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From birth, Elle exhibited a driving urge to counsel the French woman in every facet of her life. That first winter was a cold one, and Elle advised its readers to fight the chill in slacks, a suggestion so sensible that it promptly set a postwar style. As the magazine grew, its interests expanded: vacation planning, advice on romance, cooking and sewing instruction, even history in the form of a series of famous accouchements. Its contents made Elle as attractive to factory girls—21% of its readership—as to manufacturers' wives.
Like a Chanel Gown. Editor Lazareff runs her magazine with the graceful enthusiasm of a woman who wears command like a Chanel gown. Visitors to Elle's offices—among them delegations regularly sent over by the French Foreign Ministry's section on cultural affairs—frequently remark that all the girls seem to be in uniform. And in a way they are. If Madame shows up one morning in a navy suit, next day navy suits will bloom all over the staff.
But by then, Hélène Lazareff is likely to have demonstrated some new enthusiasm. France's host of other fashion magazines, some 50 in all, can only emulate. They can scarcely compete with an influence so pervasive it can turn a shepherdess into a mannequin.
"It's almost criminal the way your magazine is breaking down traditions," complained an elegant woman from Languedoc to an editor from Elle. "You can no longer tell the difference between my maid, my neighbor and myself."