A MAID IN MAYFAIR

Taranaki Daily News, 18 July 1933, Page 12

A MAID IN MAYFAIR

GOSSIP FROM LONDON TOWN. QUEUES AT THE ROYAL COURT. (From Our Own Correspondent.) London, May 18. I imagine that most Court debutantes will be glad that when they, attend the Courts they will not be required to line up along the Mall, but will park their cars in the Palace Quadrangle. The experiment was tried out last year at the King’s instance, and it proved a complete success. It always appeared a little unseemly for cars to be kept waiting, sometimes for a couple of hours, all the way from Buckingham Palace to the Admiralty Arch, while curious sightseers sauntered along, and made friendly Cockney observations on the appearance and dress of the occupants. A good many of the "debs” sought to while away the time by playing bridge, and listen-ing-in to portable wireless sets. In many instances the girls were "snapped” smoking cigarettes, a practice to which Queen Mary has always entertained a strong objection. BEAUTY AND THE GIANT. Two striking figures were seen among the diplomatic circle at last week’s Royal Court M. Gripenberg, who is Charge d’Affaires at the Finnish Embassy, is a giant of 6ft 4in., and by far the tallest diplomat in London. His wife, Mme. Gripenberg, is a beautiful English lady, also tall, with dark hair and blue eyes. Apart from her impressive good looks, accentuated by sound taste in dress, Mme. Gripenberg has a remarkable war record. Not only does she hold our British war medals, but for her distinguished work as an ambulance driver at the front, she has been decorated with the Belgian Croix de Guerre, the French Legion of Honour, the Chevalier Leopold 11., and the Royal Order of Queen Elizabeth. War ribbons can hardly be worn with a Court gown, otherwise Mme. Gripenberg might vie with some of our beribboned Generals. WOMAN M.P.’S COURT FROCK.

Mrs. Helen Shaw, M.P., the Unionist member for the Bothwell Division of Lanarkshire, who has been presented at Court, wore a gown made in her own constituency. It is generally supposed that garments of that sort can be made only in London, but Mrs. Shaw in the belief that local industry should be encouraged, placed her order with her regular dressmaker, and I am told by those who have seen it that the result is amply justified. Her example might be worth considering by other women members. Mrs. Shaw, I should add, is one of the most handsome women in the House of Commons, and to that extent the dressmaker’s problem was easier. THE KING’S HEALTH. As was to be expected the' King’s absence from the first Courts of the season set the gossips talking. It was officially explained that his absence was due to an attack of rheumatism, but there are always people who shake their heads knowingly and assert that “they are keeping something back.” Happily, on this occasion, there was no ground to suspect anything of the kind. King George suffered a good deal of pain and could not face the trial of wearing a heavy uniform for two or three hours on end. His general health gave no occasion for disquietude, and he was able to join Queen Mary at lunch when the Queen of Norway visited them at Buckingham Palace last Thursday. King George felt the effect of the damp, for there has been a good deal of rain in London during the past week or two. MARBLE HALLS. Another famous patrician mansion in London’s West End is to vanish, and its place taken by blocks of new luxuryfiats. This is Brook House, originally the town house of Lord Tweedmouth, bought from that nobleman by the late Sir Ernest Cassel, and by him bequeathed to Lady Louis Mountbatten. It has been in the market since 1931, but these days purchasers are hard to find for stately homes in London. A banking firm has now stepped in, and demolition will speedily ensue to Brook House. Hundreds of tons of magnificent Tuscan marble were imported to give cold dignity to its hall, central staircase, and .fine galleries. Presumably all these will now be disposed of, and lots of other valuable debris besides. The only marble that is safe in these days is the cemetery variety, and only -that so‘long as no streetwidening or town-planning schemes fail to invade its silent solitude. SAFE FOR MOTHERS. It will be interesting to see if London follows Paris in the matter of night clubs. At the “best places” in Paris the exotic atmosphere is now discouraged. In place of all that our neighbours are now seeking to set up establishments where mothers can take their daughters or, more important still, where daughters can take their mothers. The home atmosphere is emphasised as much as possible. We have nothing of the same sort in London, though truth compels the admission that our night clubs are woefully dull Dancing goes on into the small hours of the morning, but you get the impression that the members of the orchestra are the only people who are really enjoying themselves. The dancers reflect the last word in languor and boredom. NOVEL HOSPITAL. In the appropriate neighbourhood of Fleet Street we are soon to have London’s first fruitarian hospital. For some reason not easy to fathom, knowing what journalistic habits are, Fleet Street has more fruit shops per 100 yards than any other thoroughfare in London. Maybe “Tay Pay” was right, and dyspepsia is the journalistic complaint. Dr. Josiah Oldfield, the famous dietician, will be in charge of this new venture, and the entire staff will consist of either vegetarians or fruitarians. But the hospital is not to be exclusively or specially for non-meat-eaters. It will give advice and treatment for all manner of patients, based on vegetarian or fruitarian lines. Dr. Oldfield took to vegetarianism when he was still a student at Oxford, and his belief was unshakable that everybody should take their vitamins direct from Nature herself.

PETER PAN’S SON. The son bom to the Hon. Mrs. Peter Llewelyn Davies comes as a reminder that Peter Pan has really grown up at last For the father of the small infant is one of the several nephews of Sir Gerald dd Maurier, who, when they were left orphaned by the early death of their father and mother, were virtually adopted by Sir James Barrie. He was their frequent companion when they played by the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens, and the children are always supposed to have inspired the writing of "Peter Pan.” If that is so, then Mr. Peter Llewelyn Davies is presumably the original of the hero himself; His wife, of course, is one of the famous Ruthven twins, and at their wedding in the Savoy Chapel, Sir James Barrie was an honoured guest. GIRL ARTIST’S SUCCESS. Among the pictures at the Royal Academy that demanded more than a passing glance from discriminating critics on the Press view days was “Oriental Portrait.” This clever work has now been purchased for the national collection under the Chantry Bequest The painter is Miss Jane Cree, a 21-year-old student at a London art school. She was quite delighted when it was even accepted by the Royal Academy hanging committee. Now she finds herself among the seven women painters who have ever been so honoured in the half century of the Chantry Bequest’s existence, and the only art student ever to attain such distinction. It is a very notable achievement, and shows that the tide of feminism is still hopefully on the flood. LATEST IN COMBINES. It is fairly common for a dress designer to go into tacit partnership with a' clever hairdresser, who will “add to the ensemble the harmony of his coiffure,” as the great Worth used to remark. Now that summer race meetings are in full swing, and women have decided to grace these social occasions wearing enormous hats, a movement is afoot for co-opera-tion between milliners and hairdressers. A friend in Paris tells me that one important modiste actually insists on taking his client to “le Coiffeur de la Maison,” where she has her hair dressed according to his instructions, after which the longsuffering lady is whisked away in a taxi, having been warned not to move lest a hair get out of place, and taken to the milliner’s own salon. There she must sit with what patience she can command while he dances round, building up on her head the creation that is to startle flie fashionable world. I hear that round about Bond Street, too, there is a definite move towards a triple entente between dressmaker, milliner, and hairdresser, to their mutual benefit. "OH! YOU LADIES !” What a very human person the London policeman is! Two ladies who were shopping yesterday gave me their experience. They drove up in their car to the side entrance of one of the big London stores, and looked round for a convenient parking place. Noticing a friendly policeman, they asked him if they could leave the car outside for 10 minutes. “Oh, you ladies!” he ejaculated. “I know these 10 minutes! If you once get inside that shop you’ll be there for an hour.” They pleaded with him that they would not be away at the most ! for more than 20 minutes. “Well, it will be alright if you are not more than half an hour,” said the policeman. So they went off to do their shopping, forgot all about the car, and emerged an hour later. They found the policeman still there.

"I told you it would be an hour,” he said with a broad grin. He was so triumphant at his forecast being correct that he held open the door and ushered them into the car. PRINCE AT GOLF. Surprise is expressed that the Prince of, Wales put no ban on the press photographers when he played in the first two rounds of the Parliamentary. Last year he was very chary of being “snapped” and the most he would promise the photographers was that they should work their wicked will upon him if he should

succeed in winning the handicap. As a matter of fact, he got no further than the semi-final and the photographers were disappointed. But on the opening day of the Parliamentary it is the custom to allow the photographers to move about freely amongst the players and the Prince of Wales could hardly claim special privileges for himself. I notice, by the way, that the Prince has abandoned his beret on the golf linlcs. If the day t is reasonably fine he prefers to play hatless, with the result that he looks as bronzed now as if he had just returned from a cruise in the Southern Seas. SARTORIAL ALARM. I note the latest trend of feminine fashion with some real alarm. Whatever else may be indicated, all skirts must be tight round the hips. This tendency, as usual, grows more accentuated as the fashion stabilises itself. At the West End nowadays one sees ladies with skirts as tight, round the most generous curves of their figures, as the scarlet trousers of that famous cavalry regiment known alternatively as "the cherry pickers.” Now whatever charm this mode may have for slim silhouettes and youthful debutantes, it is simply and literally broad comedy for ample matrons or plump women. And, despite slimming, there are plenty of would-be fashionable dames who could by no shrinkage of the imagination be classified as in the lean kind. Attired in skirts that fit as glovelike as a damp bathing dress, these unhappy ones will stagger creation. MUSIC HATH CHARMS. It is * matter of common knowledge that at some Secretarial Colleges for girls typewriting is now taught to the accompaniment of ■ music. The theory Is that it conduces to smoothness of touch and speed of execution. So a gramophone is introduced into the classroom, the speed being increased as the students become more efficient But a still more curious application of music to the other arts of life has been brought to my notice. Tam told that some golfers have evolved the theory- that if they hum a waltz tune, it tends to enhance the smoothness of their swing. No less a person than Bombardier Billy Wells, who is quite a good golfer, and plays down to something near the scratch mark, is a firm believer in the virtue of music. He not only hums a waltz tune during the swing, but hums a few preliminary bars during the initial waggles. I don’t know what waltz tune he selects for the purpose. Perhaps it’s the Blue Danube. TRYING ON THE TROUSERS. In different parts of London during the past few days attractive young women have 'been seen wearing ordinary trouser suits in the public streets. This may or may not be part of some organised movement to popularise male attire for women. These young women, who possessed notably handsome figures, certainly had the look of advance skirmishers in a regular trouser campaign. Some of them escaped, like the tall girl in a brown velvet suit in Hyde Park, with nothing more than curious backward glances. Others, in the less sophisticated suburbs, elicited cat-calls and were nearly mobbed, so that they were, glad to take refuge in taxis. So apparently public opinion, even in these post-war times, has not changed greatly since 1849, when the immortal Mrs. Amelia Bloomer, of New York, challenged Victorian opinion in a similar fashion. DR. BREWER’S DICTIM. According to the learned Dr. Brewer, Mrs. Bloomer’s attire consisted of a short

skirt and loose trousers gathered closely round the ankles. The doctor adds that the costume was becoming enough to young ladies in their teens, but ridiculous for the fat and forty. That sage judgment is probably applicable even to the modern trouser vogue, which may be right enough for a girl athlete, but certainly will not suit a matronly figure at all. The puzzle is why women should want to discard the skirt, which is a beautiful article of apparel, for trousers, which are admittedly the ugliest things men have ever worn in sartorial history. Artistically there is nothing to be said for trousers, however artfully tailored,

and surely feminism does not imply slavish imitation of masculine atrocities ? I should not care to wager .however, that women will not be trousered in a few years. BACK TO CURVES. WOMEN FALL IN LINE. There is a strange fascination about drastic fashion changes. While a woman is protesting that she will never fall in line with the change, she is wondering whether she ever will. Women who two years ago were alarmed at the idea of having to get a curve into their waistless figures have gradually succumbed to the inevitable change. Those who were loudest in their defence of the straight line are now buying “nipped-in” long coats without any further persuasion. What has happened? During this change of contour many

women have undergone much the same mental process as when bobbed hair first came into fashion. It took some of them a long time to discover that they could wear their hair short and still be pleased with their appearance. Once the idea filtered through it was only a question of time as to when the shearing would take place. Much the same mental adjustment has taken place in regard to the up-to-date figure, with its natural bust-line and curved waist. At first the older women with robust figures could not imagine themselves with a waistline. But they have been won over. They saw other women with more progressive ideas, but built on similar lines to themselves, wearing coats in the new shape. That settled it The wary ones reached the stage of looking with a kindly eye upon the new figure. The consequence is that after a couple of years’ propaganda on the part of ttfbse in the fashion' trade that all women, young, old, stout and slender, now are buying winter coats that follow the line of the natural figure. “A ROOM WITH A VIEW.” (By Elizabeth Kyle.) The outside room, which has three walls only—the fourth side being open to the sunshine and the clang of passing trams beneath—is typical of the small German flat or bungalow of today. This one protrudes, like a swallow s nest dabbed on to the outside wall, from the height of a shining new block of flats just off Bonn’s famous Poppelsdorfer Allee. There are only three other rooms besides, and the family numbers five, so it is constantly used for meals, for lessons, for coffee-parties, with delighftul unselfconsciousness. Instead of thinking, “We must be careful; the rest of the world can see us” the Wenzel family, along with all the other families above and below them, reflect; “From here we can see the rest of ■ the world.” It is high time to bring in the morning coffee if the family are to get started to their work for the day. Frau Wenzel comes out of the little kitchen to the left, with the coffee pot in one hand and a plate of poppy-seed rolls in the other. She places them on the table pulled close to the concrete parapet—which is all that prevents the Wenzel family from precipitating themselves on to. the tram lines beneath—and calls stentoriously into the heart of the house, “Make haste, Grethe ! Karl, you will be again late.... Herr Winckelmann, do not forget the physics class goes in at nine ” While waiting for them, she surveys the room with satisfaction. Its walls have been stencilled with a cheerful design of flowers and parrots. The Wireless set stands in one comer, a standard lamp in the other, ready for those warm evenings when no one wants to go indoors. A rocking-chair, the table, and four small chairs complete the furniture. When winter comes again, the sliding corrugated doors will make up for that missing fourth wall, a stove will be brought in, and Karl can bring his school-books and his friends here.... But this morning the promise of another hot-scented early summer day makes itself felt, even above the dust , of traffic and the ringing of innumerable bicycle bells. Herr Wenzel, his coffee finished, lights a cigar and leans in his shirtsleeves on the parapet, looking down on the linden tree below, reluctant to leave for the little chemist’s shop he owns further down the Allee. Karl and Grethe wrangle, pick up their books and disappear. And little Winckelmann, the young medical student who. lodges with the Wenzels, finds himself thinking, quite unaccountably, of the dimness of the great chestnut avenues which radiate from the gates of the university; and the possibility of suggesting to Herr Wenzel’s pretty fluffy-haired assistant a stroll down them this evening....