Elizabeth Arden, ruler of a beauty empire with far-flung outposts an over the world, flew from New York this week to see her horse, Tempest, run fourth in the Derby.

This small and lively lady of Scottish-Canadian parentage dedicated herself at the outset of her career to the cause of happiness through beauty, beauty through health. Indeed, her history would be too good to be interesting if it were not shot through with passion: this passion for horses. The beauty of women, the horse beautiful: the one her life work, the other her life hobby. There is a story of a visit she made to London at the time of the 1953 Coronation. Owing to the disruption of traffic by patriotic preparations, her English advertising agents were unable to get to the airport to meet her. So they sent a bouquet to her hotel, a colossal bouquet of geraniums, marguerites, and anchusa, tied up with red, white, and blue ribbons. “How perfectly sweet of them,” said Miss Arden, “to remember my racing colours.”

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Somehow that reminds one of the story of Lady Mendl being taken to see the Parthenon at sunset, and crying out, “My favourite colour – beige!” But then, after all, immediate appropriation of everything for personal application is a universal feminine failing... and when you meet Miss Arden you immediately feel her femininity, which is unaffected by her relentless enthusiasm for hard work. We are told that nothing in her international business is done without her personal approval, and that an unbelievable amount is done under her personal supervision. She has the first and last word in the production of every new preparation, every new colour, showcard and leaflet. Her hands hold all the reins, and she has a finger in every pot of cream and lotion – which must require considerable dexterity.

It has been said that Miss Arden insists on her horses being treated with ten-dollar-a-jar skin creams

It has been said, and even written, that Miss Arden insists on her horses being treated not with liniments but with ten-dollar-a-jar skin creams. Like most legends, this is founded on fact, embroidered by fancy. It is a fact that after a fire at her Kentucky stables in the blue grass country (which gives the name to her most famous perfume), she successfully treated a burn on the flank of one of the horses with a lavish dressing of her “Eight-hour Cream,” a preparation for sun burns and sore places which builds up destroyed cell tissues and restores the skin to normal. It is also true that another time she sat up half the night massaging a horse with a strained leg, using one of her own preparations; she does not like the smell of liniment, and has faith in her own products. The cure was probably largely due to the massaging skill of her hands, which have been described as steel in satin: soft and silken, but merciless when they meet a double chin.



Facebook Twitter Pinterest Original full page advertisement in fashion magazine circa 1955 for Elizabeth Arden Pure Red lipstick. Photograph: Alamy Stock Photo

Miss Arden was christened Florence Nightingale Graham and did in fact start training as a nurse in Toronto. But, in advance of the thinking of that time, she conceived the idea that much ill health could be prevented if people were taught to make the most of the health and vitality they had. At about the same time she was fascinated by the first jar of cold cream she had ever encountered, fascinated both by its possibilities and its inadequacy. Rice powder, harsh rouge, colourless lip salve, and home-made rosewater lotions comprised, then, the extent of beauty aids.

Magic formulas and beauty secrets discovered by Balkan princesses or handed down from Cleopatra found a ready sale. Miss Arden determined to put things on an ethical and scientific basis. She studied with doctors, osteopaths, and chemists until she felt justified in giving treatments in New York. Soon her clients wanted preparations to take home with them; but always, with the preparations, she sold the idea of proper skin care. Body massage and posture exercises were a natural development at the salon, and branches were opened in other American cities. The first European salon was opened in the Place Vendôme, Paris, in 1914.

Nowadays the milestones in a woman’s life, 30 years, 40 years, 50 years, are no longer clearly marked, and this is in some part due to Miss Arden’s pioneer work. She herself believes that age is entirely irrelevant to a woman’s charm, and confirms it in her person. In this context it is interesting that on the eve of the Derby she had tea with the Queen Mother. One can imagine that the conversation between two such enthusiasts of the turf at such a time must have been largely on equine matters. But Miss Arden was enchanted with what she saw as well as with the conversation. The Queen Mother, she felt, was the one woman for whom she could do nothing. Even Elizabeth Arden does not claim to improve upon perfection.