‘THE MALTESE FALCON’ (1941) – Lee Patrick comes into Bogart’s office, rolling her eyes at a perfumed calling card just handed in at the outer door by Peter Lorre
” Quick, darling! In with him!”
A dear friend and client of Les Senteurs wrote to us last week to suggest we have a fountain – what is sometimes now called a water feature – installed at the shop. As she said, imagine the cooling musical sound and delicious odour of fragranced droplets – maybe rosewater – splashing into a marble basin filled with gold and silver fish. We would all sit around the atrium on cushions stuffed with rose petals and musk, sipping sherbet and drinking jasmine tea. So then we ruminated on the Palatine palaces of Roman emperors, running with conduits of violet perfume; Francis Kurkdjian’s glorious installations at Versailles; Eugene Rimmel’s multi-spouted Fountain of Perfumes at the Crystal Palace in 1851; and Clover Carr’s fantasy of the eau de cologne pond in “Katy”. All excellent precedents and no wonder we got rather carried away. Alas! Perfume shops are not run by peris, djinns and houris. Someone has to cash up the till and dust the shelves. It’s not all glamour.
So, just as Rudyard Kipling wrote of ‘The Glory of the Garden’:
‘Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:-” Oh, how beautiful,” and sitting in the shade
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives….’
I scratch around in my back yard with my dad’s penknives and a trowel. I don’t know how I’ve raised such beauty as now manifests by the back door. No credit to me, I’m sure. I’m an old duck that’s hatched a swan in a bucket of compost. The famous tuberoses are now 36″ high – I measured on Sunday morning. They are like bolted sticks of asparagus; the leaves, so profuse in spring, have dwindled to almost nothing. Very strong and tough the stalks are, with no need for staking. At the top of each stem is a cluster of snow white ovoid buds tinged with pale apple-blossom pink; like the toes of a Norse goddess with nails tipped with shells from the sea shore. Msr. Rimmel tells us in his Book of Perfume that no more than two stellar flowers open daily. He’s not precisely correct here – I see rather more – but the blooming is certainly steady and leisured. No doubt there has been some genetic alteration in the bulbs since 1866.¤ What I must do next is to discover when – and if – I should lift the bulbs after flowering; and how to nurture them over the winter to ensure another crop in 2017. Rest assured I shall pass all this on to you. Having spent all my working life with the extracts and infusions of tuberose, how fascinating it is now to watch the plant grow and bloom, not on human skin but in accordance with the rules of Nature.
One thing I have learned is that the plants appreciate almost unlimited watering. Dousing, in fact, at the roots. It seems to me that this prevents the buds at the very top of the stalk from shrivelling before they open: something you often see in shop-boughten tuberoses. (I have noted, too, that those beautiful and supposedly drought-resistant clove-scented pinks and carnations will also lose their buds in infancy if kept too strictly short of water).
Next to the tuberoses stand two pots of tower lilies: they have grown nowhere near the promised six feet (though this is only year one), but they are billowing out clouds of intoxicating swooning perfume. At dusk the combination of voluptuous floral smells is almost too much. Some visitors are overwhelmed. The lilies smell something like Malle’s Dries Van Noten but with a touch of ginger, too; the white and gold flowers have a sensuous smooth coolness like that of perfect skin. I put two fallen petals in a saucer of water: these fragranced my bedroom for days.
The plants stay outside most nights pumping forth their nocturnal mega- sweetness to the owls and foxes. However, it was blowing a gale last Sunday so I brought the tuberose indoors and kept her overnight in the passage between kitchen and back door: there’s a glass door at either end. The next morning that space was heavy with elements of every tuberose perfume I have ever smelled – wreathing, blending and embracing. Very fascinating and instructive: everything from Carnal Flower to Fracas, but dominated maybe by Pierre Guillaume’s Tubereuse Couture, sweet and sugary and smokily candified.
The other week in this column I was musing about dogs in perfume shops and wondering how they protect their poor noses. (The tuberoses don’t keep the local cats away from my doves and goldfinches, by the way). One of my supportive regular readers has sent me a piece from a recent edition of the Times newspaper concerning a new type of novelty collar which is designed to curb barking dogs. As the animal sounds off, a powerful burst of citronella – which dogs apparently loathe – spurts from its harness. The fright of the sudden odour is supposed to silence the dog. Animal charities have condemned this device, repeating the old circus adage that any form of cruelty has no part whatsoever in corrective training. Too right. One thinks of customers taken by surprise by zealous spritzers on duty at the doors of a department store. A nasty shock which can put one off perfume for life.
Drop by at Les Senteurs and let us guide you by the hand to the metaphorical crystal fountain of fragrance! Where all is done by kindness and every prospect pleases. You’ll be so welcome.