend, the interior reveals the mediocrity or superiority of those that live there. . . .”46 Marius Vachon reiterated the idea of the home’s moral transparency in his decorating handbook, La Belle Maison: “From the first step inside a home . . . the visitor senses the personality of those who live there . . . their morals, their habits, and their tastes, as well as their social situation.”47 From this perspective, hiring a professional was not only unnecessary but morally compromising: some experts accused the woman who used the tapissier of lacking in domestic sentiment because she had failed to protect the family sanctuary from the intrusion of outsiders. Just as the wife and mother owed it to her family to decorate her own home, the female citizen owed the same to the nation, according to the author of a housekeeping handbook of 1890: “You are too good a Frenchwoman to believe that you have fulfilled your duty by giving a lot of money and carte blanche to a decorator.”48 The “good Frenchwoman” decorated her own home, creating interiors that were at once morally pure and artistically distinguished. Comparing the merely comfortable homes of an earlier generation of middleclass women with the more chic modern interior, the journalist Jeanne de Bargny thus celebrated both the artistry and the virtue of the fin-desiècle maîtresse de maison.49 Likewise, for the novelist Marcel Prévost, the Frenchwoman’s assiduous efforts to create an “artistic arrangement” in the home were bringing glory to the nation.50 The aesthetic authority of the fin-de-siècle femme de goût was, in a sense, the converse of her putative responsibility for France’s aesthetic crisis: blamed

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for the degeneration of French taste, she was also cast as its redeemer. She was, moreover, not simply an ordinary artist, but one whose aesthetic authority was located in the modern market, whose most creative acts were acts of consumption. CREATING THE CHIC INTERIOR Although art had “definitively entered into the decoration of apartments,” the question of what constituted the modern aesthetic idiom remained the subject of much debate.51 Marketplace modernists—whether from the world of retail, advertising, or the consumer public—tended to conceive of it in two dimensions. Being modern meant being original, in the sense of engaging in an individualized artistic practice. But it also meant being bourgeois: that is, the market’s definition of the modern was informed by a class-based notion of cultural modernity that took shape through the differentiation of bourgeois from aristocratic style. In this way, bourgeois consumers who acted as individuals expressing a personal aesthetic vision also acted as members of an ascendant social elite seeking to establish cultural authority. In both dimensions, the bourgeois emphasis on originality aimed at establishing distance from the aesthetic codes of the past, in particular the neoclassical conception of absolute beauty, and in so doing addressed a cultural stereotype of bourgeois taste as hackneyed, imitative, and vastly inferior. This agenda was implicit, for example, in the decorating journal L’Intérieur’s call to update anachronistic notions of taste to suit the modern age: “We must . . . adapt the immutable principles of Beauty to the constant evolution of the social organism from the pressure of new needs, the influence of scientific progress . . . the transformation of the conditions of existence . . . [and] the fluctuations of taste. . . .”52 Although bourgeois elites sought to repudiate aspects of the neoclassical canon and to set new taste standards, they did not wish to jettison the French aesthetic patrimony completely. In part, their investment in the past derived from their tenuous and ambivalent cultural position relative to the nobility, which remained a socially and culturally powerful rival elite in fin-de-siècle Paris. If Ancien Régime styles were negatively charged for the bourgeois because they represented aristocratic power, they also were seductive precisely because they bore that connotation. But beyond the cultural envy that kept the bourgeois in partial thrall to aristocratic styles, marketplace modernism also sought to build connections with the aesthetic past as a way of preserving and revitalizing a

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sense of Frenchness. In other words, it cleaved to aesthetic tradition as a source of stability in a turbulent era, as a way of anchoring the transitory present in the solidity of the past. As Marcelle Tinayre explained in Femina of 1911, the antique offers “memories we lack. It has the stability and permanence we need. It belongs to a history that is our patrimony. Those who built it were not our relatives, certainly, but with the centuries, they have become our ancestors.”53 At the same time, by connecting the past to the present, marketplace modernism capitalized on the grandeur of the French aesthetic heritage. According to the editors of L’Intérieur, it was crucial that contemporary decoration be “inspired by works of art . . . of previous eras. . . . [Our] art must remain French in order to sustain our glorious traditions and our ancestral taste.”54 The complex relationship between the bourgeois present and the French cultural patrimony shaped the aesthetics of the market, in particular the importance of the French historical repertory to fin-de-siècle style. The prescriptive literature on decorating exalted aesthetic originality but did not, for the most part, attack historical styles or even the idiosyncratic admixtures produced by historical eclecticism.55 The descriptive evidence of household inventories, moreover, reveals that affluent bourgeois Parisians were themselves deeply enamored of aristocratic styles, in particular eighteenth-century styles such as Louis XV and Louis XVI.56 Competence in the neoclassical repertory therefore remained a necessary condition for aesthetic refinement. Rather than emulate wholesale forms of decorating linked to aristocratic dominance, however, bourgeois aesthetics sought to transform, simplify, and modernize them. “In borrowing from different styles that which can be modernized,” wrote the editors of L’Intérieur, “we will reconcile the customs of our race . . . with the necessities of the present time. . . .”57 Contemporaries claimed that the synthesis of past and present would revitalize traditions that had become stale and obsolete, refreshing and renewing the French patrimony.58 As much as the market needed to tap into the grandeur of tradition, the editors of L’Intérieur argued, the art of the past needed to adjust to the urban market in order to survive at all: “[French art] must be clever and bend itself, to a certain extent, to the modifications of industrial progress, the demands of hygiene, [and] the perfection of scientific equipment. . . . It must be intuitive and ingenious in order to be adaptable to every social condition, every character, diverse contingencies.”59 In the view of taste critics, the task of the current generation was to forge a modern aesthetic that drew upon, but did not simply re-

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hash, traditional forms, that innovated without deviating too far from tradition, to realize what the 1900 Exposition jury pithily described as “the will to novelty without eccentricity.”60

simplicity As a philosophical paradigm rather than a set visual code, marketplace modernism translated into a multiplicity of styles. According to the experts, it was often associated with practicality and simplicity of form, repudiating the ethos of aristocratic culture while recycling its aesthetic designs. Much of the “modern” furniture of the fin de siècle thus tended to be more streamlined, lightweight, and smaller in size than Ancien Régime models, but often replicated many of their features. Measuring the decorating pavilions at the 1889 Exposition by this modern standard, the jury report found fault with the Bon Marché’s Louis XV salon, not for being derivative or historically inaccurate, but for an overall opulence and clumsiness of execution that they deemed antithetical to the modern aesthetic. For the same reasons, the more restrained Louis XV salon mounted by the Petit Saint-Thomas department store found favor with the jury. If done correctly, the report asserted, the lighter styles and tones of the eighteenth century were more modern in spirit than the more monumental and somber genres of other period furnishings.61 The jury’s preferences apparently were shared by many fin-de-siècle consumers, furniture designers, and decorators, who tried to achieve the “modern note” in decoration by eliminating excess.62 The general principle of modern decorating was to distill decor down to its bare essentials: to seek understatement in the basic construction of the objects used to decorate a room—the structural design, materials, colors, patterns, and textures—as well as in their numbers and disposition. According to Femina’s popular domestic handbook, the artistic salon was defined by the absence of “heavy things, loud things, crude tones, rugs with flashy colors . . . that aggressively seize the attention and detract from the overall ensemble; complicated and pretentious curtains and draperies.”63 Such understatement was seen as a priori aesthetically superior to what Roger-Milès termed the “appalling sumptuousness” favored by earlier generations of Frenchwomen.64 Describing the furniture pavilions, the report for the 1900 Exposition similarly contrasted the stripped-down elegance of the fin de siècle with the baroque opulence of the Second Empire, evoking the tastes of that era with a mixture of incredulity and contempt: “Can it be true that this writing desk

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in sculpted wood belonged to the Empress Eugénie, who personified taste and incarnated fashion and beauty? Yes. And this clock and these candelabras, strangely showy, flashy, which would be seen today in the salon of a bookmaker, were, in their time, the height of luxury and, to say the word, of ‘chic.’ It was a time of ottomans and hideous armchairs. . . .”65 By contrast, the modern interior was composed of “sober objects . . . [and] simple lines,” furniture made of light woods such as oak and only a few bibelots and artworks.66 For Henri de Noussane, while the salon crammed with “tables overloaded with fragile bibelots, with fountains overflowing with palm fronds” was both claustrophobic and impractical, the sparsely appointed room, with “one or two beautiful cabinets and indispensable chairs and . . . the space essentially open,” was both elegant and livable: “Decorate simply, furnish soberly. . . .” he advised. “You will breathe more easily, and you will not run the risk of breaking things at every turn.”67 Roger-Milès considered the petit salon of Madame B. (fig. 14) a paragon of modern simplicity because it eschewed bibelots altogether, being adorned solely by a carefully chosen selection of paintings by “beloved masters.”68 Similarly, the Countess de Vérissey envisioned the artistic salon almost bare, furnished with only a small table adorned by a photo album and a candy dish, a piano with sheet music, and a small cluster of chairs, “waiting for a bevy of young women to chat about fashion, art, and music.”69 Likewise, the journalist Marie Double favored “individuality” and “artistic comprehension” over the “heavy atmosphere” created by sumptuous furnishings.70 Decorating authorities of the 1890s also rejected wall hangings and tapestries, a standard feature of bourgeois decor in the 1870s and 1880s, as encumbrances to be discarded, so that the natural materials of construction—wood, marble, stone, ceramic, and bronze—could be better appreciated.71 According to Charles Jeanselme, the revulsion toward fabric reflected a modern preoccupation with hygiene as well: “It is no longer a matter . . . of decorating a dwelling by crowding together rugs, wall hangings, and curtains and enveloping it from one end to the other with fabrics, which modern concerns about cleanliness and hygiene reject with good reason. . . . We would not go so far as to say that fabrics have completely disappeared from interior decorating, but they occupy only a limited place.”72 The modern method of reduction and distillation was, of course, not without its hazards. According to the experts, even simplicity could be taken to unaesthetic extremes. Stripped of embellishment, Roger-Milès

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Figure 14. The petit salon of Madame B. From Le Figaro-modes, February 15, 1903, 17. (Musée Carnavalet. © Phototèque des Musées de la Ville de Paris; cliché Degraces)

warned, the spare salon assumed a vulgar aspect.73 By the same token, a salon too dark and monotonic in color created a gloomy and inhospitable milieu. In Marcel Prévost’s account, this sort of drabness had typified the bourgeois salon of the early Third Republic, when “dark wallpaper . . . somber doors . . . [and] furniture in black pear-wood . . . [were] the cutting-edge in bourgeois elegance.”74 By the early twentieth century, Marcelle Tinayre complained of the opposite tendency, disparaging as soulless modern apartments that “stunned the eyes with their implacable, uniform whiteness. . . . These white salons . . . are not made for the more melancholic among us. . . .”75 Nonetheless, her account acknowledged the appeal of such severe simplicity: “These apartments, such as they are, have a certain charm in their cleanliness, their lightness, their apparent comfort,” she wrote, “I see them, with small furnishings, open spaces . . . engravings and pastels more than paintings, terracottas more than bronzes, I see them inhabited by svelte and lively young women, slightly dreamy, of a bold elegance.” But on balance, the taste for extreme simplicity was producing more standardization than

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originality: across the city, from the moneyed district of Passy to the more modest neighborhoods of Batignolles and Grenelle, “the apartments . . . are created according to the same blueprint.”76 Marius Vachon was even less generous in his assessment, railing against the proliferation of modern salons as “sterile as boat cabins.”77 These risks notwithstanding, experts considered the pursuit of simplicity to be central to the modernist endeavor for a host of reasons as much ideological as aesthetic. They interpreted simplicity as an index of artistic integrity and inner authenticity, in contrast to the frivolity, status-seeking, and insincerity connoted by more elaborate styles. RogerMilès preferred the artistic modern interior because it renounced “flounces . . . [and] pretentious decor . . . [all] that indicates a desire for self-display.”78 Similarly, for the journalist Octave Uzanne, all forms of extravagance in decor automatically insinuated an attention to social status that he considered inimical to authentic artistic expression. “Excessive luxury is unbearable,” he wrote, “for a sensitive soul who understands the delicacy and discretion of taste. . . .”79 Other polemicists saw the rejection of the baroque indulgences of the past as a reflection of the republic’s self-discipline and energy; writing in 1885, Blanche de Regnault greeted the appearance of more “severe” styles in furnishings as a mark of the sobriety and rationality of the bourgeois era.80 Commentators also celebrated the vogue for simple comfort as the triumph of private, domestic life over public appearance. In the expert view of the Countess de Vérissey, the coldness and stiffness of grand luxe no longer suited the present generation, so “much less formal, ceremonial, more casual and natural than . . . [its] forebears.”81 A fin-desiècle advertisement for the Grands Magasins Dufayel drew rather more invidious distinctions between bourgeois domesticity and the spectacle of aristocratic culture: “Life was once full of pomp, a constant parade. We were the slaves of our armchairs, our rugs, our credenzas. . . . What we value today in our furniture and our bibelots is no longer absolute authenticity [which is so difficult to achieve]. . . . [W]hat is important is that our guest be won over the moment he crosses the threshold of our home, that the harmony of the room pervade his spirit and make him declare: ‘I feel at home here!’ ”82 Exalting the harmony, coziness, and hospitality of the overall ensemble over the “absolute authenticity” of things, the advertisement suggested that the attractiveness of an interior correlated less with the cost of its furnishings than with the individuality and sincerity of its inhabitants. In short, the quality of the objects did not matter so much as their disposition

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and arrangement, the aesthetic composition which revealed the unique sensibility of the maîtresse de maison. While the affluent bourgeois was far from indifferent to the quality of goods, the advertisement highlights the growing importance of individual expression as a marker of taste in the marketplace modernist idiom. For other observers, aesthetic simplicity connoted democracy. Raymond Escholier, a literary critic and museum administrator, interpreted the cult of simplicity as a political maneuver to protect bourgeois political power from lower-class challenges, a necessary precaution taken by the ruling elite to preserve social peace. “In a democracy,” he wrote, “wealth must be hidden in discreet forms so as not to arouse dangerous envy. More than ever, taste must take the place of luxury.”83 Jeanne de Bargny, writing in La Mode pour tous in 1895, offered a contrasting interpretation. Far from an index of class struggle, she saw the advent of simplicity in home furnishing as the sign of a new class harmony. Permeating the social spectrum, the taste for simplicity had overcome class distinctions and created a new universal French culture: “In the simple dwelling of the clerk . . . in the exquisite hôtel of the aristocrat, in the opulent residence of the financier, from the top to the bottom of the social scale a sort of elegant and tasteful homogeneity reigns, embodying the general sensibility of our race, of our era.”84 Simplicity in decoration diminished social envy, she suggested, because it gave citizens of modest resources access to the culture of good taste. Indeed, by promoting the pursuit of individual aesthetic improvements as a substitute for social mobility, the marketplace modernist emphasis on simplicity served both bourgeois cravings for aesthetic distinction and republican aspirations to social peace. ECLECTICISM No style better satisfied the marketplace modernist imperative to innovate without severing ties to the past than the eclectic idiom that dominated bourgeois salons of the fin de siècle. To achieve the modern eclectic look, the maîtresse de maison was to pillage, appropriate, and combine diverse stylistic genres in novel arrangements, replacing neoclassical unity and symmetry with the idiosyncratic juxtapositions of pastiche. The roots of this approach reached back to the early nineteenth century. According to the etiquette and fashion writer Constance Aubert, the artistic adaptation of the French aesthetic patrimony had been viewed as chic ever since the overthrow of aristocratic cultural

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hegemony by the Revolution of 1830. Acknowledging that the excessive imitation of historical genres had hindered the development of a coherent style, Aubert nonetheless vigorously defended what she termed “rational eclecticism” as the sign of an emergent modern idiom: “What distinguishes the good taste of our era is the intelligence with which we have assimilated the best of the past. The alliance of different genres has produced a new, artistic genre that has given the current era its own distinctive physiognomy.”85 From the mid-1880s to the First World War, Aubert’s definition of the modern came to dominate the bourgeois market. Writing at the turn of the century, Roger-Milès echoed her in defining “a rational eclecticism, which adopts only that which it understands, and refuses to copy blindly” as the hallmark of modern decorating.86 For Henri de Noussane, an eclecticism that freely mingled styles of all eras distinguished the modern middle-class home from the uniform period style of the aristocrat’s hôtel particulier: “The salon of the bourgeois home and apartment is furnished preferably in a modern style. Understand what we mean by modern: here it signifies a mélange of styles.”87 The advice expert Emmeline Raymond offered her readers a similar prescription: “The more modern the salon, the more that decoration which is truly modern must be kept out of it. It should contain furnishings of every possible style. . . .”88 The same logic promoted eclecticism in fashion as well. “Fashion is about mixing,” proclaimed the columnist Lucie Crété in La Mode française of 1876. “Mélange has become so obligatory that a plain silk dress, no matter how beautiful the fabric, is considered less elegant than an artistically done toilette adorned with a lovely fringe that is half silk and half wool.”89 The popularity of eclectic fashion remained strong, the Countess de Sesmaisons reported in Figaro-modes, a quarter of a century later. “All genres, all styles, all sorts of admixtures, all anachronisms are now permitted,” she wrote, “provided that the result is attractive.”90 In mixing and matching styles of different epochs, modernist eclecticism blatantly disregarded the rules of conventional decorating, particularly those of neoclassical aesthetics. Writing in 1884, the decorating expert Emile Cardon thus urged women to abandon such staple texts of nineteenth-century decorating as Charles Blanc’s Grammaire des arts décoratifs. While Cardon judged Blanc to be “competent” in aesthetic matters, he considered the art critic and beaux-arts administrator to be “too much the classical academician to be followed in decorating one’s home.”91 Similarly, Henri de Noussane professed unorthodoxy to be

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the key to successful decorating: “If you do not care about the classical and you dare to break with established rules, everything will change. Beautiful antiques and gracious modern pieces will suddenly fit together; you will work miracles and the ugly will become attractive.”92 In particular, experts repudiated the cardinal neoclassical ideals of aesthetic unity and symmetry. Cardon urged readers to “avoid too much symmetry [in the salon], despite what Blanc says,” while the editors of L’Intérieur proclaimed uniformity to be “anathema to the agreeable interior and the enemy of beauty in decorating and furnishing.”93 As “the opposite of the Greek tragedy,” Marie Double instructed readers, the modern decor was to respect “the unity of neither time nor place.”94 More generally, the most important principle of modern decorating was to eschew any one blueprint for aesthetic success. As L’Intérieur put it: “One may formulate this rule: there is no, and there must not be any, general, uniform, or absolute style.”95 Likewise, Roger-Milès held that “intransigent absolutism” could only create ugly interiors, because good taste was a product of the “creative imagination,” and therefore changeable by definition.96 What were the components of the eclectic salon and how were they to be arranged? In contrast to the pure period style known as ameublement de style, the eclectic salon was first and foremost a palimpsest of the past. As Emmeline Raymond described it, “the modern salon has assorted furniture . . . of all styles: small Louis XV divans, Louis XVI and Henri II armchairs, chairs decorated with gilded cane and small panels of embroidered silk . . . a large panel of antique tapestry . . . a Louis XIV console . . . an antique clock. . . . [I]n a word, everything is permissible in the modern salon, provided that it is of a style at least two or three centuries old, so that nothing has . . . [the] banal aspect . . . [that is] proof of the inferiority of one’s taste.”97 Temporal eclecticism blended into exotic pastiche, as the mixture of foreign motifs came to rival historical montage in popularity. Henri de Noussane evoked a fin-de-siècle salon that melded foreign cultures in a harmonious amalgam: “Near the wall, on an ironwood pillar, a piece of Japanese crockery containing flowers, an artistic cabinet displaying a few bibelots: Japanese ivories, Chinese jades and quartz; an Ibis lamp with a Vietnamese lampshade in multi-colored ribbons. . . .”98 While Noussane proposed a petit salon done entirely in “Oriental” motifs—whether Japanese, Chinese, or Persian—Blanche de Regnault waxed enthusiastic about the use of Japanese accents in every room, offering advice on the artful disposition of fans and screens à la japonais.99 Beyond the Orientalist vogue, the home

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of the chic Parisienne described by Marie Double also contained Venetian crystal, German porcelain, Spanish chests, Flemish paintings, Dutch linens, Genoan lace, and English silver.100 Even Art Nouveau, which styled itself as a corrective to fin-de-siècle eclecticism, fused gothic, Japanese, and organic motifs in a contemporary synthesis.101 Although experts agreed on the basic elements of eclectic decor, they tended to diverge considerably on particulars of composition. One frequently debated issue was the desirability of mixing different styles within the setting of a single room or whether, in the words of L’Intérieur, “each room must have its own style.”102 A decorating handbook published by the women’s magazine Femina took the same position, outlining a strict repertory of styles for particular rooms.103 Other taste authorities, such as Henri de Noussane, advocated the fusion of styles in a single room.104 Despite this split in opinion, however, experts tended to agree that official reception rooms such as the grand salon required the classical historical style of l’ameublement de style because they were dedicated to public ceremony rather than to the private life of the bourgeois family, and harked back, in this sense, to a more aristocratic age. Femina, for example, favored Renaissance style, Louis XIII, or Louis XIV for the grand salon.105 Even Noussane, who believed in combining different styles in every room, considered more “majestic forms” such as Louis XIV or Empire furniture best suited to the formal character of the grand salon.106 By the same token, other forms of aesthetic traditionalism were considered more important in this relatively public setting than they were in other parts of the home. The Femina handbook, for example, insisted upon the use there of a historically accurate color scheme reflecting the fashionable colors of the era after which the decor was modeled. Bibelots were to be presented in a simple and dignified fashion, possibly mounted on pedestals draped softly in fabric; no flimsy ornaments of plaster or terracotta were to be tolerated. Finally, the display of family portraits was proscribed, to avoid any hint of an “intimate atmosphere.”107 In the petit salon, conversely, one sought precisely this “intimate atmosphere,” because it was seen as the heart of the bourgeois family’s private space. Again, recipes for creating this ambience varied from expert to expert, since particular styles held different connotations for different writers. The Femina handbook thus recommended Louis XVI and Empire style as the most appropriate historical genres for the petit salon, the very styles preferred by Noussane for the more formal environment of the grand salon. Overall, however, experts tended strongly

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to favor modern pastiche as the best decor for the petit salon.108 The jury for the 1900 Exposition, for example, conferred a gold medal on the pavilion designed by the up-and-coming tapissiers Gaittet and Guittet, including a salon “composed of furniture in different styles.”109 For the same reason, experts also preferred a modern eclectic look for other rooms designed for relaxation and “spontaneous and intimate visits” rather than formal receptions, the smoking room, billiard room, library, and studio among them.110 Even the Femina handbook, which tended to frown upon the mixing of genres within a room, adapted its guidelines to the size and formality of the space; if an entry foyer were constructed on an intimate scale, it was rendered “all the more agreeable the more an eclectic style prevails . . . in composition.”111 Indeed, many experts argued that the most daring of juxtapositions, that of the historical and the modern, worked best in the home’s most private retreats, where, as Roger-Milès put it, a modern painting surrounded by traditional furniture created a sense of “delicious . . . intimacy.”112 The categorical Femina handbook, which considered the contiguity of the antique and modern “almost always a disadvantage for both styles,” permitted exceptions to its own rule in noting that antique bibelots on the window sills of the modern petit salon offered an attractive accent.113 Perhaps because they were completely private retreats, bedrooms were almost universally viewed as the most aesthetically versatile spaces in the bourgeois home, in which both antique and modern styles worked equally well. But pastiche by itself did not constitute the modern eclectic style. Refiguring creativity as a kind of original imitation, modernist eclecticism sought novelty over permanence and individual expression over mimesis. Although experts encouraged the consumer to borrow motifs from other periods and places, they exhorted her to use them in a fresh and original way that revealed individual sensibility: in Vachon’s formulation, the praiseworthy decor had to be inventive as well as erudite, featuring furnishings that were enriched by, but not copied directly from, historical models.114 Again, the same philosophy applied in fashion. For Octave Uzanne, for example, chic fashion was forged not simply through the appropriation of traditional motifs, but through their recombination in innovative ensembles: “One lives in the past and is cosmopolitan at the same time; one finds inspiration in fashion illustrations of the past: one mixes them together and often, out of ten different toilettes, conceived at intervals of twenty years, one creates a charming and original ensemble of exquisite taste.”115

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Eclecticism rejected neoclassical aesthetic values of unity and symmetry because they connoted an absolute standard of beauty and a mimetic conception of art that clashed with the modernist imperative to be original. Like high modernist art, marketplace modernism in decorating reacted against these classical notions of aesthetic objectivity by making a convention of unconventionality. Just as modernist painters of the 1870s and 1880s played up the roughness of their brush strokes, the decorating eclectic prized the personal idiosyncrasy of her interior over a more polished but less individual look. Hence, Marius Vachon cautioned that the “ensemble that is too classical and correct” lacked personal cachet and created the unfortunate impression that it might have been “done by a decorator.”116 According to Henri de Noussane, the eclectic salon revealed not only the personality of the maîtresse de maison but the time and labor involved in the creation of her masterpiece, the fact that she had painstakingly searched out “a table . . . here, there a chest of drawers, elsewhere a settee, etc.”117 Above all, experts maintained, the modernist eclectic expressed her artistic vision through the creation of a coherent whole out of disparate and seemingly incongruous elements. The originality of the ensemble, in Uzanne’s words, inhered “in the harmony and the balance of proportion in everything and everywhere . . . in that special sensation of a harmonious whole . . . as measured as a masterpiece.”118 The journalist A. Paquet-Mille concurred, arguing that it was only the aesthetically independent woman who could create a “symphony” without “false notes,” while Marie Double admired the singular artistic taste that enabled the Parisienne to impose order on seeming chaos: “The ancient, the exotic, the cosmopolitan make of her furniture an original and brilliant mélange. . . . With the taste with which she is . . . gifted, she reunites all the disparate elements in a single marvelous symphony.”119 Double considered the eclectic salon of her friend Madame Octave Feuillet, wife of the well-known novelist, as exemplary in this respect. Featuring a tasteful, sparse array of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century bibelots, chairs covered with old fabrics, and silk screens artfully scattered through the room, Feuillet’s salon featured a panoply of styles unified by the guiding spirit of her artistic sensibility. The ambiance of the room was so inviting, according to Double, that Madame Feuillet preferred always to receive her friends at home rather than to go out.120 Likewise, according to Henri de Noussane, the artistic maîtresse de maison could transform a salon decorated in a “severe style” into a warm and cozy haven simply through the strategic disposition of its component parts:

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“What a ravishing corner one can arrange with a chair upholstered in plush and antique silk, coquettishly adorned with a cushion . . . a little table re-covered with an old fabric, on which lie a rack of books, a scissors made of ivory or old silver, a delicate vase in which a branch of orchids displays its bizarre elegance. . . . A folding screen separates this agreeable retreat. . . . [An] easel displays a family portrait, a favorite painting; trimmings in leather or chiseled bronze decorate the walls; large lamps scattered here and there illuminate the thousand little nothings which the imagination has arranged with such art.”121 The creation of the proper artistic relation between the parts and the whole determined the aesthetic value of each individual component of the composition as much as the overall effect of the ensemble. Through the ineffable “art of little nothings,” Noussane contended, the maîtresse de maison was able to use striking and original juxtapositions to transform “a vulgar piece of pottery into an artistic vase.”122 In principle, then, it did not matter if the goods used to decorate the home were fake or cheap; in one sense, experts deemed the creation of a beautiful ensemble out of inexpensive synthetic goods to be the greatest of artistic triumphs because its aesthetic value derived entirely from the creativity of the consumer rather than the inherent value of its elements. Marcel Braunschvig, a writer on aesthetic education, made clear the extent to which this logic made it possible in theory to use goods of any caliber: “No matter what the intrinsic value of your family furniture . . . it is up to you to know how to extract . . . its poetic charm.”123 Marius Vachon echoed Braunschvig in attributing the beauty of the interior exclusively to the taste of the maîtresse de maison rather than to the quality of its individual elements; the parts of the ensemble, he maintained, “derive all their value from . . . absorbing [her] originality, [her] personality.”124 According to the editors of L’Intérieur, modern decorating was “all about choice—choice in fabrics, in colors and details, in lighting . . . in the creation of a harmony through the combination of the furnishings, the rugs, the wall hangings, in the array and juxtaposition of the tones of each room, in the paintings, statues, prints, engravings, bronzes, leathers. . . . It is this choice, this particular appropriation and harmonization that makes the style of the interior.”125 Unlike mere copying, then, modernist eclecticism assigned the consumer new power. Her freedom to choose, however, brought with it added responsibility. Since the goal of modernist eclecticism was to express oneself through forms already used, one ran the risk of generating sheer chaos: those who imitated the chic eclectic “without discernment”

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or originality, Marie Double insisted, produced only “charivari” (discordance).126 Double contrasted Madame Feuillet’s elegant and purposeful eclecticism, for example, with the vulgar and incoherent variant displayed in the salon of another acquaintance, the wife of a rich banker. The hôtel of the banquière—her aesthetic ineptitude hinted at by her association with money—overflowed with exquisite furnishings and bibelots. But because she conceived of her home as a showcase for the display of her possessions, rather than a private interior embodying her personality, the net effect was a desperate jumble of different styles.127 Roger-Milès sneered at this type of woman, who claimed to have generated a new style, but whose attempts “to unify the various objects . . . result in farce.”128 Likewise, the jury for the 1889 Exposition directed its most devastating criticism of the department store pavilions at an eclecticism said to founder in dissonance and incoherence. Noussane diagnosed the problem as an overreaction to the rigid aesthetic codes imposed by the professional tapissier on the previous generation. “Under the pretext of escaping from ‘style,’ ” he wrote, “the apartment is furnished without measure or harmony, filled with disparate and badly matched pieces of furniture. Between monarchy and anarchy, we do not know how to find a juste milieu.”129 When eclecticism failed, the result was an unsuccessful hybrid of period and place. Writing for Femina, Marcelle Tinayre reproved the neophyte efforts of early Third Republicans for producing ignorant admixtures of the “Middle Ages . . . with Turkish and Chinese styles.”130 Just as certain styles naturally merged, others did not: “An Art Nouveau piece introduced into a Louis XVI salon,” Paquet-Mille opined, “has the effect of a crinoline under a tight-fitting dress.”131 And even if one passed the hurdle of genre-mixing, one could still fail in juxtaposing objects of the same style. As Blanche de Regnault put it, an object that was beautiful when paired with an appropriate mate could be grossly transformed by “bad company.” While a crystal vase with a single rose alongside an antique bronze pleased the eye, the effect of the same bronze placed next to “a badly painted vase, mounted on a false bronze base” was jarring to the point of inducing a fit of nerves.132 Eclecticism foundered as well when the interior was too cluttered and haphazard. Although a bit of disorganization created an “artistic impression,” Femina’s handbook cautioned, excessive disorder tended, “under the pretext of exoticism, . . . to encumber . . . interiors with a mass of disparate objects reminiscent of the oriental bazaar or the antique shop.”133 Not only an excess of objects but a chaotic arrangement

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were said to create a commercial atmosphere: “What is more deplorable or more hideous,” ranted L’Intérieur, “. . . than the fakery and grotesque display of random bibelots and department store art objects [in the home]?”134 The objection raised here was not simply aesthetic but moral: critics despised the commercial atmosphere as inimical to the ethos of the domestic interior. When Marcelle Tinayre criticized early Third Republic decor for its predilection for “bric-à-brac,” or when Marius Vachon warned that unschooled eclecticism created rooms that “resembled a bric-à-brac boutique,” they thus alluded to the taint of bourgeois materialism.135 If the chic eclectic created art out of commodities, her inept counterpart ran aground in bibelots and allowed commerce to triumph over art. But if bourgeois eclecticism could be ruined by aesthetic illiteracy, it was a novel art form in the hands of the consumer of taste. Defenders turned the standard criticism of the bourgeoise’s style—that, lacking any taste of her own, she plundered the fashions of different epochs, and threw them together in combinations at once outlandish and hackneyed—into a prime asset. Rather than a hodgepodge that amounted to no style at all, the jury for the 1889 Exposition argued, the eclectic style had emerged as the aesthetic of the modern age: “We are reproached for not possessing a well-defined style, and yet, is it not the case that our interiors, crowded with chairs, screens, folding screens, sedan chairs . . . constitute the up-to-date look [and], taken together, define a special fin-de-siècle character?”136 Although eclecticism might have “gone too fast and too far” in the fin de siècle, jury members acknowledged, it contained “the necessary elements for an artistic renaissance.”137 Proponents understood eclecticism not only as an art form that expressed the uniqueness and originality of the individual and the epoch, but as one which preserved and revitalized the French aesthetic heritage. Far from being revolutionary, modernist eclecticism was governed by a modified, circumscribed notion of originality that in no way severed connections with the past. Writing in Le Figaro-modes in 1903, Roger-Milès presented Madame F. as a paragon of eclectic chic for these reasons. Her salon (fig. 15), in which “no professional has applied his doctrine,” made an individual aesthetic statement, but was also a collective effort “in which several generations collaborated in creating its harmony.” For Roger-Milès, “The way in which this room is arranged . . . creates a particularly intense sensation . . . a century—and more—is recreated, piece by piece, in the form of precious furnishings, [in] handpicked objets d’art, in chairs upholstered in silk, in rare porcelains, in

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Figure 15. The petit salon of Madame F. From Le Figaro-modes, May 15, 1903, 19. (Cliché Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris)

congenial portraits . . . an entire collection where the eye . . . is enchanted, without the preoccupation of identifying the styles. It is not a page of history, it is a chronicle . . . to which each era has added a new paragraph. . . .”138 What held true for the individual also pertained to the nation. J. Fresson protested that the exaggerated eclecticism of the present day evoked the sensation of living amid the debris of the past, “as if the end of the world were near.”139 Yet, he insisted, it was both possible and desirable to elevate eclecticism from this kind of chaos to an exercise in rational choice and aesthetic expression by learning to successfully appropriate pieces of the past to forge a new, distinctively modern aesthetic vision. Toward this end, Fresson urged contemporary artisans to seek an aesthetic education that would teach them to emulate the successes of the past while avoiding its errors.140 Just as Fresson sought to lead the craftsman toward the definition of a modern aesthetic, so the decorating experts of the period sought to guide the chic woman in her pursuit of a signature style. For both producers and consumers, assimilating the aesthetic legacy of the past, as opposed to slavishly imitating it, was a recipe for being modern.

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the art nouveau experiment By the middle of the 1890s, the artistic maîtresse de maison could also create a modern salon by decorating it in the Art Nouveau style. A design idiom conceived as a modern aesthetic for a democratizing society, Art Nouveau was intended to incorporate machine production while preserving artisanal standards of quality, and to innovate and simplify design forms while maintaining strong aesthetic links to the past. At the same time, it was also part of a pan-European movement to develop a transnational modern aesthetic, one that responded to the ugliness of industrial culture and the mechanization of production through efforts to revitalize and modernize the handicraft sector. The French variant remained somewhat distinct from other European models, however, tending toward a greater ornateness meant to signal a connection to French aesthetic traditions.141 Among taste experts, attitudes toward Art Nouveau and its role in articulating a style for the epoch varied widely. Supporters heralded it as a reaction against the clutter of bric-à-brac and the jumbled eclecticism said to typify the bourgeois salon. The jury for the Exposition of 1900, comprised in part of government officials, professional decorators, and furniture industry leaders, lent the movement semiofficial approval by heaping praise on what were deemed the more “fruitful” Art Nouveau exhibits. Among these was the Art Nouveau pavilion erected by the Samaritaine department store, whose “new tones . . . [and] the play of different woods . . . so far from the beaten track” were said to startle, but also to please, the viewer’s eye.142 Likewise, the jury report commended the winner of the Exposition’s Grand Prize, the Maison Jansen, for having taken Art Nouveau “a notable step forward” in its display of a “perfectly educated modern style, delicately . . . homogeneous,” and cited the Art Nouveau pavilion of the Maison de Petit Saint-Thomas not merely for attractive designs but for its democratic efforts to target a “more modest clientele.”143 Jury members praised Art Nouveau’s emphasis on natural materials, its muted tones, and the plainness of the designs as expressions of the modern sensibility, but were most impressed with the willingness of Art Nouveau designers and manufacturers to innovate: “It really takes a certain courage on the part of a manufacturer to spend the money, often a considerable amount, on an absolutely new style when one has no way of knowing how the public will respond to it, if it will be to their taste . . . and to run the risk of harsh criticism or

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even of disastrous failure.”144 They also exalted Art Nouveau’s creativity over the mere craftsmanship they attributed to traditional furniture design: “It is pretty easy to dig through classical documents, books about art, of which there are so many nowadays, and among the photographs of our châteaux, to put together a Louis XV or Louis XVI ensemble. There is certainly taste and talent involved in the choice and execution of a room in an existing genre, but it is infinitely easier than creating a style. . . .”145 Even more significant than these professional accolades was the fact that the Art Nouveau exhibits at the Exposition reportedly had caught the public eye: “The copies of historical furniture, as well executed as they have been, have not had . . . the public favor, which seems resolutely oriented towards the efforts in modern art.”146 In spite of this professional and lay support, many expert commentators and designers remained wary of Art Nouveau, and even those willing to incorporate elements of Art Nouveau design into the modern interior were unwilling to grant it a monopoly on the modern. Marcel Prévost noted in 1907 that the majority of bourgeois interiors contained “a touch of Art Nouveau,” but that its use was most “often imprudent.”147 According to “Frisette” of Femina, the best possible setting for a hint of Art Nouveau was a young girl’s bedroom, although the maîtresse de maison had to exercise considerable restraint in its execution.148 A significant number were overtly hostile to the movement. Roger-Milès urged the readers of Le Figaro to “leave to our heirs a style which is modern, without ever being modern style.”149 Similarly, the editors of the snobbish L’Intérieur designated the goal of interior design to be that of defining “the rare bird, the new style—that must not be confused, if you please, with . . . the notorious modern style.”150 These critics objected foremost to what was perceived as Art Nouveau’s revolutionary intent, its audacity in breaking links with the styles of the past. Responding to this line of attack, those who championed the genre took care to emphasize its nonrevolutionary character by tracing its roots back to eighteenth-century French rococo design. Defending the Art Nouveau designer Siegfried Bing, one journalist wrote: “He is not the revolutionary he is often accused of being. . . . Art Nouveau is not trying to create a revolution, but, rather, is the mark of the most fertile of evolutions, attached to and flowing from the grande tradition française,” the eighteenth century and Louis XV style in particular.151 But opponents of the style nonetheless feared that Art Nouveau would

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dilute the Frenchness of French design by merging it with the aesthetic traditions of other European nations, in particular England, under the umbrella category of modern style. Even the pro–Art Nouveau jury members of the Exposition of 1900 evinced anxieties of this kind. They glossed over the foreign exhibits in their report, noting only the preponderance of modern style in the German, Austro-Hungarian, and English pavilions and indulging in a few critical jabs at the derivative nature of the English designs.152 Only a few years after Art Nouveau’s success at the 1900 Exposition, decorative arts reformers, popular taste experts, and government officials alike reached a consensus that the genre had degenerated into a rococo parody. According to Marius Vachon, Art Nouveau had devolved from its early “freshness,” its designs now hopelessly “deformed.” By 1907, Marcelle Tinayre offered a caustic account of the decline and fall of Art Nouveau: “A few women of taste, a few artists realized [Art Nouveau] interiors as beautiful as a poet’s dream. . . . But alas! Too soon the genius of Art Nouveau was vulgarized and . . . zigzags like thunder, monstrous flowers, locks grimacing like demons invaded our rooms. One saw chairs that could only seat the slenderest sylph. Symbolism spread in the bourgeois home until, finally, cheap designs were produced by department stores and German workshops, and the dishonoring of Art Nouveau was complete. Only a short while later, French taste returned to national traditions.”153 For the editors of L’Intérieur, Art Nouveau signified “the abuse of modernism in excess, which only leads to deformation and the destruction bit by bit of the excellence and the inimitable exquisiteness of our traditional art, . . . ending in the caricatural extravagances of an incoherent imagination, a style of contortion and grimacing, the very antithesis of art.”154 More to the point, consumers also rejected Art Nouveau. In the view of “Frisette,” by 1907 its popularity was already waning and consumers’ tastes had turned back toward historical pastiche, “despite the efforts of Art Nouveau to turn our attention in other directions.”155 By 1913, the Art Nouveau experiment was definitively over, to the point where the journalist Fernand Vanderem could reminisce about it as a phenomenon of the distant past: “Do you recall le modern style of fifteen years ago or more?” Vanderem remembered it accurately, as a movement of “hope, fantasy, revolt against routine,” but one which had stumbled early on.156 Its sinuous designs, initially refreshingly simple, had become overly ornate and complex, its bright tones had degenerated into gaudiness.

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Modernist eclecticism eclipsed Art Nouveau not only because the latter abandoned its aesthetic premise but because it betrayed its democratic promise as well. Committed to the quality of natural materials, Art Nouveau became too expensive to be accessible to many bourgeois housewives. Ironically, it became associated on the one hand with gaudy, cheap “gimcrack furniture,” and on the other with exquisitely crafted objects of exorbitant cost.157 Moreover, Art Nouveau divested the consumer of her aesthetic authority and transferred creative power back to the craftsman. Enamored of Art Nouveau for a brief period, the majority of bourgeois consumers ultimately rejected not simply the notion of an international style but, more fundamentally, that of an elitist, productionbased design idiom. In its stead, they embraced a definition of marketplace modernism that placed the ordinary consumer at the center of artistic creation and imagined France as the hub of world taste. THE CONSUMER AS MODERNIST MANQUÉ Marketplace modernism, the eclectic method in particular, afforded women an unprecedented degree of aesthetic agency and autonomy. But at the same time, it remained both distinct from and subordinated to the male modernism of the atelier in a number of important ways. Certainly, the modernism of the bourgeois interior and of the mass media clashed fundamentally with modernism as defined by its painterpractitioners, in the sense that the identity of “artist-consumer” was not recognized by modernist artists. They maintained a rigid distinction between high art and decorative art, in the interests of protecting their status from appropriation by amateurs of all kinds, especially untrained women. Even the popular discourse on decorating, however, implicitly preserved several basic distinctions between the marketplace modern and the high modern, and thus consigned women to a subordinate aesthetic position. The relegation of women to a lesser aesthetic role was accomplished, first, by positing a feminine intimacy with objects so great that the bourgeois woman herself became a part of the decor. Indeed, decorating guides conveyed two conflicting messages to women: that they were artists, yet that they were themselves objects of art. The fusion stemmed from the intimate identification of the home with the persona of the maîtresse de maison. So essential was a woman’s being to her decor that the body of the bourgeois housewife became an integral part of the interior, a decorative object to be coordinated with the other objects of

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the home. According to the journalist Louise de Salles, women were to avoid fashionable fabrics and to limit themselves strictly to colors that blended with their hair-color and skin tone; in her view, blondes looked best in rooms with accents of sea-green, sky-blue, or cherry-red, while brunettes were flattered by backgrounds of olive, gold, or deep blue.158 “Frisette” went still further, insisting that women ought to think of decoration as an extension of their wardrobes: “Use your rugs and curtains to dress yourself.”159 Likewise, Henri de Noussane saw the maîtresse de maison as the centerpiece of a larger work of art: “Your salon, Madame, is nothing more than a frame to set you off. Choose your colors according to your hair and complexion.”160 The same relationship between woman and object was postulated for fashion. Echoing Noussane, the Countess de Sesmaisons likened exquisite toilettes to “living portraits that seemed to be ripped out of some old frame.”161 Of women who satisfied their artistic instincts for form and color through fashion, Marcelle Tinayre wrote that they “realize with their bodies, with clothing, a living poem, a painting that walks, a statue that breathes, a form of music that can be seen.”162 For Tinayre, although such women were, in their way, “artists, at times artists of genius,” she deemed their ability to be inferior to that of the genuine artist. They were forced to resort to creativity in fashion, she explained, because, “not having the talent of a sculptor or painter, they have no other means of expressing their sometimes exquisite sensibilities, their love of an unexpected form or a delightful nuance.”163 Octave Uzanne considered the chic Parisienne to be both artist and artwork, a creation that invented itself; to the art critic Gustave Coquiot, who dubbed her the ultimate bibelot and the consummate “article de Paris,” she was more commodity than person.164 The discourse on decorating also suggested the fusion of woman and goods by anthropomorphizing objects and construing them as a woman’s intimates. For Louise de Salles, writing in Paris-mode of 1892, bibelots were not merely reflections of a woman’s taste but witnesses to her experience, “a priceless set of friends.”165 Similarly, for Marcelle Tinayre, “Our home is our realm, as well as the extension and reflection of our personality. Our furniture, our bibelots, chosen by us, reveal our secret tastes, even our ideas, our conception of happiness and beauty. When an unknown visitor waits for us alone for a few minutes in our salon, in spite of himself he interrogates the objects, witnesses and confidantes of our lives. . . .”166 Both Salles and Tinayre viewed the Parisienne as a dedicated consumer who gathered objects for the purpose of

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her private delectation, in pointed contrast to the male collector whose objects and artworks constituted a museum of sorts. Such comparisons point toward a broader distinction drawn between masculine and feminine modes of display. Men were said to exhibit objects as evidence of their erudition and taste, or of their economic and social power, but these objects remained separate from the man himself. Women, by contrast, did not so much display objects as surround themselves with them. In other words, the objects in a woman’s home (or adorning her body) played a synecdochal rather than a symbolic role in relation to her identity, so that the room decorated by the maîtresse de maison was ultimately less her creation than an extension of her very being. An intimate photograph of the Countess de Noailles in her salon, where she seems almost to blend into the decor, exemplifies this putatively organic relationship between woman and thing, whereby women ultimately became the objects, as much as the subjects, of modern art (fig. 16). The purview of the female modernist was also circumscribed by the scope of her creativity. In contrast to the putative freedom of the modernist artist, the chic woman was limited to skillful variation within a more or less rigidly defined code, her originality measured by her talent for the imitation and rearrangement of already existing forms. Some commentators, such as the art critic Arsène Alexandre, argued that imitation itself was a form of creation. In his view, it was the constant borrowing and vulgarization of styles that gave birth to new ideas, that made “Paris, where everyone imitates, inimitable.”167 Similarly, for Louise de Salles, the creative genius of the artist-consumer inhered precisely in her ability to be inventive without in any way being transgressive: “The Parisienne . . . always knows how to be original within the limits of the permissible.”168 For most observers, however, imitative originality and pattern-making were lesser forms of originality. The nature of the distinction drawn between the feminine modern and high modernism is made clear in Henri de Noussane’s rather exasperated directives to his female readership: “I do not ask you to create a style. Just arrange the furniture under your roof to your own taste, aided by your imagination and your knowledge. You have old furniture, some imitations of ancient pieces, some modern trinkets, a portrait by Largillière, a landscape by Corot: be inventive in the play of the rugs and the wall hangings and in harmonizing the disparate elements to make an elegant unity. You will thus be able to add a personal note . . . to this composite mélange.”169

Figure 16. Countess Anna de Noailles, poet, mondaine, and friend of Marcel Proust, in her living room. Photograph by Desboutin. From L’Illustration, vol. 2, 1913, 369. (Courtesy of the Getty Research Institute, Research Library)

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Finally, a considerable number of writers insisted that, although French women contributed greatly to the aesthetic glory of the nation, their most important work remained that of consumers, not producers, of art.170 Reviewing the first Exposition of the Arts of Woman held in the Palais de l’industrie in 1892, the decorative arts reformer Louis de Fourcaud attributed the greatness of French art to the exquisiteness of the tastes of Frenchwomen whom artists sought to please.171 For Marius Vachon, the Frenchwoman’s extraordinary level of aesthetic cultivation had forged a tightly knit relationship between artist, artisan, and female consumer that made France the envy of the Italians, the English, and the Germans. For Vachon too, however, woman’s central role was not that of a genuine creator, but of an aesthetic midwife who ought to try to “develop . . . a little of her . . . dream . . . in the hands of the artist . . . and to find . . . when it is done . . . something of herself in it.” In his view, this was not only an aesthetic satisfaction, but “a glorious social destiny”: “Through her taste, Woman holds in her dainty and white hand the bread of the artisan, the livelihood and the renown of the artist. Her initiatives and fantasies can assure the prosperity and obliterate misery in the artistic industries.”172 But where Vachon saw a felicitous collaboration between artist and consumer, the decorator Frantz Jourdain perceived arrogant women so caught up in the pleasures of decoration that they had forgotten their enormous creative debt to aesthetic producers. Writing in the Revue des arts décoratifs in 1893, he declared contemptuously: “Ladies, amuse yourselves elegantly, play at embroidery, adorn yourselves for our eyes beneath the double halo of industry and art, it is your right. . . . But never forget the modest working women, lost in shadow, who allow you to be charming. Nor should you forget the directors of the workshops, the manufacturers . . . who seek unceasingly to pay homage to you, pursue, invent, try to elevate your pedestal by yet another degree. You are charming statues! But it is the manufacturers and the working women who are the sculptors. We must not forget them anymore.”173 Although the fashion journalists, decorating experts, and advertisers of the late nineteenth century depicted decorating as a form of selfexpression, they drew upon broad cultural assumptions about femininity that were ultimately incompatible with their conception of modern art. While they ceded new aesthetic power to the bourgeoise, they simultaneously undermined and restricted that power by embedding the marketplace modern within the hierarchy elaborated by canonical modernism. Marketplace modernists thus limited the parameters of the

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artist-consumer by ascribing to women a talent for imitation and arrangement as opposed to genuine creative ability and by treating her as one of the objects in her artistic ensemble. The female artist-consumer represented in the prescriptive literature was artistic, but she could not be considered an artist in the sense of her male analogue. Like the modern artist, her originality was said to lie in truth to a personal vision; her best means of realizing that vision, however, was to hone her skills as a consumer. The forging of an aesthetics of the market reveals several convergent processes at work. First, it demonstrates the ways in which the market transformed and widened definitions of art, establishing new standards of beauty and generating new aesthetic styles: the “marketplace modernism” which I have described. Art educators like Fresson and producers of commercial culture such as Roger-Milès played a pivotal role in reconstructing the relationship between art and consumption, in part by exploiting existing models of bourgeois aesthetic individuality. In their imagination, the market emerged as a prime arena for both the cultivation and the expression of aesthetic selfhood, one which buttressed rather than sabotaged the republic’s cultural authority and moral legitimacy. This is not to suggest that these commentators were unambivalent proponents of commercial modernity. On the contrary, they admitted to the potential hazards of the market, from unschooled consumers to cunning marketers and poor-quality merchandise. But they did not, after all, invoke the myth of a bygone era in which commerce and art were in harmony. Like the bourgeois consumer clientele they both influenced and served, for the most part they were not nostalgic for the Ancien Régime’s commercial or aesthetic order. Instead, the vast majority of taste experts writing at the turn of the twentieth century saw themselves as the harbingers of a new commercial order, allied to both the bourgeois republican political regime and the world of art. As much as the dominance of bourgeois historicism reveals the impress of agents of the market, it was also shaped by the consumer public and the republican political establishment. As we have seen, Art Nouveau failed and eclecticism succeeded in part because the latter reassigned aesthetic value from objects to individuals, and more particularly to bourgeois women. Ascribing beauty to the artmaking process— to the individual’s creative ability to select and assemble a harmonious whole out of seemingly incongruent and disparate elements—modernist

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eclecticism transformed mere consumption and imitation into individualized acts of creation. In so doing, it bestowed new artistic authority and, with it, moral sincerity on the bourgeois woman consumer. In political and cultural terms, marketplace modernism created the ideal of the disinterested woman consumer, exemplary both as political subject and aesthetic agent. At the center of the new commercial order, then, stood the figure of the female artist-consumer. Independent of both male producers and aristocratic rivals, the fin-de-siècle Parisienne was, in Marie Double’s estimation, a vibrant original. “More practical, more artistic” than her forebears, Double wrote, “she is a new woman, born of a new milieu.”174 This model of marketplace femininity, moreover, had multiple uses. If the artist-consumer provided taste experts with the image of the socially and politically reputable shopper, she also fit the agenda of bourgeois elites, including middle-class women, who sought to utilize the resources of the market to arrogate cultural power. The discursive reconciliation of bourgeois civil society and the commercial arena may thus be understood as a collaborative project, undertaken by the agents of the market, but also serving their bourgeois clientele. Yet while the aesthetic market and the artistic shopper promised to redeem the market for the republic, they also presented new difficulties. Ascribed a new degree of aesthetic authority, the artist-consumer was accorded a relatively powerful social identity, one which took her beyond the normative confines of the domestic interior. In this sense, the gender and class interests of the bourgeoisie sometimes came into conflict with one another in the context of the market. Even though her aesthetic sensibility rendered her rational, civil, and aesthetically discerning, the artist-consumer posed a danger to existing gender hierarchies because she commanded a considerable measure of social and cultural power and because that power inhered in a well-defined, self-contained individuality. As we shall see, the potential spread of this mode of consumption to new social groups heretofore excluded from bourgeois consumer culture further threatened to erode the boundaries of the social hierarchy and to dilute the newly claimed social status and cultural authority of middle-class elites.

chapter 6

Consumer Citizenship and the Republicanization of the Market Virtue must know how to be . . . seductive to be complete. Jeanne de Bargny, La Mode pour tous

THE CHIC PARISIENNE AND THE MAITRESSE DE MAISON Expounding on the duties of womanhood in La Courrier de la mode in the early 1890s, the pseudonymous journalist “Grillonne” likened the function of the modern maîtresse de maison to that of a politician negotiating the needs of the French citizenry. “A real woman” she wrote, “. . . knows how to run the great ministry that we call the foyer domestique for the good of everyone and how best to play her complex role as wife, mother, and femme du monde.” She was to fulfill that role, both serving her family within the private domestic setting and representing them in the public domain, through her conduct as a consumer: “If it is the head of the family’s task to support his wife and children, it is the wife’s task to wisely divide his earnings. . . .”1 “Grillonne’s” metaphor of the consumer as a political minister points toward the discursive legitimization of the female consumer in the republic of the fin de siècle. Just as producers of commercial culture developed an aesthetics of the market that purported to redeem the taste of the bourgeois consumer, they sought equally to develop a marketplace ethics that would rehabilitate her moral character. They attempted to do so largely by promoting domestic and social modalities of consumption meant to anchor shopping firmly in the context of home and family and to inculcate in consumers the virtue, sincerity, and

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rationality of the republican housewife. Alongside the production of the artist-consumer, for whom consumption was an individualized artistic practice, the female consumer thus was also constructed as a selfless wife and mother who shopped for the good of family and nation, rather than in pursuit of material self-interest or narcissistic pleasure. This burgeoning alliance between home and marketplace was forged and fostered by two convergent cultural constructions of the fin de siècle. French foyer and consumer marketplace were linked, first, by the positioning of the artist-consumer in the bourgeois home, and, second, by the construction of a domestic consumer who attended to the needs of the family and, by extension, became a consumer-citizen who served the French Republic.2 “Grillonne’s” remarks underline this new proximity between the maîtresse de maison and the Parisienne as aesthetic icon, known for her exquisite taste. Each type, the woman of aesthetic distinction and the socially responsible republican housewife, was characterized by her disinterested relation to the world of goods. In many ways, their modes of consumption complemented one another; indeed, to the extent that disinterestedness was believed to be the foundation of superior aesthetic judgment, the morally sound consumer and the consumer of taste were inextricably entwined. Like the artist-consumer, moreover, the maîtresse de maison possessed considerable authority within the domestic purview. Endowed with the traditional virtues of republican womanhood, the maîtresse de maison of the turn of the century was perceived as more competent and independent than the relatively dependent femme de foyer of the midcentury: an efficient household manager, she was as proficient in the modern discipline of “domestic science” as in the modern arts of fashion and decorating. But although these two consumer types merged increasingly in the representation of the market, they also differed in significant ways. The artist-consumer’s detachment from commodities lent her taste and virtue, but she was also a highly individuated being. While she bolstered the aesthetic prestige of the nation through the expression of her excellent taste, this was only a secondary effect of her actions. Her primary objective in consumption remained the expression of self. Conversely, the maîtresse de maison consumed first and foremost for others. Although she also took pleasure in consumption, her private pleasure was merely a byproduct of deeds intended primarily to safeguard the well-being of family and nation. In one sense, then, the model of the consumer-citizen can be understood as a solution to new dilemmas en-

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gendered by the creation of the artist-consumer. If the material independence and aesthetic authority ceded the female consumer as artist threatened republican gender hierarchies, that power and authority was circumscribed and delimited by its location within the republican foyer. More was at stake in these representations of the consumer than woman’s proper place. The tension between the female consumer’s wanton self-indulgence and social restraint was the very same tension that lay at the heart of the contradiction between the economic selfinterest necessary for the market to work and the civic virtues needed for the Republic to prosper. The union of home and marketplace, of maîtresse de maison and chic Parisienne, thus emerged as a central theme in a larger quest to temper the culture of liberal individualism and to transform the selfish consumer into the exemplary citizen. Seeking to reconcile the goals and values of the commercial public with the civic republic, agents of the market claimed domesticity, just as they claimed taste, as a means of civilizing consumption. This chapter explores the emergence of a new model of the consumer in the fin de siècle, part republican maîtresse de maison, part chic Parisienne, and its uses in reconciling the republic with the market. Once polarized, these roles appeared increasingly as different dimensions of the same woman in the advertising, fashion journals, and advice literature of the era. The chapter demonstrates, first, how the chic consumer was ascribed a domestic identity, and second, how the maîtresse de maison was transformed into a consumer through images and texts portraying shopping as a family activity and a domestic duty.3 While the market served bourgeois women as individuals by offering them an arena in which to forge independent forms of selfhood, it also served the bourgeoisie as a social class—at times in ways that stifled feminine agency— by producing bounded and disciplined forms of feminine selfhood appropriate for republican subjects. The merging of the domestic consumer with the artistic consumer also enabled marketers, crucially, to sell consumption to the French working-class woman. Applying domestic values and skills to the consumer arena, the maîtresse de maison rationalized consumption and made household budgeting an integral part of her responsibilities. These developments, I claim, generated a model of “elegant economy” that theoretically threw open the consumer marketplace to women of humbler social and economic status. The discourse on chic democratized aesthetic distinction by severing it from class and linking it instead to the environmental development of individuals and the aptitudes of

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the French “race.” The convergence of chic with a burgeoning domestic economy movement set consumption in the everyday arena of the home and family, where shopping was transformed from a pleasurable leisure ritual for the social elite into a household labor, a duty incumbent upon every housewife. The republic was an aesthetic democracy, however, in name only. Although marketers created the spectacle of inclusion, one that was indeed consumed across social boundaries, the diffusion of goods was limited primarily, although not exclusively, to the middle and upper echelons of the bourgeoisie. In ideological terms, moreover, chic was at bottom a meritocratic doctrine based on individual achievement and cultural capital. Thus, while marketplace modernism in principle democratized taste, it also helped to solidify a bourgeois aesthetic elite that excluded those of humbler social and economic status, who lacked the requisite cultural capital to develop their aesthetic sensibilities. The cultural authority of that elite, it appears, was widely recognized by would-be entrants. The chapter concludes by arguing that the new models of consumption provided the bourgeois elite with crucial resources for the embourgeoisement of French workers, and thus for the consolidation of their cultural power and the reinforcement of the social hierarchy. At the same time, I contend, these paradigms offered a new vision of the market itself, one no longer at odds with core republican values. In imagining consumercitizens across class lines creating French identity through tasteful consumption, agents of the market represented the commercial public as a civic arena indispensable to the republic. From a source of conflict and divisiveness, the market turned itself into a force for social peace.

THE CREATION OF THE DOMESTIC CONSUMER AND THE MERGING OF MARKETPLACE AND HOME

the consumer’s domestic persona “Public opinion is unfair to the modern woman,” declared “Frisette” in Femina of 1907, in accusing her of “neglecting and no longer loving her home” simply because she indulged freely in the public pleasures of the metropolis. While this might have been “true of some women,” “Frisette” insisted that most were capable of loving the home and family as unselfishly as their more domestic antecedents. In her view, a woman’s public and private personae became compatible when her objectives as

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a consumer were artistic and not “too materialistic,” when she applied “all the delicate resources of her taste and ingeniousness” toward the elegant “decoration of her ‘home.’ ”4 The figure of the consuming woman as simultaneously artistic and home-loving was one that appeared with increasing frequency in the fashion press and department store advertising from the 1890s through 1920. Yet why, having successfully created the image of the consumer as an artist, did commercial media take this discursive turn? One answer is that there was no unitary commercial discourse; a variety of different marketing strategies and self-conceptions ran parallel and at times overlapped. Another is that the turn toward domesticity simply constituted a different kind of endeavor to capture the growing market of bourgeois consumers for whom the themes of home and family had as much, if not more, resonance than those of art and creativity. At the same time, images of the domestic consumer were tied to new representations, wrought primarily outside the market, of the maîtresse de maison as modern, dynamic, and capable. In some sense, the modern consumer as self-made aesthetic individualist was a counterpart to the modern housewife as efficient domestic manager. The emergence of a hybrid consumer type, preoccupied equally with the public sphere of display and the private management of the domestic interior, thus reflected both the bourgeois housewife’s claims to participation in the elite arenas of fashion and decorating and the expansion of the elegant woman’s orbit into the home.5 Commercial media did not, however, merely mirror the values of the bourgeois consumer in promoting domesticity and fashioning the marketplace as an extension of the bourgeois home. Just as they figured the consumer as an artist in response to the myth of the tasteless bourgeoise, they manufactured images of the domestic consumer that countered the archetype of the selfish shopper. And just as market professionals claimed to educate the consumer’s bad taste, they also claimed to redeem her morally. In this narrative, the commercial arena became an extension of the domestic interior and a bulwark of the civic public that, far from harming the family, actively promoted domesticity and bolstered the republican social order. Safely situated within the context of the family and regulated by a budget, consumption was claimed as a means of channeling potentially dangerous feminine impulses toward the fulfillment of wifely and motherly duty. Meanwhile, as the consumer public became domesticated, the modern household was transformed from a sanctuary from the marketplace into a conduit to it.

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These changes were apparent by the turn of the century, as images of artistic consumption competed with—but came increasingly to converge with—conceptions of consumption as a domestic activity and of the marketplace as coextensive with the home. In the fashion press in particular, the model woman embodied both the virtues of republican womanhood and the aesthetic distinction of the chic Parisienne. This new figure contrasted sharply with the stereotype of the shopper as a lone flâneuse whose lack of supervision allowed her to indulge her every selfish desire. It also differed from an older image of the sober mère de famille, whose obsession with the well-being of her family made her reticent, on the one hand, to enter the metropolitan marketplace, and on the other garnered her a reputation for dowdy inelegance. Honoré de Balzac, for example, had disdained the bourgeoise who flaunted her maternal role in public as the antithesis of the femme comme il faut: “[She] goes about with a child in tow, obliging her to look out constantly for passing carriages; she is a mother in public. . . .”6 By the turn of the century, being “a mother in public” no longer posed an obstacle to a woman’s chic and even carried a certain cachet. For Louise de Salles, an editor of Paris-mode writing in the early 1890s, the chic of the Parisienne simply spilled over into her maternal role: she loved nothing more than to dress her babies up in elegant wear and take them out to promenade the streets of Paris.7 One effect of this coalescence of housewife and élégante was to confer social, rather than individual, meanings on the consumer’s actions. Indeed, far from being a frivolous and egotistical distraction from family life, elegance was portrayed in the women’s press as a sacred domestic duty for the mère de famille, a responsibility as important as other, less glamorous aspects of household management. A woman’s home was to be beautifully appointed not so much for her own pleasure as for that of her husband. His pleasure in its elegance and comfort, moreover, redounded to the entire family, luring him away from his cercle to spend evenings at home.8 Children were presumed to be equally invested in their mother’s appearance: “One must be attractive above all for others . . . to please those who love you,” a journalist with the telling nom de plume “Désintéressée” (disinterested) informed the readers of L’Art d’être jolie: “When [your children] see their beautiful mother, [they] will only love you more, and they will tell everyone: ‘My mother is the most beautiful of all!’ ”9 Instead of detracting from her domestic virtue, Jeanne de Bargny of La Mode pour tous proclaimed that the housewife’s elegance greatly enhanced it: “A hardworking . . . and economical

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woman is a treasure to her husband. . . . [I]f, instead of wearing a plain dress and an unhappy air, Cinderella hides herself in the guise of the seductive Parisienne, I think she is only more deserving and admirable. Virtue must know how to be agreeable and even seductive to be complete.”10 The consequences of ignoring these imperatives, moreover, were said to be grave. Madame de Broutelles, editor of La Mode pratique, counseled readers that even the most tolerant husband would be displeased to come home to an ill-kempt, frumpy wife and slovenly children, warning that “disputes . . . [and] even scenes may ensue.”11 Domestic dissent could be avoided if the femme de foyer treated her public and private appearance as one and the same, dressing at home, for only her husband, as neatly and as elegantly as she would if she were going out.12 Cautioning the readers of Femina not to privilege domestic and maternal concerns over the exigencies of the toilette, the novelist Marcelle Tinayre depicted a still more disturbing scenario. The one-dimensional mother, in her description, padded around the house in the plainest of peignoirs and slippers, indifferent to her effect on those around her; even worse, her toilette for social occasions was inelegant to the point of embarrassing her spouse. Although her husband might have “cringed at [his wife’s] big bills,” he nonetheless felt keenly the wound she inflicted to his “marital pride” by “a skirt that is too short, a bodice that climbs up her back, a collar that is wrinkled.” The wife’s dereliction in this respect threatened the very bonds of marriage: “The husband, resigned, . . . goes off to contemplate other collars that do not have wrinkles, on prettier necks than his wife’s.” Although “the taste for fashion should not dominate all other qualities in a woman,” Tinayre concluded, “there are [nonetheless] sensible, innocent, and legitimate reasons for practicing the art of coquetry.”13 Department store advertising underscored the more explicit prescriptions disseminated by the fashion press in an iconography of consumption that visually conflated the maîtresse de maison with the consumer in a variety of ways. One convention was to highlight the consumer’s domestic persona by omitting direct references to the act of consumption or the commercial setting. Often this kind of ad was only identifiable as a promotion—as opposed to an illustration—by the imprimatur of a store or product name stamped discreetly in the corner. A turn-of-the-century advertisement for the department store Au Désir des Dames, picturing an opulently clad mother tending two small, well-dressed children sitting on a park bench, typified this genre.14 Likewise, gilded cards for the Bon Marché pavilion at the 1900 World’s Fair depicted only children at play.

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A series of cards aimed directly at children, rather than mothers, were toys in themselves: by pulling on the flap of one card, one could transform a flat image into a three-dimensional map of Parisian monuments.15 These were commodities that did not admit their commodity status. The point of these images was not merely to sanitize the consumer’s public image by representing her as a doting mother. Many marketers sincerely believed that a significant aspect of feminine pleasure in consumption was in pleasing others, and they wished to capitalize on that devotion. Experts at the trade journal La Publicité moderne thus urged marketers to design ads that played on “maternal weakness.” Not only were women believed to be eager to fulfill their families’ needs and desires, but they were also, as household managers, better equipped do so than ever before: “in each household, it is the woman who is in charge of the consumption necessary for the comfort and well-being of her little family.”16 Turn-of-the-century advertising for the Bon Marché Toy Department exemplified the desired approach, declaring that “anyone who has not seen the children at the Bon Marché’s Toy Exposition, before this fairyland of dazzling lights and color . . . does not know the meaning of joy, ecstasy, and desire.”17 Although “joy, ecstasy, and desire” were titillating terms evoking the female consumer’s pleasureseeking nature, they were purified in this context by the fact that her gratification was mediated through that of her child. Taking pleasure in the pleasure of others magically transformed her hedonism and egocentrism into benevolence. Ads that did depict commercial settings often figured consumption as a family enterprise, using the presence of a husband or a child to represent the shopper’s objectives as unselfish and to confer domestic wholesomeness on the scene. An image of the Magasins Réunis, in which a mother and daughter select fabrics with the help of a male clerk, illustrates this strategy (fig. 17).18 Some of the most interesting ads went further than merely invoking the family to defuse the putative dangers of the commercial environment. Far from sowing seeds of familial discord, consumption in their representation was a salutary practice that forged domestic harmony and amplified family feeling.19 One such advertisement for the Bon Marché of the late 1890s portrayed a jubilant, parcelladen couple emerging from the department store, seen from the perspective of another couple’s jealous gaze.20 On one hand, the ad’s reference to social envy acknowledged the department store’s potential to act as a destabilizing social force. On the other, it turned that nega-

Figure 17. Diary cover. Maison des Magasins Réunis Department Store, March 1913. (Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris)

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tive reputation into a strength, using it to appeal to status-conscious bourgeois consumers eager to be admired for their taste and wealth. The main focus of the ad, however, was not so much the social aspirations of either the onlookers or the shoppers as the private happiness of the consuming pair, for whom shopping evidently had been a fulfilling and bonding experience. Making the same argument, a number of fashion magazines marketed themselves as publications geared toward the entire family rather than the female consumer alone: emphasizing the journal’s many facets, an 1887 ad for La Revue de la mode, for example, claimed that “more than one father, more than one husband reads our journal . . . with real interest.”21 Perhaps the most striking genre of advertisement boldly invoked the consumer in all her vanity, self-absorption, hedonism, and irrationality, only to temper the trope of the selfish shopper with allusions to her status as mother or wife. Often, these ads leavened the seriousness of the subject matter by taking a comic tone, treating the consumer as misguided but harmless, and poking good-natured fun at her lapses. A promotional piece for the Pygmalion, for example, describes a shopper rambling through the store in a quasi-hypnotic state, on the verge of succumbing to her every impulse: “For the Parisienne the department store is always the most marvelous of palaces; but on an exposition day, Pygmalion is more than a palace: it is Paradise itself! . . . And it has been over 24 hours since she bought anything for her toilette. . . . [S]o many temptations! . . . frilly lace that melts between the fingers . . . sumptuous velvets that spread out in supple waves. . . .”22 But the Parisienne is not alone: her young daughter accompanies her on the entire expedition, turning an almost illicit experience into an innocent family outing, and, most importantly, reminding the shopper of her domestic duties: “Quick, Lili, it is five o’clock! Let us find the carriage.”23 Similarly, an illustrated story in the Maison des Magasins Réunis Agenda recasts the putative hysteria of the shopper as the communal rapture of a young wife and her mother: “Oh! Mother, these handkerchiefs!” “Oh! my child, this shawl!”24 A Pygmalion image of 1913 offered a new twist on the stereotype of the manipulable consumer: a modishly dressed mother dragging her spellbound daughter away from a department store window suggested not only that stylishness and good sense could coexist, but that it was a mother’s duty to teach her daughter to be a disciplined consumer.25 Along similar lines, the Maison des Magasins Réunis presented consumption as the family activity par excellence, one which more than

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compensated for its pitfalls, in “Deux sous d’épingles à friser,” a comic sketch about a trip to the department store that ends in an orgy of extravagance. Roaming the store looking for hairpins, the newly married Zénobie becomes overwhelmed by the panoply of goods before her and, in a semihypnotic state, buys everything in sight. Her husband, Eusèbe, sets out in search of Zénobie, but he too becomes caught up in a spending spree, pillaging the furniture, lighting, and heating departments to furbish their new household. When the pair are reunited at the cashier’s counter, Zénobie shamefacedly presents him with an enormous bill, but instead of remonstrating with her, Eusèbe triumphantly shows her a bill for the identical amount. “Our guardian angel must have led us here!” rhapsodizes Zénobie, and Eusèbe agrees.26 The couple’s matching bills turn their selfish splurges into farce, showing us that Zénobie and Eusèbe have been shopping for one another and that what seemed to be a senseless indulgence in luxuries was, in fact, the efficient acquisition of household necessities. The advertisement cleverly admitted that impulse shopping existed—for men as well as for women—but demonstrated that the department store did not coerce the newlyweds into buying things. Instead, it served as a mirror of their innermost desires, and the act of consumption bound the couple together rather than tearing it apart. Even the figure of the consumer as narcissist, gazing at her own reflection, was tempered by references to family. In an advertisement for the Pygmalion department store of 1913, for example, a little girl holding a doll watches her mother dress before the mirror (fig. 18).27 Similarly, an image of the Magasins Réunis of the same period depicted a consumer smiling fixedly at her mirror image while her two small children observe her (fig. 19).28 The children’s presence not only added innocence to the picture, but cast the mother in the role of indulgent parent rather than vain pleasure-seeker. Without denying the individualistic component of consumption, such ads suggested that no real conflict existed between feminine vanity and the tenderness of the wife and mother. In the absence of the family, the department store presented itself as a surrogate that could exercise a disciplinary influence on the shopper. An early twentieth-century ad for the Bon Marché in the form of a letter from a customer downplayed the much-criticized urban character of the department store by literally conflating the home with the marketplace: “I feel so pleasantly at home at the Bon Marché! Sometimes I actually forget that I am not in my own house. The atmosphere is one of honesty, order, regular activity . . . and that comfort . . . which is the . . . charm of

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Figure 18. Advertisement. Pygmalion Department Store, 1913. (Collection Lalbat. Cliché Archives de Paris)

the French foyer. . . . I have the sensation of stability, emanating from strong and healthy traditions. Why do I love the Bon Marché? Because it is a big family and I am a part of it.”29 A sales prospectus published by the Bon Marché in 1913 relating the tale of a Parisienne’s day at the department store portrayed the store in a similar light. Once again, the story opens with an explicit appeal to the shopper’s most private pleasures, impulses, and dreams: “It is with an indescribable joy that [the Parisienne] . . . departs for the conquest of the department store. She knows in advance the pleasure she will savor in wandering aimlessly from counter to counter, without knowing on which new creation she will settle. . . . [F]or her, the Bon Marché is the symbol of temptation: with each step, her desire is renewed and sharpened, and her only regret is not to be able to buy everything in the store. . . . [S]he is happy and smiling as she says to herself: ‘It is for me that all this has been done.’ ”30 But if the narrative begins with the impulsive, desiring, and selfish Parisienne, “drunk on the luxury surrounding her,” her rambles through the department store soon take her in unexpected directions, far afield from “the palace of a thousand and one nights.” Roaming the jewelry, women’s wear, stationery, glove, and wool departments, the Parisienne becomes fatigued and looks for a place to rest. After she

Figure 19. Diary cover. Maison des Magasins Réunis Department Store, April 1913. (Bibliothèque historique de la Ville de Paris)

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“refreshes herself at the buffet,” she strolls into the Reading Room. There she pauses to admire a free painting exhibition before settling down to write letters and read the newspapers, under the smiling parental visages of busts of the store’s founders, Monsieur and Madame Boucicaut. A few hours later, she joins a guided tour of the department store that includes its subterraneous reaches: kitchens, business offices, and workshops. She does this, in the words of the prospectus, because “One can never know enough about that which one loves, and, since she adores the Bon Marché, our friend wants to learn every possible detail about it.” Carefully presenting the department store as both a site of consumption and a locus of production, the ad also asserts the store’s role as an educator of the potentially wayward consumer. It teaches her about the workings of the enterprise, but also literally leads her from temptation. Under the department store’s paternalistic guidance, the pamphlet suggests, the tempted shopper poses no threat, either to herself or to others.31 Beyond such discursive constructions, department store entrepreneurs did in fact create spaces within the precincts of the stores that were both domestic and civic in nature. In addition to the great open halls of the grand magasin, filled with tantalizing merchandise and patrolled by fawning sales clerks, the shopping flâneuse was also meant to wander into correspondence rooms, newspaper reading rooms, cafeterias, and play areas for children. In part, these zones served to disguise the urban and commercial character of the department store, creating a store image potentially more palatable to the bourgeois public. But they were also, in a real sense, intended to attract families to the grand magasin and, in so doing, to help to make it a safer, more respectable environment. Just as the very structure of the department store transformed the marketplace from a purely commercial space into a composite one, the fashion magazine underwent fundamental changes in form and structure that bore witness to the advent of a new, multidimensional consumer. In 1850, the women’s press was roughly divided between luxury fashion magazines, oriented toward an elite audience of mondaines, and more modest, self-styled family publications, primarily intended for an audience of comfortable bourgeoises. By the late 1870s, however, and certainly by the 1880s, the line between the two genres had become blurred.32 The traditional family magazine of the late nineteenth century, such as La Revue de la mode: Gazette de la famille, thus lured subscribers with patterns for “fancy needlework” uniting “the

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love of work and home” with “artistic and elegant tastes.”33 Similarly, La Mode pratique: Revue de la famille contained the expected recipes, dress patterns, housekeeping and gardening tips, but also published fashion plates of elegant travel toilettes. Even more striking was the hybridization of the high-end fashion journal. While a column on the care and cleaning of wicker baskets was typical fare for a family journal like the Journal des soirées de famille in 1860, this sort of mundane domestic advice had invaded the glossy fashion magazine by the turn of the century.34 By 1880, a fashion magazine such as the Journal des demoiselles et le petit courrier des dames covered not only high fashion, beaux-arts reviews, and society gossip, but recipes and sample menus, needlework and sewing patterns, and instructions on the repair and maintenance of household appliances.35 Likewise, the venerable Moniteur de la mode, inaugurated in 1843 as the “Journal du Grand Monde,” billed itself in 1887 as serving not only the femme élégante but the mère de famille and the maîtresse de maison as well.36 Le Moniteur typified the wide-ranging contents of the late-nineteenthcentury ladies’ journal: alongside the feuilleton and the fashion plate, the journal offered a correspondence column that fielded specific requests for advice, sewing patterns for both women’s and children’s clothing, needlework patterns for constructive leisure, furniture designs for the housewife-decorator, a recipe column, and a “Doctor’s Chat” column dispensing advice on matters of hygiene. Promotional daybooks proffered by department stores also addressed the fashionable consumer’s domestic interests: the Maison du Petit Saint-Thomas distributed a diary in the early 1890s containing recipes, menus, gardening tips, and medical information, while the Maison des Magasins Réunis offered an elegant engagement book in 1914 that provided women with detailed instructions for removing clothing stains.37 The Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis alluded to the consumer’s domesticity by including a blank family tree for shoppers to fill in.38

household budgeting and the pursuit of elegant economy The propagation of household budgeting techniques in fin-de-siècle advice literature constituted one of the most important strategies to impose a rational, social model of consumption that bolstered the family and the Republic. Although bourgeois housewives kept household accounts well before the turn of the century, it was not until then that bud-

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geting became a central focus of the women’s press, in particular the luxury fashion magazine.39 When L’Art de la mode introduced a regular column on financial affairs in 1881, for example, its energetic defense of the topic indicates that money matters were still considered a controversial subject for a woman’s journal. Acknowledging that a financial feature in a fashion magazine was as incongruous as “a man smoking in the boudoir or thinking of a prostitute in the vicinity of a pretty young woman,” the author insisted that it was a necessary innovation: women had to learn about money to function as useful members of the household and of French society.40 A mere ten years later, the editor of the popular La Mode pratique, Madame de Broutelles, dedicated the entire journal to the marriage of fashion and economy.41 Her matter-of-fact tone in speaking of finances suggests that budgeting had become a respectable and commonplace topic in the women’s press of the 1890s. The management of household finances was cast increasingly as one of the most important responsibilities of the maîtresse de maison. The philosophy of Anna Lamperière, the conservative and antifeminist writer and teacher, was that modern women could make their most valuable contribution to society not by participating in the workforce but through the “organization of consumption,” the “feminine activity that develops, improves, and intelligently distributes the common expenditures.”42 Others portrayed budgeting as a source of feminine authority and power: “In our century of progress,” “Grillonne” of Le Courrier de la mode contended in the early 1890s, “science . . . for women . . . is knowing how to manage the household.”43 If men were designated as society’s earners and women its spenders, Jeanne de Bargny proclaimed in La Mode pour tous, the consumer who apportioned money wisely not only played a social role of import, but represented “a fortune for her husband.”44 Budgeting made consumption rational by imposing calculation and postponing pleasure. In so doing, it cast a flattering light on the female consumer and elevated her instantly from frivolous shopper to prudent mère de famille and good citizen. The budget-conscious housewife stepped into the marketplace armed with a plan of action and a purpose, impervious to the manipulations of merchants or the prickings of whim. As the etiquette writer Louise d’Alq explained in a housekeeping handbook of 1881, “To spend wisely, one must first think carefully.”45 The rational consumer’s most important weapon, declared Lucie Crété of La Mode française, was thus self-possession, which enabled her to

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reason and judge the value of her purchases.46 According to Louise de Salles of Paris-mode, the Parisienne was an expert at comparison shopping as a means of hunting for the best bargains: “[She] . . . knows the places where one can shop cheaply; her secret is that she looks around and compares prices before buying.”47 Madame de Broutelles concurred with Salles, but added the caveat that the wise consumer did not shop with her friends, since their efforts to influence her purchases were likely to cloud her reason.48 Even the most rational, self-possessed shopper was said to risk losing her head in the frenzied atmosphere of a department store sale: “Sales bedazzle the most serious mère de famille as much as they shrink the wallet of the demimondaine,” admitted the department store apologist Gilles Normand; “the displays seduce the entire female sex. . . .”49 To resist “the mania of buying without a purpose,” the Baroness de Clessy recommended that consumers simply eschew sales altogether. Although it “requires a bit of energy to resist these little temptations,” Clessy wrote in La Mode française, “one quickly becomes impervious by making it a rule of thumb to only make reasonable, rationally motivated purchases that are obviously useful.”50 Only an exceptional woman such as Zola’s character Madame Bourdelais, sketched in his notes for Aux Bonheur des dames, could maintain restraint in the face of the sale’s aggressive appeal to irrationality: “Bourgeoise . . . thirty years old, three children already. . . . Always shops in the department store, but shrewdly, without getting carried away; takes advantage of sales, knows how to use the stores to her own benefit. Very prudent.”51 Able to control herself even in the manic setting of the department store sale, Zola’s Madame Bourdelais was so rational and capable that it was she who took “charge of her husband for his own good,” rather than the other way around.52 Sewing one’s own clothes using inexpensive fabrics from the department store was presented as another means of economizing. A new emphasis on home production as a complement to shopping coincided not only with the growth of the department store and the sale of cheaper fabrics, but also with the spread of the sewing machine from the 1860s and 1870s on.53 It was in this context that “Frisette” advised the readers of Femina how to make an elegant dress for a pittance: five meters of cretonne for three francs sixty, fifty centimeters of linen for fifty-five centimes, thread for thirty centimes, clasps and wooden molds for buttons for ten centimes—together, it amounted to less than five francs.54 Fashion magazines played their part by publishing sewing patterns. Ac-

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cording to Madame de Broutelles of La Mode pratique, one of the journal’s primary goals was to lighten the financial burden of elegance by teaching readers the art of dressmaking. As a boon to self-starters, the journal sent kits of fabric, buttons, and trim to women who wanted to sew their own clothes using the magazine’s patterns.55 Louise d’Alq summarized the myriad ways in which the modern market helped the budget-conscious housewife: “Never before did women have fashion journals at eight francs a year, providing two hundred new patterns for dresses, accompanied by explanations permitting her to sew them herself; never before did women have sewing machines to simplify and speed the pace of work.” Along with these new material conditions, d’Alq suggested, bourgeois aesthetics emphasizing originality over the value of goods had created new possibilities for economizing; the thrifty woman could make “a very elegant outfit out of wool that cost one franc fifty per meter . . . [and] combine old dresses to make a new toilette.”56 Jeanne de Bargny made a similar point: while the woman who restored an old dress by adding expensive new ornaments saved nothing, the chic eclectic combined old items in novel ways, creating an outfit at an “insignificant price.”57 Behind all of this purposeful negotiation of the market was the activity of account-keeping. As the Baroness de Clessy explained in her “Letter to a Housewife,” the groundwork for “rational expenditure” was laid before a woman ever crossed the threshold of a store, in her careful practice of accounting.58 Louise d’Alq agreed, urging housewives to equip themselves for the task by learning basic arithmetic.59 Meanwhile, department stores underscored the message of the ladies’ press, encouraging shoppers to plan for and keep records of their purchases by distributing promotional diaries and engagement books that typically included blank sheets with columns on which they could organize their budgets.60 Account-keeping was also presented as an antidote to the problems of overspending and debt. Citing the flood of letters she received from readers in the month of January, Broutelles noted that the maîtresse de maison was especially pressed for money after Christmas, when overdue heating and lighting bills ignored during the holiday festivities had to be paid.61 According to the Baroness Clessy, the “horrible” experience of debt could be avoided by keeping track of outstanding bills. 62 By contrast, sloppy bookkeeping and debt, according to the advice expert Countess de Bassanville, caused “ruin and disorder, confrontations, violent and scandalous ruptures between husband and wife.”63 For Louise d’Alq, the worst of it was that the victim spiraled deeper into debt as she sought to forget her problems in more

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spending, a vicious cycle leading to the breakdown of home and family.64 Yet, if d’Alq and others are to be believed, only a few “têtes folles” became deeply enmeshed in the snare of debt. The fashion magazine took much of the credit for this, claiming not only to teach readers the basics of accounting, but to instill in them the fear of debt. Another role of the budget was to ensure the rational allocation of funds. In helping the maîtresse de maison to plan the purchases of the household, budgeting was said to integrate her roles as mother, wife, and consumer, and to transform consumption from an individual to a social practice. Accountability and responsibility, experts argued, turned the selfish consumer into the selfless one: the practice of settling the family’s accounts each night inevitably chastened the behavior of the shopper by day, dazzled though she might be by the displays of the department store. In Louise d’Alq’s formulation, “If you put your wife in charge in of your expenses, you will never again have to refuse her anything. . . . From the moment she is the mistress of her own desires, she will no longer want anything at all. . . .”65 For many commentators, the practice of budgeting was thus a moral exercise that marked a woman’s willingness to put her family before herself. The Catholic novelist Henry Bordeaux concurred with d’Alq that the budget-conscious, disciplined maîtresse de maison was transformed into an unselfish consumer who thought of herself primarily as a wife and mother, whether in the marketplace or at home. Such a woman, in his view, expended not only her money but her emotional resources on the domestic interior: “She will know to be the guardian of the foyer. She will save for the interior the treasures of tenderness that other women waste in the outside world. . . . More organized, she will have more time. More balanced, she will know how to choose better. . . . Able to forget herself, she will think more of others.”66 The ramifications of such consumer selflessness, moreover, reverberated through the social body. The domestic consumer was a good citizen who sewed her own clothes not only to economize, according to d’Alq, but to render service to others. By purchasing solidly made fabrics, the maîtresse de maison encouraged the clothing industry to produce quality products. With the extra material she had left after making her own dress, she could sew garments to give to a poor family. Finally, she could use the money remaining from her economies either to buy a trinket for her old mother or to put aside money for the unexpected emergency. To ensure that the consumption of the femme de foyer was primarily social rather than individual in nature, advice experts suggested specific guidelines for spending. Louise d’Alq’s cardinal rule was to spend on the

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interior before the exterior and, above all, to avoid the error of spending more on the toilette than on food. She proposed the following allocation of the family income: 12 percent on rent, 50 percent on household expenses (including domestic salaries, food, and heating), 6 percent on the toilette of the maîtresse de maison, and the remaining 30-odd percent on the upkeep of husband and children and the general category of “pleasure,” conspicuous in being last on the list.67 In d’Alq’s hopeful prescription, the true maîtresse de maison was unable to enjoy herself until the needs of the nest had been attended to: “Is it possible that a woman whose household is in disorder, who is uncertain of money for the next month, could possibly enjoy the ‘pleasures’ of a theater box or a trip abroad . . . bought with money so indispensable to the household? . . . [S]uch a state of affairs seems so monstrous to me that I can not imagine that it actually exists.”68 These prescriptions to regulate household spending should not be read simply as a backlash against spending. Experts did not value frugality per se, suggesting that it generated its own problems if taken too far. Thus, for the Countess de Bassanville, the maîtresse de maison was to be generous and giving, disinterested and selfless. Her practice of thrift was to impose order and organization, to ensure the proper allocation of resources among the members of her family, but never to withhold them: “Learn to make order reign in your home, in yourself, and in those around you, because a woman’s economies are reflected in everything that surrounds her. The servants themselves will not dare to waste in the household where they see that every expenditure is calculated, not in the spirit of the miser—heaven forbid!—but in the spirit of the true mère de famille who wants her resources to benefit everyone and to be squandered by no one.”69 In contrast to the fabled bourgeois miser, the bourgeois woman of the fin de siècle was to spend liberally, provided that she maintained the appropriate, detached relationship to the world of goods. The novelist Marcel Prévost illustrated the costs of overzealous thrift in a story describing the loveless marriage of a stereotypically acquisitive bourgeois couple. Maurice is a midlevel civil servant; Madame Julie is “an expert maîtresse de maison and a scrupulous accountant.” They spend their evenings at home together, each engrossed in the task of improving the economic status and social position of the family: “Maurice sits in a good leather armchair, in a corner by the fire; he reads a financial newspaper. . . . [Julie] sits at her little Louis XVI desk; she is going over the account books.” But even though the household thrives financially, the

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marriage, alas, is emotionally bankrupt. Julie’s obsession with hoarding money and achieving social status turns her into an egotist who thinks only of herself. “Love is never egotism,” Prévost moralized. “It is an abnegation of one’s self.”70 Although in some ways Prévost’s story underscores a traditional conception of self-effacing femininity, what situates it specifically in the fin de siècle is that the ultimate proof of Julie’s selfishness is her rank indifference toward her appearance: alone with her husband, in the privacy of her home, she foregoes all attempts at elegance and aesthetic appeal, wearing a threadbare housedress left over from her honeymoon. Prévost comments with scathing sarcasm on this wifely infraction: “But what does it matter, after all? Between husband and wife, after two years of marriage, one does not trouble oneself much with such things.”71 If Madame Julie’s account-keeping had been done in the proper, generous spirit of a loving wife, she would be beautifully adorned; as it is, she is merely a social climber who does not seek to please her husband in any way. Prévost’s story makes clear that the domestic virtue of the French maîtresse de maison was incomplete if she did not possess aesthetic distinction. Indeed, budgeting was tied to a model of domestic consumption that incorporated rather than displaced the bourgeois obsession with taste and elegance: bourgeois women were called upon to reconcile their roles as housewives with their role as chic consumers in the pursuit of economical elegance. In the words of one journalist, “We want to spend less, but not be any less elegant.”72 Madame de Broutelles justified her journal’s attention to appearance for precisely these reasons: “Every week we discuss fashion at great length without considering ourselves guilty of frivolousness: just as a woman must attend to the decoration of the home, to the order of the household, to the quality of the cooking, and to the balancing of the budget, she must also concern herself with her appearance and her beauty.”73 L’Art d’être jolie put it more succinctly: “To be beautiful is as much a woman’s duty as it is to be good.”74 Arguing from this vantage point, fashion journalists complained that the fashionable Parisienne’s reputation for frivolity and hedonism was unfair. For Louise de Salles, the Parisienne’s aesthetic preoccupations served home and family because she “is economical . . . [and] keeps the accounts of the household . . . [and because she] is a companion to her husband and a good mother. . . .” In Salles’s eyes, the Parisienne’s consumption expressed her love of her home, not her neglect of it: “She

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seeks by all the means available to her to make [the home] more comfortable and more elegant. . . . The entire arrangement of the nest of a Parisienne is a part of her individuality; little by little she collects all the bibelots within the reach of her budget.”75 Even the pleasures of selfadornment were not to be denied, but carefully managed. The columnist “Jeanne” confided in her readers that, although she had only a modest budget for her toilette, she permitted herself the luxury of buying beautiful fabrics and quality dyes. She could allow herself this “little self-indulgence,” both in material and in moral terms, because she budgeted strictly for everyday expenditures.76 Her remarks suggest that a woman’s individual pleasure in consumption and adornment was acceptable and even desirable, provided that it was conceived as a social act: as long as elegance in fashion and decorating were balanced, in other words, against other, more mundane domestic responsibilities. Budgeting prescriptions underscored the imperative to strike a balance between the household’s aesthetic considerations and its material needs, regardless of the size of the overall budget. Louise d’Alq, for example, proposed an identical distribution of resources for the bourgeoise as she did for the mondaine.77 Madame de Broutelles provided budgets for several middle-class households ranging from 3,600 to 12,000 francs a year, dividing the resources of these economically diverse households in much the same way. A femme de foyer with an ample household budget of 12,000 francs a year was to apportion 10 percent to her fashion needs; likewise, a woman with only 3,600 francs at her disposal was to earmark about 13 percent of that amount for her wardrobe.78 All income groups were to spend roughly the same proportions of their total resources on rent, food, transportation, heating and electricity, laundry, household maintenance, and servants’ wages.79 The one exception was the category of savings, which was to increase dramatically with income: the woman with the 12,000-franc income was instructed to save ten times as much as the woman with the 3,600-franc budget.80 But even this disparity in savings illustrates that Broutelles applied the same standard of thrift to each household, unwilling to accept extravagance as the prerogative of wealth. As the reviewer of a book on domestic economy put it, even the wealthiest households were well advised to adhere to the principles of budgeting.81 Similarly, Broutelles and other experts took the position that the woman of more modest financial standing was just as obligated to cut an elegant appearance as her wealthy counterpart. Both views construed thrift and self-abnegation as complementing rather than contradicting aesthetic

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refinement. In Broutelles’ words, “One must dress oneself and one’s children with taste; this is an art, which we will try to impart; this elegance . . . must be achieved even on a very modest budget; this is a science which can be acquired and which we will teach. . . .”82 More than likely, the discursive alliance between the commercial and domestic spheres in some measure reflected the concerns of the bourgeois consumer public, in particular its core ideals of domesticity. Indeed, if chic could be called the new bourgeois aesthetic, it was also a new ethic of spending that combined the “modern” and therapeutic goals of self-improvement and self-fulfillment with more traditional bourgeois values of rationality, order, thrift, and self-discipline. In deliberate counterpoint to the extravagance associated with the stereotypical noblewoman, the bourgeois consumer was to save so that she could spend wisely, in pursuit of the “higher” goals of aesthetic selfexpression and of wifely and motherly devotion. The culture of consumption taking shape at the turn of the century was thus an amalgam of the old and the new, the progressive and the traditional, and the figure of the bourgeois maîtresse de maison, both economizing and artistic, embodied this complex alloy.

THE DEMOCRATIZATION OF CHIC

“if we are thrifty, we can all be coquettes” As the image of the chic consumer merged increasingly with that of the ordinary housewife, market professionals and a range of outside commentators celebrated the fact that what had been primarily an elite culture of consumption was thrown open—theoretically—to less affluent consumers. The spread of budgeting practices was heralded not only as a force for disciplining the unruly desires of the affluent bourgeoise, but also as a means by which the consumer of modest economic standing could gain entry to the modern market. Fashion journalists and department store marketers promulgated a clear message, echoed in turn by domestic economy experts, decorative arts reformers, and art education proponents, that elegance was both as desirable and as accessible on a restricted budget as on a more generous one. Rather than forego elegance to afford necessities, they contended, the budget-conscious consumer could achieve it by planning ahead and economizing. This democratic dimension was always ideologically implicit in marketplace modernism and the chic aesthetic. Attaching aesthetic value to

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subjectivity over goods, chic attributed the elegance of a woman’s costume or her salon not to its constituent elements but to her artful orchestration of these elements to create a singular expression of the self. In principle, this meant that the skillful combination of cheap goods could produce an artwork. The chic cult of stylistic simplicity and the rejection of luxury for its own sake took this notion further, stipulating that thrift was an essential component of tasteful consumption. The Journal des soirées de famille, a middle-class family periodical, illuminated this aspect of market aesthetics as early as 1859, in a ditty that portrayed aesthetic distinction not only as a moral imperative but as a real possibility: Pleasing others is an urgent duty Which may be done without money or beauty Style does not come from a rich toilette; If we are thrifty, we can all be coquettes.83

By the 1890s, the pairing of economy and elegance had become a pivotal element of the market’s self presentation. It was also directed toward an incipient mass audience: the chic so recently claimed by the bourgeoise was now discursively conferred upon the petite bourgeoise and even, in some cases, the working-class woman. But while commercial professionals urged the consumer to avail herself of the material shortcuts to elegance provided by the market (including inexpensive goods, synthetic facsimiles of luxury commodities, advertising that publicized sales and bargains, the sewing machine, and sewing patterns published in fashion magazines), their main point was not about the expansion of the market through the diffusion of goods but about the democratization of the domestic and aesthetic models of consumption. According to market media, the purpose of budgeting was less to transform the consumer’s material conditions than to help her develop a rational, social, and therefore disinterested relationship to the world of goods. As a point of view more than a style, it was argued, chic could be cultivated across social classes. This democratic promise was disseminated in a variety of media, including department store advertising. One of the simplest means used to suggest a broad reach was simply to assert that a store had a wideranging audience. The Bon Marché invited “Elegant mondaines, humble housewives, rich bourgeoises” to a turn-of-the-century White Sale, while the Maison des Magasins Réunis distributed an Agenda in 1914 dedicated equally to “loyal clients, or humble shoppers with only a sou.”84 Some advertisements made larger claims about the democrati-

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zation of the market in general, such as a pamphlet of 1911 for the Bon Marché confidently announcing that Parisian tastes had become “less excessive, more bourgeois.”85 Likewise, a 1913 Pygmalion promotion for a fur sale explicitly linked the advent of a modernist aesthetic of simplicity to the dissolution of class hierarchy (and arrogated some credit for both revolutions): “The caste of furs has been abolished. In the place of traditional distinctions, new ones have been established—more democratic, more in keeping with modern ideas, more artistic as well. . . . Grace, lightness, and suppleness have replaced ostentation and pageantry. We have conquered . . . and transformed . . . the unique domain of fur, and no one is opposed to our triumph.”86 Along somewhat different lines, department store catalogues frequently advertised goods of substantially different economic value using strikingly similar language. A Samaritaine catalogue of 1910, for example, described a woolen jacket for 58 francs and one for 145 francs identically, each as a “paragon of elegance.”87 This kind of marketing suggested a parity between goods of diverse quality and, by implication, that the women who purchased them were equal in aesthetic sophistication. To be sure, not everyone agreed that this was the best approach to selling. The marketing trade journal La Publicité moderne published a series of articles in 1906 that urged French advertisers to differentiate between social classes in order to be more effective: “Advertising absolutely should modify its language and style according to the class of society that it intends to affect. Advertisers must learn to speak differently to the financier than to the secondhand shoe salesmen.”88 Similarly, not all advertising was cast in a democratic idiom, and images invoking an exclusive public continued to be produced through the period. Thus, a catalogue illustration of 1881 from the Belle Jardinière depicted gentlemen in top hats reading the stock pages of the newspaper in a box at the Opera; a Louvre advertisement for an “Exposition of Dresses and Coats” in 1904 imitated an invitation to an elite soirée; and a Pygmalion ad of the same year for an “Exposition of Silks” boasted that the event would be the “rendezvous of the elegant Tout-Paris.”89 But the central point here is that this kind of ad now had to compete with a new marketing language, one that both claimed and celebrated the advent of aesthetic democracy. Moreover, the insider’s critique of the single-market strategy suggests that much of the advertising of the fin de siècle did approach the market as a single coherent unit. This new advertising idiom was also aggressively propagated by department stores targeting a broader and more democratic audience. Department store advertising budgets increased exponentially in the late

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nineteenth century, and, according to the advertising trade literature, department store marketers were innovators who experimented with a broad range of marketing materials (catalogues, newspaper ads, billboards, and sandwich boards, among other forms). Cultural commentators also remarked on the ubiquity of department store advertising from the 1880s on, although they took widely divergent positions on it. In Zola’s dispassionate description, the department store’s pioneering use of advertising was one of the chief means by which it “opens its doors as much to small as to large purses and . . . seeks to attract the masses.”90 Critics such as Pierre Giffard, by contrast, bemoaned the spread of advertising as a commercial invasion. In his words, department store advertising “stalks the Parisian . . . on the boulevard, in hotel rooms, in the public squares, in the remotest water-closets.”91 Outside Paris, he ranted, store catalogues (in his absurdly vague estimate, between five hundred thousand and one million per season) were inundating not only the Parisian suburbs and the French provinces, but even “the most preposterous countries.”92 The department store advocate Gilles Normand and the commercial lawyer Emile Mermet corroborated Giffard’s sense of the unprecedented expansion of advertising, but hailed it as a sign of democratization.93 In his guide to Advertising in France of 1880, Mermet noted approvingly that the dissemination of the store catalogue had forged a particularly large and democratic public for the bibelot and the objet d’art, one drawn from “the upper and middle classes of society; alongside millionaire bankers, one finds small proprietors and sometimes modest employees.”94 The turn-of-the-century fashion magazine was equally eager to reach women of humble origins, and in many ways the merging of the family journal with the high fashion journal marked the democratization as much as the domestication of the latter. A host of new, inexpensive fashion periodicals were launched for the express purpose of tapping into budget-conscious markets: the Journal de la beauté, at six francs a year, was one such magazine, while La Mode pratique, which cost twelve francs a year, was another. A fair number of established, midrange fashion magazines also sought to expand their readership by issuing two or three different editions of varying degrees of luxury. The bare bones edition of the weekly La Mode pratique cost only twenty-five centimes but had no fashion plates, whereas an edition with color plates and a sewing pattern was available for twice that price.95 Le Moniteur de la mode also published an edition simple, at fourteen francs for an annual subscription, and a deluxe edition, at twenty-six

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francs a year. The two differed not in substance but in their trappings, the cheaper version offering fashion plates only in black-and-white while the more expensive version published them in color. Although hard evidence of the success of these efforts to reach a broader public is scant, Le Moniteur de la mode (one of the oldest and most popular of fashion journals) boasted that it had a circulation of two hundred thousand in 1887.96 Such a claim is certainly plausible and jibes with the estimates of commentators on Parisian life. The writer Gaston de Varennes, for example, asserted that out of approximately one hundred fashion journals on the Parisian market, a good number had more than one hundred thousand subscribers in 1882.97 The publication of British, American, Italian, and Spanish editions of some of the most well-known journals, Le Moniteur de la mode among them, attests both to the fashion journal’s ambitious marketing strategy and to the existence of consumer demand for the product. Nevertheless, at a cost of between twenty and thirty francs yearly, the majority of magazines still remained out of the reach of many, and even the inexpensive journals could not have been readily available to the lower classes. Most periodicals, however, sought to expand their purview less through alternative pricing than through the rhetorical inclusion of women of all social classes in the chic elite. The democratization of the fashion magazine was thus effected primarily in subtle shifts in tone, as journals continued to address la femme du monde but also sought to acknowledge new readers of more humble origin. The Journal des demoiselles, for example, tried to offer something for everyone by publishing a choice “Menu de gourmet” alongside a more modest “Menu de famille.”98 La Mode nationale announced that the magazine belonged in every social milieu, “in the home of the grande dame as well as that of the ouvrière.”99 Similarly, the Countess de Vérissey, editor-in-chief of the midrange periodical Le Salon de la mode, contended that the journal had an audience of “diverse economic conditions,” to be found not only “in the elegant quarter of the grande dame” but in the “modest foyer where economy and the healthy domestic virtues flourish.”100 The Annuaire de publicité of 1895 lent some credence to her appraisal, dubbing the magazine “the family journal par excellence.”101 Likewise, fashion magazines such as Paris-mode and Le Moniteur de la mode claimed a mixed public, numbering femmes élégantes, mères de familles, sales clerks, and modest seamstresses among their readers.102 Elite publications that catered explicitly to upper-class audiences also made gestures of inclusion toward those of modest social and economic

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status. A moderately expensive publication such as Le Chic, at forty francs a year, portrayed itself as the bible of the “cadre élégant,” but assured readers that the expensive toilettes featured in the magazine’s color fashion plates could be made on the cheap. Even L’Art de la mode, an out-and-out luxury periodical that cost more than twice as much as Le Chic, included a column on budgeting and made occasional reference to the elegance of the humble Parisienne. Across a broad range of periodicals, and even in the rarified realm of the luxury journal, the image of the inclusive market was created through the representation of the chic Parisienne as a cross-class type. Fashion editors and writers not only argued that the less well-off woman could look like an élégante, but claimed that in fact she was one in her own right. The editors of La Grande Dame identified the journal as literary fare for the elite (and snidely compared the populist tenor of the mass market magazine to the opportunistic politician’s hypocritical support of the suffrage), but recast that elite as one of taste rather than class: “The grande dame with whom we are concerned,” they wrote, “can be found everywhere, at every level of society.”103 According to Arsène Houssaye, the elegance of the Parisienne illuminated the painter’s studio and the attic rooms of all Paris as well as the bourgeois home, while the journalist Nestor Roqueplan detected her presence among princesses, bourgeoises, and grisettes, “scattered throughout the highest and the lowest regions of the social world.”104 According to some observers of Parisian life, the taste of the chic Parisienne was so transcendent that it was impossible to discern her social origin. The journalist Jules Claretie found that “the grisette, the salesgirl, the hatmaker . . . the apprentice” exuded the same stylishness clad in “damask, velvet . . . or even . . . muslin.”105 Adrien Marx, a journalist for Le Figaro, asserted that no one could distinguish the chic Parisian millionairess from the chic proletarian, despite the fact that the former was outfitted by an army of skilled technicians—couturiers, shoemakers, hat-makers, and hairdressers—while the latter purchased everything herself, in the low-end department store.106 In a satin corset worth seven louis or one of fake satinette costing eight francs, he insisted, the exquisite sensibility of the Parisienne shone through. Louise de Salles analyzed the democratic essence of chic in Paris-Mode of 1892: “One can spend very little and yet dress as well as one could dress by spending a great deal of money. It is not always the cowl that makes the monk; in fact, the opposite can be true, because the woman of distinction will be distinguished in spite of anything, even with the simplest toilette.”107

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No matter how severe her financial constraints, the Parisienne’s artistic sensibility could not be stymied. Her sensitivity to beauty, Salles contended, drove the chic ouvrière to scrape enough out of her meager budget of two or three francs a day to buy herself flowers, no matter how paltry the bouquet.108 It also enabled her to use the most modest ornamentation to the greatest effect. In Salles’s view, “a ribbon, a bit of lace, a bow, an artfully-arranged jewel are all that it takes to make her utterly charming.”109 As the Countess Tramar put it, “She knows the art of holding a violet so that it lends her complexion the radiance of the flower. . . .”110 The writer Enrique Gomez-Carillo reckoned that the thrifty, artistic Parisian working-woman could produce an “artistic hat” for less than two francs, out of only a meter of brass wire, a swatch of veil, and a piece of ribbon,” with results no less impressive than the work of a renowned modiste: “How many pretty petites bourgeoises, how many lovely grisettes . . . stroll through the streets with their humble coiffures without our ever noticing that their hats are any less elegant than those of the great [hatmaker] Sorel! . . .”111 This insistence on the parity of economical elegance with more expensive varieties typified fashion writing of the period. For GomezCarillo and other commentators, the woman wearing the simple chapeau garni was to be judged by her taste, not by the monetary value of her costume. “No matter how poor she may be,” he proclaimed, “every woman has a style all her own.”112 In the admiring eyes of journalist Paquet-Mille, the Parisian working girl’s charming toilette “has no other value than that of the ‘Chic’ she knows how to give it.”113 The same arguments appeared in discussions of interior decoration. The taste critic Roger-Milès professed his esteem for workers who “make their modest rooms veritable nests of joy and beauty without spending much, because they know how to create an interior in keeping with the specific needs of their individuality, without worrying about copying what they have seen elsewhere, and because they are determined to create an ensemble which pleases them and only them completely.”114 Likewise, Henri de Noussane praised the woman with the “fingers of a fairy,” able to create a “palace” for her family for a pittance.115 Indeed, the principal conceit of the journal L’Art et l’idée, published briefly by Octave Uzanne in the 1890s, was that a modicum of taste and domestic sentiment could transform the shabbiest garret into a work of art.116 For many observers, the economically elegant consumer was also a proven paragon of virtue, in a way that the truly wealthy consumer was not. Louise de Salles, for example, was as impressed by the economiz-

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ing of the Parisian ouvrière and the budget-conscious housewife as by their good taste.117 Marie Double also felt an especial admiration for the elegant fille du peuple able to display good taste in the face of economic constraint.118 Her ingenuity was seen as all the more commendable when it involved self-denial for the good of the family. Thus Claire Lausnay devoted her regular Femina column “Le Chic pas cher” to “economizing readers, our young coquettes, who willingly deprive themselves of a trinket or knick-knack to adorn their little ones more charmingly,” rather than to the “grandes élégantes . . . with an expandable budget,” for whom life was that much easier.119 Describing a young married pair, with “a lot of taste, a highly developed sense of art, and very little money,” Henri de Noussane posed the question: “Is it possible to provide them with the means to avoid vulgarity in their furnishings?” and answered it with a resounding, “Yes, certainly.” The couple’s taste and thrift not only enabled them to decorate their home artistically on a threadbare budget, but intensified their love: “They look at one another and smile. . . . The few francs in their wallet are sufficient for their desires.” Together they choose and bargain for a few pieces of furniture “of artistic value”; the young woman sews all the curtains and draperies herself. At the end of the decorating process, they have even managed to squirrel away some savings. It was this model of consumption, Noussane asserted, in which values of art and domesticity neatly dovetailed, that allowed families to build a morally sound and stable home.120 The representation of the market as the wellspring of aesthetic democracy was reinforced by more politically motivated commentators, in particular decorative arts reformers and proponents of mass art education, many of whom supported the republican agenda. In a book advocating the aesthetic education of children, Marcel Braunschvig propounded the view that working-class families who learned to love art and beauty could live a life as aesthetically rich as the moneyed classes.121 The Swiss art educator Georges de Montenach offered up the taste of the Parisian worker—what he termed her “spirit of adaptation, which brings out the best aspect of the most vulgar object”—as an inspiration to workers elsewhere.122 Republican officials made similar arguments for the production sector, including the Parisian textile worker and even the lowly female sweated laborer alongside the male artisan in the pantheon of French artists. In an economic report of 1917 assessing the impact of the World War on French fashion exports, foreign trade advisor Lucien Coquet concluded that postwar France had maintained

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its prewar economic supremacy in the fashion market because of the exquisite taste of the Parisian ouvrière.123 Blending cultural myth with statistical documentation, he explained France’s preeminence in the prewar fashion market: “We dominated the market almost completely, a fact that is easily understood in an industry the secret of which lay in the flair and good taste of the working woman, in her skill in the delicate art of arranging a feather . . . a ribbon, a flower . . . a thousand little ornaments.”124 In Coquet’s description, the gift of the Parisienne was an artistic, almost magical, ability to transform the paltry and the cheap into art. The consumption of inexpensive bibelots and mass-market fashion objects, the symbols of the commercial economy once considered a danger to the French aesthetic mystique, had become, in his view, a social good: “the manifestation of our artistic and individualistic temperament.”125 To what extent did agents of the market succeed in capturing the lowermiddle and working classes as a shopping clientele? Certainly, discursive expansion far outstripped material democratization. Although new, more cheaply priced periodicals probably reached wider audiences toward the end of the century, the contents and cost of most fashion journals indicate that they were destined for the bonne bourgeoisie, despite their claims of ever-expanding reach.126 And in many ways, the same also could be said of the larger department stores, which continued to cater primarily to a well-to-do bourgeois clientele until the First World War.127 Far and away the best source of evidence on this question is the department store catalogue, in which prices alone tell us that the stores must have remained largely the province of elite women, with some diffusion of goods to the petite bourgeoisie.128 Although bargainbasement department stores sprang up in the working-class neighborhoods in northeastern Paris during the fin de siècle, they formed the base of a separate, class-segregated market, far from the universal market pictured in commercial discourse.129 The proliferation of massmarket fashion journals, ready-to-wear goods, and synthetic luxuries notwithstanding, the democratic diffusion of goods remained relatively restricted.130 Yet in a cultural, if not a material, sense, the democratic premise of chic had far-reaching implications. While many goods remained out of the reach of many consumers, new selling contexts and practices were spreading the culture of the modern market further and wider than ever before. This democratization of the bourgeois cultural model of con-

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sumption occurred in three dimensions, each closely related to the other: first, in the spread of new shopping practices and rituals; second, in the consumption of spectacle; and finally, in the efflorescence of a new ethos of consumption, predicated on belief in the universality of aesthetic distinction. The department store served as a key conduit in these processes of cultural dissemination. The store setting itself, in particular its scale and anonymity, its open-door policy, and its inducements to browsing, provided fertile ground for the creation of a democratic public space. And, in fact, the portrait that emerges from a range of commentators is not of the great department stores as the exclusive haunt of any one social stratum, but rather as a preferred market for particular wares for a variety of social groups. In short, the department store was used widely, if in different ways, by women of varying socioeconomic backgrounds, and in this respect it did cater to a broad and socially diverse public.131 Aristocrats and very wealthy grandes bourgeoises supposedly considered the department store somewhat déclassé and tended to rely chiefly on the elite maison de couture and furniture boutique for clothing and household furnishings. Nonetheless, they too were occasionally glimpsed at the grand magasin. According to Pierre Giffard and Emile Zola, the truly rich woman had her dresses designed by a celebrated couturier, but might well purchase accessories in the department store.132 A mortified Arsène Alexandre asserted that the mondaine sometimes stooped so low as to buy an entire outfit there.133 Scientific studies of the 1880s diagnosing kleptomania in the department store as a cross-class phenomenon offer further evidence of the presence of the femme de monde.134 Anecdotal evidence also suggests that the same elite women who snubbed the quality of the goods in the department store nonetheless recognized it as a locus of style. It is possible, of course, that its reputation as part of the fashion vanguard reveals less about the department store than about the improved cultural standing of the bourgeois women. In any case, even department store critics acknowledged the aesthetic reliance of the grande dame on the grand magasin. According to Pierre Giffard, the upper-class woman capitalized on both the anonymity and range of choice provided by the department store, treating it as a kind of walk-through fashion magazine in which she tried on every possible style but never bought anything, intending from the outset to have her model of choice made up by her own couturier or modiste.135 No doubt perceiving a demand for department store chic in their elite clientele, reputable couturiers reportedly colluded in this

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covert dependence on the stores by enlisting their employees to pilfer design ideas from the department store’s windows.136 The great department stores were evidently aware of this practice and occasionally used it as a selling point in their own promotion, as in an ad of the turn of the century that depicted “the young couturière . . . just come from the Bon Marché, where she has found inspiration in the latest styles.”137 In the ad’s representation, however, the practice was less a form of piracy than a rational and intelligent use of the aesthetic resources that the department store, in its beneficence, made available to the public. Meanwhile, the most vociferous critics tried to undercut the department store’s reputation for elegance by asserting that the plunder took place on the other end, and that the windows of the grand magasin displayed nothing but vulgarizations of the couturier’s creations.138 But no matter which institution initiated the exchange and under what circumstances it took place, the taste endorsed by the department store and the established couturier—and, by extension, by the middle-class and the upperclass woman—were gradually converging. Moreover, the presence of the femme du monde in the department store, even as a rare occurrence, contributed to the myth of a universal market. The growing visibility of women of more modest condition in the department store, in particular the petite bourgeoise, was equally important to its perception as a democratic public space. Commentators noted that the very marginality of the petite bourgeoise made her eager to join in the cultural rituals of the bourgeois mainstream, and that the department store was adept in capitalizing on her liminality and upwardly mobile aspirations. According to observers such as Octave Uzanne, “A large part of the fashions of the department store . . . are aimed at petit bourgeois women and those of more modest condition.”139 Zola’s investigative notes for Au Bonheur des dames also emphasized the petite-bourgeois presence at the department store. Describing the crowd at the Louvre Department Store—perhaps the most elegant of the larger stores—he reported the presence of the petite bourgeoise, “pretty badly done up . . . even women with baskets of food . . . who must come from Les Halles” alongside “society people [and] chic women.”140 In Zola’s account, she did not necessarily come to buy things, but to window-shop and soak up the heady atmosphere. The petite bourgeoise who did purchase goods, he suggested, frequently exceeded her budget because her status anxiety made her especially vulnerable to the “spending mania” typical of the department store. But Zola did not believe that the department store had succeeded in attract-

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ing a truly mass clientele. This was less a matter of pricing than of the nature of department store marketing: since working-class women remained resistant to its “displays of elevated art,” he argued, the task of absorbing them into the democratic market still remained.141 According to chroniclers, the hybrid nature of the commercial public rendered the department store socially illegible. Writers such as Zola, Pierre Giffard, and Arsène Alexandre described the difficulties faced by department store clerks in decoding the social origin and financial resources of consumers for the purpose of calibrating the sales pitch.142 For the clerk, the stakes were high. If he overvalued a woman’s status, he risked wasting his time on someone whose purchases would bring little commission, but if he underestimated her worth, he might offend her and lose the commission altogether. Meanwhile, for relatively well-todo consumers, the presence of the less affluent shopper created social pressure to buy more expensive items that marked their social superiority. Louise d’Alq thus advised readers of her etiquette handbook not to dally too long at the counters with cheap merchandise, to avoid the condescension of both employees and other shoppers.143 Not only did a diverse set of publics utilize the modern marketplace in different ways, but in a more profound sense, the market offered itself to everyone in the form of spectacle.144 In part, this occurred as the retail culture of the department store, its display techniques and marketing strategies, came to be appropriated increasingly by small boutiques.145 In part, it happened through the expansion of the advertising industry. But the market also presented itself as a democratic arena by promoting a new understanding of consumption and consumer citizenship. According to this conception, looking—whether that meant browsing in the department store, looking at store windows and billboards on the city streets, or sitting at home leafing through a fashion magazine or a department store catalogue—was defined as a crucial form of participation and agency in the modern market. The shop-girl gazing longingly into the display window of a fancy boutique whose goods were beyond her means was thus no longer the outsider but a full-fledged member of the consumer public. As Emile Bayard tellingly described this new culture, “The working-class girl . . . who is not rich and whose money comes from her wages does not allow herself the cost of a luxurious toilette. But she sees and understands.”146 Marcel Braunschvig presented the case even more bluntly: “As the proverb says: to see is to have. In this sense, the poorest of men, if he sincerely appreciates beauty, is enriched by all the beautiful things that fall within his field of

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vision: the monuments that embellish our cities . . . the jewels displayed in store windows. . . .”147 In Bayard’s and Braunchswig’s readings, spectators were quintessential members in the new culture of consumption; the working-class girl’s eye—the metonym for taste—rendered her chic despite her penury and served as her badge of belonging in the sisterhood of shoppers. All of this tells us not that the consumer market of the turn of the century was, in fact, democratic in the sense of the material diffusion of goods or even in the sense of the growth of single, inclusive public. As an imagined community, however, the market of the fin de siècle was indeed an aesthetic democracy. That community was predicated on the principle, central to the aesthetics and the ethics of the modern market, that distinction inhered not in goods or in status, but in the aesthetic sensibility and the virtue of the self-created individual. We know that this was not true in any meaningful sense for working-class women, who surely understood taste to be a form of cultural capital based on social and economic capital. But this is how the market represented itself, and both the anecdotal evidence of commentators and the empirical evidence of purchasing patterns suggest that this is what bourgeois consumers believed, even the petit-bourgeois consumer on the margins. Although it was patently obvious to everyone that the democratization of goods was limited, agents of the market could claim that taste was being democratized and use that claim to project a compelling image of an inclusive market organized around aesthetic and virtuous individuals, one which competed with the perception of a public divided by the boundaries of class. THE MARKET AND SOCIAL PEACE Imagining the market as a democratic public enabled commercial professionals to make a set of related, subsidiary claims about the nature and scope of its place in civic life. It allowed them to argue, in effect, that the market was an agent of embourgeoisement, spreading bourgeois models of domestic and aesthetic consumption to the workingclasses. This was true in two senses, one emancipatory, the other disciplinary. Working-class people with access to unprecedented levels of comfort and new kinds of pleasure were said to be acquiring a stake in the republican order. At the same time, the working woman whose consumption was disciplined by thrift and taste purportedly transmitted these bourgeois values to her family. In the commercial narrative, there-

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fore, the market did not foment social envy and intensify class divisions. Instead, it promoted a universal model of consumption that created social peace and consensus, so that every citizen was included in the republic through the offices of the market. With these claims, agents of the market professed to serve the republic in a fundamental capacity that far surpassed their work in regulating the consuming practices of bourgeois woman. Echoing the logic of their critics, market defenders and professionals identified both the reach and the persuasive force of advertising and spectacle as the key to commercial influence over French workers. “Advertising, if distributed widely,” argued Gilles Normand in an early twentieth-century homage to the department store, “can win over the most obscure concierge, hidden away in the dingiest quarters.”148 Similarly, an advertising handbook of the same vintage declared the grand design of marketing to be to shape the thought and behavior of the masses.149 Where critics interpreted these powers of suasion as a capacity to corrupt, proponents of the modern commercial system turned this critique on its head, claiming the culture of spectacle as an extraordinary instrument for public instruction, one that could modify not only the behavior but the very desires and needs of the consumer. From their perspective, responsible advertising that benefited both the capitalist and the consumer developed naturally out of the symbiotic relation between the commercial sphere and the republic. While the power to persuade could be harnessed toward many ends, fashioners of the beneficent market chiefly emphasized their indispensability as aesthetic educators of the masses, claiming to develop the innate taste of the working woman just as they cultivated the chic of the bourgeoise. Part of that education was said to take place simply through passive exposure, reflecting the official wisdom of marketers that taste was a “form of artistic sentiment” and, therefore, a “receptivity . . . easy to affect” by indirect means.150 Drawn to the stores by low prices, “the democratic masses” were inevitably exposed to and elevated by its resplendent visual culture and its abundant goods, as the liberal economist Georges Michel pointed out in a study of large-scale commerce of 1892.151 The purchase of cheap luxuries was said to carry the aesthetic education of the shopper begun in the store into the humblest of homes. “By making luxury accessible to small budgets,” Bon Marché advertisers asserted in the 1890s, the department store was raising the standards of comfort and taste of “the lowest strata of the population.”152 That assumption also underlay a Galeries Lafayette ad announcing that

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the store’s “absolutely new [commercial] method and way of presenting merchandise” had made possible the realization of “the Genius of the Race.” Underscoring the text, the ad depicted a beneficent Parisienne bestowing the store and its material riches on the entire city (fig. 20).153 Not content to serve merely as a passive influence, market representatives boasted equally of their active efforts to provide the public with aesthetic instruction. Describing the rebirth of aesthetic France in La Revue de la mode in 1903, Paquet-Mille credited the fashion magazine for having accomplished the “education of the eye . . . in all social classes.”154 By the outbreak of the First World War, according to advertising for the Maison des Magasins Réunis, department store directors to a man had come to understand that “their real raison d’être” was to shape the public taste: “Businessmen like those who direct the maison des magasins reunis have understood the responsibility they bear toward the People whom they invite into their vast domains. The constant evolution and improvement of their commercial activity . . . has introduced the Masses to the sensations of Art and Beauty.”155 The net result of this tutelage, both passive and active, was not merely an educated working class, but one made over in the image of the bourgeoisie. As market professionals presented the case, the democratic expansion of the consumer market had occurred not simply because proprietors had learned to condescend to the masses, but because the department store had gradually elevated the masses to a new level of aesthetic sophistication. Sympathetic commentators from outside the market represented the situation from a rather more utilitarian perspective. As an industry outsider, Georges Michel took exception to the idea that the department store’s mission vis-à-vis the public taste was purely civic, suggesting that the genius of its directors lay not so much in creating the taste for cheap comfort and elegance as in knowing how to profit from the transformation of “needs and customs” occasioned by the advent of “a new democracy.”156 For Michel and a range of other outside supporters, however, the belief that the department store served the public by serving itself did not necessarily diminish the value of its contribution. Recognizing the department store’s opportunism, they nonetheless applauded its impact on the aesthetic education of the French worker. More to the point, they were willing and even eager to use the department store and the fashion magazine as instruments in their own campaigns to educate the public taste. In the same way, republican decorative arts reformers and art education advocates tended to support commercial initiatives to educate the

Figure 20. Advertisement. Galeries Lafayette Department Store, 1912. (Collection L’Esprit. Cliché Archives de Paris)

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public taste, even while distancing themselves from the “bric-à-brac” associated with the modern market.157 They did so out of a conviction that the mass production and distribution of synthetic luxuries were as crucial for the survival of the French aesthetic patrimony as they were for enhancing the lives of workers. Neither goal, moreover, was thought attainable without the other: “Let us not forget that we live in a democracy, in a century of democratic orientation,” the critic Rioux de Maillou reminded the readers of the Revue des arts décoratifs in 1895, “and that there can be no art without a society that enjoys it, desires it, and through this desire, permits its production. In a word . . . art is social: let us accept that.”158 As the locus of the mass distribution of cheap luxuries and synthetic goods, the department store occupied an important place in plans to reconcile art and industry by producing cheap and attractive decorative objects. The republican arts officials, furniture industry experts, art critics, and decorative arts reformers who comprised part of the jury for the 1889 Exposition made this point explicitly: “Alongside openly educational institutions such as national museums, painting salons, [and] our expositions,” they wrote in their official report, it was “the things that are sold in France everyday” that were to bring about the “education of the greater public called upon . . . to safeguard the future of our industrial arts.”159 For the same reasons, the critic and museum administrator Raymond Escholier extolled the work of the Printemps department store in propagating aesthetic values and cultivating the taste of the French citizenry as at least as valuable as the parallel efforts of the many newly formed democratic art education societies of the fin de siècle.160 Decorative arts reformers did not view well-made commodities merely as instruments for the education of the public taste. Many reformers were aesthetic modernists committed to the notion that the mass-produced, inexpensive object could be as beautiful as the handcrafted one, and that the decorative arts were equivalent to the fine arts in aesthetic value. Evidence of this view, and by implication of a degree of engagement in the new commercial order, emerges from the archives of a number of prominent art education societies. Lecturing to an appreciative audience of the members of the organization L’Art pour tous in 1895, the Solidarist political leader, Léon Bourgeois, applauded the organization’s use of mass-produced art reproductions in exposing the French public to art and—in phrasing redolent of Baudelairean modernism—praised their efforts to teach the masses to “find the ideal and the beautiful in the commonplace and ugly.”161 Ten years later, the art amateurs, journalists,

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and artists of the Société “Les Arts graphiques” echoed Bourgeois with a letter to the minister of public instruction offering to subsidize the decoration of French classrooms with artistic posters as part of a wider crusade to provide French youth with an aesthetic education.162 An identical logic prompted a number of art education reformers to celebrate the aesthetic potential of the commercial metropolis itself as a school in which the advertisements, commercial display, and neon lights of the city streets served to shape the aesthetic sensibilities of the masses.163 Indeed, although some art education advocates continued to regard the market and mechanical reproduction as a menace to French taste, a significant and vocal subset of these reformers presented the mass-produced commodity as an essential tool to educate the French citizen and safeguard the aesthetic patrimony. In promoting the value of mass-produced goods and images, decorative arts and art education reformers contended that the fate of the French patrimony lay in the hands of commercial and industrial entrepreneurs. But they were also mounting more fundamental arguments about the nature of republican democracy and the relationship between the French state and its citizens. For the individual, the cultivation of aesthetic sensibility was said to offer heretofore hidden joys and gratifications. In the view of any number of commentators, this was an end in itself. Writing about the aesthetic progress made by the masses in the last decade of the nineteenth century, Paquet-Mille concluded triumphantly, “Does this pleasure of the eye not constitute a part of happiness?”164 Likewise, Marius Vachon defined aesthetics as “the science of ‘ce qui fait bien,’ ” or a method for producing sensations of harmony between the individual and his milieu.165 Other observers emphasized that the aesthetic gain of individual citizens was in equal measure a gain for French society. An early twentiethcentury ad for the Maison des Magasins Réunis made the point that aesthetically trained consumers were part of a more contented citizenry: “Everyone can play a part in the spectacle [of the department store]. It is both a precious pleasure and a lesson . . . [and] the realization of that noble social dream: ‘Beauty for Everyone.’ ”166 Hailing Paris as a modern Athens in his address to the organization L’Art pour tous, Léon Bourgeois drew similar conclusions. For him, the modern metropolis was the hub of the Republic’s aesthetic democracy, a sphere in which the appreciation of beauty was the right of all citizens and an essential compensation for the poorest citizens lacking in material comforts: “Art consoles those who suffer,” he assured the audience amid “lively

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applause.”167 Raymond Escholier made the same pointed allusion to Athens in his book on the aesthetic culture of “the new Paris.” He saw both cities not only as centers of democracy and aesthetic refinement, but as societies in which art actively ennobled the citizenry.168 The comparison with Athens was a substantive one, meant to invoke the image of a moral society founded on principles of civic virtue. Indeed, for Bourgeois, Escholier, and many other commentators, an aesthetic democracy forged not only a contented citizenry but a disciplined one. By the end of the century, then, the argument for the civilizing effects of taste, first mobilized by commercial experts seeking to reinvent the image of the market and the bourgeois consumer, was taken up by commentators outside the market and applied to the French working classes to make a much broader, more universal argument about the market and its contribution to the social good. Marius Vachon put the case urgently. Even beyond the republic’s duty to protect “the national spirit . . . of the art of our ancestral traditions,” he wrote, there was a moral obligation to educate the public taste: “Aesthetics . . . is the means by which we can mount an active, vigilant, and decisive defense of the domestic foyer from the invasion of bad morals and pernicious habits.”169 Likewise, for Roger-Milès, the citizen’s aesthetic education would provide him with the “aesthetic joy” of being able to create a beautiful environment in which to live, and would also serve the Republic by “moralizing the humble.”170 Escholier argued that the impact of the democratization of taste was already being felt in public schools across the nation, where an antiquated Christian morality was being supplanted by a modern morale esthétique.171 He also stressed the twin benefits, individual and civic, of cultivating the public taste: for the republic, it was the first step in instilling the new morality; for workers, it provided the pleasure of living in an artistic milieu of one’s own making, regardless of financial constraint.172 The Société “Les Arts graphiques” spoke as well of “inculcating in children the principles of morality, in sparking the feeling for Good by awakening their love of Beauty,” while for Léon Bourgeois, “the artistic education” of the public was synonymous with their “moral education.”173 If taste was said to elevate the venal bourgeoise into the disinterested connoisseur, it turned slack, disaffected workers into disciplined citizens by giving them a stake in the world of goods and, therefore, in the social order. For Léon Riotor, an art critic and administrator of the organization Société nationale de l’art à l’école, the artistic decoration of the classroom was not just a way of providing French youth with the pleasures of artis-

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tic delectation, but a means of instilling in them the love of beauty, cleanliness, and order. Schoolchildren, in turn, would carry their new “sense of moral well-being” into their homes: “Art in our schools would penetrate the homes of workers. . . .”174 Along the same lines, Georges de Montenach advocated the education of the public taste as a way to transmit values of method and order essential to domestic harmony: “Taste . . . will give to even the lower-class family the desire for a well-organized home, nicely decorated, simple but attractive. . . . [T]his foyer will radiate peace and happiness.”175 Marcel Braunschvig argued conversely that it was habits of order and hygiene that gave rise to a love of beauty, but he too insisted that taste and moral virtue were intricately intertwined.176 According to its defenders, no institution played a greater role in the civilizing of the masses than the department store. Gilles Normand predicted that the department store’s propagation of values of taste and cleanliness, discipline and economy, would eventually bring about the embourgeoisement of the working classes. Although the femme du peuple certainly did not dress like the marquise, she already clad herself “decently, cleanly, having acquired the taste for clean undergarments and appropriate toilettes. . . .” Her husband would soon begin to reap the benefits of consumer culture, since his wife’s shopping created material comforts and visual pleasures able to distract him from the temptations of alcohol: “The more the individual’s resources are used to obtain comforts . . . the less those resources will vanish in alcohol.” Nowhere was the constructive impact of the department store more apparent, Normand suggested, than in the United States, where a mass consumer culture was far more developed. As a result of its impact, American workers were more sober than their French counterparts and tended to engage in healthier and more constructive leisure pursuits. They demonstrated their attachment to the social order by regularly reading the newspapers and contributing to charities. In Normand’s view, the emancipatory effects of mass consumption were closely associated with its disciplinary influence: happy citizens were respectable citizens with a stake in the orderly home and the stable society.177 In this narrative of embourgeoisement through consumption, the bourgeois woman’s tasteful consumption was of paramount importance. Most obviously, it was the means by which she mastered impulses said to be dangerous to herself and her family. But it was also a means by which she herself helped to civilize the worker by proxy: far from posing a menace to French society, it was argued, her role in the market allowed her to serve as a model for the masses. A writer for the fashion magazine

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La Revue de la mode put it this way: “Society is the family enlarged; the family takes its true character from the woman. Its moral level is raised or lowered depending on whether the woman is honored and respected, depending on whether she exercises a good or a bad influence on her entourage.”178 At first blush, the synecdoche drawn here between the domestic realm and civil society hardly seems new. But what was new to the fin de siècle was the notion that a woman’s “moral level” could be elevated, rather than corrupted, through the practice of socially sanctioned models of consumption. This nexus established between taste and virtue, between marketplace and foyer, ascribed a social, specifically republican dimension to the bourgeois woman’s consumption. It lent her cultural authority not only within her own social class but in the larger civic arena, turning her into what might aptly be called a consumer-citizen. As the domestic woman merged with the chic consumer in the fin de siècle, proponents of the domestic economy movement claimed her as a prime weapon in the moralization of the working classes.179 The attempt to build a model of chic domestic femininity spanning the social spectrum defined the agenda, for example, of the fin-de-siècle women’s organization devoted to domestic economy, “Le Foyer.”180 In a project that tried to cure a multiplicity of ills, upper-class women were to recuperate lost domestic skills by helping lower-class women both to develop their aesthetic sensibilities and to become thrifty and efficient household managers. Everyone presumably would benefit from this arrangement: lower-class women would learn to dress and decorate tastefully and inexpensively, thereby ensuring greater satisfaction with their social condition, while the femme du monde would be restored to her rightful place at home. With these objectives in mind, Le Foyer offered courses in fashion, home decorating, and budgeting to both jeunes filles du monde and femmes du people, in which, in the words of the organizers, “women are taught to be chic and still economize, two things which, fortunately, can be easily reconciled.”181 Taken together, the testimony of decorative arts reformers, art education advocates, and domestic economists demonstrates their conviction that, under the proper circumstances, the market could help to forge social peace, and that the consuming bourgeoise could serve as its agent in this task. To that extent, they shared and reinforced the vision that fashion journalists, advertisers, and commercial entrepreneurs labored to create, namely that of the market as a civic arena intimately linked to the domestic sphere. For interested insiders and sympathetic outsiders alike, the cultivation of the consumer’s taste created both aes-

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thetically sensible individuals whose private lives were thereby enhanced and good citizens invested in a well-ordered public sphere. Each citizen was included in the republic through the market, and each citizen could contribute to the republic and to French identity through acts of tasteful consumption. It is crucial to understand, however, that the aesthetic democracy imagined by market representatives and their allies promised harmony rather than equality, and therefore served more to preserve the social hierarchy than to flatten it. Consumption was said to foster social peace not through the equitable distribution of material goods, but through the democratization of taste: since she was in theory able to create beauty without much money, the financially strapped consumer of taste was supposed to be content with her lot in life as it was. Certainly that was the point Paquet-Mille wished to make in admonishing readers not to “confuse comfort with luxury,” since comfort alone was “within the reach of all purses.” Advising women to use the resources they had to better their lives, she implied that they had no reason to be dissatisfied with their social position. “An umbrella for 4 fr. 95,” she remarked, “shelters as well as one for 25 francs.”182 Numerous commentators rehearsed the same message of social quiescence. Thus Roger-Milès expressed the hope that individuals “at all levels of the social scale” would cease to strive after upward mobility, but instead learn to “organize their interiors so as to achieve harmony between the dwelling” and themselves.183 Along similar lines, Georges de Montenach’s handbook on taste formation sought to deflect attention away from socioeconomic context by focusing on the beautification of the domestic foyer, while Le Foyer’s mission to teach lower-class women to pursue aesthetic self-development over social status served the same socially conservative ends.184 These texts and others like them suggest that the market fashioned itself—and was perceived by others— not so much as a democracy, but as an aesthetic meritocracy that offered social distinction to aesthetically discriminating individuals. Regardless of the glaring material differences between them, glamorous mondaines and humble ménagères alike were to believe that they had equal access to this imagined community of taste. The promise of social peace through consumption needs to be seen as part of a larger discourse, produced largely by the market, on the culture of capitalism as a locus of harmony rather than conflict. It was a representation that extended to the realm of production, depicting buyer

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and seller in a symbiotic, rather than adversarial, relationship. According to a Bon Marché brochure, the department store was by definition an enterprise based on the alliance between “shoppers and producers,” who, “sharing the same interests, work together to create new goods . . . [and] to develop commerce and industry.”185 Department store advertisers and defenders also asserted a synergy with other businesses. Far from driving small retailers out of business, Georges Michel contended, the department store had stimulated the growth of “a multitude of small enterprises and workshops.”186 Similarly, a pamphlet advertising silk fabrics at the Pygmalion department store suggested that the grand magasin was part of a united commercial front, working to benefit the French economy by restoring France to world leadership in fashion and decorating: “Without trying to create publicity for such-and-such a business, which, moreover, would be absolutely out of place here, and leaving aside petty questions of competition in order to consider the general interest alone, we wish to heartily congratulate . . . the producers and wholesalers . . . small and large businesses, new ones and ones with a glorious commercial history, along with great couturiers and department stores, in a word, all those who have contributed their initiative, their intelligence, their labor, and their capital in the service of this great idea: to give back to one of the greatest industries of our nation [the silk industry] all the splendor it merits.”187 Toward the same ends, department store advertisers and proponents boasted of harmonious relations between the store and its employees. The large stores were pioneers of policies of business paternalism so progressive, according to one Bon Marché marketing prospectus of the 1890s, that the interests of capital and labor had finally converged: the department store, the text ludicrously asserted, had achieved nothing short of “socialism, in the true sense of the word.”188 The basis of this putative commercial utopia was free lodging and, especially, free food: “All employees are fed at no cost to them. . . . [O]ne is stupefied on entering the kitchens where 800 steaks are roasting simultaneously . . . [where] 800 kilos of potatoes are being transformed into golden fried slices. . . .”189 A Bon Marché pamphlet of 1889 used the metaphor of a beehive to characterize the relationship of employees to enterprise: “Every bee enjoys the honey that has been produced [and] . . . in return for his zeal and his efforts, obtains security in the present and for the future and the hope of becoming rich.”190 It was the department store’s ability to bring satisfaction to everyone, the pamphlet suggested, that made it a socially progressive institution: “The merit [of the Bon Marché] . . . is that the prosperity of

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the establishment is founded not only on the devotion, but also on the contentment, of fellow workers of all classes.”191 Georges Michel made less extravagant claims, but agreed in essence that department stores were benevolent employers, noting that department store workers were “better lodged, fed . . . [and] paid” and had more job security than those employed by small retailers.192 In publicizing these policies of paternalism, department store entrepreneurs sought to demonstrate that they operated not only as profit-seeking capitalists, but also as civic-minded employers responsible for the well-being of their employees, whose store policies were rooted in the social contract rather than capitalist exploitation.193

Conclusion

From the founding of the first department store at midcentury, representatives and proponents of the modern market claimed that it benefited the individual middle-class consumer. Even the most vehement opponents of the market conceded that substantially reduced prices and a vastly increased range of choice in products, combined with the convenience of shopping for diverse goods at a single site and the elimination of bargaining, had revolutionized and streamlined commerce. These arguments about the gains to the consumer mirrored those made about the entrepreneur, whose freedom from the customs and constraints of traditional retailing allowed for unprecedented profits. From Adam Smith on, capitalists had argued that such profit-seeking individualism was the backbone of a healthy national economy. Advertising for the Bon Marché from the 1890s, for example, proudly vaunted the department store’s contributions both to private prosperity and the nation’s economy: “The transformations that the department stores have brought about in commercial practice constitute progress of which the consumer is the first and principal beneficiary. . . . Under their dominion . . . consumption and the general well-being have increased, in the sense that one can say that all branches of national activity have profited from . . . lower retail prices.”1 But if the individualism of the market was its greatest attraction in a society increasingly organized around individuals, it was also its greatest defect in social and political terms. As we have seen, critics of the modern market worried that the net effect of new commercial practices 231

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on French society would be disastrous, despite the gain to the individual. They argued that modern commerce wreaked cultural havoc and fomented social conflict, transforming bourgeois women into rapacious predators, provoking envy and discontent among workers, and promoting a cult of tasteless bric-à-brac that endangered the aesthetic patrimony of the nation. The root of the problem, the critics contended, was that the modern market fostered self-interest at the expense of proper social restraint. Its most serious consequence was a marketplace deeply at odds with the ideological vision of the republic. Commercial entrepreneurs, marketing professionals, and, to a lesser extent, journalists for the women’s press launched a countervailing narrative about the market that in large measure deflected this criticism onto the female consumer. In part, this shunting of responsibility revealed that they were men and women of their time who shared the anxieties of critics about the problems of unchecked individualism, particularly where female consumers were concerned. Thus neither store owners, advertisers, fashion journalists, nor sympathetic observers denied the existence of shopping disorders, breaches of civility, or violations of taste in the consumer public, but they took the position that the individual, rather than the commercial environment, was responsible. Because the solution to the problems of the market therefore lay in the disciplining and channeling of the consumer’s desires, it was, paradoxically, the market itself that was best suited to the task. The novelist Marcelle Tinayre articulated this position in Femina in 1910: “The love of fashion, when it is regulated by reason . . . and guided by a sure and delicate taste, becomes a lovely form of art, the most feminine of all the arts. And it is also a social good. . . .”2 By figuring consumption as a modern art form and the consumer as an original artist (an artist whose palette was her person and, especially, the domestic interior), agents of the market purported to produce discriminating and disciplined individuals befitting the civic public. As the model of artistic, domestically oriented consumption was applied, in turn, to the working classes, the fashioners of the market were able to widen the scope of their claims to encompass the market’s ability to eliminate class antagonism. Finally, the same model allowed them to assert that the market had revitalized the French aesthetic patrimony. Marketplace modernism thus permitted a Bon Marché catalogue from 1912 to present the department store, that most stigmatized symbol of mass production and poor taste, as the guardian of French art and “the genius of the [French] race.”3 Similarly, it allowed a catalogue for the Pygmalion department store to hold up the grand magasin as evidence that “French taste has not degenerated

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over the past century. . . . [I]t is . . . still worthy of its former renown, its uncontested supremacy. The Frenchwoman is still the queen of the world. To preserve her superiority . . . [she] must rely on [the department store] . . . to fulfill . . . her most subtle desires in the domain of art and fashion.”4 In the vision of market representatives, taste fundamentally transformed consumption from a social hazard into a social good through the subordination of self-interest to higher aesthetic and moral goals. Taste, in short, not only civilized the market by creating civic-minded consumers, but conferred on the market the power to civilize: to further refine French taste. In this sense, taste turned the market into a powerful tool for the republican agenda of social peace, economic prosperity, and cultural prestige. The rapprochement of market and republic, however, was much more than the pure contrivance of market agents. The compromises made over the meaning of the market were rooted in the emergence of modern forms of individuality, associated in turn with modern models of the family and new definitions of art and art-making. Market agents invented none of these, but appropriated and commodified each of them, disseminating them to an ever-expanding consumer public. The market thus became a forum for discussions about class boundaries, gender roles, and political ideology, and the woman consumer came to play a central discursive role in the organization of civil society. Agents of the market were aided in their efforts to reinvent and redeem consumption by republican officials who sought an alliance with large-scale commerce for their own ends. Despite uneasiness about the compatibility of a consumerist culture with civic values, republicans regarded a flourishing commercial economy as essential to the economic well-being of the republic. Between the Universal Exposition of 1900 and the outbreak of the First World War, republicans therefore sought to reconcile consumer capitalism with the republic. Writing in the unlikely forum of a Bon Marché pamphlet, the liberal republican Jules Simon articulated this conciliatory stance. Like the railroad, Simon wrote, the department store signified progress from which everyone stood to gain on balance: “It is the modern world that has arrived; the past must eagerly adapt itself to the new forms of society and benefit from them.”5 To embrace the liberal market, however, republicans had to find ways to rationalize it and control it. The effort to do so was implicit both in Solidarist tracts that sought to redefine the republican social contract and reconnect the individual to the social body, and in republican programs to educate the public taste. Both complemented and reinforced the efforts of marketplace institutions.6

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The great beneficiary of this discursive reconciliation was the bourgeoisie. Where the bourgeois association with the market had once undercut all claims to cultural authority and aesthetic distinction, that relationship now became a locus of those claims. The rise of an individualized artistic model of consumption transformed the bourgeoise from philistine into aesthetic arbiter (not least in her own eyes) by offering her a rational, detached, and disinterested relationship to the world of goods, rather than a venal, acquisitive, or irrationally desiring one. Seen from this perspective, the French bourgeois preoccupation with taste in the fin de siècle was not simply a determination to elevate the commodity to the status of art object, but rather to arrogate what Pierre Bourdieu refers to as “the aesthetic disposition”: a particular and powerful way of seeing the world that ascribed aesthetic value to the “eye” or sensibility of the individual.7 The emergence of a popular bourgeois aesthetics—what I have called marketplace modernism—thus signaled not only the broadening of the canon and the consecration of aesthetic relativism, but the elevation of the bourgeoisie to a new level of cultural authority. Transforming taste from a caste attribute to an individual characteristic, the marketplace modernism of the bourgeoisie was democratic at its ideological core. Yet while taste was in theory available to any individual, the problems of acquiring an “eye” independent of money, training, or access to quality goods—despite assertions to the contrary—remained insurmountable. Portraying consumption as an individualized artistic practice appropriate to a democratic society, the discourse on taste in fact hid new ways of justifying and preserving social distinctions. By the 1890s, the upper strata of the bourgeoisie thus were able to exploit the capital of chic to establish themselves as an important taste elite, one that rivaled traditional aristocratic elites but remained relatively impermeable to socioeconomic outsiders. While this trajectory was long in the making, the aesthetic individualism of the bourgeoisie, both as a style and as a marker of social distinction, only emerged fully in the fin de siècle, at the intersection of artistic modernism and consumer capitalism. The problems posed by the marketplace in fin-de-siècle France were in their general outlines those that surfaced everywhere that democratic market societies developed in the late nineteenth century. Two national particularities, however, shaped the ways in which these conflicts were understood and discursively resolved in the French setting: the civic virtue prized by republican political culture and the nation’s long-standing identity as a global arbiter of taste. Both of these aspects of French identity

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were said to be endangered by the growth of the market in the late nineteenth century. The clash between civic virtue and liberal individualism took on particular significance, moreover, as the Third Republic struggled for legitimacy and sought to appease restive workers. At the same time, the efflorescence of bourgeois production and consumption created the perception of an out-and-out aesthetic crisis, tied to France’s relative economic decline. That the discursive solution to these problems centered on the civilizing powers of taste made perfect sense. Turning consumption into the exercise of rational and disinterested aesthetic judgments, the invention of an aesthetics of the market resolved contradictions between culture and capital at the heart of French bourgeois identity and restored the balance between individual and community so central to republican politics. The mobilization of the market in the service of the republic is seen most starkly in the transformation of the archetype of the chic Parisienne into that of the consumer-citizen between 1870 and 1914. In educating women to be rational and aesthetic consumers, the department store asserted its ability to transform the would-be bourgeois homewrecker into a domestic paragon and a role model for the working classes. The consumer was not an apostate but a representative of the family, a conduit between the private and the public; through her, the ethos of the bourgeois home could civilize the market. Consumption, in these terms, became a distinctly feminine form of exercising bourgeois citizenship. In shopping for the good of home and nation, moreover, the consumer-citizen served to confirm, rather than challenge, male authority. These new feminine forms of citizenship were in no way analogous to traditional masculine forms. Late-nineteenth-century Frenchwomen’s roles as consumer-citizens, such as they were, were essentially extensions of their more ingrained republican roles as mother-citizens.8 The connection between the two identities is most visible in the market campaign to channel all forms of feminine consumption toward home and family and to privilege the domestic interior as the ultimate arena for the expression of her aesthetic individuality. Although the realm of fashion remained more vexatious and more fraught with connotations of irrationality and selfishness, coquetry and elegance were also incorporated as essential elements of domestic femininity, to the point where the selflessness of the domestic woman infiltrated the very definition of chic. A poem titled “Chic,” written by the opera singer Felia Litvinne and published in Femina in 1910, underscored this shift in the meaning of the term: where once it connoted mere stylishness—“the vain, bad

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habits, the shackles of fashion that bewitch beautiful women”—it now evoked moral virtues consonant with republican femininity: “One can be chic in everything. In a noble action . . . [and] in the spirit of one’s fellow man, rather than in frivolous clothes.”9 Whether they referred to decorating or fashion, then, commentators who sought to highlight the consumer’s social usefulness toward the end of the century alluded to her domestic role. In this way, the ascription to women of new aesthetic power and expertise tended to lend prestige to the role of housewife and to assert the particular cultural authority of the domestic realm. The existing paradigm of republican domestic citizenship for women was thus sustained, rather than subverted, by market models. On the other hand, the purview of the consumer-citizen did surpass the purely domestic limits of the mother-citizen in an important way. In France more than elsewhere, women’s identities as consumers bore a nationalist tincture because of their roles as protectors of the French aesthetic patrimony. Although other nations endowed women with similar responsibilities, the role of aesthetic guardian had particular significance in France because of the widespread perception of national decline. Mindful of these fears, advertisements portrayed the shopper as the defender of the nation’s artistic prestige and, consequently, of its economic and political power. One journalist appealed directly to the conscience of her readers to save France’s aesthetic reputation and employ her workers in the process: “Does it not depend . . . on us to change things? . . . Ladies, dear readers . . . let us rise to the occasion! . . . ”10 Likewise, the Pygmalion department store thanked its customers for their contribution to the nation in an advertisement of 1904 for a sale on silk fabric: “Ladies, we give you our deepest gratitude. It is you, sovereign Parisiennes . . . who, with your taste for beauty and refined luxury, have combined the useful with the beautiful and performed a true act of patriotism in supporting a national industry which sustains thousands of modest workers.”11 The duties of this consumer nationalism went beyond the purchase of French over German or English products, to the cultivation of a distinctly personal style: a woman’s duty to the bourgeois republic lay in aesthetic self-expression. Consumption thus remained an exercise of individuality, even though its wider goal was to further the public good through the cultivation of French taste. In the vision projected by the market, commercial growth and the diffusion of goods promised not fractious individualism but a republic of social peace and plenty, and the Parisienne—a mother first, but also a consumer, and a citizen—was its emissary.

Notes

ABBREVIATIONS

AN

Archives Nationales, Paris

AP

Archives de Paris, Paris

BHVP

Bibliothèque Historique de la Ville de Paris, Paris

BN

Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris

BN: NAF

Bibliothèque Nationale: Nouvelles Acquisitions Françaises

INTRODUCTION 1. In general, the consuming bourgeoisie to which I refer is what some historians call the bonne bourgeoisie and the haute bourgeoisie, encompassing the middle and upper-middle strata of the group, most of whose male constituents were members of the liberal professions, civil servants, and proprietors of commercial and small manufacturing enterprises. I would argue that the bourgeois culture discussed throughout the book was also relevant to other bourgeois strata: although the French bourgeoisie was a diverse social formation, it nonetheless constituted a coherent entity whose members shared a telos and cultural orientation. Important works on the definition of the bourgeoisie include Adeline Daumard, Les Bourgeois de Paris au XIXe siècle; Peter Gay, Education of the Senses; Patrick Joyce, Democratic Subjects; Alan Kidd, “The Middle Class in Nineteenth-Century Manchester”; Jürgen Kocka, “The Middle Classes in Europe”; Lenore O’Boyle, “The Middle Class in Western Europe, 1815–1848”; Pamela Pilbeam, The Middle Classes in Europe, 1789–1914; Dror Wahrman, Imagining the Middle Class. 237

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2. Taste is a broad term, of course, and its meanings have shifted over time. Two elements were privileged in the late-nineteenth-century French usage: first, the idea of a detached aesthetic judgment governed by reason and moral disinterestedness, and, second, the notion of a uniquely subjective relation to objects. 3. The French republican conception of public life to which I refer should be distinguished from the Habermasian notion of the liberal public sphere. While the republican public was an extension of the state and existed in a tense relationship to the market, the Habermasian public was defined in strict opposition to the state, but included the market. While both models functioned primarily as normative ideals within social and political discourse, they were associated with certain settings. The civic ethos of the Republic, for example, was perceived to be embodied in such diverse venues as bourgeois clubs, voluntary associations, and public squares, and in municipal institutions such as museums. Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere. On the relevance of Habermas’s public sphere to French political life, see Keith Baker, “Defining the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century France”; Charles Taylor, “Modes of Civil Society.” 4. The phrase is T. H. Breen’s, from his essay “The Meanings of Things.” It is important to note, however, that although the Solidarists’ effort to reconceptualize the individual within a group context may be described as Rousseauian, their notion of benevolent state intervention in the lives of private citizens ran counter to Rousseau’s fear of an interventionist state. 5. Thorstein Veblen defined taste this way in Theory of the Leisure Class, 72. 6. Pierre Bourdieu calls this bourgeois world-view the aesthetic disposition and identifies it as one of the hallmarks of bourgeois culture. Distinction, 28–30, 53–56. 7. Thorstein Veblen, The Theory of the Leisure Class (1899). 8. Max Weber, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism (1904–1905). 9. On the multiple uses of consumption, see, for example, Leora Auslander, Taste and Power; Ann Bermingham and John Brewer, eds., The Consumption of Culture, 1600–1800; John Brewer and Roy Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods; Colin Campbell, The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism; Erica Carter, How German Is She?; Leo Charney and Vanessa R. Schwartz, eds., Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life; Victoria de Grazia with Ellen Furlough, eds., The Sex of Things; Jennifer Jones, “The Taste for Fashion and Frivolity”; Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J. H. Plumb, The Birth of a Consumer Society; Frank Mort, Cultures of Consumption; Erika Diane Rappaport, Shopping for Pleasure; Thomas Richards, The Commodity Culture of Victorian England; Mary Louise Roberts, Civilization Without Sexes; Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing; Vanessa R. Schwartz, Spectacular Realities; Susan Strasser, Charles McGovern, and Matthias Judt, eds., Getting and Spending; Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace. 10. Much recent scholarship has focused on the consumer as a subject, rather than object, with particular emphasis on his or her agency in ascribing meaning to consumption, both to material goods and to social practices. This is true, for example, of many of the historical studies on consumption cited above, and has also been an important theme in anthropological, literary, and cultural studies. See, for example, Arjun Appadurai, ed., The Social Life of Things; Rita

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Felski, The Gender of Modernity; John Fiske, Reading the Popular; Dick Hebdige, Subculture; Daniel Miller, A Theory of Shopping; Tania Modleski, Loving with a Vengeance; Mica Nava, Changing Cultures; Patrice Petro, Joyless Streets; Janice Radway, Reading the Romance. 1.

MARIANNE IN THE DEPARTMENT STORE

1. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 88, BN: NAF 10278. 2. The republic was on firm ground after the Seize Mai crisis of 1877, during which centrist republicans wrested control from conservative and authoritarian elements in the government. See Maurice Agulhon, The French Republic, 1879–1992; Philip R. Nord, The Republican Moment. 3. Cited in Olympe Audouard, Le Luxe effréné des hommes, 34, and JulesGustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 192. On the origins of this polarity, see Jennifer Jones, “Coquettes and Grisettes.” 4. On the department store, see Geoffrey Crossick and Serge Jaumain, Cathedrals of Consumption; François Faraut, Histoire de la Belle Jardinière; Bernard Marrey, Les Grands Magasins; Theresa M. McBride, “A Woman’s World”; Michael B. Miller, The Bon Marché; Philip R. Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment; Rosalind H. Williams, Dream Worlds. On English stores, see William Lancaster, The Department Store; Mica Nava, “Modernity’s Disavowal”; Erika Diane Rappaport, Shopping for Pleasure. On American stores, see Elaine S. Abelson, When Ladies Go A-Thieving; Susan Porter Benson, Counter Cultures; William Leach, Land of Desire. 5. Although most department stores had bourgeois patrons, a few, such as the Grands Magasins Dufayel and the Belle Jardinière, served a working-class public. 6. Early nineteenth-century shopkeepers did not make use of most of the marketing techniques designed by late-nineteenth-century retailers to appeal to the consumer’s irrational impulses. In this respect and in several others discussed later in the chapter, the traditional boutique appeared to contemporaries to be a more controlled environment than the department store. 7. Among the most influential sociological texts were Gustave Le Bon’s Psychologie des foules (1895), Gabriel Tarde’s Les Lois de l’imitation (1900), and Emile Durkheim’s Le Suicide (1897). 8. On relations between the regime and big business, particularly on opportunist and radical republican indifference to small shopkeeper protest against the department store in the 1890s, see Philip R. Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment. According to Nord, the Boulangist movement of 1889 marked the crucial turning point when mainstream republicans abandoned the interests of small retailers in favor of those of big commercial capital. Similarly, Sanford Elwitt argues that the government and big business were definitively allied against labor by the 1890s (The Third Republic Defended). 9. By civic virtue, I refer to the republican (and especially Rousseauian) notion, based on classical models, of the citizen’s quasi-religious sense of devotion and duty to the polity.

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10. On the English middle classes, see Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes; Peter Earle, The Making of the English Middle Class; Margaret R. Hunt, The Middling Sort; Alan Kidd and David Nicholls, eds., Gender, Civic Culture, and Consumerism; Jürgen Kocka and Allan Mitchell, Bourgeois Society in Nineteenth-Century Europe; Theodore Koditschek, Class Formation and Urban-Industrial Society; R. J. Morris, Class, Sect and Party. 11. Germany provides another useful comparison. The German Bürgertum also remained distinct from the nobility, but it was the former, rather than the latter (which remained more of a military and bureaucratic caste than its counterparts in England or France), which constituted the cultural elite. See David Blackbourn and Richard Evans, eds., The German Bourgeoisie; Jürgen Kocka, “The European Pattern and the German Case.” 12. Thus Rousseau warned the Poles, “[If you strive to] foment material luxury . . . you will end up with a people as scheming, violent, greedy, ambitious, servile, and knavish as the next.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Government of Poland, 67 (1772). For the opposing view of luxury’s civilizing effects, see David Hume’s 1742 essay “Of Luxury.” 13. On luxury, see Christopher Berry, The Idea of Luxury; Jennifer Jones, “The Taste for Fashion and Frivolity”; Sarah Maza, “Luxury, Morality, and Social Change”; Ellen Ross, “The Debate on Luxury in Eighteenth-Century France”; John Sekora, Luxury. On the divergence between Scottish and French attitudes toward commerce in the eighteenth century, see J. G. A. Pocock’s classic The Machiavellian Moment. The dichotomy between the two, however, should not be drawn too starkly. Some French thinkers of the early to middle eighteenth century, notably Montesquieu and Voltaire, considered luxury to be a social good and commerce to be a civilizing activity, and the French physiocrats in many ways anticipated Adam Smith’s liberal economic theory. 14. On commercial development in Ancien Régime France, see John Brewer and Roy Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods, especially Cissie Fairchilds, “The Production and Marketing of Populuxe Goods in EighteenthCentury Paris”; Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing; Carolyn Sargentson, Merchants and Luxury Markets. 15. Although a modern, western conception of fashion was invented in the European courts of the fourteenth century, fashion cycles became more rapid and novelty came to be considered a positive value in the eighteenth century. Historians trace new interest in the material world in part to the rise of global trading networks, although they disagree as to precisely when, where, and why this interest transformed itself into a full-fledged consumerist mentality. See John Brewer and Roy Porter, eds., Consumption and the World of Goods; Colin Campbell, The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism; Jennifer Jones, “Repackaging Rousseau”; Neil McKendrick, John Brewer, and J. H. Plumb, The Birth of a Consumer Society, chap. 8; Chandra Mukerji, From Graven Images; Simon Schama, The Embarrassment of Riches; Carole Shammas, The Pre-Industrial Consumer in England and America; Lorna Weatherill, Consumer Behaviour and Material Culture in Britain 1660–1760. 16. On tensions between commerce and civic virtue in the English context, see Jean-Christophe Agnew, Worlds Apart; G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of

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Sensibility; Margaret R. Hunt, The Middling Sort; David Kuchta, “The Making of the Self-Made Man”; Mary Poovey, “Accommodating Merchants.” 17. See David Kuchta, “The Making of the Self-Made Man,” for the political uses of the critique of luxury in the English setting. 18. This is a central theme in Rousseau’s writing. See, for example, his contrast of the masculine virtues of ascetic Sparta with the “luxury and softness” of Athens in his “Letter to M. d’Alembert on the Theatre,” 133 (1758). 19. Jennifer Jones argues, however, that scholars who overemphasize Rousseau’s importance have neglected the ways in which women involved in the market were perceived in a positive light (see “Repackaging Rousseau”). On eighteenth-century understandings of women’s relationship to the public sphere in France more generally, see Tjitske Akkerman, Women’s Vices, Public Benefits; Keith Baker, “Defining the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century France”; David Bell, “The ‘Public Sphere,’ the State, and the World of Law in Eighteenth-Century France”; Dena Goodman, “Public Sphere and Private Life”; Daniel Gordon, “Philosophy, Sociology, and Gender in the Enlightenment Conception of Public Opinion”; Joan Landes, Women and the Public Sphere in the Age of the French Revolution; Sarah Maza, “Women, the Bourgeoisie and the Public Sphere”; Dorindra Outram, The Body and the French Revolution. 20. On the endurance of the corporate identity in France, see James Collins, Classes, Estates, and Order in Early Modern Brittany. On the relationship between French culture and commercial development, see Patrice Higonnet, Sister Republics; William Reddy, The Rise of Market Culture; Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace. 21. On the economic history of nineteenth-century France, see Robert Aldrich, “Late-Comer or Early-Starter?”; Rondo Cameron and Charles Freedman, “French Economic Growth”; Edward Carter and Joseph Moody, eds., Enterprise and Entrepreneurship in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century France; Nicholas Crafts, “Economic Growth in France and Britain, 1830–1910”; Patrick O’Brien and Caglar Keyder, Economic Growth in Britain and France, 1780–1914. Much of this literature takes issue with David Landes’s landmark essay “French Entrepreneurship and Industrial Growth in the Nineteenth Century,” arguing that French economic development only “failed” relative to the English benchmark. 22. The formulation is Ronald Aminzade’s from Ballots and Barricades. 23. By 1880, Philip Nord argues, a new middling social stratum of republicans, comprised mainly of businessmen and professionals, joined forces with an older, more affluent generation of bourgeois notables to forge a republican synthesis strong enough to protect the Republic from its political enemies. See The Republican Moment, chap 1. 24. See Ronald Aminzade, Ballots and Barricades; Philip Nord, “Republicanism and Utopian Vision”; Theodore Zeldin, France, 1848–1945, vol. 1. 25. See Maurice Agulhon, The French Republic, 1879–1992, 52; Sanford Elwitt, The Third Republic Defended, 6; Philip Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment, 480. 26. F. A., “La Lutte industrielle,” Le Commerce, June 16, 1884, 4.

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27. The paternalist, Le Playist–style Catholicism of the Boucicauts of the Bon Marché is one example. 28. On shifting relations between the republican regime and big business, see Philip Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment; Harry Peiter, “Institutions and Attitudes.” 29. See Richard Kuisel, Capitalism and the State in Modern France; Philip Nord, “The Welfare State in France.” 30. See Ronald Aminzade, Ballots and Barricades; Sanford Elwitt, The Third Republic Defended; Richard Kuisel, Capitalism and the State in Modern France. 31. The Boulangist crisis of 1889 was, in part, a critique of opportunist or pragmatist republicans with ties to a more classical version of liberal individualism. After Boulanger, Solidarists were in the ascendant in the political arena. On Solidarism, see Elinor Accampo, Rachel Fuchs, and Mary Lynn Stewart, eds., Gender and the Politics of Social Reform in France, 1870–1914; Maurice Agulhon, The French Republic, 1789–1992, chap. 2; Sanford Elwitt, The Third Republic Defended; J. E. S. Hayward, “Educational Pressure Groups and the Indoctrination of the Radical Ideology of Solidarism, 1895–1914”; J. E. S. Hayward, “The Official Social Philosophy of the French Third Republic”; J. E. S. Hayward, “Solidarity”; Judith F. Stone, The Search for Social Peace; Rosalind H. Williams, Dream Worlds, ch. 6; Theodore Zeldin, France, 1848–1945, vol. 1, chap. 21. 32. Theodore Zeldin, France, 1848–1945, vol. 1, 654. 33. On the Social Catholic critique of the social and moral costs of capitalist expansion in the early nineteenth century, see Katherine Lynch, Family, Class and Ideology in Early Industrial France. Third Republic Social Catholics such as Albert de Mun and social economists such as Emile Cheysson and Pierre du Maroussem were paternalistic social reformers who styled themselves as heirs to the great Second Empire Catholic sociologist Frédéric Le Play, but rejected Le Play’s staunch opposition to government interventionism. On this topic, see Judith Coffin, “Social Science Meets Sweated Labor”; Geoffrey Crossick, “Metaphors of the Middle”; Sanford Elwitt, The Third Republic Defended; Judith Stone, The Search for Social Peace. Even socialists found certain aspects of Solidarism palatable, although Solidarists themselves, like most other republicans, overwhelmingly rejected socialism. Solidarism’s main purpose, in fact, was to save capitalism from the menace of socialism. 34. Although the Solidarists were anti-Rousseauian in arguing for an intrusive, scientifically regulated state, they invoked key elements of Rousseauian republicanism in their subordination of the interests of the individual to the good of the group. On the whole, however, the Solidarists valued the sovereign individual far more than Rousseauian republicans. 35. Léon Bourgeois, La Solidarité, 76 (1895). 36. See Elinor Accampo, “Gender, Social Policy, and the Third Republic”; Philip Nord, “The Welfare State in France.” 37. Alexandre Weill, Un Fléau national, 2. 38. Recent research has emphasized the role played by the commercial public as a site of female activity, as well as the kinds of problems engendered by

Notes to Pages 22–24

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this association. See, for example, Dina Copelman, “The Gendered Metropolis”; Deborah Nord, Walking the Victorian Streets; Erika Diane Rappaport, Shopping for Pleasure; Judith Walkowitz, City of Dreadful Delight; Elizabeth Wilson, Sphinx in the City. On women and the gendering of mass culture more generally, see Rita Felski, The Gender of Modernity; Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide, especially “Mass Culture as Woman: Modernism’s Other”; Tania Modleski, Feminism Without Women. On men as consumers, see Alan Kidd and David Nicholls, eds., Gender, Civic Culture, and Consumerism. 39. On Haussmannization, see Jeanne Gaillard, Paris, la ville 1852–1870; David Jordan, Tranforming Paris; Philip Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment; David Pinkney, Napoleon III and the Rebuilding of Paris; Anthony Sutcliffe, The Autumn of Central Paris. 40. Although women’s and men’s spheres overlapped more than the phrase “separate spheres” suggests, separate spheres was a normative model of great importance to nineteenth-century bourgeois culture. The literature on gender in French bourgeois culture is extensive. Among the important works are Elinor Accampo, Rachel Fuchs, and Mary Lynn Stewart, eds., Gender and the Politics of Social Reform in France, 1870–1914; Leora Auslander, Taste and Power; Judith Coffin, “Social Science Meets Sweated Labor”; Carol Harrison, The Bourgeois Citizen in Nineteenth-Century France; Anne Martin-Fugier, La Bourgeoise; Philip Nord, The Republican Moment; Bonnie Smith, Ladies of the Leisure Class; Anne-Marie Sohn, Chrysalides; Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace. For a critique of historians’ overreliance on the separate spheres model in the English setting, see Amanda Vickery, “Golden Age to Separate Spheres.” 41. According to Tilly and Scott, women comprised 30 percent of the French workforce in 1866 and close to 40 percent in 1911; in the 1860s, 40 percent of working women were married with children. Women workers predominated in homework, especially in the clothing industry, in domestic service, and, in the countryside, in part-time agricultural labor. Frenchwomen, like other European women, constituted a part-time, seasonal workforce, engaged in piecework rather than wage labor. By the late nineteenth century, the expansion of the service industry (and the invention of the telephone and typewriter) opened new avenues of genteel employment for women. Louise Tilly and Joan Wallach Scott, Women, Work, and Family. See also Joan Wallach Scott, Gender and the Politics of History. 42. The New Woman of the fin de siècle represented a cultural ideal (and, for conservatives, a negative myth) centered on education, economic autonomy, and sexual emancipation. The phenomenon appeared everywhere in the industrialized West and was shaped by many factors, among them the emergence of organized feminism, the expansion of state-supported female education, and the increasing number of middle-class women in the workforce. 43. Henry Bordeaux, “L’Ecole des femmes” (Excerpts of a speech given to Le Foyer, February 11, 1911), Le Bulletin du foyer (1911), 15, AP: D 40Z, Collection Bouteron. 44. On the problem of the woman worker, see Joan Wallach Scott, Gender and the Politics of History.

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Notes to Pages 24–30

45. For Solidarists, the need to placate restive workers was the most pressing “social question” of the day, and much of their legislation involved the implementation of paternalist policies in the workplace toward that end. Yet the Solidarist social contract also applied to middle-class men and women. One of the consequences of their belief in the state’s intervention in the private lives of its citizens was that the Solidarists paid significant attention to gender issues. On the Solidarists and gender, see Elinor Accampo, “Gender, Social Policy, and the Third Republic”; Jean Elisabeth Pedersen, “Regulating Abortion and Birth Control”; Judith Stone, “The Republican Brotherhood”; Judith Stone, The Search for Social Peace. 46. Theodore Zeldin has pithily characterized Solidarity as republican “fraternity dressed up in scientific clothes,” France, 1848–1945, vol. 1, 654–60. 47. In contrast to other feminist movements in the United States and Western Europe, French feminists’ claims to full citizenship did not lead to a concerted campaign for the suffrage. In taking this tack, republican feminists believed they were protecting the republican regime from the potentially conservative votes of many churchgoing Frenchwomen. See Karen Offen, “Depopulation, Nationalism, and Feminism in Fin-de-Siècle France”; Karen Offen, “Ernest Legouvé and the Doctrine of ‘Equality in Difference’ for Women”; Jean Elisabeth Pedersen, “Regulating Abortion and Birth Control.” 48. Joan Wallach Scott, Only Paradoxes to Offer, 103. 49. Octave Uzanne, Sottisier des moeurs, 10. 50. Department store commerce expanded exponentially during the 1860s and 1870s, so that by 1877 the stores were economic giants. According to Philip Nord, “The Bon Marché’s gross earnings, seven million francs in 1863, had shot up to sixty-seven million by 1877.” Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment, 77. 51. Philip Nord offers the definitive account of the department store as a prime target for critics of Haussmannization and organized capitalism in Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment. 52. Bon Marché advertising, early twentieth century, AP: 9A Z9. 53. See, for example, Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 1, 173–74. 54. On the conflation of the prostitute and the urban woman, see Judith Walkowitz, City of Dreadful Delight, chap. 1. 55. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 217. 56. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 175. 57. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 226. 58. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 234. 59. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 14; Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 11, BN: NAF 10278. 60. The relatively mixed nature of the department store public made the ability “to read” the clientele an essential skill for sales clerks. See Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 175–77; Mlle X, Commis et demoiselles de magasins. 61. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 68. Zola described the affect of the commis as less threatening but equally inauthentic: in his words, as a kind of

Notes to Pages 30–35

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“mechanical friendliness.” Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 188, BN: NAF 10278. 62. Giffard’s attitude was typical of the prewar era, when most salesmen were male. Indeed, department store employers of the period argued against the hiring of women for the job of clerk on the grounds that demoiselles de magasins competed as rivals with female customers, while salesmen were able to flatter clients into spending. Louise d’Alq, for example, noted that female sales clerks in the department stores were less affable with shoppers than male clerks. Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 176. On department store clerks, see Claudie Lesselier, “Employées de grands magasins à Paris (avant 1914)”; Theresa McBride, “A Woman’s World.” 63. L. Roger-Milès, Les Créateurs de la mode, 15. 64. L. Roger-Milès, Les Créateurs de la mode, 53. 65. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 114. “Etincelle” was one of Marie Double’s journalistic pseudonyms. 66. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 207, BN: NAF 10278. 67. According to the Swiss architect Henry Baudin, contemporary advertising had largely abandoned the written word for the image. See L’Enseigne et l’affiche. 68. Romain Coolus, “Les Affiches lumineuses.” 69. On consumer culture’s destruction of flânerie, see Priscilla Parkhurst Ferguson, “The Flâneur On and Off the Streets of Paris”; Philip Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment, 179; Georg Simmel, “The Metropolis and Mental Life.” For the view that consumer culture invented new forms of flânerie, see Anne Friedberg, Window Shopping; Vanessa R. Schwartz, Spectacular Realities. Walter Benjamin’s work on flânerie is seminal. See The Arcades Project and Charles Baudelaire. On Benjamin and flânerie, see Susan Buck-Morss, “The Flâneur, the Sandwichman, and the Whore.” 70. On the development of French advertising, see Marjorie Beale, The Modernist Enterprise; Marie-Emmanuelle Chessel, La Publicité; Judith Coffin, “Credit, Consumption, and Images of Women’s Desires”; Gérard Lagneau, “La Société générale des annonces, 1845–1865.” 71. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 46. 72. Anon., “Physiologie de la publicité,” La Publicité moderne, August 1906, 1–4. 73. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 21. 74. Ernest d’Hervilly, Mesdames les parisiennes, 49–51. 75. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 133. 76. Jules-Gustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 189. 77. Cited in Arsène Houssaye, “La Parisienne,” La Grande Dame, vol. 1 (1893), 9. 78. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 240. 79. Arsène Houssaye, “La Parisienne,” La Grande Dame, vol. 1 (1893): 9. 80. The proliferation of budgeting columns in fin-de-siècle ladies’ magazines suggests that fears of overspending and impulse shopping were endemic to the era. Yet, according to Louise d’Alq, indebtedness was not nearly as common as

246

Notes to Pages 35–41

one might think, given the preoccupation with it in the women’s press. See Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 116–17. 81. Anon., “Economie domestique. Comptabilité de la maison,” La Mode pratique, November 18, 1893, 362. 82. Louise de Salles, “A Propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 1. See also Valentine de Saint-Pont, “Philosophie de la mode,” La Nouvelle Revue, February 1, 1907, 370; Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 125; Gustave Coquiot, Paris, voici Paris!, 12; Enrique Gomez-Carillo, Psychologie de la mode, 42. 83. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 5. 84. William Marshall, French Home Life, 284. 85. Alfred Grévin, “Le Livre des dépenses,” Almanach des parisiennes, vol. 1, 19–22. 86. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 23. For a vivid description of the impact of the department store on the provinces, see Emile Mermet, La Publicité en France, 706–7. 87. Mathilde Bourdon, “Histoire d’un agent de change,” Le Journal des demoiselles et petit courrier des dames réunis, January 30–September 4, 1880. 88. Mathilde Bourdon, “Histoire d’un agent de change,” Le Journal des demoiselles et petit courrier des dames réunis, January 30, 1880, 10. 89. Mathilde Bourdon, “Histoire d’un agent de change,” Le Journal des demoiselles et petit courrier des dames réunis, January 30, 1880, 11. 90. Mathilde Bourdon, “Histoire d’un agent de change,” Le Journal des demoiselles et petit courrier des dames réunis, March 6, 1880, 69. 91. Mathilde Bourdon, “Histoire d’un agent de change,” Le Journal des demoiselles et petit courrier des dames réunis, March 6, 1880, 68. 92. Mathilde Bourdon, “Histoire d’un agent de change,” Le Journal des demoiselles et petit courrier des dames réunis, February 7, 1880, 37. 93. Enrique Gomez-Carillo, Psychologie de la mode, 44. 94. On the modernization of the credit industry, see Judith Coffin, “Credit, Consumption, and Images of Women’s Desires”; Judith Coffin, The Politics of Women’s Work. 95. Georges d’Avenel, Le Mécanisme de la vie moderne. On attitudes toward luxury in the late nineteenth century, see Rosalind H. Williams, Dream Worlds. 96. Comtesse de Tramar, La Mode et l’élégance, 476. 97. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 166–67, BN: NAF 10278. 98. Guy de Maupassant, La Parure et autres contes parisiens (1880). 99. On the petite bourgeoisie as the representatives of morality, see Geoffrey Crossick, “Metaphors of the Middle.” 100. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 116–117. 101. The problem of “cooks and concierges” wearing imitations of better quality clothing was much discussed, not so much because elite bourgeois had any difficulty in distinguishing these imitations from the genuine article, but because the wearer’s pretensions to bourgeois status was troubling to new elites

Notes to Pages 41–43

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determined to develop an exclusive cultural signature. See, for example, Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 126. 102. Jules Clément, Traité de la politesse et du savoir-vivre, 27; Enrique Gomez-Carillo, Psychologie de la mode, 44; Jeanne de Bargny, “Causerie avec les abonnées,” La Mode pour tous, January 6, 1895, 1. 103. Foveau de Courmelles, Modes féminines et dépopulation, 284–85. French concern about depopulation became acute after the loss of the FrancoPrussian War and lasted through the 1920s, particularly after the demographic disaster of the First World War. On depopulation debates, see Joshua Cole, “The Power of Large Numbers”; Angus McLaren, Sexuality and Social Order; Karen Offen, “Depopulation, Nationalism, and Feminism in Fin-de-Siècle France”; Jean Elisabeth Pedersen, “Regulating Abortion and Birth Control.” 104. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 257. 105. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 125; Jules-Gustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 194. 106. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 251. 107. Jules-Gustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 194. 108. For a discussion of erotic themes and imagery in Au Bonheur des dames, see Peter Gay, The Tender Passion, 312–19. 109. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 188, BN: NAF 10278. The gap in class and age separating the commis from the typical customer makes his assessment plausible: the clerk was often a young petit bourgeois from a provincial city, while the department store shopper was most often a slightly older mère de famille from a bon bourgeois or haut bourgeois background. What was more common, but less talked about, were liaisons, both lawful and illicit, between the demoiselle and the commis. The fact that they sometimes married, prompting the female clerk’s retirement from the store, was one reason why department store patrons regarded women as unreliable employees. Theresa McBride, “A Woman’s World,” 679–70. 110. Jules-Gustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 194. 111. Henri Boutet, Almanach pour 1899, 55; L. Roger-Milès, Les Heures d’une Parisienne, “Dixième indiscrétion. Deux heures un quart. Visite des magasins, cabinet de lecture,” 38–41. 112. On eroticism and shopping, see Rachel Bowlby, Just Looking; Rita Felski, The Gender of Modernity, chap. 3; Abigail Solomon-Godeau, “The Other Side of Venus.” 113. Henri Boutet, Almanach pour 1899, 56–57. 114. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 289. 115. I am indebted to Robert Herbert for bringing this term to my attention. 116. Jules-Gustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 193. 117. Since farce also means “stuffing,” the title is a play on words that emphasizes the fact that the tables are being turned on the man. 118. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 230. On the conflation of the prostitute and the fashionable woman, see Marianna Valverde, “The Love of Finery.” 119. See Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie, 168–74.

248

Notes to Pages 46–50

120. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 233. 121. On the image of woman as manipulator, see Bram Dijkstra, Evil Sisters; Bram Dijkstra, Idols of Perversity. 122. Paul Dubuisson, Les Voleuses de grands magasins, 42. 123. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 338. 124. For the link between urban life and degeneration, see, for example, Max Nordau’s classic work Degeneration, 36 (1895). 125. Ignotus, “Les Grands Bazars,” n. pag. 126. Roger-Milès explicitly cited Tarde’s laws of imitation, for example, in discussing the manipulability of the shopper. Les Créateurs de la mode, 15, 53. 127. Georg Simmel, “Fashion,” 308. See also Gabriel Tarde, Les Lois de l’imitation. 128. Jules-Gustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 193. 129. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 298. 130. Gustave Le Bon, The Crowd, 3, 46, 50. Advertising experts tried to apply psychology to the field of advertising. Some recommended that novice marketers read Le Bon, while others explicitly utilized the theories of hypnosis of Hippolyte Bernheim and the well-known Ecole de Nancy. See J. Arren, Sa Majesté, la publicité, and Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive. On crowd psychology, see Susanna Barrows, Distorting Mirrors; Jaap van Ginneken, Crowds, Psychology, and Politics, 1871–1899. 131. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 13, BN: NAF 10278. 132. See, for example, the description of a visit to the department store in Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 20. 133. Edgar Allan Poe, “The Man of the Crowd,” 142 (1840), cited in Ignotus, “Les Grands Bazars,” n. pag. 134. Ignotus, “Les Grands Bazars,” n. pag. 135. Paul Dubuisson, Les Voleuses de grands magasins, 41. 136. Ignotus, “Les Grands Bazars,” n. pag. 137. On shoplifting, see Elaine Abelson, When Ladies Go A-Thieving; Patricia O’Brien, “The Kleptomania Diagnosis.” 138. Paul Dubuisson, Les Voleuses de grands magasins, 32. 139. Paul Dubuisson, Les Voleuses de grands magasins, 52. 140. On understandings of crime in late-nineteenth-century France, see Edward Berenson, The Trial of Madame Caillaux; Ruth Harris, Murders and Madness; Robert Nye, Crime, Madness, and Politics in Modern France; AnnLouise Shapiro, Breaking the Codes. 141. Henri Legrand du Saulle, Les Hysteriques, 437; Charles Lasègue, “Vol aux étalages,” Archives de médicine (1880). Cited in Paul Dubuisson, Les Voleuses de grands magasins, 32. 142. Henri Legrand du Saulle, Les Hysteriques, 449. Thus, for example, one of Legrand du Saulle’s patients was a pregnant woman who stole more than six hundred men’s black ties from various stores. 143. Henri Legrand du Saulle, Les Hysteriques, 437. 144. Henri Legrand du Saulle, Les Hysteriques, 450. 145. Michel Corday, “La Gardienne,” Femina, May 15, 1905, 233.

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146. Michel Corday, “La Gardienne,” Femina, May 15, 1905, 234. 147. Olympe Audouard, Le Luxe effréné des hommes, 34. 148. Olympe Audouard, Le Luxe effréné des hommes, 22. 149. Comtesse de Tramar, La Mode et l’élégance, 472; Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 164, BN: NAF 10278. 150. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 234. 151. The term “bibelotmania” is taken from Rémy Saisselin, The Bourgeois and the Bibelot. 152. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 227. 153. Fernand Laudet, “Exposition de l’oeuvre du Foyer” (Excerpts of a speech given to Le Foyer, February 11, 1911), Le Bulletin du foyer (1911), 13, AP: D 40Z, Collection Bouteron. 154. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 106–107. 155. Fernand Laudet, “Exposition de l’oeuvre du Foyer” (Excerpts of a speech given to Le Foyer, February 11, 1911), Le Bulletin du foyer (1911), 10–11, AP: D 40Z, Collection Bouteron. 156. On the idea that one’s appearance and behavior reflected one’s inner being, central to Christian humanist codes of civility, see Jacques Revel, “The Uses of Civility.” On transparency as a republican ideal, see Lynn Hunt, Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolution, 44–46. 157. Arsène Houssaye, “La Parisienne,” La Grande Dame, vol. 1 (1893): 6. 158. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 270. 2.

“THE MERCANTILE SPIRIT OF OUR EPOCH”

The phrase “Paris, Capital of the Nineteenth Century” is Walter Benjamin’s, from the essay by that name. 1. Alfred Capus, Les Moeurs du temps, 32–33. Appeared in Le Figaro, 1911. 2. On the evolution of republican imagery, see Maurice Agulhon, Marianne au combat; Maurice Agulhon, Marianne au pouvoir. 3. Henry Baudin, L’Enseigne et l’affiche, 4. Baudin was an architect who dedicated his career to the beautification of the city through artistic street advertising. 4. J. Fresson, Histoire du goût public, 59. 5. On the French fear of decline, see Susanna Barrows, Distorting Mirrors; Robert Nye, Crime, Madness, and Politics in Modern France; Daniel Pick, Faces of Degeneration; Koenraad Swart, The Sense of Decadence in NineteenthCentury France; Eugen Weber, France, Fin de Siècle; Robert Wohl, The Generation of 1914. 6. Some, such as Charles Gide and Emile Durkheim, were in fact staunch republicans. There were, however, some prominent exceptions, such as the rabid right-winger Gustave Le Bon. 7. The Musée social was a quasi-political bourgeois organization formed in the 1890s to address the social and economic well-being of the working classes. See Sanford Elwitt, The Third Republic Defended. 8. On the decline of French exports in the late nineteenth century, see Michael Smith, “Entrepreneurial Mentalities, Government Policies, and National Eco-

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Notes to Pages 58–60

nomic Performance.” On French social science in the 1890s, see Judith Coffin, “Social Science Meets Sweated Labor”; Sanford Elwitt, The Third Republic Defended. 9. J. Fresson, Histoire du goût public. Fresson was an administrator for Le Patronage industriel des enfants de l’ébénisterie (as well as the furniture-makers’ union, Le Chambre syndicale de l’ameublement), an organization founded to provide artisans in the furniture industry with an artistic education in order to bolster the aesthetic standards and commercial viability of the trade in the face of competition from abroad and mass production at home. See Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, Vol. 2, 242–43; Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 10. 10. Etincelle, “A mes lecteurs,” L’Art de la mode, January 1881, 137. 11. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 34–35. 12. The phrase is Norbert Elias’s, from his classic sociological analysis of court society under Louis XIV. It refers to the nobility’s internalization of externally imposed codes of discipline and etiquette, and to the consequent emergence of a new courtly ethos of self-control that made the individual’s mastery of his emotional life or passions a marker of social distinction. Norbert Elias, The Court Society. 13. On absolutist political culture, see William Beik, Absolutism and Society in Seventeenth-Century France; Richard Bonney, “Absolutism: What’s in a Name”; James Collins, Classes, Estates, and Order in Early Modern Brittany; Roger Mettam, Power and Faction in Louis XIV’s France; David Parker, The Making of French Absolutism. 14. See Mark Motley, Becoming a French Aristocrat; Ellery Schalk, From Valor to Pedigree. 15. On fashion in the Ancien Régime, see Christopher Breward, The Culture of Fashion; Madeleine Delpierre, Dress in France in the Eighteenth Century; Jennifer Jones, “The Taste for Fashion and Frivolity”; James Laver, The Concise History of Costume and Fashion; Gilles Lipovetsky, The Empire of Fashion; Nicole Pellegrin, Les Vêtements de la liberté; Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie; Aileen Ribeiro, The Art of Dress; Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing; Jean Starobinski et al., Revolution in Fashion. 16. In practice, of course, the nobility was far from a closed caste. Bourgeois entrants gained access through intermarriage and, especially, through the purchase of noble offices. However, the traditional noblesse d’épée sought to distinguish itself rather clearly from the new administrative nobility, or noblesse de robe, recruited in part from the upper bourgeoisie. Not until the eighteenth century did the two begin to converge. On the aristocracy’s preoccupation with preserving social boundaries, see Harold Ellis, Boulanvilliers and the French Monarchy. 17. It also separated the court nobility from the lesser provincial nobility and the administrative nobility or noblesse de robe. Indeed, it is important to note that the French nobility was, in fact, a heterogeneous elite that can not be reduced to a purely anticapitalist class. For a nuanced view of the early modern nobility’s relation to the market, see Jonathan Dewald, Pont-St-Pierre 1398–1789; Jonathan Dewald, “The Ruling Class in the Marketplace.”

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18. Composite elites, whose status was based in money rather than hereditary distinction, formed all over Europe in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with the most complete fusion occurring in England. The formation of these elites should not be read as a feudalization of the bourgeoisie, however, but as the entry of a minority of upper bourgeois into the ranks of a new elite, part noble and part bourgeois in outlook. In France, this group, known as the “notables” and comprised of some landed nobility, bourgeois landowners, some liberal professionals, and a small number of entrepreneurs, emerged as an important political and social force during the July Monarchy. Sometimes referred to as a bourgeois aristocracy, the notables were a transitional elite that emerged in the aftermath of the breakdown of Ancien Régime corporate distinctions, but preceded the rise to power of what would be considered a modern bourgeoisie. By the Third Republic, the notables ceased to play an important role in local or national politics. See Adeline Daumard, Les Bourgeois de Paris au XIXe siècle; Werner Mosse, “Nobility and Middle Classes in Nineteenth-Century Europe”; André-Jean Tudesq, Les Grands Notables en France, 1840–49. 19. For a discussion of negative archetypes of the bourgeois in the eighteenth century, see Sarah Maza, “Luxury, Morality, and Social Change,” 209–12. 20. On the German Bürgertum, see David Blackbourn and Richard J. Evans, eds., The German Bourgeoisie; Jürgen Kocka and Allan Mitchell, eds., Bourgeois Society in Nineteenth-Century Europe. The Prussian case was unique in that there was no real confrontation between the feudal nobility and the monarchy, as there was in France and England. Thus the Prussian monarchy dominated a loyal feudal military nobility. In the eighteenth century, the development of a bureaucracy created new administrative opportunities for the nobility to serve the state. In contrast to England, few nobles were engaged in commercial activity or capitalist investment. See Werner Mosse, “Nobility and Middle Classes in Nineteenth-Century Europe.” 21. One reason for the relatively smooth fusion of the noble and bourgeois elites in England was that the feudal nobility was devastated by fifteenthcentury wars, and a new nobility was created under the Tudor monarchs. In France, by contrast, the sixteenth-century wars of religion weakened but did not destroy the nobility, which remained a dominant political force in the seventeenth century and afterward. See Werner Mosse, “Nobility and Middle Classes in Nineteenth-Century Europe.” 22. Perhaps the most convincing evidence on bourgeois anxiety about taste comes from the nineteenth-century middle-class critics of bourgeois taste discussed in this chapter, as well as from well-known avant-garde critics such as Baudelaire and Flaubert. A sociological case for the lasting authority of aristocratic aesthetics in France has been made by Norbert Elias and Pierre Bourdieu. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction; Norbert Elias, The Court Society. But the theme of bourgeois cultural insecurity is also touched on in many historical treatments of French bourgeois culture, including Christophe Charle, A Social History of France in the NineteenthCentury, 187; Peter Gay, Pleasure Wars, 11, 41–45; Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie, 83; Rosalind Williams, Dream Worlds, 108–9.

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Notes to Pages 61–65

23. On the French bourgeoisie in the nineteenth century, see, for example, Denis Berthelot, Le Bourgeois dans tous ses états; Jean-Pierre Chaline, Les Bourgeois de Rouen; Adeline Daumard, Les Bourgeois de Paris au XIXe siècle; Carol Harrison, The Bourgeois Citizen in Nineteenth-Century France; Jean Lhomme, La Grande Bourgeoisie au pouvoir, 1830–1880; Roger Magraw, France, 1815–1914; Anne Martin-Fugier, La Bourgeoise; Jerrold Seigel, Bohemian Paris; Bonnie Smith, Ladies of the Leisure Class; Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace. 24. Whitney Walton describes the midcentury bourgeoisie as an elite-in-themaking, partly in thrall to aristocratic models of style, but also in the process of forging its own aesthetic. France at the Crystal Palace, 23–48. Leora Auslander takes up the question in the Third Republic, exploring the complexities of the bourgeois relationship to Ancien Régime aesthetics. Taste and Power, 263–64. 25. For a general discussion of the bourgeoisie’s rise to authority, see Christophe Charle, A Social History of France in the Nineteenth Century, chap. 5 and 6; Christophe Charle, Les Elites de la République, 1880–1900. Scholars also argue that the French aristocracy remained strong in important ways, despite the bourgeois rise to power. See also Suzanne Fiette, La Noblesse française des lumières à la Belle Epoque; Ralph Gibson, “The French Nobility in the Nineteenth Century—Particularly in the Dordogne”; David Higgs, Nobles in Nineteenth-Century France; Arno Mayer, The Persistence of the Old Regime. 26. Gabriel Pélin, Les Laideurs du beau Paris, 90; Fortuné Paillot, Parisitisme, 112. 27. Arnould Frémy, “Les Beaux-arts en France,” 81–82. 28. Louis Lumet, L’Art pour tous, 203–4. 29. François Deschamps, “Au Lys d’argent,” La Mode pratique, no. 45 (1894): 177; no. 38 (1894): 149. 30. Arnould Frémy, “Les Beaux-arts en France,” 79. 31. Arnould Frémy, “Les Beaux-arts en France,” 80. 32. Gabriel Pélin, Les Laideurs du beau Paris, 90. 33. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 277. 34. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 21. 35. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 208. 36. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 247. 37. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 24. The reports of the various Exposition juries, comprised of republican arts administrators, manufacturers and artisans, art critics, and decorative arts reformers, among others, are an invaluable source of information on the taste debates of the fin de siècle. 38. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 60–61, 62–63. 39. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez soi,” Le Salon de la mode, May 9, 1885, 150; Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 39. See also Arnould Frémy, “Les Beaux-arts en France,” 82. 40. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 93. The book was published in 1925, but was based on a course Vachon taught in 1913. 41. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 248. 42. Despite the association of the department store with factory production,

Notes to Pages 65–68

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a good deal of department store merchandise was handmade in urban sweatshops. Furthermore, even goods that were partly or wholly machine-produced were often contracted out to sweatshops and ateliers on a piecework basis, not made in the large-scale factory that we often associate with British industrialization. Indeed, the scale of mass production in nineteenth-century France never rivaled that in England, and the French economy remained more artisanal than that of any other industrialized nation in the West. 43. See Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 2. 44. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 31. 45. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez soi,” Le Salon de la mode, May 9, 1885, 150. 46. Henry Havard, L’Art et le confort dans la vie moderne, 6. 47. Cited in Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 13–14. 48. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 15–16. 49. Henry Havard, L’Art et le confort dans la vie moderne, 3–4. 50. Lucien Coquet, Les Industries de luxe, 13. Issued in 1917, it described the prewar era. 51. Lucien Coquet, Les Industries de luxe, 19. 52. Lucien Coquet, Les Industries de luxe, 13. 53. The crisis of the Parisian artisanat had its roots in the larger French economic crisis of the 1880s and 1890s, a downturn caused primarily by American and German competition. Although not the cause of the crisis, the department store further threatened the traditional structure of the Parisian craft industry by contracting out piecework to out-of-work craftsmen. On the commercial crisis, see Philip Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment, chap. 4. On the Parisian artisanat and sweated labor, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, chap. 6, 339–40; Judith Coffin, The Politics of Women’s Work; Judith Coffin, “Social Science Meets Sweated Labor.” 54. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 31. 55. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 3, 218. 56. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 59–60. 57. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 19–20. 58. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 7. 59. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 248. 60. Henry Havard, L’Art et le confort dans la vie moderne, 6. 61. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 23, 16; Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 7. 62. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 7. 63. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 18. 64. Speech by Léon Riotor to the art education society L’Art à l’école, reprinted in Aimé-Deslandes and Kozlowski, L’Art à l’école et la formation du goût, 16. Yet many German intellectuals still deferred to French aesthetic leadership. Writing in 1885, for example, Nietzsche labeled French culture “the seat of the most intellectual and refined culture in Europe . . . the high school of taste,” and complained that “German taste and manners [reveal] boorish indifference to taste.” Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, 190 (1885). 65. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 18.

254

Notes to Pages 68–71

66. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 59. 67. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 2, 255. 68. See T. J. Jackson Lears, Fables of Abundance, for a discussion of similar tensions in the American advertising industry at the turn of the century. On French advertising, see Marjorie Beale, The Modernist Enterprise; Marie-Emmanuelle Chessel, La Publicité; Judith Coffin, “Credit, Consumption, and Images of Women’s Desires”; Gérard Lagneau, “La Société générale des annonces, 1845–1865”; Marc Martin, Trois siècles de publicité en France. 69. Henry Baudin, L’Enseigne et l’affiche, 81–97, 3. 70. Henry Baudin, L’Enseigne et l’affiche, 3. Other organizations, such as La Société de la protection des paysages de France, joined an international movement to protect both urban and natural sites from industrial defacement. 71. Letter to the Minister of Public Instruction from Gassin, Treasurer of La Société populaire des beaux-arts, “Concours de photographie,” March 16, 1890, AN: F21 4418, Artistic Societies, Paris, 1865–1939. 72. Spectator, “Causerie,” La Publicité, August 14, 1903, 2. 73. John Jones, “De la publicité,” 10–11. 74. Pierre Clerget, “Les Bases scientifiques de la publicité,” La Publicité moderne, October–November, 1908, 1. 75. M. G. de Contenson, De la publicité commerciale, 3–6. 76. Anon., “La Publicité en France,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 14–15. The author also obviously referred to the implementation of the protective Méline tariffs in 1892. 77. Anon., “A nos lecteurs,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 1–2; Anon., “Mise au point,” La Publicité moderne, March 1908, 13–14. 78. Paul-Louis Hervier, “L’Evolution de la publicité depuis un siècle,” 390. 79. Spectator, “Causerie,” La Publicité, August 15, 1903, 3. 80. A. Hemet, “Laferme, Daim et Cie. Fantaisie en un acte,” La Publicité, May 1904, 12–13. 81. Anon., “Notes et echos,” La Publicité, September 1904, 12. Quoted from Le Matin. 82. Anon., “La Tenue,” La Publicité moderne, July 1908, 5. 83. Anon., “La Tenue,” La Publicité moderne, July 1908, 5. 84. P. Raveau-Lefrançais, “Les Marques et la publicité,” La Publicité, October 1903, 7. 85. A. Hemet, “La Réforme de la publicité,” La Publicité, August 15, 1903, 7. 86. Annuaire de la publicité, 1895, i–iii. By 1913, the Annuaire still had not fulfilled its initial goal. According to the editors, “No one in France contests the utility of advertising any longer. . . . The advertising industry has grown enormously . . . [there are] hundreds of ateliers . . . thousands of people at work in the field,” but many businessmen still avoided using advertising, and those who did use it were often entirely ignorant of its proper use. Annuaire de la publicité, 1913, 1. The turn-of-the century formation of the Chambre syndicale de la publicité, whose members included newspapers, advertising agents, directors, designers, and producers, constituted another effort on the part of the profession to gain public acceptance.

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87. Anon., “Les Mauvaises méthodes,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 3, 16. 88. Anon., “Les Mauvaises méthodes,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 20. 89. Anon., “La Publicité en France,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 16. 90. Annuaire de la publicité, 1895, 87. 91. La Publicité moderne, January 1906, 6. 92. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 278. 93. Anon., “A nos lecteurs,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 1. 94. Annuaire de la publicité, 1895, 88. 95. Anon, “La publicité en France,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 14. 96. Annuaire de la publicité, 1895, 32. 97. La Publicité, September 15, 1903, 14. 98. Spectator, “Causerie,” La Publicité, August 14, 1903, 3. 99. Anon, “La Publicité en France,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 15–16; Pierre Clerget, “Les Bases scientifiques de la publicité,” La Publicité moderne, October–November, 1908, 1. 100. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 16. 101. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 53. 102. Anon., “La Publicité en France,” La Publicité moderne, November 1905, 14. 103. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 41. 104. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 37. 105. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. Le Paradis est partout où nous sommes!” La Revue de la mode, May 2, 1903, 227. 106. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 408. Pierre Giffard offered a variant of this theme: “Take a bourgeois family dining together with its relatives on a Sunday. . . . [The father] talks about painting and says to the girls: ‘Tomorrow I’ll take you to the Louvre.’ The girls clap their hands: ‘Oh! Yes, what happiness!’ Then the father observes, ‘Oh, but we can not go tomorrow, the galleries are closed on Mondays!’ ‘No father! . . . [T]he Louvre is closed Sunday. . . . [T]he salesmen and women naturally have Sundays off.’ The father replies, ‘What sales clerks? I am talking about the Louvre museum, the palace of arts, that admirable temple of statues and paintings. . . .’ May he who has not seen this scene unfold before him several times throw the first stone!” Les Grands Bazars, 12. 107. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 9. 108. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 41, 49. 109. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 122. 110. See, for example, Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 174; Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 111. 111. Enrique Gomez-Carillo, Psychologie de la mode, 27. 112. Emile Blavet, La Vie parisienne, 77–78. 113. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 126, 174. Alexandre, however, considered the department store’s role in vulgarizing the couturier’s crea-

256

Notes to Pages 78–83

tions to be paradoxical, on the one hand signaling “the death of a new idea” and, on the other, “its triumph.” 114. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 3, 218, 242. 115. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 125. 116. Octave Uzanne, “Notes sur le goût intime et la décoration personnelle,” L’Art et l’idée, November 20, 1892, 257–60. 117. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189. 118. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 55. 119. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 2, 255. 120. J. Fresson, Enseignement professionnel, Lecture of March 27, 1886, 53. 121. Henry Havard, L’Art et le confort dans la vie moderne, 2–3. 122. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 88. 123. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 125. 124. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 247. 125. Judex, “Chronique du mois,” Revue des arts décoratifs, 15 (1894–1895), 155. 126. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 8, 29, 55. 127. Henry Havard, L’Art et le confort dans la vie moderne, 2. 128. Ignotus, “Les Grand Bazars,” n. pag. 129. J. Fresson, Histoire du goût public, 15. 130. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 3, 218, 242. 131. Delphine de Girardin, Lettres parisiennes du Vicomte de Launay, 524. 132. J. Fresson, Histoire du goût public, 3. 133. Marcel Braunschvig L’Art et l’enfant, 31, 34, 19. 134. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 124. 135. Vicomtesse de Réville, “La Mode,” La Nouvelle revue, January–February, 1899, 766. 136. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière. Those further to the left on the political spectrum also agreed with liberal centrists and conservatives on this issue. Thus, for example, a socialist pamphlet by the novelist Louise Compain painted the consumer as an accomplice of the department store, whose quest for bon marché was the driving force behind the exploitation of workers in the fashion and design industries. Similarly, concerns such as these led to the consumer cooperative movement and even impelled republican Solidarists such as Charles Gide to support it. See Ellen Furlough, Consumer Cooperation in France; Rosalind H. Williams, Dream Worlds, chap. 7. 137. Jeanne de Bargny, “Causerie. La Mode à Paris,” La Mode pour tous, April 8, 1900, 158; Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 336; Octave Uzanne, Sottisier des moeurs, 30; Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 124. 138. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 336–37. 139. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 2, 100. Although the right-wing shopkeeper movement against the department store emerged in the early 1890s, the same kind of attack was being mounted as late as 1916. See, for example, the article “La Vérité sur le Bon Marché” in the shopkeeper’s organ, La Revue sociale, October 1916, 1–2. The article blasted the department store’s

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monopoly in the marketplace, its exploitation of its workers, and its deception of the public in a tone as vociferous as any from the writings of the fin de siècle. 140. Pierre du Maroussem, La Question ouvrière, vol. 3, 216. 141. J. Fresson, Enseignement professionel, Lecture of March 3, 1887, 72–74. 142. Emile Blavet, La Vie parisienne, 77–78. 143. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 39. 144. Diane de Sombreuse, “Lettres à une jeune femme,” Le Salon de la mode, September 12, 1880, 295. 145. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 25. 146. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 30. 3.

BEING BOURGEOIS

1. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez soi,” Le Salon de la mode, November 21, 1885, 374. 2. See James Sloan Allen, The Romance of Commerce and Culture, 3. 3. On ideas of feminine refinement in the eighteenth century and earlier, see G. J. Barker-Benfield, The Culture of Sensibility; Ann Bermingham, “The Aesthetics of Ignorance”; Ann Bermingham and John Brewer, eds., The Consumption of Culture, 1600–1800; Claude Dulong, “From Conversation to Creation”; Dena Goodman, The Republic of Letters; Jennifer Jones, “The Taste for Fashion and Frivolity”; Carolyn Lougee, Le Paradis des femmes; Martine Sonnet, L’Education des filles au temps des Lumières; Samia I. Spencer, French Women and the Age of Enlightenment. 4. In spite of their social cachet, dandies were essentially marginal figures, employed sporadically and living largely on credit. The story of Beau Brummell, chased by creditors to die in penury in France, is well known, but his case was not unique. On the dandy, see Marylène Delbourg-Delphis, Masculin singulier; Patrick Favardin and Laurent Bouëxière, Le Dandysme; David Kuchta, “The Making of the Self-Made Man”; Michel Lemaire, Le Dandysme de Baudelaire à Mallarmé; Anne Martin-Fugier, La Vie élégante; Ellen Moers, The Dandy. 5. The dandy’s modern code of civility amalgamated elements of Christian civility, shaped by Erasmian thought, and elements of courtly civility or honnetêté. These early models all emphasized affective restraint and the control of the passions as crucial to social interaction, but whereas Erasmian civility was predicated on the notion of the subject’s transparency—his appearance understood as an accurate reflection of his inner, moral being—some (although not all) courtly models of civility taught the necessity of opacity, and conceived of the outer self as a fictive creation concealing a true inner self. The dandy thus follows in the courtly more than the Erasmian tradition. See Baldesar Castiglione, The Book of the Courtier (1528); Erasmus, De civilitate morum puerilium libellus (1530); Nicholas Faret, L’Honnête Homme ou l’art de plaire à la cour (1630). For the history of civility, see Roger Chartier, “From Texts to Manners”; Michael Curtin, “A Question of Manners”; Norbert Elias, The Civilizing Process; Norbert Elias, The Court Society; Daniel Gordon, Citizens Without Sovereignty; Maurice Magendie, La Politesse mondaine et les théories de l’honnêteté en France au XVII siècle; Michael Moriarty, Taste and Ideology in

258

Notes to Pages 93–96

Seventeenth-Century France; Orest Ranum, “Courtesy, Absolutism, and the Rise of the French State”; Jacques Revel, “The Uses of Civility”; Domna Stanton, The Aristocrat as Art. 6. Georges Huppert argues that civility was also appropriated by the bourgeois gentilhomme as the period of tacit ennoblement drew to a close in the seventeenth century. See Les Bourgeois Gentilhommes. 7. The notion of the “honnête homme” had its roots in the aristocratic courtly ideal of the seventeenth century, connoting the courtier steeped in the moral and literary traditions of humanism. Some scholars contend that the honnête homme and the courtier were one and the same, and that honnêteté, defined essentially as virtuous, refined behavior, was an extension of courtly civility. Others argue that the culture of honnêteté was produced within the hôtels particuliers or noble residences of Paris, and constituted a critique and reworking of courtly civility. For an overview, see Jacques Revel, “The Uses of Civility.” 8. Ellen Moers, The Dandy, 4. 9. Linda Nochlin, Realism, 228. 10. Jacques Boulenger, Le Chic et les dandys, 5–7. 11. See Roger Chartier, ed., Passions of the Renaissance, part 2; Peter Gay, The Enlightenment; Charles Taylor, Sources of the Self. 12. On the origins of the novel, see Michael McKeon, The Origins of the English Novel, 1600–1740; Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel. 13. On the making of a modern aesthetics, see M. H. Abrams, The Mirror and the Lamp; Ann Bermingham and John Brewer, eds., The Consumption of Culture, 1600–1800; Peter Gay, The Enlightenment, vol. 2, especially chap. 5; F. W. J. Hemmings, ed., The Age of Realism; Walter John Hipple, The Beautiful, the Sublime, and the Picturesque in Eighteenth-Century British Aesthetic Theory; Preben Mortensen, Art in the Social Order; H. A. Needham, ed., Le Développement de l’esthétique sociologique en France et en Angleterre au XIXe siècle; H. A. Needham, Taste and Criticism in the Eighteenth Century; Seymour O. Simches, Le Romantisme et le goût esthétique du XVIIIe siècle; Ian Watt, The Rise of the Novel. 14. The democratization of the social elite was well under way during the Ancien Régime. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, as wealthy bourgeois and aristocrats mixed in Parisian salons and provincial academies, a new composite elite took shape that destabilized the social boundaries and reconfigured the categories of the corporate culture of orders. There were limits, however, to the democratization process: even though aristocratic ideals of honnêteté were used by outside groups such as the noblesse de robe to facilitate their social integration into the traditional elite, such ideals tended to reaffirm more than contest the values of the traditional nobility. Carolyn Lougee has argued that, although French aristocratic culture was transformed by the influx of robins and other non-nobles into Parisian salon society, “French culture remained aristocratic even as the character of its formulators changed” (Le Paradis des femmes, 212–13). See also Michael Moriarty, Taste and Ideology in Seventeenth-Century France. 15. Paul d’Ariste, La Vie et le monde du boulevard, 1830–70, 202. 16. Jean-Paul Sartre, Baudelaire, 44.

Notes to Pages 96–103

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17. On the development of ready-to-wear, see Christopher Breward, The Culture of Fashion; Judith Coffin, The Politics of Women’s Work; Nancy Green, Ready to Wear and Ready to Work; Gilles Lipovetsky, The Empire of Fashion; Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie; Elizabeth Wilson, Adorned in Dreams. 18. On the dandy’s “inconspicuous consumption” and its relation to political culture in eighteenth-century England, see David Kuchta, “The Making of the Self-Made Man.” 19. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 16–18. 20. Jacques Boulenger, Le Chic et les dandys, 21. 21. Constance Aubert, Manuel d’économie élégante, 51. 22. Anon., “Fashion,” Le Moniteur de la mode, January 1851, 1–3. 23. Lucie Crété, “Modes,” La Mode française, November 15, 1874, 15. 24. Comtesse de Vérissey, “Le Salon de la mode,” Le Salon de la mode, April 30, 1876, 138. 25. Vicomtesse de Réville, La Parisienne en 1900, 86. 26. Technological developments generated some of the microchanges in style. Thus, for example, the invention of synthetic clothing dyes at midcentury allowed for the bright colors of the fashions of the 1870s. See Elizabeth Wilson, Adorned in Dreams, 214. 27. Elizabeth Wilson, Adorned in Dreams, 216. 28. On fashion in the nineteenth century, see Christopher Breward, The Culture of Fashion; Marylène Delbourg-Delphis, Le Chic et le look; Raymond Gaudriault, La Gravure de mode féminine en France; Gilles Lipovetsky, The Empire of Fashion; Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie; Valerie Steele, Fashion and Eroticism; Elizabeth Wilson, Adorned in Dreams. As James Laver points out, what appears ornate and frilly to our modern eye often appeared understated to the nineteenth-century eye, especially compared to styles of an earlier era. See The Concise History of Costume and Fashion, 188. 29. Just as the forms of understatement evolved over time, so did their meaning. As we have already seen, luxe itself was defined as understatement in contrast to the courtly aesthetic of faste. On fashion in the eighteenth century, see chapter 2, note 15. 30. Madame d’Abrantès, “De la mode et du bon goût,” Le Messager des modes et de l’industrie, vol. 1 (1853): 2. 31. Thorstein Veblen makes the seminal argument for the gendered display of status through conspicuous consumption in his classic Theory of the Leisure Class (1899). Many historians draw on his arguments, including Philippe Perrot, who traces the lag in the simplification of women’s clothing to their role as male status object. Fashioning the Bourgeoisie, 34. 32. A. Domange, “Conseils pratiques,” Revue de la mode, January 17, 1903, 34. 33. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 6–7. 34. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode. Parisiennes fin de siècle,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111. 35. Marguerite, “Petits échoes de la mode,” La Mode française, June 15, 1876, 8.

260

Notes to Pages 103–106

36. In part, the emphasis on physical self-effacement reflects what Norbert Elias has identified as the “civilizing process,” whereby individuals signal their superiority through distance from nature and, especially, mastery of the body. See The Civilizing Process. Again, this was not a process particular to any social group, as aristocratic notions of bodily refinement make clear. Nor was it particular to the modern era. But in each epoch, elites used notions of bodily refinement to stake claims to distinction over others in particular cultural contexts: hence, the courtier’s physical self-control rejected the knight’s vulgarity, the subtlety of the Parisian noble eschewed the boorishness of the courtier, the dandy’s sangfroid signaled his superiority over the bourgeois philistine, and the reserve of the bourgeois marked his distance from the urban masses. 37. Comtesse de Vérissey, “Le Salon de la mode,” Le Salon de la mode, April 30, 1876, 138. 38. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode,” La Mode pratique, January 21, 1893, 17. 39. Baronne Staffe, Indications pratiques pour obtenir un brevet de femme chic, 8, 27. 40. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 2, 46. See also Cyclamen, “Nouvelles mondaines,” Le Salon de la mode, February 22, 1890, 62. 41. Stella, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, December 1882, 2. 42. La Direction, “Avant-propos,” La Grande Dame, no. 1 (1893): 2. 43. Baronne Staffe, Indications pratiques pour obtenir un brevet de femme chic, 7. 44. Since the nineteenth-century handbook primarily targeted a middleclass readership, it is worth noting that many manuals were written by aristocratic authors (or by writers using aristocratic pseudonyms). This underlines the origins of the civility handbook as a guide to noble behavior, but it also suggests more generally the lasting cultural authority of the French aristocracy, even when it came to establishing the norms of bourgeois taste and conduct. 45. On the history of civility, see n. 5 above. 46. This notion of civility as circumstance-specific behavior appeared in the eighteenth century, but became even more important, I would argue, in the nineteenth century, when social structures were more fluid. For an overview, see Roger Chartier, “From Texts to Manners.” 47. Jules Clément, Traité de la politesse et du savoir-vivre, 34. 48. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 2, 42. 49. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 1, 5. 50. Comtesse L., “Usages mondains,” Paris-mode, December 1, 1890, 24. 51. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, March 1881, 25. 52. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 306–7. 53. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 308. The growing value attached to the idea of learning from experience was especially important to women, who had much less access to higher education and a more limited curriculum than men. On female education in nineteenth-century France, see Linda L. Clark, “Bringing Feminine Qualities into the Public Sphere”; Linda L. Clark, Schooling the Daughters of Marianne; Sharif Gemie, Women and Schooling in France, 1815–1914; Jo Margadant, Madame Le Professeur; Françoise Mayeur,

Notes to Pages 106–109

261

L’Enseignement secondaire des jeunes filles sous le Troisième République; Françoise Mayeur, “The Secular Model of Girls’ Education”; Karen Offen, “The Second Sex and the Baccalauréat in Republican France, 1880–1924”; Anne-Marie Sohn, Chrysalides, chap. 6. 54. For a discussion of his impact on the youth of his day, see Michael Curtis, Three Against the Third Republic; Robert Wohl, The Generation of 1914. 55. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 192–93; vol. 1, 310; vol. 3, 302. 56. Of course, another tradition of civility, which can be traced from Erasmus to Rousseau, stressed the idea of civility as a universal set of norms. On nineteenth-century etiquette, see Roger Chartier, “From Texts to Manners”; Anne Martin-Fugier, “Bourgeois Rituals”; Anne Martin-Fugier, La Bourgeoise; Anne Martin-Fugier, La Vie élégante; Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie; Anne-Marie Sohn, Chrysalides, chap. 2–4. On etiquette in Britain, see Michael Curtin, Propriety and Position; Leonore Davidoff, The Best Circles. On manners in American history, see John F. Kasson, Rudeness and Civility. 57. A. Martin, Manuel de l’homme du monde, 11. 58. Madame la Comtesse de Drohojowska, Conseils à une jeune fille sur les devoirs à remplir dans le monde comme maîtresse de maison, 220, 204. 59. Comtesse Dash, Comment on fait son chemin dans le monde, 2–3. 60. Comtesse Dash, Comment on fait son chemin dans le monde, 54. 61. Marc Constantin, Almanach du savoir-vivre, 92. See also Constance Aubert, Manuel d’économie élégante, 9–15; Eugène Muller, Petit traité de la politesse française, 18. Aubert was also editor of the women’s journal Journal des soirées de famille and a columnist for the women’s periodical La Joie du foyer, both of which were devoted to the spread of manners and elegance throughout the social hierarchy. 62. Ermance Dufaux, Le Savoir-vivre dans la vie ordinaire et dans les cérémonies civiles et religieuses, chap. 1. 63. Jules Clément, Traité de la politesse et du savoir-vivre, 34. 64. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 1, 5. 65. Jules Clément, Traité de la politesse et du savoir-vivre, 10. 66. Baronne Staffe, Indications pratiques pour obtenir un brevet de femme chic, 51. The Baroness herself saw no harm in remunerated labor for women, which she regarded as the necessary road to independence for single or widowed women. And certainly it became more acceptable for middle-class women to work in the 1890s and 1900s than it had been during the early years of the Third Republic. Nevertheless, most handbooks clearly privileged the stay-athome maîtresse de maison as the model of bourgeois femininity. 67. Baronne Staffe, Indications pratiques pour obtenir un brevet de femme chic, 51–53. Critics of the Republic admitted to the reign of a productivist ethos, but regretted its dominance. Thus the Countess de Bassanville grumbled that republican industriousness was forcing modern-day women to suppress their natural propensity to be pleasure-seekers: “When France was happy,” she wrote, “women could be frivolous; but today, with our dear nation broken, we must only be useful women” (L’Art de bien tenir une maison, 2).

262

Notes to Pages 109–114

68. On the social heterogeneity of the commercial public, see Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. III, 90, BN: NAF 10278. This is not to suggest that the commercial public was a truly democratic one. To a large extent, the workers of Paris frequented department stores, music halls, and commercial venues in their own neighborhoods. See Lenard R. Berlanstein, The Working People of Paris, 1871–1914, chap. 4. On the reconfiguration of the social landscape after Haussmann, see T. J. Clark, The Painting of Modern Life; Georges Duveau, La Vie ouvrière en France sous le Second Empire; Jeanne Gaillard, Paris, la ville 1852–1870; W. Scott Haine, The World of the Paris Café; Robert L. Herbert, Impressionism; David Jordan, Transforming Paris; Siegfried Kracauer, Orpheus in Paris; Anthony Sutcliffe, The Autumn of Central Paris. 69. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 192–93. 70. Baronne Jeanne, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, June 1881, n. pag. 71. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 16. 72. Fortuné Paillot, Parisitisme, 43. 73. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, August 26, 1893, 268. 74. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 2, 46, 13, 46. 75. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 16. 76. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 2, 43. 77. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 2, 47. 78. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 1, 7. 79. On women’s relation to art in the nineteenth century, see Janis BergmanCarton, The Woman of Ideas in French Art; Gen Doy, Women and Visual Culture, 1800–1852; Tamar Garb, Sisters of the Brush; Anne Higonnet, “Images— Appearances, Leisure, and Subsistence”; Anne Higonnet, “Secluded Vision”; Anne Martin-Fugier, La Bourgeoise; Rozsika Parker and Griselda Pollack, Old Mistresses; Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France; Janet Wolff, “The Culture of Separate Spheres.” On the growing importance of aesthetics to French constructions of femininity during the mid-to-late nineteenth century, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power; Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace. 80. For a discussion of the uses of the eighteenth-century woman’s accomplishments, see Ann Bermingham, “The Aesthetics of Ignorance.” See also Richard Leppert, “Social Order and the Domestic Consumption of Music in Eighteenth-Century England”; Rozsika Parker, The Subversive Stitch; Rozsika Parker and Griselda Pollack, Old Mistresses. 81. Delphine de Girardin, “Les Sept Variétés de la femme du monde,” Journal des soirées de famille, August 7, 1859, 1. 82. Vicomtesse de Renneville, “La Femme comme il faut,” Journal des soirées de famille, April 29, 1860, 21. 83. Stella, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, December 1882, 2. 84. Jeanne de Plessis, “La Lecture en famille,” Le Salon de la mode, January 23, 1876, 31. 85. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, February 1881, 2. 86. P. de Cantelaus, “Ce que l’on dit pour les placer (jeunes filles),” L’Art de la mode, September 19, 1885, 500. 87. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111.

Notes to Pages 114–117

263

88. Vicomtesse de Réville, “La Mode,” La Nouvelle Revue, January-February 1899, 766. 89. Anon., “Concours de Paris-mode,” Paris-mode, June 1892, 27. 90. Jeanne Remacle, “Cours de chant pour voix de femme,” La Mode pratique, February 3, 1894, 44. 91. Jeanne Remacle, “Cours de chant (suite),” La Mode pratique, February 24, 1894, 76. 92. Anon., “Causerie,” Journal des demoiselles, March 27, 1880, 112. 93. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, August 1880, 26. 94. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, February 1881, 2; Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, March 10, 1894, 208. According to her contemporary Jean d’Agrève, the Cercle de l’union artistique, along with the Jockey Club, was one of the haunts of the fashionable set in 1907. Agrève, La Société parisienne de nos jours, 187. 95. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, February 1881, 2. 96. Proust satirizes the aestheticism of the fashionable set with his portrait of Madame Verdurin, whose scheduled paroxysms of ecstasy on hearing the Vinteuil Sonata delighted her guests each time. Du côte de chez Swann, 248 (1913). 97. Marcel Proust, A la recherche du temps perdu (1919–1927). 98. Jean d’Agrève, La Société parisienne de nos jours, 15, 68. 99. According to Roger Chartier, middle-class interest in culture in the nineteenth century, for men as well as women, was part of a broader trend toward increasing privatization and individuation. Chartier argues that culture, like education, fosters individuation because most cultural experiences are private in nature; he describes the way in which literacy, by severing the individual from the collective culture of the spoken and the gestural, ushered him into the private sphere of the word and, to a lesser extent, the image. Roger Chartier, “The Practical Impact of Writing.” On the notion of leisure as a form of selfimprovement and the cultural pursuits of the middle classes in the nineteenth century, see Maurice Agulhon, Le Cercle dans la France bourgeoise 1810–1848; Peter Bailey, Leisure and Class in Victorian England; Jean-Pierre Chaline, Sociabilité et érudition; Etienne François, ed., Sociabilité et société bourgeoise en France, en Allemagne, et en Suisse, 1750–1850; W. Scott Haine, The World of the Paris Café; Carol Harrison, The Bourgeois Citizen in Nineteenth-Century France; Alan J. Kidd and K. W. Roberts, eds., City, Class, and Culture; Chris Rojek, ed., Leisure for Leisure; Janet Wolff and John Seed, eds., The Culture of Capital. 100. Maurice Agulhon, Le Cercle dans la France bourgeoise 1810–1848, 29. 101. Among the many works on the gendering of the arts, see Janis Bergman-Carton, The Woman of Ideas in French Art; Ann Bermingham and John Brewer, eds., The Consumption of Culture, 1600–1800; Gen Doy, Women and Visual Culture, 1800–1852; Tamar Garb, Sisters of the Brush; Patricia Mathews, Passionate Discontent; Linda Nochlin, Women, Art, and Power and Other Essays; Rozsika Parker and Griselda Pollack, Old Mistresses; Griselda Pollack, Vision and Difference; Mary D. Sheriff, The Exceptional Woman; Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France.

264

Notes to Pages 117–124

102. On collecting, see Leora Auslander, “The Gendering of Consumer Practices in Nineteenth-Century France”; Walter Benjamin, “Unpacking My Library”; Ann Bermingham, “The Aesthetics of Ignorance”; James Clifford, “On Collecting Art and Culture”; Krzysztof Pomian, Collectors and Curiosities; Susan Stewart, On Longing. 103. Jean d’Agrève, La Société parisienne de nos jours, 244–45. 104. According to Carol Harrison, few bourgeois associations were devoted to the arts until the late nineteenth century (The Bourgeois Citizen in NineteenthCentury France, 82–84). On the growth of bourgeois art societies, see Raymonde Moulin, “Les Bourgeois amis des arts.” My own research on bourgeois voluntary associations points toward avid bourgeois interest in the practice and appreciation of art in the fin de siècle. See, for example, AP: D 18Z, Collection L’Esprit, cartons 1 and 2; D 40Z, Collection Marcel Bouteron; AN: F21 4891, Minister of Public Instruction, Correspondence, 1900–1945; F21 4417, Artistic and Literary Societies, Paris, 1885–1900; F21 4418, Artistic Societies, Paris, 1865–1939. 105. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 19. 106. On the evolution of models of masculinity and the pathologization of homosexuality in the nineteenth century, see Nancy Erber and George Robb, eds., Disorder in the Court; Patrick Favardin and Laurent Bouëxière, Le Dandysme; J.A. Mangan and James Walvin, eds., Manliness and Morality; Jeffrey Merrick and Bryant T. Ragan, Homosexuality in Modern France; Robert A. Nye, Masculinity and Male Codes of Honor in Modern France; William Reddy, The Invisible Code; Michael Roper, Manful Assertions; Robert Wohl, The Generation of 1914. 107. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 16–18. 108. DJ, “Causerie sur la toilette de l’homme comme il faut,” L’Art de la mode, vol. 4 (1884): 154. On the dandy’s effeminacy, see Leora Auslander, “The Gendering of Consumer Practices in Nineteenth-Century France”; Marylène Delbourg-Delphis, Masculin singulier; Patrick Favardin and Laurent Bouëxière, Le Dandysme; David Kuchta, “The Making of the Self-Made Man.” 109. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 309. 110. Henry Bordeaux, “L’Ecole des femmes” (Excerpts of a speech given to Le Foyer, February 11, 1911), Le Bulletin du foyer (1911), 20, AP: D 40Z, Collection Bouteron. 111. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 308. 112. Baronne Staffe, Indications pratiques pour obtenir un brevet de femme chic, 115–16. 113. Baronne Staffe, Indications pratiques pour obtenir un brevet de femme chic, 10. 4.

MARKETPLACE MODERNISM

1. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, March 1881, 25; Stella, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, December 1882, 2. “Stella” was probably another of Marie Double’s pseudonyms. 2. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 192–93. 3. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 27.

Notes to Pages 124–130

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4. Anon., “Qu-est-ce que le Chic?” Femina, November 1, 1910, 576–80. 5. On the rise of the taste expert as a new kind of professional in the late nineteenth century, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, 190–99. 6. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 196. 7. Emile Cardon, L’Art au foyer domestique, 31. 8. Octave Uzanne, Sottisier des moeurs, 16. 9. Anon., “Qu’est-ce que le Chic?” Femina, November 1, 1910, 577–78. 10. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 6–7. 11. Octave Uzanne, “Notes sur le goût intime et la décoration personnelle,” L’Art et l’idée, November 20, 1892, 259. 12. Fortuné Paillot, Parisitisme, 42. 13. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 14. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 52–53. 15. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 7. 16. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 191. 17. Marcel Proust, Du côté de chez Swann, 292–93. 18. Lucie Crété, “Modes—Revue de la quinzaine,” La Mode française, April 15, 1875, 5. 19. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 20. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 14. 21. Gabriel Hanotaux, La Seine et ses quais, 50–51. 22. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 5–6. 23. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 245. 24. Gabriel Hanotaux, La Seine et ses quais, 50; Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111. 25. Gustave Coquiot, Paris, voici Paris!, 11. 26. Emile Cardon, L’Art au foyer domestique, 29–30. 27. Jeanne de Bargny, “Causerie avec les abonnées,” La Mode pour tous, July 20, 1895, 161. 28. J. Fresson, Enseignement professionnel, Lecture of March 3, 1887, 55. 29. Exposition Franco-Britannique à Londres 1908, 225. 30. Exposition Franco-Britannique à Londres 1908, 225. 31. J. Fresson, Enseignement professional, Lecture of March 3, 1887, 55. 32. Emile Cardon, L’Art au foyer domestique, 30. 33. Lucie Crété, “Modes—Revue de la quinzaine,” La Mode française, April 15, 1875, 5. 34. Jules-Gustave-Ali Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 45. 35. Jenny Dervilliers, “La Chronique de la mode,” Le Chic français, May 1903, 1; Comtesse de Vérissey, “Courrier de la mode,” Le Salon de la mode, January 6, 1900, 2. 36. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 7.

266

Notes to Pages 131–136

37. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 52–53. 38. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie Mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 7. 39. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 19, 26–29. 40. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 28; Gabriel Hanotaux, La Seine et ses quais, 52. 41. Marcel Prévost, “Les Lettres à Françoise mariée,” Femina, September 15, 1907, 405–6. 42. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 43. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 44. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 6–7. 45. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 19–22. 46. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 28–29. 47. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 28. 48. Gabriel Hanotaux, La Seine et ses quais, 52. 49. Baronne Jeanne, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, July 1881, n. pag. 50. Yves Barzy, “L’Art empêchant la mode de suivre la folie,” L’Art de la mode, vol. 4 (1882): 1. 51. Madame Amet d’Abrantès, “De la mode et du bon goût,” Le Messager des modes et de l’industrie, vol. 1 (1853): 1. 52. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 6. 53. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 234–35. 54. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, viii–xix. 55. On the women’s press, see Danielle Flamant-Paparatti, Bien-pensantes, cocodettes, et bas-bleues; Cheryl A. Morgan, “Unfashionable Feminism?”; Evelyne Sullerot, La Presse féminine. 56. Frivoline, “Art et chiffons, L’Art et la mode, October 10, 1885, 528. 57. V. d’Aurelly, “Les Modes de jour,” Le Salon de la mode, March 21, 1880, 94. 58. Karl Stern, “Les Emplettes,” L’Art de la mode, September 1880, 36. 59. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 1. 60. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 7. 61. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 25. 62. Mathilde Sée, “L’Art de s’habiller,” Femina, March 15, 1913, 151. 63. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 1. 64. Anon., “Voyage au pays de la curiosité,” L’Art de la mode, April 1881, n. pag. 65. Frivoline, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art et la mode, October 19, 1885, 530. 66. Lucie Crété, “Modes. Revue de la quinzaine,” La Mode française, April 1, 1876, 5. 67. Comtesse de Verrasques, “Un Conseil,” L’Art de la mode, March 1881, 44. 68. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, viii–xix; Comtesse de Vérissey, “Le Salon de la mode,” Le Salon de la mode, April 16, 1876, 122.

Notes to Pages 137–144

267

69. La Direction, “Au lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 4. 70. Jeanne d’Elff, “Confections du printemps,” La Joie du foyer, April 1, 1867, 164; Rosine, “Chronique de la mode,” La Joie du foyer, October 1, 1871, 3. 71. Grillonne, “La Vie de la femme,” Le Courrier de la mode, November 28, 1891, 427. 72. Rosine, “Chronique de la mode,” La Joie du foyer, October 1, 1871, 3. 73. Rosine, “Chronique de la mode,” La Joie du foyer, October 1, 1871, 3. 74. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 191. 75. Anon., “Voyage au pays de la curiosité,” L’Art de la mode, April 1881, n. pag. 76. V. d’Aurelly, “Les Modes du jour,” Le Salon de la mode, March 21, 1880, 94. 77. Le Salon de la mode, January 2, 1876, 8. 78. Rosine, “Chronique de la mode,” La Joie du foyer, October 1, 1871, 3. 79. Anon., “Bon prime de La Mode française,” La Mode française, January 24, 1897, n. pag. 80. Anon., “Prime artistiques,” Paris-mode, March 5, 1891, 24. 81. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 337. 82. Ernest Hoschedé and Jules Laquet, “Avant-propos,” L’Art de la mode, August 1880, 1. 83. Anon., “Avant-propos,” Paris-Mode, December 1, 1890, 1. 84. L’Art d’être jolie, July 1904–January 1905. 85. On the shift from fashion illustration to fashion photography, see Raymond Gaudriault, La Gravure de mode féminine en France, chap. 4. 86. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, August 1880, 26. 87. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 6–7; Anon., “A nos lectrices,” L’Art d’être jolie, July 30, 1903, 1. 88. Octave Uzanne, “Notes sur le goût intime,” L’Art et l’idée, November 20, 1892, 258. 89. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 90. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 27. 91. Arsène Houssaye, “L’Art d’être belle,” L’Art de la mode, May 1881, 75. 92. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 53. 93. Emile Cardon, L’Art au foyer domestique, 40; Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 120; Emile Bayard, L’Art d’être femme, 117. 94. Frivoline, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art et la mode, October 10, 1885, 528. 95. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, August 1880, 26. 96. J. Fresson, Enseignment professionelle, entire; Exposition Franco-Britannique à Londres 1908, 256. 97. Joseph Périer, Importance du goût et de sa culture, 27. 98. Arsène Houssaye, “L’Art d’être belle,” L’Art de la mode, May 1881, 76; A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 99. Comtesse de Vérissey, “Courrier de la mode,” Le Salon de la mode, January 6, 1900, 2.

268

Notes to Pages 144–151

100. J. Fresson, Histoire du goût public, 24. 101. Valentine de Saint-Pont, “Philosophie de la mode,” La Nouvelle Revue, February 1, 1907, 370. 102. Paul Bonhomme, “Chronique mondaine,” L’Art de la mode, January 1890, 59; Anon., “Chronique de la mode,” Paris-mode, no. 3 (1891): 1. 103. Louis de Fourcaud, “Les Arts de la femme au Palais de L’Industrie,” La Grande Dame, vol. 1 (1893): 27. 104. Josse, “Les Bijoux,” La Grande dame, vol. 1 (1893): 111. 105. Etincelle, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art d la mode, August 1880, 26. 106. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 236. 107. Comtesse de Verrasques, “Un conseil pratique,” L’Art de la mode, March 1881, 44. 108. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111; Stella, “Art et chiffons,” L’Art de la mode, December 1882, 1. 109. Emile Zola, Mes haines, 24, cited in Ann Coffin Hanson, Manet and the Modern Tradition, 25. 110. Some useful texts on the relationship between modern art and mass culture are T. J. Clark, The Painting of Modern Life; Thomas Crow, “Modernism and Mass Culture in the Visual Arts”; Francis Frascina, et al., eds., Modernity and Modernism; Jonathan L. Freedman, Professions of Taste; Robert L. Herbert, Impressionism; Andreas Huyssen, After the Great Divide; Linda Nochlin, Realism; Jeffrey Weiss, The Popular Culture of Modern Art. On the history of the avant-garde as a social formation, see Jerrold Seigel, Bohemian Paris. 111. Meyer Schapiro, “The Social Bases of Art”; Thomas Crow, “Modernism and Mass Culture in the Visual Arts.” 112. Emile Bayard, L’Art de bon goût, 277. 113. Ernest Hoschedé and Jules Laquet, “Avant-propos,” L’Art de la mode, August 1880, 1. Hoschedé was also a collector of Impressionist art and Monet’s patron. See Robert L. Herbert, Impressionism, 56. 114. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 14–15. 115. Octave Uzanne, L’Art et les artifices de la beauté, 171. 116. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 27. 117. Jules Claretie, “La Femme,” L’Art de la mode, November 1880, 91. 118. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 15. 5.

THE CHIC INTERIOR

1. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 234–35. 2. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 234. 3. On the decorative arts in fin-de-siècle France, see Catherine Arminjon, et al., eds., L’Art de vivre; Yvonne Brunhammer, The Decorative Arts in France, 1900–1942; Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France; Nancy J. Troy, Modernism and the Decorative Arts in France. 4. Henry Havard, L’Art dans la maison, 5. On Havard’s connection to the republican government, see Philip Nord, The Republican Moment, 238.

Notes to Pages 151–154

269

5. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 20. On the mobility of the bourgeois family, see Adeline Daumard, “Condition de logement et position sociale.” 6. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189–90. 7. J. Fresson, Enseignement professionel, Lecture of March 27, 1886, 51–52. 8. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 20. On the fin-de-siècle crisis in domestic service, see Theresa M. McBride, The Domestic Revolution. 9. On the growing aesthetic authority of the bourgeois woman from the July Monarchy through the Second Empire, see Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace. 10. On the rise of the upholsterer to new prominence in the early nineteenth century, see Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace, 85–87. 11. G. Henriot, “Chronique,” Le Moniteur de l’ameublement, August 1866, 81. 12. Anon., “Chronique,” Le Moniteur de l’ameublement, January 1865, 4. Even the humblest furniture-worker was acclaimed as an artist, not only in Le Moniteur but elsewhere. The prominent fashion journal Le Messager des modes et de l’industrie, for example, attributed his genius in part to the supremacy of the French system of production, with its emphasis on the construction of whole pieces of furniture, rather than piecework: the French worker was an artist because his “work emerges complete from his hands.” Madame Amet d’Abrantès, “Ameublements,” Le Messager des modes et de l’industrie, vol. 1 (1853): 23. 13. G. Tony, “Célébrities de l’ameublement,” Le Moniteur de l’ameublement, July 1866, 78. 14. G. Tony, “Chronique,” Le Moniteur de l’ameublement, July 1868, 180. Tapissier literally means “upholsterer,” and upholstery was the specific domain of the tapissier under the guild system of the Ancien Régime. By the nineteenth century, however, the term connoted a broader range of activities, and it can be translated loosely as “decorator.” 15. L. Henriot, “Chronique,” Le Moniteur de l’ameublement, January 1865, 8. 16. Edouard Guichard, De l’ameublement et de la décoration intérieure de nos appartements, 16. 17. Edouard Guichard, De l’ameublement et de la décoration intérieure de nos appartements, 10. 18. Edouard Guichard, De l’ameublement et de la décoration intérieure de nos appartements, 22. 19. Exposition de Paris 1889. Rapport général, 23. 20. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 32–34. 21. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 9. 22. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 32–34. 23. L. Roger-Milès, “La Mode et le goût dans la décoration des intérieurs,” Le Figaro-modes, March, 1903, 18. 24. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 151–52.

270

Notes to Pages 154–158

25. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 14. 26. Edouard Guichard, De l’ameublement et de la décoration intérieure de nos appartements, 10, 42. 27. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 34. 28. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 15. 29. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez toi,” Le Salon de la mode, December 26, 1885, 414. 30. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 15. Madame Lesueur wrote only the preface to this handbook, which was published by the Bibliothèque Femina under the direction of Marie-Anne L’Heureux, a Femina columnist. 31. Shoppingette, “Le shopping de Shoppingette,” Femina, January 15, 1910, 34. 32. Frantz Jourdain, “Les Artistes décorateurs. Joseph Cheret,” Revue des arts décoratifs 14 (1893–94): 43. For a comparison of the bourgeois woman’s different objectives in decorating in the early and late nineteenth century, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, 222. 33. On women and interior decoration from the midcentury on, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, especially chap. 7; Anne Martin-Fugier, La Bourgeoise, part III, chap. 1; Philip G. Nord, The Republican Moment, chap. 9; Rémy Saisselin, The Bourgeois and the Bibelot; Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France, especially chap. 11; Whitney Walton, France at the Crystal Palace, especially chap. 2. On the U.S., see Simon Bronner, ed., Consuming Visions. 34. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez toi,” Le Salon de la mode, June 20, 1885, 198. 35. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez toi,” Le Salon de la mode, December 26, 1885, 414. 36. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 88. 37. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez toi,” Le Salon de la mode, November 21, 1885, 374. 38. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3. 39. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, pp. 9–10. 40. Fin-de-siècle republicans who celebrated the moral home were making use of an idea that extended back at least to the eighteenth century, where it was nourished by sources such as Rousseauian philosophy and, in England, Evangelical religion. See Philip G. Nord, The Republican Moment, chap. 9. On England, see Nancy Armstrong, “The Rise of the Domestic Woman”; Leonore Davidoff and Catherine Hall, Family Fortunes, part one, “Religion and Ideology.” On domestic ideals, see chap. 1, n. 40. 41. According to Whitney Walton, the emphasis on comfort was one of the chief means by which bourgeois style in decorating differentiated itself from aristocratic style during the Second Empire (France at the Crystal Palace, chap. 3). 42. J. Fresson, Enseignement professional, Lecture of March 27, 1886, 29. 43. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 8. 44. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 191. 45. Henri Duvernois, “Pour vous, Madame,” Galeries Lafayette advertising (n.d. [early twentieth century]), n. pag., AP: D 39Z, Collection D. Wrotnowska, carton 2.

Notes to Pages 158–163

271

46. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3. 47. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 31. 48. Georges de Landemer, Le Carnet de fiançailles, n. pag. 49. Jeanne de Bargny, “Causeries avec les abonnées. Les Femmes modernes,” La Mode pour tous, November 24, 1895, 554. 50. Marcel Prévost, “Les Lettres à Françoise mariée,” Femina, May 15, 1907, 224. 51. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 9. 52. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 4. 53. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189–90. 54. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 4. 55. See Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, chap. 7, for a valuable discussion of bourgeois self-creation through historicist pastiche. 56. Data from these rich sources has been culled by Leora Auslander in Taste and Power and Whitney Walton in France at the Crystal Palace. 57. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 4. 58. See Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France, for an in-depth analysis of the aesthetic agenda of the Third Republic, focusing particularly on Art Nouveau as a distinctively modern style that nonetheless drew on French rococo of the eighteenth century. 59. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 4. 60. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 12–13. 61. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 60–64. 62. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 24. On consumer preferences, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, chap. 7. 63. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 16. 64. L. Roger-Milès, “La Mode et le goût dans la décoration des intérieurs,” Le Figaro-modes, February 1903, 17. 65. Musée Centennal des Classes 66, 69, 70, 71, 97, p. 51. 66. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 15–16, 24. 67. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 152. 68. L. Roger-Milès, “La Mode et le goût dans la décoration des intérieurs,” Le Figaro-modes, February 1903, 19. 69. Comtesse de Vérissey, “Correspondance,” Le Salon de la mode, March 17, 1900, 131. 70. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111. 71. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 14; L. Roger-Milès, “La Mode et le goût dans la décoration des intérieurs,” Le Figaro-modes, February 15, 1903, 19. 72. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 9. 73. L. Roger-Milès, “La Mode et le goût dans la décoration des intérieurs,” Le Figaro-modes, February 15, 1903, 19. 74. Marcel Prévost, “Les Lettres à Françoise mariée,” Femina, February 10, 1900, 70–71.

272

Notes to Pages 163–168

75. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189–90. 76. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189–90. 77. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 88. 78. L. Roger-Milès, “La Mode et le goût dans la décoration des intérieurs, Le Figaro-Modes, February 1903, 19. 79. Octave Uzanne, “Notes sur le goût intime et la décoration personnelle,” L’Art et l’idée, November 20, 1892, 257–60. 80. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez toi,” Le Salon de la mode, May 9, 1885, 150. 81. Comtesse de Vérissey, “Correspondance,” Le Salon de la mode, March 17, 1900, 131. 82. Francis de Miomandre, “Promenade à travers les styles,” in L’Ameublement au Palais de la Nouveauté. Palais du Mobilier, Grands Magasins Dufayel advertising (n.d.), n. pag., AP: D 39Z, carton 2. 83. Raymond Escholier, Le Nouveau Paris, 8. 84. Jeanne de Bargny, “Causerie avec les abonnées,” La Mode pour tous, November 24, 1895, 554. 85. Constance Aubert, Manuel d’économie élégante, 21. 86. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 16. 87. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 150–51. 88. Mme Emmeline Raymond, La Mode illustrée, cited in Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 151. 89. Lucie Crété, “Modes—revue de la quinzaine,” La Mode française, April 1876, 5. 90. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “Causerie mondaine. L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 7. 91. Emile Cardon, L’Art au foyer domestique, 73. 92. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 224. 93. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3. 94. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 27. 95. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3. 96. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 16. 97. Mme Emmeline Raymond, La Mode illustrée, cited in Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 151–52. 98. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 155–56. 99. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 147–48; Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez soi,” Le Salon de la mode, March 1, 1890, 70; Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez soi,” Le Salon de la mode, May 10, 1890, 151. 100. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 27. 101. The predilection for decorating exotica was obviously linked to French imperial expansion in the late nineteenth century. It also evokes the converging influence on modernist painting of Japanese woodblocks, seventeenth-century Dutch painting, and Velasquez. See George Heard Hamilton, Painting and Sculpture in Europe, 1880–1940, 23; Mario Praz, L’Ameublement, 64.

Notes to Pages 168–172

273

102. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3. 103. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison. 104. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 150. 105. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 27. 106. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 150. 107. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 28–31. 108. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 24, 23, 27. 109. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 20. 110. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 23. 111. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 21. 112. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 16. 113. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 21, 23. 114. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, chap. 11. 115. Octave Uzanne, La Femme et la mode, 238–39. 116. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 130. 117. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 191. 118. Octave Uzanne, “Notes sur le goût intime et la décoration personnelle,” L’Art et l’idée, November 20, 1892, 257–60. 119. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 191; Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 27. 120. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111. 121. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 155–56. 122. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 223. 123. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 140. The modernist notion that the individual ascribed value to objects was explicitly rejected by experts even as late as the Second Empire. The following condescending passage, for example, appeared in Le Moniteur de l’ameublement in 1866: “We have often laughed, with good reason, at collectors . . . who amass a bunch of disparate and insignificant objects that have no other value than that which their proprietor ascribes to them” (italics added). G. Henriot, “Chronique,” Le Moniteur de l’ameublement, August 1866, 81. 124. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 25. 125. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3. 126. Etincelle, Carnet d’un mondain, vol. 1, 27. 127. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111. 128. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 14. 129. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 6–7. 130. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189–90. 131. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la Mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 132. Blanche de Regnault, “Le Confort et l’élégance chez toi,” Le Salon de la mode, May 10, 1885, 150. 133. Mme Daniel Lesueur, Pour bien tenir sa maison, 28, 15.

274

Notes to Pages 173–179

134. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3. 135. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189–90; Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 130. 136. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 54. 137. Exposition de 1889. Rapports du jury international, 54. 138. L. Roger-Milès, “La Mode et le goût dans la décoration des intérieurs,” Le Figaro-modes, March, 1903, 18. 139. J. Fresson, Enseignement professionel, Lecture of March 27, 1886, 53. 140. J. Fresson, Enseignement professionel, Lecture of March 27, 1886, 54. 141. On Art Nouveau, see Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France; Nancy J. Troy, Modernism and the Decorative Arts in France. 142. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 17. 143. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 14–15. 144. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 10. 145. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 10. 146. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 10. 147. Marcel Prévost, “Les Lettres à Françoise mariée,” Femina, May 15, 1907, 224. 148. Frisette, “La Femme chez elle,” Femina, April 1, 1907, 166. 149. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 20. See also Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 88. 150. La Direction, “La Revue des expositions et salons. Salon du mobilier,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 12. 151. Luc, “Le Château de Trévarez,” Le Figaro-modes, October 15, 1903, 9. 152. Exposition universelle internationale de 1900 à Paris. Rapports du jury international classe 71, p. 10. 153. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189. 154. La Direction, “Au Lecteur,” L’Intérieur, November 1911, 3–4. 155. Frisette, “La Femme chez elle,” Femina, April 15, 1907, 186. 156. Fernand Vanderem, “Est-ce bien le goût du jour?” Femina, December 1, 1913, n. pag. 157. Fernand Vanderem, “Est-ce bien le goût du jour?” Femina, December 1, 1913, n. pag. 158. Louise de Salles, “A propos de l’ameublement de style,” Paris-mode, January 20, 1892, 1. 159. Frisette, “La Femme chez elle,” Femina, April 1, 1907, 166. 160. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 155. 161. Comtesse de Sesmaisons, “L’Art de s’habiller,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 7. 162. Marcelle Tinayre, “Comment on choisit ses robes,” Femina, May 1, 1910, 240.

Notes to Pages 179–186

275

163. Marcelle Tinayre, “Comment on choisit ses robes,” Femina, May 1, 1910, 240. 164. Octave Uzanne, L’Art et les artifices de beauté, 171; Gustave Coquiot, Paris, voici Paris!, 11. 165. Louise de Salles, “A propos de l’ameublement de style,” Paris-mode, January 20, 1892, 1. 166. Marcelle Tinayre, “L’Art de parer son foyer,” Femina, April 1, 1910, 189–90. 167. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 126. 168. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 1. 169. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 19. 170. On women’s aesthetic role in late nineteenth-century France, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, chap. 10; Anne Higonnet, “Images—Appearances, Leisure, and Subsistence”; Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France, chap. 11. 171. Louis de Fourcaud, “Les Arts de la femme au Palais de l’industrie,” La Grande Dame, 1893, 27–28. In its display of decorative arts objects produced both by and for women, the 1892 and 1895 Expositions of the Arts of Woman (organized by the leading design reform organization in France, the Central Union of the Decorative Arts) revealed the extent, but also the limits, of women’s aesthetic purview in the fin de siècle. See Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France, 189–93 and 202–6. 172. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 10–12. 173. Frantz Jourdain, “Les Artistes décorateurs. Joseph Cheret,” Revue des arts décoratifs, vol. 14 (1893–94): 144. 174. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 8. 6.

CONSUMER CITIZENSHIP AND THE REPUBLICANIZATION OF THE MARKET

1. Grillonne, “La Vie de la femme,” La Courrier de la mode, November 28, 1891, 426. 2. Domestic womanhood, of course, had been invoked as a defense against the market and liberal individualism by republicans of the eighteenth century. In this sense, market professionals recycled and modernized a traditional republican narrative. Among the many works on the gendered nature of republican thought in the eighteenth century, see Carol Blum, Rousseau and the Republic of Virtue; Lynn Hunt, The Family Romance of the French Revolution; Joan Landes, Women and the Public Sphere in the Age of the French Revolution; William Sewell, “Le Citoyen/La Citoyenne.” Among the many sources on gender and republicanism in the nineteenth century, see Elinor Accampo, Rachel Fuchs, and Mary Lynn Stewart, eds., Gender and the Politics of Social Reform in France, 1870–1914; Philip G. Nord, The Republican Moment, chap. 9; Jean Elisabeth Pedersen, “Regulating Abortion and Birth Control”; Joan Wallach Scott, Only Paradoxes to Offer; Judith F.

276

Notes to Pages 187–193

Stone, “Republican Ideology, Gender, and Class.” On the conceptual exclusion of women from seventeenth- and eighteenth-century social contract theory, see Carole Pateman, “The Fraternal Social Contract.” On the uses of the domestic woman in the English setting, see Nancy Armstrong, “The Rise of the Domestic Woman.” 3. On the impact of the market on ideas of the home in the 1890s, see Judith Coffin, “Credit, Consumption, and Images of Women’s Desires,” 782. 4. Frisette, “La Femme chez elle,” Femina, April 15, 1907, 186. 5. A similar trend was visible much earlier, in the late-eighteenth-century influence of bourgeois domesticity on aristocratic women. See Margaret Darrow, “French Noblewomen and the New Domesticity, 1750–1850.” 6. Honoré de Balzac, “La Femme comme il faut,” reprinted in Journal des soirées de famille, October 28, 1860, 5. 7. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 2. 8. Georges de Landemer, Le Carnet de fiançailles, n. pag. 9. Désintéressée, “La Bonne coquetterie,” L’Art d’être jolie, December 3, 1904, 290. 10. Jeanne de Bargny, “Causerie avec les abonnées,” La Mode pour tous, November 24, 1895, 554. 11. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode pratique,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 4. 12. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode pratique,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 4. 13. Marcelle Tinayre, “Comment on choisit ses robes,” Femina, May 1, 1910, 240. 14. Au Désir des Dames advertising (n.d. [ca. 1900]), AP: D 18Z, Collection L’Esprit. 15. Publicity cards (n.d. [ca. 1900]), AP: 8 AZ 891, Department Store Documents. 16. Anon., “Devez-vous annoncer dans les journaux d’enfants?” La Publicité moderne, January 1908, 9. 17. Bon Marché advertisement (n.d. [ca. 1900]), AP: 8 AZ 940, Department Store Documents. 18. Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1913), BHVP: 4°Z 211. 19. Advice professionals promoted the idea that consumption was a feminine responsibility undertaken for the benefit of the household, but certainly did not object to the idea that it could be a family activity; at least a few, the decorating expert Henri de Noussane among them, enthusiastically endorsed the idea that shopping together was “one of the sweetest pursuits” of the married couple. Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 192. 20. “Au Bon Marché par le Métropolitan” (n.d. [late 1890s]), AP: 8 AZ 24, Department Store Documents. 21. Advertisement for La Revue de la mode, published in Almanach des dames et des demoiselles pour 1887, n. pag. 22. Les Heures d’une élégante, Pygmalion advertising (1907), n. pag. (“L’Après-Midi, de trois à sept heures”), BVHP Actualités: 120 Pygmalion.

Notes to Pages 193–200

277

23. Les Heures d’une élégante, Pygmalion advertising (1907), n. pag. (“L’Après-Midi, de trois à sept heures”), BHVP Actualités: 120 Pygmalion. 24. “Deux sous d’épingles à friser,” in Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1913), 9, BHVP: 4°Z 211. 25. Carnet d’artiste. Blanc partout, Pygmalion advertising (1913), n. pag., AP: D 19Z Collection Lalbat. 26. “Deux sous d’épingles à friser,” in Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1913), 12, BHVP: 4°Z 211. 27. Carnet d’artiste. Blanc partout, Pygmalion advertising (1913), n. pag., AP: D 19Z, Collection Lalbat. 28. Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1913), 12, BHVP: 4°Z 211. 29. “Pourquoi j’aime le Bon Marché,” Bon Marché advertising (1921), BHVP Actualités: 120 Bon Marché. 30. Une Visite dans un grand magasin. Une Parisienne au Bon Marché (1913), 13–14, BHVP Actualités: 120 Bon Marché. 31. Fashion journals often made the same point. In one example, a sketch in L’Art et la mode portrayed a husband whose suspicions of his wife’s infidelity are eased when he discovers that the presumed love letters she pores over daily are actually department store catalogues. Méryem, “Les Catalogues,” L’Art et la mode, November 14, 1885, 591–96. 32. Evelyne Sullerot puts it slightly differently, arguing that the “mass press” that emerged at the end of the nineteenth century erased differences between the different types of women’s magazines. La Presse féminine, 45–68. 33. Advertisement for La Revue de la mode in Almanach des dames et des demoiselles pour 1887, n. pag. 34. Anon., “Conseils ménagères,” Journal des soirées de famille, April 29, 1860, n. pag. 35. See, for example, the May 1, 1880 issue. 36. Advertisement for Le Moniteur de la mode published in Almanach des dames et des demoiselles pour 1887, n. pag. 37. Maison du Petit St.-Thomas. Agenda-foyer (1893), BN: 42 WZ 3231 (recueil); “Une Poignée de conseils pratiques,” in Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1914), 83, BHVP: 4°Z 211. 38. Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1914), n. pag., BHVP: 4°Z 211. 39. On women and the household budget, see Anne Martin-Fugier, “La Maîtresse de maison”; Anne-Marie Sohn, Chrysalides, chap. 9. On bourgeois budgets, see Marguerite Perrot, La Mode de vie des familles bourgeoises, 1873–1953; Jeanne Singer-Kérel, Le Coût de la vie à Paris de 1840 à 1954; Adeline Daumard, “Conditions de logement et position sociale”; Martine Sagaert, “Mme Gide.” 40. M. L. Brantôme, “Rêves et réalités. Revue mensuelle de la Bourse et des affaires,” L’Art de la mode, March 1881, 44. 41. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode pratique,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 4. 42. Anna Lampérière, La Femme et son pouvoir, 109. 43. Grillonne, “La Vie de la femme,” Le Courrier de la mode, November 28, 1891, 426.

278

Notes to Pages 200–205

44. Jeanne de Bargny, “Causerie avec les abonnées. Les Femmes modernes,” La Mode pour tous, November 24, 1895, 554. 45. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 108. 46. Lucie Crété, “Modes. Revue de la quinzaine,” La Mode française, April 15, 1875, 5. 47. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 2. 48. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode,” La Mode pratique, January 28, 1893, 1. 49. Gilles Normand, Les Entreprises modernes, 25. 50. Baronne de Clessy, “Lettre à une femme de ménage. Le Budget,” La Mode française, March 28, 1885, 100–101. 51. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 164, BN: NAF 10278. 52. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 164, BN: NAF 10278. 53. Although a French artisan invented the sewing machine in 1830, it was the Singer company which first marketed it successfully, beginning in the late 1850s. Judith Coffin, “Consumption, Production, and Gender,” 114–17. 54. Frisette, “Une Robe pour cinq francs,” Femina, July 15, 1907, 326. 55. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode pratique.” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 4; Madame C. de Broutelles, “Conditions d’abonnement,” La Mode pratique, 1892–1894, all issues. 56. Louise d’Alq, La Vie intime, 158–59. 57. Jeanne de Bargny, “Chronique de la mode,” La Mode pour tous, January 1, 1885, 2. 58. Baronne de Clessy, “Lettre à une femme de ménage. Le Budget,” La Mode française, March 28, 1885, 100–101. 59. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 114–15. 60. Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1914), n. pag., BHVP: 4°Z 211. 61. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode,” La Mode pratique, January 28, 1893, 1. 62. Baronne de Clessy, “Lettre à une femme de ménage. Le Budget,” La Mode française, March 28, 1885, 100–101. 63. Madame la Comtesse de Bassanville, L’Art de bien tenir une maison, 11. 64. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 117. 65. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 106–7. 66. Henry Bordeaux, “L’Ecole des femmes” (excerpts of a speech given to Le Foyer, February 11, 1911), Le Bulletin du foyer (1911), 22, AP: D 4°Z, Collection Bouteron. 67. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 118. 68. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 119. 69. Madame la Comtesse de Bassanville, L’Art de bien tenir une maison, 323. 70. Marcel Prévost, “Les Lettres à Françoise mariée,” Femina, January 1, 1907, 5. 71. Marcel Prévost, “Les Lettres à Françoise mariée,” Femina, January 1, 1907, 5.

Notes to Pages 205–209

279

72. Jeanne de Bargny, “Chronique de la mode,” La Mode pour tous, January 1, 1885, 2. 73. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode pratique,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 4. 74. Anon., “A nos lectrices,” L’Art d’être jolie, July 30, 1904, 2. 75. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 2, 1. 76. Jeanne, “Propos de Femmes,” Le Salon de la mode, March 21, 1885, 94. 77. Louise d’Alq, Le Maître et la maîtresse de maison, 118–19. 78. Madame C. de Broutelles, “Economie Domestique,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 5. 79. These allocations broke down to ten to fifteen percent of income for rent, three to seven percent for transportation, five percent for heating and electricity, two-and-one-half to five percent for laundry, two percent for household maintenance, and five to seven percent for servants’ wages. 80. The evidence indicates that bourgeois women received a monthly stipend to spend on the household from their husbands and tended to keep careful account of their expenditures. See, for example, the Guédu family account books from 1883–1924, AP: DE1, Fonds Guédu. This is not to suggest, however, that expert prescriptions for the distribution of resources necessarily were followed. According to Adeline Daumard, for example, the average bourgeois spent closer to twenty percent of his income on rent, as compared to twelve and a half percent for workers. “Conditions de logement et position sociale,” 15–18. 81. Jean Lorand, “Causerie littéraire” (review of Mme Seignobos, Le Livre des petits ménages [Paris, 1893]), La Mode pratique, January 15, 1894, 104. 82. Madame C. de Broutelles, “La Mode pratique,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 4. 83. Anon., “A vous,” Journal des soirées de famille, December 9, 1860, 29. In the original, the poem reads: “Plaire est plus qu’un besoin, c’est un devoir urgent: / Et l’on plaît sans beauté, je dis plus, sans argent. / L’éclat ne dépend pas d’une riche toilette; / Avec économie on peut être coquette.” 84. Bon Marché advertising (n.d. [ca. 1900]), AP: 8AZ 940, Department Store Documents; “Un Grand magasin moderne,” in Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1914), 9, BHVP: 4°Z 211. 85. Album. Notre belle France. Monuments, curiosités, sites pittoresques, Bon Marché advertising (1911), 18, AP: D 19Z, Collection Lalbat. 86. Carnet d’artiste. Pygmalion advertising (1913), n. pag., AP: D 19Z Collection Lalbat. 87. La Samaritaine. Catalogue générale, 1910–11, BN: Fol. WZ 220 (recueil). 88. Anon., “Physiologie de la publicité,” La Publicité moderne, August 1906, 4; see also Annuaire de la publicité, 1895, 16. 89. Maison de la Belle Jardinière, Catalogue 1881–82, n. pag., AP: 9 AZ 11, Department Store Catalogues; Exposition des robes et manteaux, 1904, BHVP Actualités: 120 Louvre; Soieries, Pygmalion catalogue, April 11, 1904, n. pag., BHVP Actualités: 120 Pygmalion.

280

Notes to Pages 210–213

90. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 264, BN: NAF 10278. 91. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 233. 92. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 62. 93. Gilles Normand, Les Entreprises modernes, 25. 94. Emile Mermet, La Publicité en France, 741. 95. La Mode pratique, 1892–94, all issues. 96. Advertisement for Le Moniteur de la mode appearing in Almanach des dames et des demoiselles pour 1887, n. pag. 97. Gaston de Varennes, Types et caractères, 170. 98. Anon., “Menu de gourmet” and “Menu de famille,” Journal des demoiselles et petit courrier des dames réunis, January 24, 1880, 35. 99. Advertisement for La Mode nationale in Agenda des Grands Magasins de la Place Clichy (1894), 116, BN: 4°WZ 3233 (recueil). 100. Comtesse de Vérissey, “Le Salon de la mode,” Le Salon de la mode, July 16, 1876, 226. 101. Annuaire de la publicité, 1895, 384. 102. Anon., “Avant-propos,” Paris-mode, 1 December 1890, 1; Advertisement for Le Moniteur de la mode appearing in Almanach des dames et des demoiselles pour 1887, n. pag. 103. La Direction, “Avant-propos,” La Grande Dame, no. 1 (1893): 3. 104. Arsène Houssaye, “La Parisienne.” La Grande Dame, no. 1 (1893): 7; Nestor Roqueplan, “La Parisienne, un type à part,” 133. 105. Jules Claretie, “La Femme,” L’Art de la mode, November 1880, 91. 106. Adrien Marx, “La Parisienne,” n. pag. 107. Louise de Salles, “Chronique de la mode,” Paris-mode, 5 November 1892, 1. 108. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, 20 March 1892, 1. 109. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, 20 March 1892, 1. 110. Comtesse de Tramar, La Mode et l’élégance, 472. 111. Enrique Gomez-Carillo, Psychologie de la mode, 171–72. He estimated as follows: two and a half meters of ribbon at twenty centimes a meter; a sprig of flowers for twenty-five centimes; one meter of fabric for eight-five centimes. He borrowed this estimate from an uncited work of the economist Georges d’Avenel. Government statistics of 1913 suggest that Gomez-Carillo exaggerated only slightly: while the chapeau de mode produced by the grande modiste ranged in price from one hundred to four hundred francs, a simple chapeau garni could cost as little as 4 fr. 80. Lucien Coquet, Les Industries de luxe, 1. Gomez-Carillo’s calculations were correct according to the department store catalogues as well. In 1914, for example, the Galeries Lafayette offered hats ranging from 4 fr. 90 to twenty-nine francs. See “Confections,” in Exposition générale, Galeries Lafayette catalogue (1914), n. pag., BN: Fol WZ 206 (recueil). 112. Enrique Gomez-Carillo, Psychologie de la mode, 23.

Notes to Pages 213–215

281

113. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 114. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 15–16. 115. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 3. 116. Octave Uzanne, “Notes sur le goût intime et la décoration personnelle,” L’Art et l’idée, November 20, 1892, 257–60. 117. Louise de Salles, “A propos de la Parisienne,” Paris-mode, March 20, 1892, 1–2. 118. Etincelle, “Critique de la mode,” La Mode pratique, vol. 1 (1892): 111. 119. Claire Lausnay, “Le Chic pas cher,” Femina, June 15, 1913, 330. 120. Henri de Noussane, Le Goût dans l’ameublement, 192. 121. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 90. 122. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 27. 123. Lucien Coquet, Les Industries de luxe, 7. 124. Lucien Coquet, Les Industries de luxe, 7. 125. Lucien Coquet, Les Industries de luxe, 19. 126. Specific figures have been impossible to obtain. Evelyne Sullerot speaks of “our virtual ignorance of the circulation of these journals.” She cites two records: a circulation of 200,000 for Le Moniteur, a major fashion magazine of the 1890s, and a circulation of 210,000 for Le Petit Echo du monde in 1893 (La Presse féminine, 7, 11, 46–47). Raymond Gaudriault notes only that, in contrast to the earliest fashion magazines which exclusively served milieux mondains, many mid- to late-nineteenth-century journals addressed the petite bourgeoisie (La Gravure de mode féminine en France, 72). 127. On the department store’s clientele, see Philip G. Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment, 70, 77–80; Michael B. Miller, The Bon Marché, 178–79; Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie, chap. 5. Most customers between 1880 and 1914 were affluent bourgeois, although slightly different types of clientele gravitated toward different stores. The Bon Marché, for example, appears to have had a solidly middle-class profile, and Zola considered its clientele a bit provincial in comparison with that of the Grands Magasins du Louvre, which he characterized as “more stylish and more expensive.” Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 209, BN: NAF 10278. For a series of interviews on the shopping preferences of the stars of Parisian theater (the Louvre and Au Bonheur des Dames were their favorite department stores), see Femina, February–May 1903. All these stores were quite different from a bargain basement such as the Magasins Dufayel, which catered to a working-class public. 128. See, for example, Galeries Lafayette, Catalogues, BN: Fol WZ 206 (recueil) and WZ 220 (recueil); Bon Marché, Catalogues, BN: 8°WZ 211 (recueil); Printemps, Catalogues, BN: Fol WZ 215 (recueil); Grand Magasins de la Place Clichy, Catalogues, BN: 4°WZ 3234 (recueil); Maison de la Belle Jardinière, Catalogues, BN: Fol WZ 218 (recueil); Grands Magasins des Phares de la Bastille, Catalogues, BN: 16°WZ 347 (recueil); Pygmalion, Catalogues, BN: 4°WZ 3246 (recueil). Philippe Perrot writes that while the clientele for mascu-

282

Notes to Pages 215–218

line ready-to-wear remained predominantly working class and petit bourgeois during the Second Empire, feminine confection (which was associated with the birth of the department store in this period) served a bourgeois clientele from the very start. See Fashioning the Bourgeoisie, chap. 4. 129. The Grands Magasins Dufayel was the best known of these stores. 130. On the diffusion of consumer durables in the Third Republic, see Leora Auslander, Taste and Power, Lenard R. Berlanstein, The Working People of Paris; Judith Coffin, The Politics of Women’s Work; Marguerite Perrot, La Mode de vie des familles bourgeoises, 1873–1953; Rosalind H. Williams, Dream Worlds. 131. See Jeanne Gaillard, Paris, la ville 1852–1870, 535–39; Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie, chap. 5. Perrot demonstrates that the couturier business, in fact, developed apace with the department store, indicating that there was room in the market for both types of enterprise and that, to some extent, they provided complementary goods and services (69). Philip Nord has shown that, despite the fact that the department store was perceived as a mortal threat to the small boutique, the latter survived and sometimes even flourished alongside the department store (Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment, 82–99). 132. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 110; Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 209, BN: NAF 10278. 133. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 175. 134. Henri Legrand du Saulle, Les Hysteriques, 437. 135. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 195. 136. Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 110. 137. “Nos fillettes,” Bon Marché advertising (n.d. [ca. 1900]), AP: 8 AZ 940, Department Store Documents. See also Gabriel Hanotaux, La Seine et ses quais, 53. 138. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 174. See also Jules-GustaveAli Coffignon, Les Coulisses de la mode, 50. 139. Octave Uzanne, Sottisier des moeurs, 9. 140. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 90, BN: NAF 10278. 141. Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 202, 264, BN: NAF 10278. 142. Arsène Alexandre, Les Reines de l’aiguille, 175–77; Pierre Giffard, Les Grands Bazars, 66; Oeuvres Emile Zola, notes for Au Bonheur des dames, ms. IV, 188, BN: NAF 10278. 143. Louise d’Alq, Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre universel, vol. 3, 184. 144. Recent scholarship emphasizes spectatorship as one of the most central forms of participation in modern consumer culture. See, for example, Jean Baudrillard, The Consumer Society; Rachel Bowlby, Just Looking; Leo Charney and Vanessa R. Schwartz, eds., Cinema and the Invention of Modern Life; T. J. Clark, The Painting of Modern Life; Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle; Mary Ann Doane, The Desire to Desire; Mike Featherstone, Consumer Culture and Postmodernism; John Fiske, Reading the Popular; Anne Friedberg, Window Shopping; Mica Nava, Changing Cultures; Patrice Petro, Joyless

Notes to Pages 218–224

283

Streets; Erika Diane Rappaport, Shopping for Pleasure; Thomas Richards, The Commodity Culture of Victorian England; Vanessa R. Schwartz, Spectacular Realities. 145. Some small boutiques resisted the techniques of modern marketing, at least through the interwar period. See Ellen Furlough, “Selling the American Way in Interwar France.” 146. Emile Bayard, L’Art d’être femme, vii–viii. 147. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 90. A promotional sketch of 1914 for the Magasins Réunis entitled “L’Ecstase d’Yvonne” told a similar story. Sent by her employer to buy the morning paper, the servant-girl Yvonne never returns; en route to the police to report her disappearance, the employer comes across her standing transfixed in “ecstasy” before a department store window. Although she could not buy the goods that so enthralled her, the pleasures of visual delectation were clearly more than enough for her. Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1914), 41, BHVP: 4°Z 211. 148. Gilles Normand, Les Entreprises modernes, 25. 149. J. Arren, Sa Majesté, la publicité, 19. 150. Octave-Jacques Gérin and C. Espinadel, La Publicité suggestive, 95. 151. Georges Michel, “Une Évolution économique,” 145. Michel was affiliated with L’Economiste français, an economics journal edited by the liberal economist Paul Leroy-Beaulieu. See Rosalind H. Williams, Dream Worlds, 291–92. 152. Historique des magasins du Bon Marché, 36. 153. Galeries Lafayette advertising (1912), AP: D 18Z, Collection L’Esprit. 154. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 155. “Un Grand magasin moderne,” Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1914), 4–5, BHVP: 4°Z 211. 156. Georges Michel, “Une Evolution économique,” 139. 157. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 39. 158. Rioux de Maillou, “Les Arts décoratifs et les machines,” Revue des arts décoratifs, 1894–95, 273. 159. Exposition de 1889. Rapports de jury international, 34. 160. Raymond Escholier, Le Nouveau Paris, 8. 161. Léon Bourgeois, “L’Art, éducateur des foules” (Discours de Léon Bourgeois à notre Banquet, December 27, 1895), AN: F21 4418, Artistic Societies, Paris, 1865–1939. Before heading the government in 1895–96, Bourgeois developed his ideas about the social role of art during the early 1890s, when he served as Minister of Public Instruction and the Beaux-Arts. 162. Société “Les Arts graphiques,” Letter to the Minister of Public Instruction (July 7, 1907), AN: F21 4891, Minister of Public Instruction, Correspondence, 1900–1945. 163. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 229–31. 164. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, April 18, 1903, 190. 165. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 14. 166. Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis (1914), 9, BHVP: 4°Z 211.

284

Notes to Pages 225–229

167. Léon Bourgeois, “L’Art, éducateur des foules” (Discours de Léon Bourgeois à notre Banquet, December 27, 1895), AN: F21 4418, Artistic Societies, Paris, 1865–1939. 168. Raymond Escholier, Le Nouveau Paris, 84. 169. Marius Vachon, La Belle Maison, 19. 170. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 16. 171. Raymond Escholier, Le Nouveau Paris, 84. 172. Raymond Escholier, Le Nouveau Paris, 84. 173. Société “Les Arts graphiques,” Letter to the Minister of Public Instruction, July 7, 1907, AN: F21 4891, Minister of Public Instruction, Correspondence, 1900–1945; Léon Bourgeois, “L’Art, éducateur des foules” (Discours de Léon Bourgeois à notre Banquet, December 27, 1895), AN: F21 4418, Artistic Societies, Paris, 1865–1939. 174. Léon Riotor, “Resumé d’une conférence de M. Léon Riotor,” in AiméDeslandes and Kozlowski, L’Art à l’école et la formation du goût, 7–9. 175. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 108–9. 176. Marcel Braunschvig, L’Art et l’enfant, 133. 177. Gilles Normand, Les Entreprises modernes, 40, 42, 41. 178. M. Chambon, “Variétés. La Femme,” La Revue de la mode, January 17, 1903, 35. 179. See Anne Martin-Fugier, “La Maîtresse de maison,” especially 117. 180. Fernand Laudet, “Exposition de l’oeuvre du Foyer” (Excerpts of a speech given to Le Foyer, February 11, 1911), Le Bulletin du foyer (1911), 4–13, AP: D 40Z, Collection Bouteron. On the history of Le Foyer, see Anne Martin-Fugier, La Bourgeoise, 45–50. 181. Fernand Laudet, “Exposition de l’oeuvre du Foyer,” (Excerpts of a speech given to Le Foyer, February 11, 1911), Le Bulletin du foyer (1911), 11–12, AP: D 40Z, Collection Bouteron. 182. A. Paquet-Mille, “Vers le bonheur. La Culture du goût,” La Revue de la mode, March 28, 1903, 154. 183. L. Roger-Milès, “Le Goût et la mode,” Le Figaro-modes, January 1903, 14. 184. Georges de Montenach, La Formation du goût dans l’art et dans la vie, 95. 185. Historique des magasins du Bon Marché, 26. 186. Georges Michel, “Une Evolution économique,” 146. 187. Exposition des soieries, Pygmalion advertising (1904), n. pag., BHVP: Actualités, 120 Pygmalion. 188. Historique des magasins du Bon Marché, 36. 189. Historique des magasins du Bon Marché, 18. 190. A. Cucheval-Clarigny, Les Grandes usines de Turgan. Les Magasins du Bon Marché (1889), 43–44, BHVP: Actualités, 120 Bon Marché. Although the image of the beehive brings to mind Mandeville’s Fable of the Bees (1714), Mandeville used the metaphor to assert the social value of self-interest. The Bon Marché pamphlet, in contrast, used the beehive as a symbol of the pro-

Notes to Pages 225–229

285

ducer’s conscious effort to promote the social good rather than his own narrow self-interest. 191. A. Cucheval-Clarigny, Les Grandes usines de Turgan. Les Magasins du Bon Marché (1889), 43–44, BHVP: Actualités, 120 Bon Marché. 192. Georges Michel, “Une Evolution économique,” 143. 193. A. Cucheval-Clarigny, Les Grandes Usines de Turgan. Les Magasins du Bon Marché (1889), 43–44, BHVP: Actualités, 120 Bon Marché. CONCLUSION 1. Historique des magasins du Bon Marché, 33. 2. Marcelle Tinayre, “Comment on choisit ses robes,” Femina, May 1, 1910, 240. 3. L’Amour de bibelot, Bon Marché catalogue (1912), 19–20, BHVP: Actualités, 120 Bon Marché. 4. Carnet d’artiste. Les Soieries au XIIIe siècle, Pygmalion advertising (1910), BHVP: Actualités, Pygmalion, Publicité 1877–1913. 5. Jules Simon, “Préface,” in Les Grandes usines de Turgan. Les Magasins du Bon Marché (1889), iii, BHVP: Actualités, 120 Bon Marché. 6. Among the many works on republican attitudes toward social reform in the fin de siècle, see Elinor Accampo, Rachel Fuchs, and Mary Lynn Stewart, eds., Gender and the Politics of Social Reform in France, 1880–1924; Sanford Elwitt, The Third Republic Defended; Richard Kuisel, Capitalism and the State in Modern France; Philip G. Nord, “The Welfare State in France”; Harry Peiter, “Institutions and Attitudes”; Judith F. Stone, The Search for Social Peace. On republican efforts to educate the public taste, see Miriam R. Levin, Republican Art and Ideology in Late Nineteenth-Century France; Rosalind H. Williams, Dream Worlds. On French economists’ views of the market, see Judith Coffin, “Social Science Meets Sweated Labor,” 266. 7. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction, 28–30, 53–56. 8. As Elinor Accampo, Rachel Fuchs, and Mary Lynn Stewart argue, this was the only possible relationship between women and the French state in the fin de siècle. See Gender and the Politics of Social Reform in France, 1870–1914. On gender and republican citizenship, see also Judith F. Stone, “Republican Ideology, Gender, and Class.” 9. Felia Litvinne, “Le Chic,” in “Qu’est-ce que le Chic?” Femina, November 1, 1910, 580. 10. Jeanne, “A propos des femmes,” Le Salon de la mode, March 21, 1885, 95. 11. Exposition des soieries, Pygmalion advertising (1904), n. pag., BHVP: Actualités, 120 Pygmalion.

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Index

Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations. d’Abrantès, Madame, 101, 134 account-keeping, 202, 279n.80 adultery, 41–42, 247n.109 advertising. See marketing/advertising Advertising in France (Mermet), 210 advice literature, 113–14, 116, 122 aesthetic disposition, 234, 238n.6 aesthetic education, 141–45, 156, 220–21, 223–26 aesthetic individuality, 89–120; and aesthetics vs. ethics, 94–95; and art/chic, 112, 115, 116–20, 263n.99, 264n.104; and chic, 89–92; and chic and cult of aesthetic selfhood, 96–103, 104; and codes of conduct, 104–12; and the cult of art, 89; dandy’s exploitation of, 91, 92–96; and democratization, 89–91, 96, 234; and elegance, 102–3, 104; and etiquette handbooks, 91–92, 104–12, 119–20, 260n.44, 261n.66; and meritocracy, 89–91, 96, 110–11; and romanticism, 94; and simplicity, 96–103, 259n.28, 259n.31; and social power of subjectivity, 92–96 aestheticism, 116-17, 263nn.96–97 Agenda de la Maison des Magasins Réunis, 199 d’Agrève, Jean, 116–17, 263n.94 A La Ville de Paris, 138–39 alcoholism, 46–47 Alexandre, Arsène, 29, 78, 79, 82, 180, 216, 218, 255n.113 Almanach des Parisiennes (Grévin), 43, 45, 247n.117

d’Alq, Louise: on budgeting, 200, 202, 203–4, 206; on debt, 40–41, 202–3, 245n.80; on distinction, 103; on economic power as transforming women, 53; on etiquette, 105; as fashion columnist, 137; on female sales clerks, 245n.62; Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre, 106–7, 108–9, 111–12, 120, 123, 218; on provincials/foreigners vs. Parisiennes, 124; on shoppers mistaken for prostitutes, 26, 28 l’ameublement de style, 167, 168 Ancien Régime, 6, 9, 16–17; aesthetic distinction of, 93–94; corruption of, 43; democratization of social elite in, 258n.14; imitation of styles of, 66; political corruption of, 19 Annuaire de la publicité, 71, 72–73, 211, 254n.86 art: and chic/fashion, 112, 115, 116–20, 144–47, 263n.99, 264n.104; commercial market for, 94; cult of, 89; definitions of, 143, 183; education in, 141–45, 156, 220–21, 223–26; and experience, 146; fashion as, 125, 139–40, 140, 141; fashion vs., 132–33; impressionist, 141, 145; interior decorating as, 156; modernist, 141, 145–49, 272n.101 art collecting, 117, 152, 180, 264n.102 L’Art de la mode, 132–33, 133, 136, 138–41, 146, 200, 212 L’Art d’être jolie, 141, 142, 205 L’Art et la mode, 277n.31

311

312 L’Art et l’idée, 213 artisans’ aesthetic education, 143 Art Nouveau, 168, 175–78, 183, 271n.58 L’Art pour tous, 223 “Art Preventing Fashion from Following Madness” (Barzy), 133, 133 Aubert, Constance, 97, 137, 165–66, 261n.61 Au Bonheur des dames (Zola), 15–16, 17–18, 29, 39–40, 42, 51, 201 Au Bonheur des Dames department store, 281n.127 Au Désir des Dames, 191 Audouard, Olympe, 51 d’Aurelly, V., 134–35 d’Aurevilly, Barbey, 118 d’Avenel, Georges, 39, 280n.111 Balzac, Honoré de, 190 Bargny, Jeanne de, 82, 129, 158, 165, 190–91, 200, 202 Barrès, Maurice, 17; Les Déracinés, 106–7 Barzy, Yves: “Art Preventing Fashion from Following Madness,” 133 Bassanville, Countess de, 202, 204, 261n.67 Baudelaire, Charles Pierre, 96, 251n.22 Baudin, Henry, 56, 69, 245n.67, 249n.3 Bayard, Emile: on art and everyday experience, 146; on art’s decay, 67; on bourgeois women’s interest in art, 63–64; on color, 142; on exploitation of workers, 82–83; on kleptomania, 46; on shoddy goods, 65; on vulgarity of bourgeois women, 77, 78, 79–80; on working-class women, 218, 219 beauty, 7, 126 Belle Jardinière, 48, 209, 239n.5 La Belle Maison (Vachon), 65, 158, 252n.40 Benjamin, Walter, 245n.69 Bernheim, Hippolyte, 248n.130 Bildungsbürgertum, 61 Bing, Siegfried, 176 Blanc, Charles: Grammaire des arts décoratifs, 166, 167 Blavet, Emile, 78, 84 Bonhomme, Paul, 144 Bon Marché department store: advertising by, 191–92, 194, 195–96, 198, 208–9, 217, 220, 232; Boucicauts of, 242n.27; clientele of, 281n.127; criticism of taste of, 64; on employee-store relationship, 229–30, 284n.190; growth of, 244n.50; Louis XV salon

Index of, 161; on national economy, 231; sales/promotions at, 47–48; on shopper-producer alliance, 229; as tourist attraction, 26 Bordeaux, Henry, 17, 23–24, 118–19, 203 Boucicaut, Aristide, 80, 198 Boucicaut, Marguerite, 198 Boulangist movement, 239n.8, 242n.31 Bourdieu, Pierre, 234, 238n.6 Bourdon, Mathilde, 17, 41; Histoire d’un agent de change, 37–38, 46 Bourgeois, Léon, 5, 18, 21, 22, 223–25, 283n.161 bourgeoisie: aesthetic cultivation of, 117, 234, 263n.99, 264n.104; aesthetic disposition of, 234, 238n.6; artistic interests of, 63–64, 145; bonne bourgeoisie/haute bourgeoisie, 237n.1; democratic ideals of, 81–83; education of tastes of, 85–86; elite’s cultural prestige, 61, 252n.24; elite vs. petite bourgeoisie, 41, 246n.101; and marketplace individualism vs. social duties, 2–3, 7–8, 11; materialism of, 3, 62–64, 78, 84; as misers, 204; mobile, urban, 105; nobility vs., 18–20, 34, 60–61, 93, 240n.11, 250n.16, 251n.21, 252n.25; Third Republic as establishing political authority of, 2–3, 16–17; vulgarity/tastelessness of, 3, 6, 61–64, 251n.22; women’s vulgarity, 76–80, 84, 255n.106, 255n.113. See also marketplace modernism; market vs. civic vision of the Republic Boutet, Henri, 42 boutiques vs. department stores, 17, 25–26, 29, 216, 218, 239n.6, 282n.131, 283n.145 Brancovan, Princess, 116–17 Braunschvig, Marcel, 59, 64, 67, 81–82, 171, 214, 218–19, 226 Broutelles, Madame de, 103, 191, 200, 201, 202, 205, 206–7 Brummell, Beau, 93, 95, 96, 257n.4 budgeting, 187–88, 199–207, 279nn.79–80. See also thrift capitalism: and harmony vs. conflict, 228–30, 232; and national economy, 231, 233; regulated, 21–22. See also marketplace modernism; market vs. civic vision of the Republic Capus, Alfred, 55 Cardon, Emile, 124, 128–29, 130, 142, 166, 167

Index Carolus-Duran, 116 Carre, Marguerite, 126 Castiglione, Baldesar, 93 Catholic conservatives, 17–18, 21, 56–57, 58, 242n.27 Central Union of the Decorative Arts, 275n.171 Cercle de la Place Vendôme, 116 Cercle de l’union artistique, 116, 263n.94 Cercle Volney, 116 Chambre syndicale de la publicité, 254n.86 Château, Henry: Manuel de l’arriviste, 110 Chauchard, Alfred, 80, 117 Chevreul, E., 142 Cheysson, Emile, 56–57, 242n.33 chic, 89–92; and art, 112, 115, 116–20, 144–47, 263n.99, 264n.104; commodification of, 121–23; cultivation of, and commercial media, 133–45; cult of aesthetic selfhood, 96–103, 104; definitions of, 235–36; democratization of, 207–19, 281nn.126–28, 283n.147; in fashion, 102; in interior decoration, 159–65; lexicon of, 123–28; and the maîtresse de maison, 185–88, 189; as taste, 125–26. See also taste “Chic” (Litvinne), 235–36 Le Chic (magazine), 212 children, role of in marketing, 190–91 citizenship. See consumer citizenship civic virtue, 18, 20, 234–35, 239n.8 civility: as aesthetic presentation, 93; bourgeois gentilhomme, 93, 258n.6; as circumstance-specific, 260n.46; courtly, 257n.5, 258n.7; of dandies, 93, 257n.5; Erasmian, 104–5, 257n.5, 261n.56; manuals on, 104, 260n.44 civilizing process, 260n.36 Claretie, Jules, 148, 212 class. See bourgeoisie; nobility; petit bourgeoisie Clemenceau, Georges, 20–21 Clément, Jules, 105, 108–9 Clessy, Baroness de, 201, 202 Coffignon, Jules, 130 La Colonie des Indes, 139 comfort, 157, 228, 270n.41 Le Commerce, 20–21 commercialization as aesthetic crisis, 55–86; and absolutist politics, 59–60; and bourgeois elite’s cultural prestige, 61, 252n.24; and bourgeoisie as tasteless, 61–64, 251n.22; and bourgeois interest in art, 63–64; and bourgeois

313 materialism, 62–64, 84; and craft industry, 67, 253n.53; and decadence, 56; and decorative arts reformers, 56; and department stores’ shoddy goods, 64–68, 252n.42; and economic crises of 1880s and 1890s, 67, 68, 253n.53; and education of bourgeois tastes, 85–86; and equality, 81–83; and exploitation of workers, 82–83, 256n.136, 256n.139; and fake vs. real, 84; and French imports/exports, 68; and marketing, ethics/aesthetics of, 68–76, 254n.86; moral dimensions of the crisis, 80–86; and nobility as aesthetic caste, 60; and nobility vs. bourgeoisie, 60–61, 250n.16, 251n.21, 252n.25; and Paris as aesthetic capital, 55–58; and sociologists, 56–57, 249n.6; and taste as defining Frenchness, 58–64; and Universal Exposition (1889), 64, 65, 66, 67–68, 85, 252n.37; and vulgarity of bourgeois women, 76–80, 84, 255n.106, 255n.113 commercial public, 4, 119, 262n.68 Compain, Louise, 256n.136 composite elites (notables), 251n.18, 258n.14 conduct, codes of, 104–12. See also etiquette Constantin, Marc, 108 consumer, as subject vs. object, 238n.10 consumer citizenship, 185–230; and aesthetic education, 220–21, 223–26; chic Parisienne and maîtresse de maison, 185–88, 189, 235–36; and domestic economy, 187–88, 199–207, 279nn.79–80 (see also thrift); and marital harmony, 191, 192, 194–95, 277n.31; and marketing/advertising, 187, 188, 191–92, 193, 194–96, 196–97, 198; and moral character, 185–86, 189, 226–27; and shopping as domestic, 187, 188, 192, 194–95, 276n.19; and social peace, 219–30, 232–33, 284n.190; and social peace/nationalism, 236 consumer cooperative movement, 256n.136 consumers vs. producers, 182–84 consumption: democratization of, 215–16. See also marketplace modernism; market vs. civic vision of the Republic Coolus, Romain, 32 Coquet, Lucien, 66, 214–15 coquettes, 46, 48–49

314 Coquiot, Gustave, 128, 179 Corday, Michel: “La Gardienne,” 50, 51 costume tailleur, 22, 99 Countess L., 105–6 courtiers, 93, 258n.7 couturiers, 216–17, 282n.131 crafts, 67, 253n.53 credit, 38–39, 41 Crété, Lucie, 99, 127, 130, 136, 166, 200–201 criminality, 46–47, 49, 51–52 crowd theory, 47–48, 248n.130 dandies, 91, 93–97, 118, 257nn.4–5 Darwinism, 46, 118 Dash, Countess, 108 debt. See indebtedness/irresponsibility decadence, 17, 56 decorative arts reform, 56, 150–51, 156–57, 221, 223, 275n.171 decorators. See tapissiers democracy, bourgeois, 81–84 democratic society, manners for, 107–12 democratization: of aesthetic individuality, 89–91, 96, 234; of chic, 207–19, 281nn.126–28, 283n.147; of consumption, 38–40, 215–16; of distinction, 107–8; of social elite in Ancien Régime, 258n.14; of taste, 228 department stores: aesthetic education by, 220–21; anonymity of, 28–29, 33, 42; and baseness/wealth of consumers, 30, 32; vs. boutiques, 17, 25–26, 29, 216, 218, 239n.6, 282n.131, 283n.145; clientele of, 17, 215–18, 239n.5, 281nn.127–28; and crafts, 67, 253n.53; criticism of, 17–18, 25–26, 28–29, 34–35, 244n.51; and etiquette, 26, 28–29; female clerks in, 245n.62, 247n.109; growth/spread of, 25, 37, 244n.50; identification with cities, 26, 28; and interior decorating, 157–58; male clerks in, 30, 245n.62, 247n.109; merchandise turnover in, 25; and neurosis, 46–54, 248n.142; as oligarchy, 81; paternalism of, 229–30; sales/ promotions at, 32, 47, 139; seductive marketing to women by, 29–30, 31, 33, 201, 244nn.60–61, 245n.62; shoddy goods of, 64–68, 252n.42; shopkeeper movement against, 256n.139; spectatorship at, 218–19, 282n.144, 283n.147; and structure of French manufacturing, 83; and tapissiers (decorators), competition with, 152–54; as tourist attractions, 26, 27. See also commercialization as

Index aesthetic crisis; impulse shoppers; marketing/advertising; market vs. civic vision of the Republic depopulation, 41, 247n.103 Les Déracinés (Barrès), 106–7 Dervilliers, Jenny, 130 determinism vs. free will, 46 “Le Dindon de la farce” (Gerbault), 43, 44 distinction: aesthetic, of Ancien Régime, 93–94; d’Alq on, 103; democratization of, 107–8; fraudulent, 110; individual, and taste, 90; Parisian, 5–6, 109–10, 124, 129 domestic economy, 187–88, 199–207, 279nn.79–80. See also thrift domestic ideals, 157, 186, 270n.40, 275n.2 Double, Marie (Etincelle): on L’Art de la mode, 141; on art/fashion, 144–45; on bluestockings, 114; on bourgeois artists, 117–18; on bourgeois flaunting of wealth, 30, 32, 245n.65; on chic/etiquette, 106, 111, 121, 148, 184; on fashion, 59, 126–27; on interior decorating, 167–68, 170, 171–72; on Madame Feuillet, 114, 170, 172; on phony chic, 110; on simplicity, 103; on taste as innate, 128; on thrift, 214; on women’s artistic development, 142–43; on women’s interest in the arts, 116. See also Stella Drohojowska, Countess Antoinette, 107–8 Du Bos, Abbé, 94–95 Dubuisson, Paul, 48–49 Dufaux, Ermance: Le Savoir-vivre dans la vie ordinaire, 108 Dupin, M., 16 Durkheim, Emile, 18, 249n.6; Le Suicide, 239n.7 Duruy, Victor, 106 Dutch painting, 272n.101 dyes, synthetic, 259n.26 eclecticism, 79, 165–78; l’ameublement de style, 167, 168; vs. Art Nouveau, 178, 183; and choice, 171–72, 174; criticism/failures of, 171–73; and French aesthetic patrimony, 165–66; and grand vs. petit salon, 168–69; Orientalist, 167; and originality, 170, 171–72, 173; rational, 166; and traditional vs. modern styles, 168, 173, 175; and the value of objects, 171, 273n.123 Ecole de Nancy, 248n.130

Index L’Economiste français, 283n.151 economy: crises of 1880s and 1890s, 20–21, 67, 68, 253n.53; English vs. French, 21, 241n.21; national, 231, 233 education: aesthetic, 141–45, 220–21, 223–26; of bourgeois tastes, 85–86; English, 106; by experience, 106–7, 260n.53; French, positivism of, 106; for women, 23, 106, 243n.42, 260n.53 elegance, 102–3, 104 d’Elff, Jeanne, 137 Elias, Norbert, 250n.12, 260n.36 empiricism, 94 emulative model of consumption, 9 England: as aesthetic leader, 68; economy of, vs. French economy, 21, 241n.21; feminist movement in, 23; as a nation of shopkeepers, 18–19; nobility in, 61, 251nn.20–21 entrepreneurs, 65, 230 equality, 81–83, 111 Escholier, Raymond, 165, 223, 225 Espinadel, C., 72, 76 ethics vs. aesthetics, 94–95 Etincelle. See Double, Marie etiquette: in department stores, 26, 28–29; handbooks on, 91–92, 104–12, 119–20, 137, 260n.44, 261n.66; of the nobility, 59, 250n.12 Eugénie, Empress, 97, 161–62 exploitation of workers, 82–83, 256n.136, 256n.139 Exposition. See Universal Exposition Exposition du mobilier (1905), 72 Exposition of the Arts of Woman (1892), 144, 182, 275n.171 Exposition of the Arts of Woman (1895), 275n.171 extravagance in fashion, 97, 98, 99, 103, 259n.28 Fable of the Bees (Mandeville), 284n.190 fabrics, 162, 201, 203 Famchon, René, 129 family magazines, 198–99, 277n.32 Faret, Nicholas, 93 fashion: for aristocratic vs. bourgeois women, 101–2; and art, 125, 139–40, 140, 141, 144–47; chic, 102; dandyism in, 96–97; eclecticism in, 166; and elegance, 102–3, 104; experts on, 133–41, 143–44; export of, 214–15; extravagance in, 97, 98, 99, 103, 259n.28; fluidity of, 130–31; imitation/ standardization in, 66–68, 78, 81, 255n.113; luxe, 101, 102, 259n.29;

315 magazines on, 141–42, 194, 198–200, 201–3, 210–12, 277n.32, 281n.126; and novelty, 19, 240n.15; ostentatiousness in, 78–79; photography for, 141; ready-to-wear, 97, 99; of Second Empire, 97; sexual dimorphism of, 101; simplicity in, 97, 99, 101, 259n.28, 259n.31; sportswear, 99; technological developments in, 259n.26 faux-luxe, 53–54, 56, 64–65, 81, 84, 246n.101 Fédération des industries de la mode, 67 Femina: on the chic Parisienne, 124; on domestic/maternal concerns, 191; on eclecticism, 168–69, 172–73; on interior decorating, 155; on ostentatiousness, 79; on simplicity, 161 feminine identity, 109, 123, 261n.66 feminist movement, 23–24, 243n.42 feminization: of commerce, 2–3, 15–17, 19–20, 22–23, 242n.38; of interior decorating, 150–59 femme de foyer, 186, 191, 203, 206 femme de goût, 155, 158–59 La Femme et la mode (Uzanne), 52 Ferry, Jules, 20, 23 Feuillet, Madame Octave, 114, 170, 172 Le Figaro, 81, 102–3, 142 First World War, 214–15, 247n.103 flânerie, 32, 190, 245n.69 Flaubert, Gustave, 251n.22; Madame Bovary, 1–2, 11, 52 Fourcaud, Louis de, 182 Le Foyer, 227, 228 France: aesthetic prestige of, 5–6, 10, 58–60, 129–30, 159–60, 234–35 (see also commercialization as aesthetic crisis); imports/exports of, 68, 214–15. See also Ancien Régime; Third Republic Franco-British Exposition (1908), 143 free will vs. determinism, 46 Frémy, Arnould, 62, 63 French Academy, 59, 145 French Revolution, 20 French rococo style, 176 Fresson, J., 250n.9; on aesthetic education, 143, 144; on art/consumption, 183; on eclecticism, 79, 174; on France’s aesthetic reputation, 58–59; on furniture, 157; on home decorating, 151; on individualism, 83; on Paris as aesthetic capital, 129–30; on savoirvoir, 119–20; on uniformity/social boundaries, 81 Frisette (fashion writer), 176, 177, 179, 188–89, 201

316 Frivoline (fashion writer), 134, 136, 142 furniture industry, 58–59, 250n.9 Galéries Lafayette department store, 158, 220–21, 222 Gambetta, Léon, 20 “La Gardienne” (Corday), 50, 51 Gautier, Théophile, 142 Gerbault, Henry: “Le Dindon de la farce,” 43, 44 Gérin, Octave-Jacques, 72, 76 Germany: as aesthetic leader, 68, 253n.64; bourgeoisie vs. nobility in, 240n.11; bureaucracy vs. Bildungsbürgertum in, 61, 251n.20; feminist movement in, 23 Gide, Charles, 22, 56–57, 249n.6, 256n.136 Giffard, Pierre, 29, 30; on advertising, 210; on bourgeois vulgarity, 255n.106; on clientele of department stores, 218; on couturiers, 216; on department stores, 216; on fakery of bourgeois shoppers, 53–54; Les Grands Bazars, 17–18; on impulse shoppers, 34, 35, 36, 41; on male consumers, 47; on male infidelity/female consumption as depraved, 42–43 Girardin, Delphine de, 81, 113, 114 Girardin, Emile de, 81 Gomez-Carillo, Enrique, 78, 213, 280n.111 Grammaire des arts décoratifs (Blanc), 166, 167 La Grande Dame, 53, 104, 212 Les Grands Bazars (Giffard), 17–18 Grands Magasins Dufayel, 164–65, 239n.5, 281n.127, 282n.129 Grévin, Alfred, 36–37; Almanach des Parisiennes, 43, 45, 247n.117 Grillonne (fashion writer), 137, 185, 200 Guichard, Edouard, 153 Habermas, Jürgen, 238n.3 Hanotaux, Gabriel, 128, 131, 132 Haussmann, Baron, 16–17, 22, 109 Haussmannization, 244n.51 Havard, Henry, 65, 66, 67, 79, 80, 151 Hemet, A., 71 d’Hervilly, Ernest, 33–34 high modernism, 123, 147, 180 Histoire d’un agent de change (Bourdon), 37–38, 46 home decorating. See interior decorating homme de goût, 152, 154 honnête homme, 93, 258n.7 Honoré, Monsieur, 80

Index Hoschedé, Ernest, 146, 268n.113 hôtels particuliers (noble residences of Paris), 258n.7 Houssaye, Arsène, 35, 142, 143, 212; La Grande Dame, 53 humanism, 5 Hume, David, 19, 94–95 Huppert, Georges, 258n.6 hygiene, 162 imitation/standardization, 47, 248n.126; in fashion, 66–68, 78, 81, 255n.113; in interior decorating, 163–64, 180 Importance du goût et de sa cultivation (Périer), 80 impulse shoppers, 33–46; adultery by, 41–42, 247n.109; and anonomity of department stores, 33; and class, 36–37; as coquettes, 34; and credit, 38–39, 41; and democratization of consumption, 38–40; and depopulation, 41, 247n.103; and depravity/eroticism, 42–43; extravagant, irrational women as, 33–35, 41; indebtedness/irresponsibility of, 35–38, 41, 245n.80; in literature, 35; petit bourgeois, 38–41 indebtedness/irresponsibility, 35–38, 41, 202–3, 245n.80 individualism: cooperative vs. competitive, 22; liberal, vs. civic virtue, 234–35; of the market, 231–32 individuation, and culture, 263n.99 L’Interieur, 137, 157, 158, 159, 160; on Art Nouveau, 176, 177; on eclecticism, 167, 168, 171, 173 interior decorating, 122–23, 124, 125, 147, 150–84, 269n.12; and anthropomorphized goods, 179–80; and architects, 154; as art, 156, 232; Art Nouveau style, 175–78, 183; chic interior, creation of, 159–65; and class-based modernity, 159; and comfort, 157, 270n.41; commercialization of, 153–54; and consumers vs. producers, 182–84; department store involvement in, 157–58; and domestic ideals, 157, 270n.40; fabrics in, 162; feminine modern vs. high modernism, 180; and feminization of interior decorating, 150–59; and the femme de goût, 155, 158–59; French rococo, 176; French vs. foreign, 176–77; and hygiene, 162; imitation in, 180; by men, 152, 154–55, 178, 180; moral implications of, 158; and moral sincerity/authenticity, 151; neoclassical, 155–56, 160, 167; Orientalist, 272n.101; originality in, 150,

Index 158, 160, 163–64, 180; simplicity in, 161–65, 163; and social status, 156; standardization in, 163–64; by tapissiers (decorators), 152–54, 155–56, 158, 269n.14; traditional vs. modern styles in, 159–62; by women, 152, 178, 180; and women as art objects, 178–83, 181. See also eclecticism Jacobins, 99 Japanese art, 168, 272n.101 Jeanne, Baroness, 132–33 Jeanne (columnist), 206 Jeanselme, Charles, 157, 162 “je ne sais quoi,” 95–96 Jockey Club (Paris), 95, 263n.94 La Joie du foyer, 137, 139, 261n.61 Jones, John, 70 Jourdain, Frantz, 182 Journal de la beauté, 210 Journal des demoiselles, 116, 211 Journal des demoiselles et le petit courrier des dames, 199 Journal des soirées de famille, 199, 208, 261n.61 Kant, Immanuel, 94–95 kleptomania, 48–50, 51, 216, 248n.142 labor, exploitation of, 82–83, 256n.136, 256n.139 Lamperière, Anna, 200 Landes, David, 241n.21 Laquet, Jules, 146 Lasègue, Charles, 49–50 Laudet, Fernand, 52–53 Lausnay, Claire, 214 Le Bon, Gustave, 18, 47–48, 248n.130, 249n.6; Psychologie des foules, 239n.7 Legrand du Saulle, Henri, 49–50, 248n.142 Le Play, Frédéric, 56–57, 242n.33 Le Playist school, 5 Leroy-Beaulieu, Paul, 21, 283n.151 Lesueur, Madame Daniel, 134, 136, 137, 270n.30 liberalism: conservative opposition to, 5; in France vs. U.S./Britain, 3–4; individualism of, 5, 10; vs. republicanism, 19–21, 242n.31 Litvinne, Felia: “Chic,” 235–36 Locke, John, 94 Les Lois de l’imitation (Tarde), 239n.7 Louis XIV, 5–6, 59–60 Louvre department store, 48, 64, 80, 209, 217, 281n.127

317 Lumet, Louis, 62 luxe, 101, 102, 259n.29 luxuries: comfort vs., 228; debates about, 19–20, 85, 240nn.12–13; and degenerate effeminacy, 19–20, 241n.18; and exploitation of workers, 82–83; fake, 53–54, 56, 64–65, 81, 84, 246n.101; machine-produced, vs. handicrafts, 6; necessity vs., 39–40; Second Empire cult of luxury, 101 Madame B., 162, 163 Madame Bovary (Flaubert), 1–2, 11, 52 Madame F., 173, 174 Magasins Dufayel. See Grands Magasins Dufayel Magasins Réunis. See Maison des Magasins Réunis Maillou, Rioux de, 223 Maison de Petit Saint-Thomas. See Petit Saint-Thomas department store Maison des Magasins Réunis, 192, 193, 194–95, 197, 199, 208, 221, 224, 283n.147 Maison Jansen, 175 maîtresse de maison, 185–88, 189, 202–5 Mandeville: Fable of the Bees, 284n.190 Manet, Édouard, 145 Manuel de l’arriviste (Château), 110 Marguerite (a journalist), 103 Marianne figure, 55 marital harmony, 191, 192, 194–95, 277n.31 marketing/advertising: vs. advice, 138–39; and aesthetics, 57–58; artistic, 72–73, 74, 76; and consumer citizenship, 187, 188, 191–92, 193, 194–96, 196–97, 198; effectiveness of, 73, 75; ethics/aesthetics of, 68–76, 254n.86; flânerie destroyed by, 32; French vs. British/American/German, 69–70, 72, 254n.76; growth of, 209–10, 254n.86; innovation in, 209–10; persuasive force of, 220; psychology applied to, 69, 248n.130; regulation of, 69, 254n.70; as scientific, 33, 73; seductiveness of, 29–30, 31, 33, 201, 244nn.60–61, 245n.62; and urban beautification, 249n.3; written word vs. image in, 32–33, 245n.67 marketplace modernism, 121–49; and aesthetic education, 141–45; aestheticism of, 3, 5–10, 122, 232–34; commercial media and cultivation of chic, 133–45; and commodifying chic, 121–23; and commodities, 147; and environmental influence, 128–33; as

318 marketplace modernism (continued) expressive/individualistic, 9; and female individuality, 4–5, 7–8, 11; and feminine consumer public, 2–3; and feminine identity, 123; vs. high modernism, 123, 147; in the home (see interior decorating); and interior decorating, 122–23, 124, 125, 147 (see also interior decorating); and lexicon of chic, 123–28; and modernism’s uses, 145–49; and shopping, invention of, 133–41; and taste experts, 133–42, 140, 143–44; and vulgarity, 147–48. See also bourgeoisie; market vs. civic vision of the Republic market vs. civic vision of the Republic, 2–4, 15–54; and bourgeoisie vs. nobility, 18–20, 34, 240n.11; and Catholic conservatives, 17–18, 21, 242n.27; and commercialism of Paris, 15–16, 22; and cooperative vs. competitive individualism, 22; and criticism of consumption/big business, 17–18, 20–21, 231–32, 239n.7; and crowd theory, 47–48, 248n.130; and economic crises of 1880s, 20–21; and fakery/ theatricality of Parisiennes, 53–54; and feminization of commerce, 2–3, 15–17, 19–20, 22–23, 242n.38; and husband/wife conflict, 50–53; and liberalism vs. republicanism, 19–21, 242n.31; and luxury debates, 19–20, 240nn.12–13; market vs. civic public, 15–18; and neurosis, 46–54, 248n.142; origins of the conflict, 18–25; and perception of modern marketplace, 25–33; and regulated capitalism, 21–22; and small businesses, 20–21, 239n.8; and Solidarist movement, 21–22, 24, 242n.31, 242nn.33–34, 244n.45; and women in the workforce, 22–24, 243nn.41–42. See also department stores; impulse shoppers Maroussem, Pierre du: as Catholic sociologist, 56–57; on department store as oligarchy, 81; on department store production standards, 65, 68, 76; on department store’s economic destructiveness, 67; on exploitation of workers, 83; as paternalistic reformer, 242n.33; on vulgarity of bourgeois women, 78, 79 Marx, Adrien, 212 masculinity, 118 mass production, 151 Maupassant, Guy de, 41; “La Parure,” 40 Méline, Jules, 21

Index men: impulses mastered by, 47; interior decorating by, 152, 154–55, 178, 180; with prostitutes, 42–43; sphere of, vs. women’s, 22–23, 243n.40 mère de famille, 190 meritocracy, 89–91, 96, 110–11 Mermet, Emile: Advertising in France, 210 Le Messager des modes et de l’industrie, 269n.12 Michel, Georges, 220, 221, 229, 230, 283n.151 middle class. See bourgeoisie La Mode française, 139 La Mode illustrée, 97, 98 La Mode nationale, 211 La Mode pratique, 35, 62, 114, 116, 199, 200, 210 modernism, high, 123, 147, 180 modernism, uses of, 145–49 modernity, 17, 56, 159 Monet, Claude, 268n.113 Le Moniteur, 281n.126 Le Moniteur de l’ameublement, 152–53, 273n.123 Le Moniteur de la mode, 97, 199, 210–11 Montenach, Georges de, 84, 124, 131, 132, 148, 214, 228 Montesquieu, Charles de Secondat, Baron de la Brède et de, 240n.13 moral character, and consumer citizenship, 185–86, 189, 226–27 moral sincerity/authenticity, 151 Mun, Albert de, 242n.33 Musée social, 57, 249n.7 Napoleon III, 97 Naquet, Alfred, 20–21, 23 neoclassical style, 155–56, 160, 167 neurosis, 46–54, 248n.142 New Women, 23–24, 243n.42 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 253n.64 Noailles, Anna, Countess de, 180, 181 nobility: as aesthetic caste, 60; bourgeois entrants into, 258n.14; vs. bourgeoisie, 60–61, 93, 250n.16, 251n.21, 252n.25; and civility as aesthetic presentation, 93; civilizing processes imposed on, 59–60, 250n.12; in Germany vs. England/France, 61, 251nn.20–21; heterogeneity of, 250n.17; honnêteté, ideals of, 258n.14; women, bourgeois domesticity’s influence on, 276n.5 Normand, Gilles, 201, 210, 220, 226 notables (composite elites), 251n.18, 258n.14

Index Noussane, Henri de, 135; on advertising’s power, 132; on cultivation of taste, 128, 134; on eclecticism, 166–67, 168, 170–71, 172; on interior decorating, 150, 154, 157, 162, 180; on sales, 138; on shopping as domestic activity, 276n.19; on thrift, 213, 214; on women as art objects, 179 Le Nouveau Savoir-vivre (d’Alq), 106–7, 108–9, 111–12, 120, 123, 218 La Nouvelle Revue (Saint-Pont), 144 novels, 94 novelty, 19, 240n.15 Office du travail, 57, 82 Orientalist style, 167, 272n.101 originality: commodification of, 145; and eclecticism, 170, 171–72, 173; in interior decorating, 123, 150, 158, 160, 163–64, 180; taste/chic and, 95, 135, 143, 147 d’Orsay, Alfred Guillaume Gabriel, Count, 93 Paillot, Fortuné, 62; Parisitisme, 110 Paquet-Mille, A., 126, 127, 131, 142, 143, 170, 172, 221, 224, 228 Paris: as aesthetic capital, 55–58; commercialization of, 130; taste/distinction of, 5–6, 109–10, 124, 129 Parisitisme (Paillot), 110 Paris-mode, 138, 139, 141, 211, 212 “La Parure” (Maupassant), 40 Le Patronage industriel des enfants de l’ébénisterie, 250n.9 Pélin, Gabriel, 63 Périer, Joseph, 76–77, 79, 126, 131, 132, 142; Importance du goût et de sa cultivation, 80 petit bourgeoisie, 38–41, 217–18 Le Petit Echo du monde, 281n.126 Petit Saint-Thomas department store, 134–35, 138, 161, 175, 199 Phares de la Bastille department store, 26, 27 photography, fashion, 141 Plessis, Jeanne de, 113–14 Poe, Edgar Allan, 47–48 Poiret, Paul, 101 Pour bien tenir sa maison, 270n.30 Prévost, Marcel, 131, 158, 163, 176, 204–5 primogeniture, 151 Printemps department store, 223 producers vs. consumers, 182–84 prostitutes, 42–43, 46–47 Proust, Marcel, 116, 118, 127, 263n.96

319 Prussia. See Germany Psychologie des foules (Le Bon), 239n.7 La Publicité, 69, 70–71, 73, 75 La Publicité moderne, 33, 70, 71–72, 73, 76, 192, 209, 254n.76 public life, conceptions of, 238n.3 Pygmalion department store, 195, 196, 209, 229, 232–33, 236 Raveau-Lefrançais, P., 71 Raymond, Emmeline, 166, 167 ready-to-wear fashion, 97, 99 Reboux, Caroline, 66–67 Regnault, Blanche de, 65, 89, 155, 156, 164, 167, 172 Remacle, Jeanne, 114, 116 Renneville, Viscountess de, 113, 114 Republic. See Third Republic republicanism, 3–4, 20–21, 24, 81, 242n.31 Réville, Viscountess de, 82, 99, 114 La Revue de la mode, 99, 100, 102, 142, 194, 198–99 Revue des arts décoratifs, 80 Riotor, Léon, 68, 225–26 Roger-Milès, L., 30, 42, 248n.126; on aesthetic education, 225; on art/consumption, 183; on Art Nouveau, 176; on eclecticism, 166, 172, 173–74; on interior decorating, 154, 155, 161, 162–63, 164, 167; on thrift, 213; on upward mobility, 228 romanticism, 94 Roqueplan, Nestor, 95, 212 Rosine (fashion writer), 137–38, 139 Rousseau, Jean Jacques: civic humanism of, 5, 238n.4; domestic ideals of, 270n.40; in luxury debates, 19, 85, 241nn.18–19; market denounced by, 19, 34, 240n.12; on marketplace vs. republic, 3–4; republicanism of, 59 Ruskin, John, 80 Saint-Pont, Valentine de: La Nouvelle Revue, 144 Salles, Louise de, 135, 179–80, 190; on budgeting/thrift, 201, 205–6, 212–13, 213–14 Le Salon de la mode, 89, 136, 138–39, 211 Samaritaine department store, 175, 209 Le Savoir-vivre dans la vie ordinaire (Dufaux), 108 savoir-vivre manuals. See etiquette, handbooks on Say, Léon, 21 Schmal law (1907), 23

320 Scientific Revolution, 19 Scottish enlightenment, 19, 240n.13 Sée, Camille, 23 Sée, Mathilde, 135 Seize Mai crisis (1877), 239n.2 self-fashioning, aesthetic, 104–12, 119–20 service industry, 23, 243n.41 Sesmaisons, Countess de, 126, 128, 130, 131, 134, 142, 166, 179 sewing, 201–2, 203 sewing machines, 278n.53 shoplifting. See kleptomania shopping, 133–41, 187, 188, 192, 194–95, 276n.19 Shoppingette (fashion writer), 155 Simmel, Georg, 47 Simon, Jules, 18, 233 simplicity, 96–103, 97, 99, 259n.28, 259n.31; in interior decorating, 161–65, 163 Singer company, 278n.53 singing, 114, 116 small businesses, 20–21, 239n.8 Smith, Adam, 19, 231, 240n.13 Social Catholicism, 5, 21–22, 242n.33 Social Darwinism, 22 socialism, 5, 21, 242n.33 social peace, 219–30, 232–33, 236, 284n.190 social status: gendered, and conspicuous consumption, 259n.31; and interior decorating, 156; self-control as a marker of, 59, 250n.12 La Société de la protection des paysages de France, 254n.70 La Société générale des artistes parisiens, 139 La Société “Les Arts graphiques,” 223–24, 225 La Société nationale de l’art à lécole, 225–26 La Société populaire des beaux-arts, 69 sociologists, 56–57, 249n.6 Solidarism, 5, 238n.4; and consumer cooperative movement, 256n.136; and market vs. civic vision of the Republic, 21–22, 24, 242n.31, 242nn.33–34, 244n.45; paternalism of, 24, 244n.45; on republican social contract, 233; and scientifically engineered society, 24, 244n.46 Sombreuse, Diane de, 84 spectacle, 218–19, 282n.144, 283n.147 sportswear, 99 Staffe, Baroness, 103, 104, 109, 120, 261n.66

Index St. Paul, Marquise de, 116–17 standardization. See imitation/ standardization Stella (columnist; possible pseud. of Marie Double), 104, 264n.1 Stern, Karl, 135 subjectivity, social power of, 92–96 suffragists, 23 Le Suicide (Durkheim), 239n.7 sweatshops, 65, 252n.42 Taine, Hippolyte, 106 Talbot, Georgette, 66–67 Talbot, Suzanne, 66–67 tapissiers (decorators), 152–53, 152–54, 155–56, 158, 269n.14 Tarde, Gabriel, 18, 47, 248n.126; Les Lois de l’imitation, 239n.7 taste: bourgeois, education of, 85–86; chic as, 125–26; civilizing influence of, 3, 91; consumption promoted by myth of, 7–9; cultivation of, 132; as defining Frenchness, 58–64; definition of, 127, 238n.2; democratization of, 228; and disinterest, 8–9, 92, 238n.6; dissemination of, 129; environmental influence on, 128–33; experts on, 133–42, 140, 143–44; false/depraved, 131; and individual distinction, 90 (see also aesthetic individuality); as a regulatory social force, 10; and social status, 6, 8, 59–60 Third Republic: bourgeoisie’s political authority established by, 2–3, 16–17; economy of, vs. English economy, 21, 241n.21; egalitarian agenda of, 108–9; establishment of, 16, 20, 99, 239n.2; feminist movement in, 23, 24, 244n.47; public life in, conception of, 4, 238n.3; republican synthesis in, 20, 241n.23. See also market vs. civic vision of the Republic thrift, 206–15; and class, 208–9; as democratic, 207–8, 208–9, 212, 214; education in, 227; and fashion magazines, 210–12; and marketing/advertising, 208–9; and simplicity vs. luxury, 208; as a virtue, 213–14 Tinayre, Marcelle, 151, 163, 172, 173, 179–80, 191, 232 Tramar, Countess, 39, 51–52, 213 Universal Exposition (1867), 66 Universal Exposition (1889), 64–68, 85, 153–54, 155, 161, 172, 173, 223, 252n.37 Universal Exposition (1900), 161–62, 169, 175–76, 177

Index Uzanne, Octave, 25, 29, 43, 46; L’Art et l’idée published by, 213; on art/ fashion, 144, 147; on chic, 126; on chic fashion, 169; on clientele of department stores, 217; on exploitation of workers, 82; on fashion magazines, 142; La Femme et la mode, 52; on interior decorating, 170; on luxury, 164; on ostentation in fashion, 78–79; on Parisiennes’ devotion to fashion, 125; on women as art objects, 179 Vachon, Marius, 77, 79, 127–28, 135, 142, 147, 151; on aesthetic education, 224, 225; on Art Nouveau, 177; La Belle Maison, 65, 158, 252n.40; on eclecticism, 170, 171, 173; on the female consumer, 182; on interior decorating, 157, 164 Vanderem, Fernand, 177 Varennes, Gaston de, 211 Veblen, Thorstein, 9, 259n.31 Verdurin, Madame, 263n.96 Vérissey, Countess de, 99, 103, 130, 143–44, 164, 211 Verrasques, Countess de, 136, 144 vieux-neuf (factory-made “antiques”), 64–65, 84

321 Voltaire, François Marie Arouet de, 240n.13 Weber, Max, 9 Wilde, Oscar, 96, 118 women: as art objects, 178–83; domestic vs. aristocratic/self-interested, 34; economic power as transforming, 53; equality of, claims for, 23 (see also feminist movement); individuality of, 4–5, 7–8, 11; interior decorating by, 152, 178, 180; irrational behavior attributed to, 17, 18, 24–25, 32; as mothers, 24, 235, 285n.8; sphere of, vs. men’s, 22–23, 243n.40; in the workforce, 22–24, 109, 243nn.41–42, 261n.66; working-class, 218–20, 283n.147 workers, exploitation of, 82–83, 256n.136, 256n.139 World War I, 214–15, 247n.103 Zola, Emile, 41, 145, 210, 281n.127; Au Bonheur des dames, 15–16, 17–18, 29, 39–40, 42, 51, 201; on clientele of department stores, 217–18; on couturiers, 216; on marketing, 32, 244n.61