The Trip To Europe: Part 12

(London) — Paris

I thought I finally had gotten us out of England, into our final days in Paris, and nearly to the end of this extremely long travelogue of three weeks in Europe. But today Murff said, how come I forgot the most exciting moment in London: the time we got an unexpected glimpse of the Queen’s Guard? Well, we had been strolling leisurely in the park in front of Buckingham Palace with the Neumans, the Kingmans, and Peter and Hilda Bloomfield. We were approaching a pretty little lake on which swans floated romantically, when we heard a drum beat in the distance.

“It’s the Queen’s Guard,” shouted Murff, “let’s go!” Whereupon the whole lot of us tore across the grass in the direction of the music. We got to the street breathless but in time to follow the red-uniformed soldiers for a couple of blocks before they disappeared into their barracks. Considering we had not tried to see the traditional “changing of the guard”, it did come as one of those bonuses we so frequently encountered on our trip. Come to think of it, it WAS pretty exciting!

By the way, we spent New Year’s Eve in Berkeley with our other traveling companions, the Aarons, and Queta reopened the subject of “Wise Child,’’ the Alec Guinness play none of us liked and which I panned last week. “It’s a big success in London,” she Informed me, “and what’s more, it’s coming to the United States eventually.” How amazing! Well enough of London (which I dearly loved) and on back to gay Paree!

You may remember our gang was last seen boarding a BOAC Tridon for the flight over the English channel. (Another dear mutual friend of our early Chicago days, Lynn Wimmer, wrote us this Christmas: “How exciting — shall we say extraordinary! — that you ALL were in Europe together. How jet-sety and Capot-ish!’’

The flight was rather classy but any illusions of privilege vanished the instant our taxi stopped at our now all-too-familiar Rue Bonaparte hotel (readers may recall it as the one with the bath in the lobby and the blood stains on the carpet).

We went to the Boulevard Saint Germain for lunch and inadvertently (or was it inadvertent?) wandered into expensive restaurant, the Calvet. We each gingerly ordered one dish and house wine. The food was good, though. At another table I saw a woman and three men consume eight courses. After which, the lady cooly lit a big fat cigar.

That evening, Mel, Merle, Murff and I went to a French-musical called “Copains-Clopan.” Billed as a “fantaisie musicale en 2 parties,” it concerned “L’ arrivee d’un chanteur bouleverse les habitudes d’ un groupe de jeunes qui se reunit apres les vacances…”

I really can’t tell you much about the plot. It was all in French. Except for us, the audience was entirely French and we didn’t catch more than a few passing words. The cast was a lively, exuberant group of young men and women the music was rock and roll; and the story had to do with rock singer who meets girl, becomes a success, and wins girl. It was delightful.

At one point the singer steps in front of the curtain, guitar in hand. His voice is beautiful and he is gorgeous to look upon: long black tunic with Mao collar trimmed with gold braid, blue silk shirt with gold braid on French cuffs, and several gold St. Laurent chains around his neck.

Murff much preferred the runny-nosed English bulldog which came on-stage in the last act (with a comedian who was dressed in a Sherlock Holmes coat and hat) and looked at the audience through bleery eyes. My favorite was the comedienne who gets drunk and sings “Jingle Bells’’ — in English.

Quelle fun! The next afternoon, Murff took Mel, Queta, and me to 30 bis, rue Spontini to the house of Yves Saint Laurent! I had written — as a member of the press — to several fashion houses for invitations to see their collections. All but one responded with engraved cards, and Saint Laurent’s permitted me to bring along my “ colleagues.”

The show was fast, magnificent, brilliant, altogether thrilling. It was held in a medium-sized room in a beautiful mansion and we sat in three rows on little gold chairs. The models whisked in and out — 94 costumes were shown in less than an hour! My impressions were fleeting and I tried to write them down to bring back home; after all, the top French fashion of today is American fashion of tomorrow. Here’s what I noted: long jackets, belted high or at the waistline; Mao collars; double-buckle belts; solid tunics with plaid underneath; crazy wide-fringed suede belts; square armholes; chain belts over suede belts; chains; more chains.

And: a great ribbed white turtleneck sweater; navy opaque stockings on nearly every model; princess-lines; empire waistlines; PLATFORM evening shoes, ala the 40’s; flat 20’s, bustlines (or are those models really, that skinny?)

Also; dashing wool knit capes, one trimmed with fur; a velvet jacket, side-buttoned in rhinestones; the famous №70, the black velvet knickersuit with a black velvet cape and a white blouse; even greater, another “ensemble de soir’’… A long midicoat over long wide-bottomed slacks with a white blouse and a man’s tie in a shiny black material, utterly dashing and very much the 30’s. And; a brown velvet “le smoking’ worn with long zip boots; a queenly, long dress; a long black satin gown … great!

I liked nearly everything except the short pleated evening dresses which became such a rage. The clothes appealed to me very deeply with their beautiful cuts, simple lines, elegant materials.

All the shoes were from Roger Vivier, with thick heels which come down vertically, many with brogue-like tongues. I found them sensational. Murff said they looked like orthopaedic shoes. As we waited for the show to start, we watched a famous, beautiful Countess choosing gold chains from a counter in the adjoining room. She wore a simple black and white dress and looked far too young to be a grandmother.

With few exceptions, the clothes were short. Not mini, but several inches above the knees. The models were swift, deadpan, and gaunt. The one who wore le smoking had shaved her eyebrows and drawn on Greta Garbo bows. She looked great, I thought. Murff said she looked like a man. If ever I doubted the source of fashion, I never will again. Not after seeing that collection. There is just nothing to equal the originality and genius of a great designer.

The next day, Murff and I went to see Givenchy’s collection and were again swept up in the glamor of a white, chandeliered mansion. Murff found Givenchy’s models “prettier; less mannish’’; the clothes “prettier, less severe.’’ But while I sat there entranced I decided that Givenchy was not my couturer.

Here are some of my fleeting notes: navy jumpsuit; navy suit with pants instead of skirt; scarf tied around bun (hair); cape suit of green plaid with pants instead of skirt; jumpsuit; all hems to knee or below but NO midis; round armholes; big fur hats; so many pant-dresses; countless artless sleeveless dresses with matching coats; helmet hats; rolled “up sleeves; back packets on hips; wide high belts, many empire; belts, belts, belts all gathering dresses in softly creating pouchy effect; dark hose; dark shoes; a marvelous black coat with two back pleats is my favorite; tight-up armholes; round necklines; fur on hemlines.

Evening clothes in awful pinks and purples; evening dresses long in back, short in front; shoes match fabric of dressy clothes; a flowing evening cape with — surprise — a short pink jumpsuit underneath; purple everywhere; white mink-trimmed, empire-waisted, brocade evening gowns, necklaces hanging down back like Fitzgerald’s heroine; ornate dresses; evening dresses not flattering for most part.

One model, who had an interesting rather than beautiful face, wore her hair in a cap of ringlets like a Greek youth. Givenchy models looked more human, seemed more harassed. One smiled.

And the audience? The beautiful people had long since come and gone. There was not one true lady — of — fashion at the Givenchy show that day. Who were those women? I wondered. And did they wonder about me? We were lookers all, I’ll bet. Not a buyer in the lot. Not at those prices. I don’t suppose anything in the collection started lower than $1,000. Maybe $500, rock-bottom.