Читать книгу Helena Rubinstein - Michele Fitoussi - Страница 22

Eugenia Stone was nibbling on the end of her pencil, a sure sign that she was extremely agitated.1 There was certainly no lack of beauty salons in the country. Melbourne, Brisbane, Adelaide and Sydney had an abundance of hairdressers and massage parlours, manicure and pedicure salons, often run by Chinese immigrants. She herself had tested a number of them for her articles. But the three rooms of this sun-filled apartment on the third floor of a fine building in the centre of Melbourne were like nothing she had ever seen.

The unconventional decor was austere yet feminine, a far cry from the imposing Victorian taste. The white walls, pleated silk curtains, wicker dressers and chairs all gave the Valaze Maison de Beauté a European, even Parisian, feel. Eugenia shivered with excitement. It was so very chic and, above all, exactly what the modern woman required.

Miss Stone had come all the way from Sydney to see for herself the phenomenon that everyone was talking about. Despite searching for a flaw, she couldn’t find anything negative to say about the cleanliness and charm of the premises, or the way the beauty products were displayed. The pretty black, white, and gold jars of cream filling the shelves made her want to snatch up every last one.

But the most incredible thing was the proprietor herself, a tiny woman with a tight chignon, and skin so pale it was almost transparent. Over her dark blue dress with moiré highlights she wore a white chemist’s coat. When she spoke, the R’s rolled off her tongue like a rush of pebbles. She massacred half the English words, mixing in two or three other languages. Eugenia Stone pricked up her ears but couldn’t determine the origins of her accent. Rumour had it that she was Viennese.

The journalist had come at closing time. Miss Rubinstein was giving a beauty class to some of her clients and when she saw Eugenia Stone, she greeted her then suggested quite simply that she join their little group. Miss Stone had never heard anyone talk about skin in such a scientific way, the way a doctor or a biologist would.

Everything this young woman said bore the seal of common sense. Her clients were more than willing to believe her, and went away enchanted, carrying little black and beige bags bearing the name Helena Rubinstein. Each of them had bought at least three jars of cream.

It was long past closing time, but the shop was still full of people. Finally Helena decided it was time to quit for the day. She lowered the metal shutter herself and invited the journalist to take a seat. She gave the interview like a true professional and never stopped talking. Miss Stone’s wrist was sore from taking notes. The readers of the women’s section of the Sydney Morning Herald were going to love this article.2 Even Miss Stone, who considered herself one of the leading female journalists in Sydney, was bowled over by Helena. In these early years of the twentieth century, in a country where women had made great strides, it was still not always easy to succeed in a man’s world. But this young lady with the tight chignon was proof that determination could lead to success.

Everything she told Miss Stone – about her Polish origins, her interrupted medical studies in Kraków, her classes with the great chemists in Vienna, her years in Coleraine among the pioneers, and her friendship with the Lamingtons and their circle when she had known no one on her arrival in Australia – was remarkable. And then there was her salon. Helena explained simply that she did not have a great deal of money, so she had bought some bamboo furniture for a few pounds, set up a little laboratory that she referred to as her kitchen, and sewn curtains from one of her dresses. She had hand-painted the letters of her shop sign all by herself with pride and an unfaltering hand.

Her story had the ring of truth and Miss Stone was certain of her judgement. There had never been a lack of courageous women in this country, from the first pioneer women in the bush – Amazons who rode astride and killed ferocious animals with their shotguns – to the suffragettes whose cause Miss Stone had so often defended. This tiny little brunette was no exception. Before long she would do Australian women proud. And Australian men, too, for that matter.

Helena continued her explanations. Once she began, nothing could stop her.

‘So you see, my dear,’ she said, rolling her R’s more emphatically than ever, ‘as I was saying, my early research led me to a fundamental discovery – revolutionary, even. Women’s skin can be classified in three categories: dry, oily, and normal. Just as there are three types of complexion: redhead, blonde, and brunette. No one noticed this before I did. But I’ve been observing women. That’s my job. And I can assure you, moisturising is not the same for all women. Nor is protection. Each woman must learn to identify her skin type before she chooses her skincare. For the time being my range of products is still limited, but I am working night and day to expand it.’

Helena had used her intuition with regard to skin types very early on. Later she would be able to verify it with the help of the most advanced specialists. For the time being she was still experimenting, basing her conclusions on empirical observations. Yet her intuition was so sound that she rarely made a mistake. Female beauty was, for her, a vast domain just waiting to be exploited, and it was up to her to make it prosper – a notion that was even more intoxicating to her than the prospect of making money.

She understood one vital thing: ‘Beauty is power. The greatest power of all.’ So she asserted in one of the first advertisements, which appeared in Table Talk in 1904. In a world run by men, women had to compromise and be clever. Intelligence was a considerable asset but without charm it would not get you far. Together, the two were a fatal weapon.

It was the early twentieth century, and Helena had already anticipated the future of her fellow women, opting resolutely for modernity. Her faith in the power of beauty and a healthy lifestyle in order to ‘win’ was a real revolution. It would be adopted by feminists all over the world who were struggling, among other things, against the slavery to the corset.

Eugenia Stone went away from Collins Street with a few jars of Valaze wrapped in a pretty paper bag. ‘It’s a present,’ insisted Helena. ‘Yes, yes, I assure you, I like you very much.’ How could she refuse? The journalist was delighted with the wrapping and the label printed in her new friend’s handwriting. It would all look wonderful on her dressing table. In Australia no one had ever seen anything so refined.

Miss Stone had also tested the cream on her face. The sensation was smooth, the perfume delicate. She swore she would follow the expert’s advice to the letter. Helena nodded with a smile. She knew how important the opinion of the press could be. Journalists were women like any others, and they liked to be spoiled – perhaps even more so than other women, given the impact of their articles, which could make or break a person’s reputation. So they had to be pampered even more than ordinary people. Helena would always make sure she did: even when her success was established, not only would she give her products to journalists, but also dresses from her wardrobe and even jewellery from her own jewellery box.

Success came the moment the salon opened. The address circulated at dinner parties, at whist tables, at picnics along the banks of the Yarra. Scrupulously following her friend Thompson’s advice, in 1904 Helena began to run advertisements in Table Talk in Melbourne, and in The Advertiser in Adelaide.

‘Valaze cream by Dr Lykusky, the most famous European skin specialist, is the best moisturising cream. Valaze will improve even the worst skin problems in less than a month.’

She also began promoting mail order sales. But it was Eugenia Stone’s article that gave her the boost she needed. ‘Madame Rubinstein’s cream is the answer to every Australian woman’s prayers,’ wrote the journalist in the conclusion of her much-read article.

Fifteen thousand letters and almost as many orders followed the publication of the article. Helena was taken by surprise. She opened the letters one after the other, and nearly all said the same thing.

‘Dear Miss Rubinstein, I have very white skin with a lot of freckles, do you think it would be possible to …’

‘Dear Madam, I live on a farm near Sydney. For some time now I’ve noticed dark spots on my face …’

Most of the envelopes contained banknotes or cheques. Helena’s supplies alone would never be enough to fill all the orders. She set to work at once. Early in the morning, before opening her salon, she prepared her mixtures in her ‘kitchen’. Then she filled the porcelain jars, applied the labels, placed them on the shelves, and stored the surplus in her bamboo dressers.

All day long she looked after her clientele on her own. In the evening, once she had written down the day’s takings and expenses in a large ledger she had bought for that purpose, she answered her correspondence. In her letters she begged her future customers to be patient, because the cream would take ‘eight weeks to arrive by boat’. More than anything, she wanted to maintain the legend that justified the high cost of the product: ‘due to transportation and customs fees’. Besides, ‘Carpathian pine’ or ‘essence of Hungarian rose’ sounded more likely to inspire her customers’ dreams than lanolin from Victorian sheep or water lilies from Queensland. This gave her a considerable advantage over the competition.

Helena offered to reimburse any clients who did not want to wait. Only one asked for her money back. The others agreed to be patient until the orders could be filled. But the problem remained: the task was a superhuman one, even for a force of nature like Helena. She didn’t know how she would manage all on her own.

Many times she drifted off to sleep at her worktable in the early hours. When she awoke, the sun was already high in the sky and she just barely had time to wash and change and drink a quick cup of tea. The first clients were knocking on the door. Things couldn’t go on this way. She really needed help this time. So she picked up her pen and a sheet of her new letterhead writing paper.

‘Dear Dr Lykusky, Did you know that everyone is crazy about your cream in Australia? Women are fighting over it and I’m having trouble keeping up with the supplies. Would you like to come and work with me? I will draw up a contract in due form for you to sign, and I will buy your formula from you legally. I beg you, please accept, you won’t regret it. I will send you the cost of your fare. Sincerely yours, et cetera.’

Three months later, Jacob Lykusky disembarked in Melbourne, but only for a short stay, as he had stipulated in his reply. Helena had said yes to his every request. Let him come, and then she’d see. Following Eugenia Stone’s example, the journalists who came all published articles full of praise. Together with the advertisements in the newspapers these articles had a considerable impact on her clients. Now Helena could inform her followers that Dr Jacob Lykusky, a renowned Polish physician, was coming to give her a hand. This attracted a new category of women who were impressed by this scientific seal of approval.

Helena knew she needed staff, but she did not have the means to pay them, so she got in the habit of putting the men who asked her out to work. There were a number of newcomers to her usual group of admirers. Such a pretty young woman, all alone in Melbourne: they flocked around her like bees to honey.

When they came into the salon, one after the other, turning their hats in their damp hands, their hearts beating wildly with hope, they were sorely disappointed. Helena was far too busy experimenting with her concoctions in her ‘kitchen’ to drop everything and go out with them to the theatre or a concert. She would flutter her eyelashes and coquettishly say: ‘John, you have such lovely handwriting, will you answer my mail for me? And you, Robert, with your broad shoulders, could you carry these boxes upstairs? Oh, and when you’ve finished, don’t run off … there are some more in the courtyard … and in the shed …’

‘And me, Miss Helena?’

She gave a sceptical look at the young man’s skinny biceps and scrawny thighs, then she shook her head while her face lit up with a malicious smile.

‘With your ready tongue, my dear, I’m sure you would do an excellent job of sticking on labels.’

That was how they spent their Sunday afternoons. There were rarely any young men brave enough to come back. Too busy to think about flirting, Helena did not even notice.

She eventually finished filling the first batch of orders. Lykusky helped her to reformulate the cream, which she had registered under the name Valaze. He also helped her to expand their range of products: together they manufactured a soap, an astringent lotion, and a cleansing cream. She launched a beauty ritual for which her clients paid top dollar. At the salon, she combined her know-how with the mix of gentleness and authority she had shown her sisters throughout her youth in Kraków.

‘Above all, you must cover your whole face with the cleansing cream,’ she explained, demonstrating as she spoke. ‘It must penetrate every pore in your skin to dissolve the dirt accumulated during the day. Then you must use the astringent lotion to remove the residue. Just look at this towel! It’s disgusting.’

Melbourne was not yet polluted by automobile exhaust fumes, but a day spent in town could leave one’s skin horribly dirty. The fine white towel had turned completely grey. The clients were dismayed.

‘Wait,’ continued Helena, about to deal the killing blow. ‘Now we have reached the third stage. You must apply Valaze cream to moisturise, protect and whiten your skin. I’ll massage it slowly in order to allow the active ingredients to penetrate. You’ll see, it’s a real miracle.’

Above all, it was an economic miracle.

Her clients told their friends and sent them to the salon, or returned with them. Everyone bought cream. Astringent lotion as well, at the price of ten shillings and threepence. Prices had gone up yet again because of the ‘customs duties’.

The money was pouring in.

After several months had gone by, Helena had a tidy sum sitting in her bank account. The cardboard box under her bed was a thing of the past. She paid back her debts, hired and trained a saleswoman and invested half of her earnings in advertising. From Melbourne to Brisbane, from Sydney to Perth, from Adelaide to Hobart, Helena’s name was everywhere. Advertisements continued to sing the praises of the famous Dr Lykusky, the properties of Valaze cream, and its composition and origin, but Helena always made sure to include the address of her Salon de Beauté on Collins Street, because she also accepted mail order purchases.

Helena wrote her Beauty in the Making handbook, which explained both the skincare ritual and the properties of the cream, and had hundreds of copies printed. Clients could write to request a copy, including in their letter the coupon from the bottom of the advertisement. Helena also made the guide available at her salon.

For years, the text hardly differed, even though the language became more and more sophisticated. ‘Explain everything clearly then add some blah blah,’ she often said.3 She was no fool. At a later point, she would ask actresses to endorse her products. Nellie Stewart, one of the biggest theatre stars in Australia, was playing in Melbourne for a few months. After the success of her play Sweet Nell of Old Drury everyone was talking about her, and spectators had memorised her most famous lines. It would not be long before she heard about Helena.

On first returning to her native country, the actress drove for miles in an open car without any thought of protecting herself from the sun. Her skin dried out and ugly spots covered her nose and cheeks.

Helena gave her diagnosis after examining her: ‘My dear, you will recover your natural complexion. Do as I tell you, and don’t leave anything out.’

Nellie kissed her as if they were the best of friends, which they did eventually become. Nellie Stewart agreed to be the first spokesperson for Valaze. ‘It is the most marvellous blend I’ve ever used,’ she declared on the advertising panels.

It is possible that Helena heard about the way in which Sarah Bernhardt had become a spokesperson for creams, soaps, perfumes and lotions when she stayed in New York in 1880.4 Or perhaps she had come up with the strategy on her own. In any case, Helena had grasped the importance of using celebrities to endorse her products, and she would often turn to them in the future, since influential women, actresses, and socialites all became her icons.

Nellie Stewart often dropped in unannounced at the salon. One day she arrived with another Nellie: Nellie Melba. The buxom opera singer had also come home for a triumphant tour. Wearing a long embroidered coat and an extravagant hat covered in ostrich plumes, she sang the great aria from Aida by way of introduction. Then she turned her enormous body towards Helena, who was transfixed.

‘Since you restored a peaches and cream complexion to my little Nellie, I’m sure you can come up with a cream that can improve my voice …’

‘Dear lady, please be seated.’

The fragile wicker chairs looked as if they might collapse under the diva’s weight so, wisely, she insisted on standing. Helena, who later said she felt ‘like a dwarf’ next to Melba’s imposing frame, had to climb onto a chair to reach her height.

There were days when the queue of customers went all the way down the stairs and out into the street. The salon was getting too small and she could hardly push back the walls. Helena had spotted a new building at 274 Collins Street. She rented an apartment of seven small rooms that she was able to transform into three big ones by knocking down the walls.

The layout stayed the same: an office, the salon, a ‘kitchen’. The walls were redone in a lovely pale green and the furniture was upgraded. Everything was decorated with the same ‘artistic’ good taste, as one of the Sydney dailies put it. It was still just as modern, carefully conceived for women’s well-being. New items were added to the range of products, the team was expanded, and the money kept coming in.

In 1905, nine years after her arrival in Australia, Helena was thirty-three years old and had £100,000 in the bank. She owed her fortune to her phenomenal capacity for hard work – she never wasted a moment, nor did she skimp on the work required to manufacture her little jars by the thousands.

She earned twelve pence on each jar after she’d deducted various expenses, taxes, salaries, rent, and advertising, which, no matter how costly, always multiplied her income a hundredfold, as Mr Thompson had said it would. She still lived above the shop, spent very little on herself, other than what she thought was required to get people to talk about her brand, and saved every penny to put back into her company.

There were a few simple rules she learned during this period. Sixty years later she would still apply them. Never leave any correspondence unanswered. Listen attentively to everyone. Sleep on any important decisions. When in doubt, ask for advice and listen to it, before saying anything. She also learned, with experience, how to run a team and delegate tasks. She kept each branch of the business separate – the making of the cream, packaging, sales and advertising – but she always made sure that everything ran smoothly as a whole. ‘I was passionate about every detail in those days, and have remained so.’5

She was aware that the situation was a fragile one: everything was going her way, but her luck could still turn. She could take pride in her success in Australia, and consolidate that success by opening a few additional salons in Sydney and Brisbane, as well as in Wellington in New Zealand, and that would be more than enough to ensure a good standard of living. But her success was driving her ever harder, and she wanted more and more from life. She had an entrepreneur’s ambitious nature. And since she had succeeded just when everything had been conspiring to make her fail, she owed it to herself to continue to surpass her own expectations.

Convinced that the only true path to beauty was through science, she regretted more than ever that she had not been able to study medicine. Now that she had the means, she decided to fill in the gaps in her knowledge. She would use the knowledge to enhance her practical skills. She would return to the old continent, where she would find the best scientists, experts, universities, and libraries. She could assuage her thirst for learning, and refresh her knowledge.

In June 1905, she set sail once again. This time she was heading back to Europe.