Garment Stories : The Violets Dress

“Please don’t give this dress to a museum. It would break my heart.” The ninetysomething owner of Aucamville Castle closes the door behind her. She’s selling her house after the tragic loss of her husband and daughter this year. The dress too, must find a new home.

I take it with me, even though I’m unsure if I’ll ever wear it. Three-quarters of the gown’s silhouette is covered by a petticoat, with violets embroidered in bouquets and buds. A discreet corset in deep purple covers the rest. The cotton bust is hand-stitched to two short balloon sleeves. A delicate belt of thick, faded off-white lace attaches it to the heavy golden satin skirt.

Five years later, the dress still sleeps in my wardrobe, squeezed between my coats. As promised, I haven’t given it to any institution, but I haven’t worn it either. What to do with it? What if I tried to learn its story? I still have the lady’s number. She picks up the phone and, before anything else, asks how the dress is. “It’s fine,” I assure her. She agrees to tell me her story when we meet again in a week.

After selling the castle, Madame Betty moved to the center of Toulouse. “For an old lady,” she tells me, “this 60-square-meter apartment is much more comfortable. And I feel very much at home here.” She brought everything from her old house. It’s a little cramped. Three dozen teacups and sugar pots sit on the tiny kitchen shelves. Several portraits of the Madonna are placed beside different versions of beautifully painted plates. The Blessed Mother is everywhere, in all sizes. She wears veils of all colors and holds Jesus in her arms—sometimes blonde, sometimes brown. “I need them! They give me strength,” Betty explains. She can’t sleep alone at night. All her life, she never has. “I had a sister. She was seventeen months younger than me. We were like twins. We slept together every night.” Then Betty got married. The last six years are the first she has spent alone at night. She can’t cope with it.

Betty is surprised that I’ve brought the dress. “It belonged to my mother’s aunt,” she says. “She was the wife of a lawyer in Marseille. Her name was Madame Isnel. She adopted my mother and gave her the dress when she died.” The dress likely dates from the first half of the 20th century, as Betty was born in 1931. As children, Betty and her sister Suzy dreamed of wearing it. “I never thought I would wear it one day,” says Betty, touching the dress with an old, elegant hand.
She finally had a chance to put it on.

It was a masquerade for the carnival. Betty and her husband lived in Carcassonne at the time. The dress, with its corset ending just below the bust, is inspired by the Empire style. So Betty thought she could dress as Joséphine. Her husband could be Napoleon. 
That night was the only time she wore the dress. Images of that party were lost in the many moves. It remains an indelible memory for her. 

“Has the dress been altered?” I ask. The corset is not original. Betty had to change it for the ball because the earlier one had faded.The fabric was originally the same as the skirt. So the handstitching inside the dress is Betty’s.The woman made a small matching bag in the same deep purple fabric to go with her costume. “I was beautiful,” she laughs, her eyes moist. 

We spend a long time talking about all the objects in her house. Every chest of drawers has its pile of equally nuanced trinkets. The blue shelf is my favourite. Betty takes me into her room to show me the two dolls she has dressed herself. In another life they could be called Betty and Suzy. 
These objects remind Betty of a person or a happy moment. She touches them again and again: the dolls, the frames, the jewels, the lamps… She can feel their soul. She speaks to them. They are the source of her strength. “I know they feel good here. They have found their place,” she tells me. Betty recites a lost verse to me: “Objets inanimés, avez-vous une âme?“¹ She couldn’t remember the rest of the poem. Later on, I will find it and send it to her, printed on a tiny piece of paper. I will add by hand, “Here is the poem by de Lamartine that you were trying to remember.”

Before I leave, I tell her to keep the dress. I know it’s rude to return a gift. But she cries with joy. “I’ll call my sister right away to tell her”. The dress of her childhood had come back to her. The dress of her beloved mother, the dress of that unique ball she shared with her late husband, is here. The dress of her life will sleep with her tonight. 

1. Extract of Harmonies poétiques et religieuses, Alphonse de la Martine, 1830. It can be translated into English as “Inanimate objects, do you have a soul?” ↩︎

Garment Stories are woven into the very fabric of our clothes—the ones we cherish, the ones we repair, and the ones we wear until they fall apart, only to be tucked away as memories. Clothes tell stories, and this series is about sharing those stories.