Once the Washington slipped out into the Narrows of New York Harbor, the atmosphere relaxed. The wartime camaraderie meant that even traditional enemies got along. Vogue cozied up to Bazaar, Bergdorf Goodman palled around with Henri Bendel, and everyone stayed up late for the after-dinner dancing. Even the Atlantic weather was unusually warm, fading to winter drabness only when the ship entered Mediterranean waters.
The train journey from Genoa to Paris, so thoughtfully arranged by the Chambre Syndicale, was an altogether different experience. The train was crowded with soldiers, and to pack in as many passengers as possible, the sleeping cars had been replaced with more seating. The temperature had dropped precipitously, and there was neither heat nor light on the train. Nor was there any food or water. And the mountain of luggage that the Washington's fashionable passengers deemed necessary for an expedition to Europe had been piled in the corridors, which meant access to the toilets was blocked. At the French border, everyone had to stand in the Alpine snow to have their passports checked (Snow, a self-described "goddess" when it came to bodily functions who, she claimed, never felt the cold, rarely experienced hunger, and drank little except for alcohol, conceded that the journey was uncomfortable for her fellow travelers). When they finally reached the Gare de Lyon twenty-four miserable hours later, the Americans found Paris dusted with snow and in the grip of a frigid winter. But the welcome from the French was so warm that any discomfort was, if not forgotten, certainly mitigated. The French called the visitors les hirondelles—the swallows— optimistically equating their presence with the first sign of spring.
Despite the nightly blackouts, Paris had lost none of its panache. The tins of sardines and fruit that the visitors brought turned out to be superfluous; dining was as sumptuous as ever, even if it was now necessary to pack a gas mask when dining at Maxim's, the famous restaurant in the rue Royale. The military authorities had even decreed that the city's nightclubs, which had been ordered to close early at the onset of the war, be kept open until midnight so that the visitors could be properly entertained. But taxis were nonexistent, heating fuel was scarce, and the cold penetrated even the warmest coats. On a visit to Guillaume, the most fashionable hairdresser in Paris, Snow noted women huddled under the dryers, reluctant to relinquish their warmth. However, these inconveniences were considered secondary to the main event: the clothes.
Fashion in the 1930s had had a perverse, schizophrenic quality. Severe suits and knowing evening gowns coexisted with deranged, Surrealist-inspired oddities, a combination that is often described as "hard chic." Elsa Schiaparelli, the aristocratic Italian-born couturier who collaborated with artists such as Salvador Dalí and Jean Cocteau, excelled at using the latter as a foil for the former, a talent that made her one of the most successful couturiers of the era. Although she could neither sketch nor sew, "Schiap," as she was known to her intimates, possessed a provocative aesthetic that was perfectly in step with the times. The dark-haired, dark-eyed designer even had her own personal Surrealist emblem: a spray of moles on her left cheek in the shape of Ursa Major. Only the most confident ordered Schiaparelli's wilder experiments, like the hat that looked like an upside-down high-heeled shoe or the evening dress printed with a ripped-flesh motif, but her meticulous tailoring earned her a devoted following.
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The advent of the war, however, had a sobering effect on the output of the haute couture. Both Vogue and Bazaar applauded the lack of eccentricity and exaggeration in the "fresh" and "feminine" spring 1940 collections. Narrow skirts, which were considered especially attractive when worn with the bloused jackets proposed by the English-born couturier Edward Molyneux, were the biggest news. Comfortable shoes with low heels and big pockets for carrying essentials, created in response to the new need, for Parisians at least, to walk everywhere, got a nod of approval, as did the sooty gleam of jet appliqué on evening dresses, hats, and suit collars.
For the staffs of Vogue and Bazaar, the two main couture collections, shown in February and August, were the busiest, most stressful, and most enjoyable times of the year, comparable to elections for political reporters or coups d'état for foreign correspondents. Along with attending the showings by the various couturiers, they had to select and photograph the choicest picks from the collections for their magazines. Since everyone wanted the same clothes, this involved considerable cajolery and subterfuge. Shoots often started late, after the buyers had left the couture houses, and could last all night. Once the photos were taken, it was vital that they be dispatched as quickly as possible to New York to make the print deadline for the magazine.
Snow, who reveled in her time in Paris, preferred to see proofs from the previous night's shoots early in the morning. She always took a suite at the Hôtel Westminster, which she pronounced in the French fashion, vest-main- stair. Clad in the lace nightgown and pearls in which she'd slept—bolt upright, with the lights on—she'd begin her day at dawn, making phone calls, dictating cables to secretaries, and receiving editors and photographers from her bed, like a queen at her levée. The photographer would come in with proofs, which Snow would examine with a huge magnifying glass, quickly making her choices. The photographer would then rush the print to the retoucher. After the retouching was done, the final print was made, fixed, washed, dried, and captioned before being rushed to the Gare Saint-Lazare, where it would be put on a train bound for Cherbourg or Le Havre and then a ship headed to New York, a journey of about four days. At any point, this system could break down, and the photo would miss the deadline.
