Damas by Prince Matchabelli (1930)

Damas by Prince Matchabelli, launched in 1930, stands as a compelling example of the brand’s penchant for fragrances steeped in double meanings and historic allusion. The name “Damas” is particularly evocative—it could be interpreted simply as the French plural for “ladies,” suggesting elegance, femininity, and refinement. But given Matchabelli’s known fascination with Russian history and nobility, it is also possible that the name refers to General François-Étienne de Damas, a French officer who served in the Russian army during the Napoleonic Wars. The perfume may therefore have been intended both as a celebration of womanhood and as a subtle tribute to a military figure with ties to the imperial world Matchabelli often honored in his creations.

Pronounced DAH-mahs (with a soft French inflection), the name “Damas” carries with it an air of continental sophistication. It conjures images of richly embroidered damask textiles, candlelit salons filled with music and perfume, and the quiet intensity of diplomacy, culture, and ceremony. The word evokes a certain sensual depth—opulence tempered with mystery.

Launched at the dawn of the 1930s, Damas entered the world during a period marked by both artistic exuberance and looming economic uncertainty. The Jazz Age was giving way to the Great Depression, and while fashion was becoming more restrained compared to the lavish excess of the 1920s, there remained a deep desire for escapism and luxury. Perfume played a vital role in this era, offering women an affordable form of indulgence and self-expression.

In this climate, Damas would have appealed to women who sought a perfume of substance and complexity—something mature, exotic, and even a touch dramatic. Described as a “spicy and pungent heavy floral woody fragrance,” it would have offered a striking contrast to the lighter aldehydic florals that were still in vogue. Its dominant damask rose accord—deep, velvety, and full-bodied—would have enveloped the wearer in richness, while its sandalwood note provided warmth and an almost spiritual calm. This wasn’t a “flirtatious” scent—it was composed, confident, and enigmatic.

The inclusion of sandalwood placed Damas firmly in the category of oriental or floral-woody perfumes, a genre that was gaining popularity in the late 1920s and early '30s. In the broader context of perfumery at the time, Damas stood out for its weight and its unapologetic sensuality. It was not a “fresh” fragrance but rather one that lingered and unfolded over time, in keeping with the grand, slow-burning romances and political intrigues that inspired so many of Matchabelli’s creations.

Whether read as a homage to women in general or as a subtle nod to imperial alliances, Damas was a perfume of presence—bold yet refined, memorable and melancholic, as much a statement of style as of sentiment.

Fragrance Composition:

So what does it smell like? Damas by Prince Matchabelli is classified as a pungent, spicy and heavy floral woody fragrance for women. Based on damask rose and sandalwood.

• Top notes: aldehyde C-10, aldehyde C-11, Calabrian bergamot oil, nerol, Sicilian lemon oil, Paraguayan petitgrain, citronellol, Malabar black pepper oil, Bourbon rose geranium, linalool, phenylacetaldehyde
• Middle notes: Turkish damask rose absolute, Bulgarian rose otto, phenylethyl alcohol, Moroccan rose absolute, rhodinol, geraniol, Indian carnation absolute, methyl eugenol, Zanzibar clove bud oil, isoeugenol, Indonesian nutmeg, Ceylon cinnamon bark oil, Grasse jasmine absolute, Comoros ylang ylang oil, methyl anthranilate, benzyl acetate, hydroxycitronellal
• Base notes: amyl salicylate, Mysore sandalwood oil, Austrian oakmoss absolute, Tibetan musk, Indian musk ambrette, ambergris tincture, vanillin, Siam benzoin, South American tolu balsam, Sumatran styrax, Abyssinian civet, Canadian castoreum, Malaysian patchouli, Atlas cedar, Java vetiver

Scent Profile:

Imagine lifting the gilded cross stopper from the flacon of Damas by Prince Matchabelli. What escapes is not merely a perfume—it’s a deep breath of another era, laced with intrigue and grandeur. This fragrance opens like the drawing of lush brocade curtains in a sunlit salon: an explosion of aldehydes—C-10 and C-11—with their silvery, waxen freshness, like polished linen or chilled champagne fizzing on the skin. These aldehydes don’t just sparkle; they lift and aerate the fragrance’s weightier florals, ushering in a bracing citrus overture. Calabrian bergamot oil, sun-soaked and softly bitter, adds brightness with a slightly green undertone. The bergamot’s elegance is quickly warmed by the supple tang of Sicilian lemon oil, sharper, zestier, and cleaner than its counterparts elsewhere, harmonizing with Paraguayan petitgrain, which lends a crisp, herbal counterpoint—green twigs and crushed citrus leaves.

Woven through this citrusy breath are sharp, fragrant strands of Malabar black pepper oil, hot and dry with a steely clarity, and Bourbon rose geranium, whose rosy, minty tang already hints at the voluptuous heart to come. A delicate shimmer of nerol (from orange blossom) and linalool (from lavender or coriander) bring floral lift and clarity, while citronellol and phenylacetaldehyde contribute that fine balance of leafy-green and honeyed sharpness. The top feels lively, aromatic, and thrilling—like a breeze that carries spice and citrus through a Mediterranean marketplace.

But then, the perfume descends into its powerful heart: roses, but not gentle ones. These are roses with drama—opulent, sultry, and full-throated. Turkish damask rose absolute is central, with its velvety red depth and slightly smoky edge. Bulgarian rose otto, sourced from the famed Valley of the Roses, adds a fresh, dewy facet—lighter, greener, and more honeyed. Moroccan rose absolute brings yet more warmth and a subtle leathery richness. Supporting these is phenylethyl alcohol, the classic rosy molecule found in many petals, sweet and softly diffusive, acting as a bridge between natural rose oils and synthetics like rhodinol and geraniol, which boost the volume and staying power of the floral core.

Now the spice begins to build—a rich, exotic tapestry. Indian carnation absolute, with its clove-like pungency, meets the sharper tones of methyl eugenol and isoeugenol, both extracted or mimicked from clove and bay. Zanzibar clove bud oil, with its smoky-sweet fire, joins Indonesian nutmeg and Ceylon cinnamon bark oil, evoking the spice bazaars of colonial ports. This blend is plush, warm, and intoxicating—perfectly offset by the delicate tendrils of Grasse jasmine absolute and creamy, banana-like Comoros ylang ylang, softening the intensity into something more embraceable. Rounding out the heart are flecks of methyl anthranilate, offering a juicy, grape-like sparkle, benzyl acetate for jasmine lift, and hydroxycitronellal, a green-floral molecule that adds body and elegance to lily-like notes.

Then comes the base—an opulent descent into sensual darkness. Mysore sandalwood, the gold standard, is creamy, sacred, and balsamic, grounding the floral turbulence with its serene, velvety wood. Austrian oakmoss absolute adds cool, mossy bitterness, conjuring wet forest floor and vintage chypres. Tibetan musk and Indian ambrette bring warmth and sensuality, soft and slightly animalic, while ambergris tincture offers a salty, diffusive glow—like moonlight on skin. Vanillin, rich and comforting, is enhanced with resinous Siam benzoin, the soft toffee note of South American tolu balsam, smoky Sumatran styrax, and the deeply animalic traces of Abyssinian civet and Canadian castoreum. These materials do not overwhelm—they purr quietly, enhancing the floral heart and lifting the wood notes with warmth and complexity.

Finally, a woodsy trail remains—earthy and dry. Malaysian patchouli, moss-dark and rounded, merges with Atlas cedar’s soft pencil-shaving sharpness, and Java vetiver brings a rooty, smoky finale. Damas doesn’t just fade—it lingers like the low, vibrating resonance of a cello string, touched once and echoing for hours.

This perfume is not delicate—it is a composition of strength and grace. Regal, mysterious, and unapologetically bold, Damas walks in the footsteps of queens and courtesans, casting a long and unforgettable shadow.

Launched in 1930, Damas by Prince Matchabelli was part of a suite of four perfumes designed to usher in the new decade with a sense of theatrical romance and exotic flair. Introduced alongside Queen of the Nile, Queen of Babylon, and Jungle Flower, Damas stood out as the most classically floral of the quartet—yet not in a delicate or demure sense. As reported in The American Perfumer and Essential Oil Review, it was described as a floral perfume, but one possessing a pungency and spicy weight that set it apart from lighter compositions of the day. Though Jungle Flower shared the floral category, Damas exuded a bold, oriental-inflected richness centered around damask rose and Mysore sandalwood, which lent the fragrance a commanding presence.

Aesthetically, Damas received its own striking presentation. Departing from Matchabelli’s signature pyramid bottle—used for the other three releases—Damas debuted in a newly designed red and gold flacon. The color choice was no accident: the red evoked the passion and intensity of its rose heart, while the gold hinted at the nobility and luxury the brand was known for. This bottle aligned with the opulence of its scent, offering a visual cue to the perfume’s deeper, spicier character.

Though the name Damas may have seemed straightforward—possibly referencing “ladies” in a romantic, continental sense—it also carried deeper historical allusions. Some speculated it nodded to General François-Étienne de Damas, a French officer who served in the Russian army during the Napoleonic Wars, tying into Prince Matchabelli’s penchant for honoring figures with Russian historical ties. Others interpreted it simply as a celebration of the damask rose, the velvety, deeply scented flower that formed the fragrance’s core. Pronounced "DAH-mas" (as in the first syllable rhyming with "palm" and the second like "mass"), the word evokes richness, old-world elegance, and a sense of cultivated femininity.

The early 1930s were a time of significant change. As the world slipped deeper into the Great Depression, consumers became more selective—seeking luxury, but also value and meaning in what they purchased. As the Prince noted in 1930, “the American public [was] buying with more care and distinction than formerly,” turning to perfume not simply as a luxury, but as a daily essential, a finishing touch to one’s wardrobe and identity. Damas offered just such a touch—an olfactory signature that was neither timid nor trendy, but timeless, mysterious, and intense. Its blend of spiced florals and smooth woods embodied the type of fragrance that women of the era reached for to feel grounded, alluring, and a bit exotic, even as the world around them shifted.

By 1935, The New Yorker reported “a growing yen for Damas,” indicating that its appeal had not waned, and that its richly floral, slightly spicy profile had found a loyal audience. In the context of its time, Damas was both in step with the era’s fascination with exoticism and distinct in its ability to balance that allure with a classical floral framework. Bold and expressive, Damas was—and remains—a perfume that speaks in a confident, low voice, leaving behind a fragrant echo of elegance and strength.

Bottles:

When Damas by Prince Matchabelli was launched in 1930, it joined the brand’s prestigious lineup housed in the now-iconic crown bottles—a presentation as refined and theatrical as the fragrance itself. Initially, Damas was offered in several variations of this crown bottle design, each one a subtle expression of the perfume’s character and appeal.

The most striking version was the red and gold crown bottle, introduced specifically for Damas. This edition broke from the standard clear and frosted styles traditionally used by the house. Its deep red body, richly symbolic of passion, damask roses, and regal heritage, was accented with gilded trim, evoking opulence and the lavish splendor of Eastern courts. This bottle was sensuous to the eye even before the perfume within was experienced—suggesting boldness, warmth, and complexity. Its dramatic styling reflected the heavier, spicy floral-woody composition of the scent.

Alongside the red and gold presentation, Damas was also released in the classic clear glass crown bottle, which allowed the soft golden hue of the perfume to be visible. This transparency emphasized clarity and purity, offering a more understated luxury. Some bottles came in clear glass with gilded accents, giving a lighter, more delicate interpretation of the scent’s grandeur—perhaps appealing to those who sought sophistication over drama.

Another variant, clear and frosted glass, introduced a tactile and visual contrast—cool, matte frosted panels against the gleam of transparency. This version highlighted Damas’s duality: floral grace underscored by shadowy spice and wood. The coolness of the frosted glass seemed to reflect the “pungent” and “spicy” edge described by contemporary reviews, while the clear facets nodded to its underlying bouquet structure.

These different presentations of Damas served not only aesthetic purposes but strategic ones as well. They allowed consumers to select a bottle that matched their personal style, the season, or the tone they wished to project—whether regal and commanding, understated and elegant, or mysterious and romantic. Collectively, these crown bottles reinforced the fragrance’s positioning as both aristocratic and individualistic, perfectly in line with Prince Matchabelli’s philosophy of scent as personal signature and olfactory art.

 

When Damas was reintroduced in 1947, it marked a return not just of a beloved fragrance, but of a certain prewar elegance that had been unavailable for several years. During World War II, like many luxury goods, Damas was quietly withdrawn from the market. This absence was likely due to the scarcity of critical raw materials—both for the perfume’s ingredients and its packaging. Essential oils from Europe and Asia were difficult or impossible to source during wartime. Fragrance components like Mysore sandalwood, Bulgarian rose, and spices from Ceylon and Zanzibar would have been diverted to wartime uses, blocked by trade disruptions, or simply too expensive and risky to procure. Similarly, glass manufacturing faced shortages and repurposing for military needs. Bottles, especially those requiring custom molds or imported crystal, became luxuries out of reach.

By 1947, with peace restored and global supply chains gradually recovering, Damas was reborn with a striking new presentation. The company introduced what collectors today refer to as the “Damas bottle”—a beautiful clear crystal flacon with softly sloping shoulders, shaped with elegant proportions to hold 1.5 ounces of perfume. It was both modern and timeless, a departure from the more decorative crown bottles of the 1930s. The bottle’s form is graceful and poised, reflecting the refined and romantic character of the fragrance inside.

Topped with a ground glass stopper molded in relief with Prince Matchabelli’s distinctive “M and crown” logo, the presentation was understated yet unmistakably regal. The base of the bottle is molded with “Matchabelli,” and notably, no country of origin is marked on the glass—suggesting it was domestically manufactured in the United States, likely due to postwar import limitations or cost considerations. Its craftsmanship, however, retained the hallmarks of prewar luxury.

The bottle stands 3.5 inches tall and 3 inches wide, with the presentation box measuring 4 inches tall by 4 inches wide. Interestingly, the box itself bears the mark “Made in France,” implying that while the glass may have been American, the packaging—or at least its design and construction—was created or inspired by traditional French perfume presentation, reaffirming the perfume’s European sophistication.

This particular flacon design was not unique to Damas alone. It was also used for several other Prince Matchabelli fragrances of the period, including Ave Maria, Abano, and Jungle Flower, creating a cohesive visual identity across the brand’s revived postwar offerings. Each fragrance took on a new life within the shared silhouette, offering a modern take on old-world charm—poised, polished, and undeniably feminine.

 

Fate of the Fragrance:

Launched in 1930, Damas was one of Prince Matchabelli’s earliest creations and exemplified his refined, European-inspired style. Named with a nod that may have referenced both the French word dames—meaning “ladies”—and possibly the historical figure General François-Étienne de Damas, the fragrance was conceived during a period of rich artistic and cultural expression. The early 1930s were a time of innovation in perfumery, with perfumers embracing bold florals, exotic woods, and new synthetics to evoke distant lands and timeless beauty. Damas fit effortlessly into this trend. It was described as pungent, spicy, and intensely floral, built around a luxurious heart of damask rose and anchored by sandalwood and oriental woods.

Originally presented in the now-iconic Prince Matchabelli crown bottles, Damas appeared in several color variations, including clear, clear/frosted, gilded/clear, and a striking red and gold version created specifically for this scent. The red and gold flacon, introduced in 1930, reflected the perfume’s richness and regal tone. Unlike some of the other perfumes released at the same time—such as Queen of the Nile and Queen of Babylon, both housed in pyramid bottles—Damas stood apart as a floral fragrance with gravitas, sultry elegance, and a heavier character than was typical for a rose-based scent.

After a period of unavailability during World War II—likely due to restricted access to natural raw materials and glass manufacturing—the fragrance was reintroduced in 1947 in a new bottle design, known among collectors as the “Damas bottle.” The crystal-clear flacon with sloping shoulders and a ground glass stopper molded with the Matchabelli crown and “M” logo symbolized the brand’s postwar revival and a return to classic glamour.

Still available as late as 1952, Damas maintained a place in Prince Matchabelli’s lineup well into the mid-century, though by that time it had become more of a quiet classic than a star attraction. Eventually discontinued, Damas faded into obscurity, overshadowed by better-known house favorites like Wind Song and Duchess of York.

Today, Damas is one of the lesser-known Matchabelli perfumes, a hidden gem for fragrance historians and collectors. Its rich floral-woody structure, romantic backstory, and elegant packaging offer a window into a bygone era when perfume was not just a finishing touch—but a statement of identity and mood.

Cachet Noir by Prince Matchabelli (1983)

Cachet Noir by Prince Matchabelli was launched in 1983 as a sophisticated and more luxurious companion to the original Cachet, which had already enjoyed popularity since its 1970 debut. The name Cachet Noir is French—cachet meaning “seal” or “distinction,” and noir translating to “black.” Pronounced cash-ay nwahr, the name immediately evokes mystery, elegance, and refinement. Where Cachet was fresh and wearable, Cachet Noir was designed to be deeper, sultrier, and more sensuous—a fragrance for the evening, for a woman of quiet power and undeniable allure.

The 1980s were a bold, image-driven era, marked by excess and aspiration. Power dressing defined fashion, and shoulder pads, glossy lips, and assertive femininity ruled both boardrooms and cocktail lounges. In fragrance, this era saw the rise of heady orientals, lush florals, and daring chypres—scents that made a statement and lingered long after their wearer left the room. Cachet Noir fit perfectly within this context. Its spicy opening and warm, balsamic base mirrored the rich, opulent direction perfumery was taking at the time, influenced by hits like Opium (1977), Cinnabar (1978), and Obsession (1985).

To choose a name like Cachet Noir during this period was intentional—it promised something exclusive, elegant, and dramatic. It suggested a scent worn with a sleek black gown, red lipstick, and confidence. The "noir" element hinted at mystery and sensuality, aligning perfectly with the decade's fascination with luxurious self-expression.

Added Attraction by Prince Matchabelli (1956)

Added Attraction by Prince Matchabelli was launched in 1956, a year marked by glamour, burgeoning confidence, and a renewed postwar femininity in American culture. The name itself—Added Attraction—was a phrase of the era, used often in the language of advertising and film to suggest an irresistible extra, a compelling bonus, a final flourish that clinches desire. The phrase "Added attraction” evoked images of romantic intrigue, flirtation, and allure—perfectly tailored to the midcentury woman who was being encouraged to cultivate beauty, charm, and self-possession. To name a perfume Added Attraction was to imply that the fragrance was the final detail, the extra something that made a woman unforgettable.

The mid-1950s, often referred to as the "Golden Age" of American consumerism, was a time when femininity was carefully choreographed. Fashion favored full skirts, cinched waists, and soft silhouettes, echoing Dior’s New Look, while beauty advertisements leaned into the idea of polished, poised perfection. Perfume was central to this performance—a final touch that helped a woman project poise, sophistication, or mystery. Added Attraction entered this scene as a warm, musky floral with a mossy, woodsy foundation—notes designed to suggest sensual depth without being overpowering. It was an alluring blend meant not just to be worn, but to be noticed, remembered, and perhaps even longed for.

Women of the time would likely have embraced the name and the scent as part of their beauty arsenal—something subtle enough for day but with the lingering warmth and presence to carry into the evening. It promised a touch of glamour, a trace of mystery, a confident sense of womanhood. The scent’s composition placed it within the broader trends of the 1950s, when chypres and floral-orientals were growing in popularity. However, its musky depth and understated sensuality gave it distinction. Rather than broadcasting seduction, Added Attraction whispered it—a quality that set it apart from both the powdery aldehydic florals of the early '50s and the overtly provocative scents that would soon follow in the next decade.

Prophecy by Prince Matchabelli (1962)

Launched in 1962, Prophecy by Prince Matchabelli arrived at a moment of cultural and scientific transformation. The name alone—Prophecy—was bold and evocative, carrying a sense of mystery, promise, and vision. To choose such a title for a fragrance suggested a forward-looking confidence, a belief in things yet to come. The word prophecy implies foresight, intuition, and fate—a glimpse into the unknown that stirs the imagination. It evokes images of celestial symbols, starlit skies, and the elegant stillness of a woman who sees beyond the present. Emotionally, the name speaks to both wonder and empowerment—a perfume meant not only to adorn but to awaken.

The early 1960s were poised between tradition and transformation. The decade began with elegance and order—matching handbags, sculpted silhouettes, and ladylike restraint—but change was rapidly approaching. Space exploration, modernist architecture, and scientific advancements defined what would come to be known as the Atomic Age, an era obsessed with the future and the unexplored. In fashion, clean lines, metallic fabrics, and futuristic styles began to appear. In perfumery, the era saw the continued dominance of aldehydic florals, popularized by Chanel No. 5 and Lanvin's Arpège, yet a new generation of fragrances began pushing these structures into more modern, daring directions.

Prophecy embodied this evolution. Classified as a futuristic aldehydic woody floral with amber, it captured the crisp brightness of radiant aldehydes—the very molecules that gave mid-century perfumes their sparkling lift—and combined them with an unexpectedly warm and layered base. The perfume reportedly contained one hundred and thirty ingredients, a blend of Old World and New World materials, suggesting a deliberate fusion of tradition and innovation. Among them were rose, jasmine, and freesia, adding softness and floral nuance, balanced by sandalwood and vetiver grass, which grounded the composition in warmth and depth. The inclusion of amber introduced a touch of sensuality, a golden resinous undertone that hinted at mystery and allure.

Stradivari by Prince Matchabelli (1942)

y one as richly romantic and evocative as Stradivari. It was the first new perfume Matchabelli introduced since the outbreak of the war, and it offered not only fragrance, but fantasy and escape. Women of the time—whether working in factories, volunteering for the Red Cross, or maintaining the home front—could find in Stradivari a small but soul-stirring luxury, a poetic whisper of beauty in uncertain times.

The name Stradivari is Italian, pronounced "Strad-ah-VAH-ree", and it immediately conjures one of the most hallowed legacies in classical music. Named in homage to the famed luthier Antonio Stradivari—whose violins and cellos are revered for their exquisite craftsmanship and soul-stirring tone—the perfume nods to this artistry in scent form. It also takes inspiration from the Prince Matchabelli Orchestra, formed the same year the fragrance was launched, further anchoring it in the brand’s romantic alignment with music and the arts. To wear Stradivari was to don an invisible symphony—one composed not in strings, but in scent.

The fragrance is classified as a semi-oriental floral, with prominent woody and spicy notes over a mossy base. In perfumery, the term "semi-oriental" during this period often indicated a chypre-adjacent structure—dry and elegant, but laced with warmth and sensuality. Stradivari opens with a flourish of heady florals and soft spice, slowly developing into a woodier, duskier base with a slightly exotic, lingering finish. It was described as “rich, lasting, destined for the woman of deep emotion”—a statement that placed it squarely in the lineage of expressive, personality-driven scents, as opposed to light, fleeting florals.

Women of the 1940s would have related deeply to such a perfume. Stradivari offered something emotionally resonant—a scent that suggested intelligence, depth, and longing, much like the music it was named for. While many wartime fragrances leaned into pragmatism and freshness, Stradivari dared to be poetic. It didn’t just accessorize a moment—it gave it a melody.

In the broader landscape of 1940s perfumery, Stradivari was both timely and distinct. The chypre and oriental genres were gaining popularity, but Stradivari softened their boldest aspects with a musical tenderness that made it unique. Rather than broadcasting glamour or seduction, it whispered longing, complexity, and memory—making it one of Matchabelli’s most quietly moving compositions.

Fragrance Composition:

So what does it smell like? Stradivari by Prince Matchabelli is classified as semi-oriental (chypre) floral fragrance for women with dominant woody and spicy notes against a mossy background.  

• Top notes: aldehyde C-10, aldehyde C-11, aldehyde C-12 MNA, Calabrian bergamot, Sicilian lemon oil, Paraguayan petitgrain, Jamaican bay laurel oil, Malabar black pepper oil, Jamaican nutmeg, Zanzibar cloves, Russian coriander, Saigon cinnamon, Jamaican allspice, Indonesian nutmeg, isoeugenol, methyl eugenol
• Middle notes: Hungarian clary sage, Provencal lavender, Mediterranean hyssop, rosemary, marjoram  and savory, Comoros basil, Italian thyme, French carnation, Grasse rose, Riviera jasmine, French linden blossom absolute, Madagascar ylang ylang, Veronese orris, Sudanese myrrh, Omani frankincense, Turkish styrax
• Base notes: Tyrolean oakmoss, Siam benzoin, Cyprus labdanum, South American tolu balsam, East Indian vetiver, vetiveryl acetate, Singapore patchouli, Mysore sandalwood, ambergris, Virginian cedar, Canadian castoreum, Tibetan musk, musk ketone, musk xylene, guaiacol, eugenyl acetate

Scent Profile:

You open the flacon of Stradivari by Prince Matchabelli, and what rises is not merely a scent—it is an overture. The perfume begins in a dazzling burst of aldehydes, most prominently C-10, C-11, and C-12 MNA, each contributing its own character: waxy, citrusy, and ethereal. These molecules are airy but not without presence; they lift the composition into light and shimmer, creating the olfactory impression of silk moving in sunlight. The aldehydes usher in the top notes with a radiance that amplifies and diffuses the spicy and citrus elements that follow.

Bright and bitter Calabrian bergamot and tart, sparkling Sicilian lemon oil provide a sunny counterpoint to the aldehydic shimmer, their Mediterranean brilliance fresh but grounded. Paraguayan petitgrain, distilled from the bitter orange leaves and twigs, offers a crisp green sharpness, almost peppery, acting as a bridge to the spices. And then the true drama begins: Jamaican bay laurel oil wafts upward with a darkly spicy, almost clove-like complexity, underscored by the smoky heat of Malabar black pepper and the aromatic sweetness of Saigon cinnamon.

The pungent, woody sharpness of Zanzibar cloves, the warmth of Jamaican nutmeg, and the dry, musky facets of Russian coriander swirl into the blend with the hot-cool interplay of Jamaican allspice and Indonesian nutmeg—layered and nuanced. The inclusion of methyl eugenol and isoeugenol sharpens this spicy bouquet, lending both warmth and a velvety softness that animates the natural clove and carnation tones. These molecules extend the spicy heart while tempering the rougher edges of the naturals, giving it roundness and lift.

As the top accord settles, Stradivari’s heart unfurls into a complex garden of herbal and floral elements. Hungarian clary sage introduces a musky, green herbal note that melds seamlessly with the fragrant clarity of Provençal lavender and the wild, bitter edge of Mediterranean hyssop. Rosemary, marjoram, savory, and Italian thyme combine in a bracingly aromatic herbaceous chord—dry, crisp, almost medicinal, grounding the floral sweetness to come.

At the center, Grasse carnation—spicy and creamy—sings beside Grasse rose and Riviera jasmine, both rich and heady, petals steeped in sun. These are supported by the honeyed delicacy of French linden blossom absolute and the creamy, tropical sweetness of Madagascar ylang ylang, which gives the heart a soft, radiant depth. The green-leafy powder of Veronese orris adds elegance and violet-like grace. And from the east, sacred resins arrive: Sudanese myrrh, earthy and balsamic; Omani frankincense, citrus-resinous and cool; and the leathery sweetness of Turkish styrax—incense notes that recall shadowed cathedrals and timeless ritual.

The base is where Stradivari reveals its depth and endurance, a profound chypre structure of moss, resin, and animalic warmth. Tyrolean oakmoss brings its signature inky bitterness, laced with damp forest nuance. Cyprus labdanum, Siam benzoin, and South American tolu balsam provide the resinous counterpoint—ambery, sticky-sweet, and deeply tenacious. East Indian vetiver, dark and rooty, merges with vetiveryl acetate, its refined, smoother cousin, to ground the base in smoky verdancy.

Here we also find Singapore patchouli, earthy and slightly chocolatey, lending fullness, and the creamy, woody splendor of Mysore sandalwood, its historic variety prized for its smoothness and depth. Ambergris, in tinctured form, offers salty, marine warmth and helps fuse all elements into a seamless whole. Animalic grace comes from Canadian castoreum, leathery and sensual, and Tibetan musk, which along with musk ketone and musk xylene, adds powdery, long-lasting softness.

Virginian cedar and guaiacol bring a dry, smoky woodiness, while eugenyl acetate, a cousin of eugenol, deepens the spiced heart and ties it back to the carnation and clove that sing throughout. It is, in the end, a symphony of warmth, complexity, and haunting beauty.

Stradivari is not merely a fragrance—it is an echo of deep emotion. Its name, like the instruments of the master luthier it evokes, speaks of richness, craftsmanship, and an ability to stir the soul. In the twilight of war-era austerity, this perfume stood as a monument to inner romanticism, to bold femininity, and to the lasting power of scent as song.

Bottles:

Packaged in the lovely sceptre and crystal clear crown flacons. The identifying package symbol is a Clef sign.

LIFE, 1948:

"STRADIVARI PERFUME — It puts a love song in a woman's heart! Rich, lasting, destined for the woman of deep emotion. $7.50 to $ 15. Miniature crowns, $3."

The New Yorker, 1954:

"Like Matchabelli's Stradivari. A haunting woody note with overtones of the exotic. Both the Perfume and Cologne available at better perfume counters. Stradivari Cologne Parfumee with gift crown of matching Perfume."

Fate of the Fragrance:

Launched in 1942, Stradivari by Prince Matchabelli marked a poignant return to perfumery amid the global uncertainty of World War II. It was the first new fragrance the company introduced since the outbreak of war, and its timing—paired with its evocative name—was no accident. In a world disrupted by chaos and rationing, Stradivari was a deliberate gesture toward beauty, culture, and emotional depth. Named after the famed violin maker Antonio Stradivari, and likely inspired by the formation of the Prince Matchabelli Orchestra that same year, the perfume sought to evoke music's power to comfort, inspire, and transcend.

The name Stradivari conjured images of craftsmanship, old-world artistry, and emotion played in minor keys—qualities echoed in the perfume's composition. It was a semi-oriental (often understood as a softer form of chypre) floral blend with dominant woody and spicy undertones against a mossy base. This combination gave Stradivari an air of haunting elegance: it was rich and lingering, tailored for women who gravitated toward introspective beauty and emotional complexity.

Through the 1940s and into the 1950s, Stradivari remained a staple of refined femininity, praised for its depth and memorable sillage. It was especially beloved as a winter fragrance—suited to furs, opera coats, and dramatic evening wear. Its blend of aldehydic shimmer, piquant spice, dusky florals, and a grounding of oakmoss and sandalwood set it apart from the sugary florals and powdery blends dominating much of the postwar market.

By 1968, Stradivari was still being sold, a testament to its enduring appeal in an industry constantly chasing novelty. Though quietly discontinued sometime afterward, it remains one of Matchabelli’s most sophisticated offerings—less famous than others, perhaps, but deeply loved by those who experienced its warm, orchestral complexity. It endures as a fragrant artifact of wartime resilience and artistic aspiration.

Beloved by Prince Matchabelli (1950)

Beloved by Prince Matchabelli was launched in 1950, during a time of postwar romanticism and optimism, when American women were embracing elegance, femininity, and glamour after the austerity of the 1940s. Advertised as being “imported from France,” the perfume seemed to carry with it the cachet and mystique of French luxury. While these advertisements suggested that Beloved was bottled and sealed in France—a detail meant to elevate its prestige—in truth, only the perfume concentrate was created or compounded in France. The fragrance itself was then shipped in bulk to the Matchabelli factory in the United States, where it was bottled, boxed, and distributed for the American market. This practice was not uncommon at the time, especially as brands sought to capitalize on the allure of French perfumery while maintaining U.S. production capabilities.

The name "Beloved" is an English word, pronounced bih-LUH-vid, meaning “deeply loved” or “cherished.” Emotionally rich and timeless, it evokes a feeling of tender devotion, longing, and romantic idealism. It calls to mind love letters, pressed flowers, whispered confidences, and timeless elegance. For a woman in 1950, wearing a perfume named Beloved might have felt like an affirmation—an expression of her desirability, her inner softness, and her emotional depth in a world that was, once again, embracing femininity after the turmoil of World War II.

The early 1950s were part of what is now referred to as the "New Look" era, following the revolutionary influence of Christian Dior's 1947 silhouette—cinched waists, full skirts, and soft, romantic lines that celebrated the female form. Women returned to wearing gloves, pearls, and perfume as part of their daily ritual. In fragrance, this was the age of rich floral bouquets and softly sensual compositions. Beloved fit squarely within this trend. Described as a soft, sweet, and warm floral bouquet, it opened with heady Mediterranean blossoms—orange blossom, jasmine, and neroli—resting on an exotic Oriental base, of amber, sandalwood, and incense-like notes. This structure placed Beloved within the popular floral-oriental category, which was widely admired at the time for its richness, femininity, and romantic allure.

The scent would have felt elegant and transporting, designed to make its wearer feel both sensual and adored. In a market that saw the rise of iconic floral and aldehydic scents like Chanel No. 5 and Arpège, Beloved may not have been groundbreaking in structure, but it offered something deeply appealing: intimacy and warmth. It wasn't about status or fashion-forward boldness—it was about being cherished.

Ultimately, Beloved reflected a very personal kind of beauty—one that a woman might wear for herself or for someone she deeply loved. Even the suggestion of a French origin played into the mid-century American fascination with European romance, refinement, and sophistication. While Beloved may not have disrupted trends, it elegantly aligned with them—offering an emotional and sensory refuge in a bottle.

The New Yorker, 1950:

"An utterly different and incredibly long-lasting new perfume...Beloved...introduced simultaneously in France and America by Les Parfums du Prince Matchabelli of Paris, and Prince Matchabelli, Inc. of New York...In azure blue gold-encrusted crown, $5.50 to $32.50. Also in purse dispenser."

Fragrance Composition:

So what does it smell like? Beloved by Prince Matchabelli is classified as a soft, sweet and warm floral bouquet fragrance for women. Very heady with Mediterranean blossoms layered over an exotic Oriental base. It was described as "the most captivating perfume to ever come out of France. Rich and warm and becoming to the mature woman. An utterly different and incredibly long lasting new perfume. A warm poignant fragrance that seems to whisper of youth "

• Top notes: aldehyde C-10 decanal, aldehyde C-11 undecylenic aldehyde, methyl nonyl acetaldehyde, Calabrian bergamot oil, Seville orange oil, Italian neroli
• Middle notes: Comoros ylang ylang oil, French jasmine grandiflorum, Tunisian orange blossom absolute, Moroccan orange blossom absolute, Grasse rose de mai, honeysuckle absolute, Grasse heliotrope, heliotropin, hydroxycitronellol, phenylethyl alcohol
• Base notes: Roman chamomile oil, Indonesian patchouli, Mysore sandalwood, Tibetan musk tincture, Madagascar vanilla infusion, vanillin, Siam benzoin, Venezuelan tonka bean, coumarin, South American tolu balsam, Spanish cistus labdanum, Sudanese myrrh, Yemeni opoponax, Abyssinian ambergris tincture, Virginian tobacco absolute, Abyssinian civet tincture

Scent Profile:

Smelling Beloved by Prince Matchabelli is like stepping into an opulent dream, where sunlight-drenched Mediterranean gardens melt into dusky Eastern temples. Each note is a story, unfolding gradually—at first bright and shimmering, then lush and romantic, and finally grounding itself in a deep, sensuous hush. The fragrance, though classified as a floral bouquet, is far more than the sum of its petals; it is architecture built from both earth and light, delicately enhanced by the hand of modern perfumery.

As I bring the cross-shaped stopper to my nose, the top opens with an immediate, crystalline brightness. Aldehyde C-10 (decanal) and C-11 (undecylenic aldehyde) lend a silky, slightly metallic shimmer—like sunlight on polished linen. Methyl nonyl acetaldehyde follows with a soft, soapy elegance, bringing a subtle citrus-lilac nuance that diffuses the brightness into something romantic, almost nostalgic. These aldehydes, while synthetic, do not feel cold; instead, they lift and expand the natural ingredients, making them more luminous and airy.

From there, a burst of Calabrian bergamot oil introduces green, citrusy tartness with a floral undertone—a classic in perfumery, prized for its complexity and smoothness. Bergamot from Calabria is especially fine, cultivated in the warm coastal groves of southern Italy where the fruit develops more nuanced oil with less harshness. It harmonizes beautifully with the bitter-sweet charm of Seville orange oil, adding tang and texture, while Italian neroli—distilled from orange blossoms—glides in with a clean, fresh-petaled radiance that hints at the floral heart to come.

Moments later, the perfume settles into its middle, where the richness of a true floral bouquet reveals itself. Ylang ylang oil from the Comoros Islands—rich, creamy, and exotic—spills over the edges, bringing a narcotic, slightly spicy sweetness with its banana custard undertones. French jasmine grandiflorum, grown in Grasse, offers a silky floral note with just a whisper of animalic depth, while Tunisian and Moroccan orange blossom absolutes compete for center stage: one slightly sharper and greener, the other rounder and more indolic.

In their company, Grasse rose de mai—harvested only a few weeks each spring—is soft and dewy, a powdery and fresh contrast to the heady intensity of jasmine and ylang ylang. Honeysuckle absolute adds nectar-like warmth, reminiscent of golden afternoon light, and heliotrope from Grasse lends its signature almond-vanilla warmth, balanced by heliotropin, its synthetic counterpart. Heliotropin gives depth and persistence to the note, allowing the perfume’s powdery sweetness to linger on the skin longer than nature alone would permit.

Hydroxycitronellol, a synthetically derived floral aroma compound, extends the lifespan of the lily-like tones, while phenylethyl alcohol—rosy, clean, and soft—anchors the whole bouquet in an elegant, classic harmony.

As the florals gently fade, the base reveals a layered composition rich in natural resins, rare animalic tinctures, and earthy warmth. Roman chamomile oil is the first to peek through, grassy and herbal with a calming apple-like sweetness, acting as a bridge between the florals and the deeper woods. Indonesian patchouli adds its unmistakable dark, earthy richness—tempered, not overwhelming—its dryness creating a counterpoint to the sweeter elements.

Then comes Mysore sandalwood, creamy, velvety, and hauntingly soft. This prized Indian variety, now endangered and rarely used, lends an elegance that synthetic sandalwood cannot replicate. It’s entwined with Tibetan musk tincture, natural and intimate, whose slightly dirty warmth grounds the floralcy in the animal realm. Abyssinian civet tincture and Abyssinian ambergris tincture follow—natural animalic notes so rare today that their inclusion makes Beloved unmistakably vintage. The ambergris, salty and sweet, adds lift and radiance to the base, while civet deepens the sensuality, never overpowering but always present.

Resins and balsams then unfold in turn: Madagascar vanilla infusion and vanillin bring softness and gourmand warmth; Siam benzoin and South American tolu balsam contribute a rich, sweet resinousness with faint cinnamon undertones. Spanish cistus labdanum gives leathery, amber-like heft. Sudanese myrrh and Yemeni opoponax (sweet myrrh) are bitter and honeyed, spiritual and smoky—adding ancient gravitas to the composition. These balsams coat the skin like a prayer, lingering for hours.

Finally, a thread of Virginian tobacco absolute lends a warm, dry, husky edge—evoking sun-cured leaves and antique wooden boxes. The final whisper of Venezuelan tonka bean and coumarin brings a soft hay-like sweetness, the last sigh of warmth before the perfume fades to memory.

Beloved is not a simple fragrance. It is constructed with the care of a fine tapestry—every thread, whether natural or synthetic, chosen to highlight the others. It evokes not only flowers, but the places they grow, the hands that tend them, and the rituals of beauty and romance that surround them. This perfume speaks not of passing trends, but of something cherished and enduring—just as its name promises.

Bottles:

The perfume was housed in the lovely azure blue crown flacons.  

 

Fate of the Fragrance:

Beloved by Prince Matchabelli was introduced in 1950, during a time when postwar optimism and the glamour of femininity were taking center stage in both fashion and fragrance. Advertised as a soft, warm, and sweet floral bouquet with Mediterranean blossoms layered over an exotic Oriental base, Beloved captured the romantic spirit of its era with an evocative name and composition designed to stir deep emotional resonance.

The launch of Beloved reflected the sensibilities of the early 1950s—a period that emphasized grace, gentleness, and traditional romantic ideals after the upheaval of World War II. Women were once again embracing tailored silhouettes, soft pastel palettes, and fragrances that conveyed both elegance and inner warmth. A perfume like Beloved, with its lush florals and warm, resinous base, was perfectly suited to this atmosphere of refined femininity.

While it is unclear exactly when Beloved was discontinued, documentation confirms that it was still available as late as 1974, making it a fixture in Prince Matchabelli's fragrance lineup for at least two decades. Its longevity on the market indicates a steady popularity, likely due to its classic structure and enduring emotional appeal.

Today, bottles of Beloved—particularly those with original packaging—are sought after by collectors of vintage perfume. Not only does the fragrance represent a carefully crafted olfactory blend typical of mid-century perfumery, but it also serves as a nostalgic touchstone for those who remember the romantic promise conveyed by its name.

Ave Maria by Prince Matchabelli (1926)

Launched in 1926, Ave Maria by Prince Matchabelli was more than a fragrance—it was a deeply personal homage, a fragrant prayer composed in honor of the prince’s wife, Norina Gilli, known on stage as Maria Carmi. The name Ave Maria, Latin for “Hail Mary,” is pronounced AH-vay mah-REE-ah and is instantly recognized around the world as the opening line of one of the most famous Catholic prayers. By naming the fragrance after this sacred phrase, Prince Matchabelli signaled a composition of reverence and elevation—what he described as a “lovely prayer in perfume.” The inspiration came directly from Norina’s celebrated portrayal of the Madonna in Max Reinhardt’s mystical stage production The Miracle—a role so moving that Georges Matchabelli felt compelled to immortalize her performance in scent.

The name Ave Maria evokes powerful and layered imagery: candlelit chapels filled with incense, stained glass windows glowing in quiet reverence, and the serene beauty of the Virgin figure adorned in flowing robes and lilies. But it also carries emotional weight—purity, love, longing, and spiritual awakening. To wear a perfume called Ave Maria in the 1920s would have meant something more than just a choice of fragrance; it was a poetic gesture, a quiet declaration of inner grace or idealized femininity. At a time when women were exploring newfound freedoms and expressing their identity through beauty and fashion, this scent offered a uniquely introspective, almost sacred kind of glamour.

The perfume emerged during the height of the Roaring Twenties—a decade marked by liberation, spectacle, and a shifting social landscape. The world was changing rapidly: jazz filled the air, women had recently won the right to vote, and beauty became a form of self-expression like never before. Fashion favored sleek silhouettes, dramatic makeup, and bold accessories, and perfumery responded with complex, long-lasting scents that mirrored this modern woman’s confidence and sophistication. But within this swirl of hedonism and forward motion, Ave Maria offered something deeper—a counterbalance of spirituality, theatrical mysticism, and emotional resonance.

Queen of Georgia by Prince Matchabelli (1926)

Launched in 1926, Queen of Georgia by Prince Matchabelli is a perfume steeped in both personal heritage and ancient legend. The name was chosen to honor Queen Tamar, the revered monarch who ruled Georgia in the 12th century during what is now called the Georgian Golden Age. Known for her extraordinary intellect, beauty, and political acumen, Queen Tamar’s reign ushered in a cultural renaissance—a time when poetry, art, and architecture flourished under her wise and confident rule. For Prince Georges Matchabelli, himself a Georgian nobleman and former diplomat, creating a fragrance in her honor was more than symbolic—it was a tribute to the very spirit of his homeland and to a queen whose leg,acy embodied the ideal of feminine strength and sovereign elegance.

The name Queen of Georgia carries a regal, almost mythic resonance. The title evokes a majestic figure—draped in silk and gold, standing at the crossroads of East and West. The word "queen" suggests power and poise, while "Georgia" conjures a place of mountains, monasteries, and ancient traditions—a land shaped by both Orthodox spirituality and Silk Road intrigue. Emotionally, the name calls forth reverence, pride, and a sense of timeless allure. It stirs images of a woman not only adored for her beauty but respected for her wisdom—an inspiration for modern women seeking both elegance and empowerment.

The late 1920s, when this perfume debuted, was a period of cultural energy and change. It was the tail end of the Roaring Twenties, a decade defined by liberation, glamour, and a fascination with the exotic. Women were cutting their hair, shortening their skirts, and redefining femininity on their own terms. In perfumery, this era gave rise to bold innovations—most notably the use of aldehydes, which added a sparkling, abstract quality to floral compositions, as famously seen in Chanel No. 5. At the same time, oriental perfumes—rich with resins, spices, and incense—were gaining popularity, reflecting a fascination with faraway lands and ancient mysticism.

Queen of Babylon by Prince Matchabelli (1928)

Queen of Babylon by Prince Matchabelli, launched in 1928 alongside its sister scent Queen of the Nile, emerged during an era when exoticism, ancient empires, and cinematic grandeur captivated the Western imagination. The name Queen of Babylon was a deliberate invocation of one of the most mythic and mysterious civilizations of the ancient world—Babylon, the fabled city of Mesopotamia, known for its splendor, decadence, and intrigue. Babylon had long been immortalized in biblical tales, historical texts, and Romantic art, and by the 1920s, it also enjoyed a prominent place in popular culture, with lavish Hollywood epics and grand stage productions bringing its mythical past to life. Films like Intolerance (1916), which depicted the fall of Babylon in opulent detail, left an indelible impression and likely helped shape public fascination with such themes.

By choosing the name Queen of Babylon, Matchabelli evoked an aura of power, sensuality, and transgression. The title conjures images of opulent palaces, cascading jewels, and a woman of formidable beauty—possibly Semiramis, the legendary Assyrian queen often (though incorrectly) associated with Babylon, who was mythologized as a powerful and seductive ruler. The word “Babylon” had by this time become synonymous with exotic excess and moral ambiguity, thanks in part to religious interpretations and popular media. Thus, describing the fragrance as “just a bit wicked” was a playful nod to this legacy—offering modern women a scent that suggested mystery, allure, and a delicious sense of rule-breaking sophistication.

Launched during the twilight of the Roaring Twenties, Queen of Babylon reflected the spirit of its time: a decade shaped by jazz-age rebellion, flapper fashion, and a marked shift toward liberated femininity. The 1920s woman was leaving behind Victorian restraint and stepping into modernity with daring hemlines, bobbed hair, and a newfound independence. Perfume, during this era, became an essential part of a woman's expression of self—no longer merely a luxury, but a symbol of identity. A fragrance with a “spicy and exotic odor” and the provocative name Queen of Babylon would have appealed to the woman who wished to project confidence and allure, to embody a sense of glamour touched with danger.

Princess Norina by Prince Matchabelli (1926)

Launched in 1926, Princess Norina by Prince Matchabelli is one of the earliest and most personal creations from the house, a perfume born not just of artistry but of devotion. Named in honor of the prince’s wife, Eleanora "Norina" Erna Cecilia Gilli—an Italian actress known on stage as Maria Carmi—the fragrance was a romantic tribute. The name "Princess Norina" blends her nickname, Norina, with the noble title bestowed upon her through marriage. It’s pronounced PRIN-sess Nor-EE-nah. Though not a princess by birth, she was elevated through love and title—an actress turned royal consort—and the perfume reflects that transformation: theatrical, elegant, and full of character.

The name evokes an enchanting mixture of romantic fantasy and real-life nobility. “Princess” carries all the imagery of a storybook heroine—grace, mystery, and the allure of status—while “Norina," meaning "little Eleanora," softens the grandeur with an intimate, personal touch. Together, they conjure the image of a woman who is both adored and admired—someone with presence, depth, and a touch of dramatic flair. The emotions the name stirs are tender yet regal: a sense of intimacy wrapped in luxury, much like the woman it was meant to honor.

The perfume was introduced during the heart of the Roaring Twenties, an era known for its dynamic cultural shifts, artistic innovation, and liberation of women's roles in society. Flapper fashion was at its peak—women wore shorter skirts, bobbed their hair, and stepped into new freedoms with both boldness and style. Perfumes of the time began to reflect this new confidence. While light floral eaux de cologne were still popular, there was a growing appetite for deeper, spicier, more expressive compositions. Perfumery was becoming less about freshness and more about personality.

Princess Marie by Prince Matchabelli (1933)

Princess Marie by Prince Matchabelli was launched in 1933 as a tender tribute to a vanished world and a lost princess—Grand Duchess Maria Nikolaevna of Russia, one of the four daughters of Tsar Nicholas II, born in 1899 and executed in 1918 during the Russian Revolution. The name “Princess Marie” would have been immediately evocative to those familiar with the tragic story of the Romanovs, then only fifteen years past their downfall. It reflected not only nostalgia for imperial splendor, but also a personal connection: Prince Georges V. Matchabelli himself was a Georgian nobleman and former ambassador to Italy for the Imperial Russian court. He was part of that aristocratic diaspora who carried the memory of the Romanovs with them into exile. Naming a perfume Princess Marie was both a poetic memorial and a romantic gesture—an embodiment of innocence, grace, and the poignant glamour of a fallen dynasty.

To women in 1933, Princess Marie would have represented both escapism and refinement. America was in the depths of the Great Depression, and romantic imagery from Old Europe offered a kind of emotional refuge. The name "Princess Marie" evoked youthful charm, courtly elegance, and a wistful nobility. It wasn’t simply a perfume—it was a story, wrapped in memories and royal lace. The scent itself was described as “sweet, spicy, with a whiff of carnation,” and also as “witty, teasing, aloof—the freshness after rainfall,” suggesting an airy floral spiced with character, not cloying but playful, elusive, and haunting. A bouquet of pinks—likely referring to dianthus or carnations—was at its heart, giving it a piquant, peppery lift.

Potpourri by Prince Matchabelli (1940)

In 1940, Prince Matchabelli introduced a fragrance that marked a subtle yet notable departure from its traditionally aristocratic image. Named Potpourri, this perfume ventured into new olfactory territory. Rather than the refined florals or stately aldehydic compositions typically associated with the house, Potpourri conjured something more rustic and warm—an aromatic homage to early American domestic life. The decision to name a perfume Potpourri may have seemed curious at first, but within the cultural and historical context of the time, it was a shrewd and evocative choice.

The word “potpourri” comes from French, derived from the older Spanish olla podrida, meaning “rotten pot” or “stew.” In French usage, however, pot-pourri came to describe a blend of dried, scented plant materials—typically petals, herbs, and spices—placed in bowls or sachets to perfume the air. Pronounced as “poe-poo-REE,” the word evokes images of cozy parlors, mahogany furniture, linen cupboards, and the comforting scent of a house carefully tended. It brings forth a sensory blend of old roses, warm spices, faded lavender sachets, and the dried remnants of a summer garden. The emotional tone is one of nostalgia, warmth, and a cultivated domestic femininity.

The scent itself, classified as a spicy floral oriental, mirrored this imagery. Descriptions of Potpourri highlight “roses, shy dark violets, and spice,” followed by a warm, woodsy dry down. It was said to contain lavender, verbena, pinks (dianthus), stocks, and mignonette—ingredients that evoke the very materials women once dried for sachets and stored among fine linens. The perfume was a bottled version of an 18th-century pastime, made modern for the women of 1940.

The early 1940s was a time of great cultural transition. The world stood at the threshold of the Second World War. In the United States, while the country had not yet officially entered the war, the national mood was increasingly reflective and patriotic. In this climate, there was a renewed fascination with America's Colonial heritage. A romanticized vision of early American life—often centered around domestic rituals, handcrafted furnishings, and natural materials—permeated fashion, home decor, and popular culture. This movement manifested in reproduction maple furniture, handwoven textiles, hand-blown glass, and, naturally, perfumes.

Katherine the Great by Prince Matchabelli (1935)

Katherine the Great by Prince Matchabelli, launched in 1935, was more than a perfume—it was a romanticized homage to grandeur, passion, and power. Inspired by the Empress Catherine II of Russia, known to history as Catherine the Great, the fragrance was created in response to a promise. According to contemporary accounts and a widely shared anecdote, the Prince had previously created a perfume for Grace Moore, a celebrated soprano and actress, lauded for her talent and fiery temperament. When his rumored romantic interest, Katharine Hepburn, discovered that Moore had received such an honor, she reportedly stopped the car she was driving and ordered him to “Get out!”—a jealous flare-up that prompted Matchabelli to promise he would one day create a fragrance that captured her own essence. But, he added, it would be "difficult, very difficult." From that dramatic exchange, Katherine the Great was born, its name a tribute both to the formidable Russian empress and the fiery American actress.

The name “Katherine the Great” evokes images of icy palaces, gleaming uniforms, courtly opulence, and a ruler whose intellect and charisma made her one of the most powerful women in history. In the perfume’s original publicity, the narrative takes the listener back to the 18th century: Catherine, newly crowned ruler of Russia, rides among her troops, regal and victorious, when a young soldier steps forward and offers her his sword knot. That moment, echoing chivalric legends, was likened to Raleigh laying his cloak for Elizabeth or Galahad before the Grail. The soldier becomes Grigory Potemkin—her lover, co-ruler, and the embodiment of a sweeping, enduring passion. This theatrical storytelling was typical of Prince Matchabelli’s romantic approach to perfumery, blending biography, drama, and fantasy into every drop.

Launched during the mid-1930s—at the tail end of the Great Depression but still within the glamorous confines of Hollywood’s golden age—Katherine the Great spoke directly to a generation of women who looked to royalty and film stars for escapism, identity, and aspiration. The era’s fashions were richly feminine: bias-cut gowns, structured furs, velvet evening coats, and metallic brocades. Perfume played a critical role in self-presentation, offering not only scent but narrative and status. A woman wearing Katherine the Great was cloaking herself in the mystique of Russian majesty, channeling the boldness of an empress and the allure of a silver-screen siren.

Golden Autumn by Prince Matchabelli (1958)

Golden Autumn by Prince Matchabelli was launched in 1958, completing a poetic olfactory cycle that included the earlier Spring Fancy and Summer Shower—fragrances intended to evoke the moods of their respective seasons. With Golden Autumn, the brand rounded out the year with a composition inspired by fall’s particular richness and introspective beauty. Its packaging featured a flame-orange leaf, symbolizing the warmth and color of the changing season, and it debuted in stores on September 12, 1958, just in time for the shift in temperature and wardrobe. The choice of name—Golden Autumn—immediately conjures images of leaves in brilliant hues, crisp breezes, soft wool sweaters, and the earthy scent of forests preparing for dormancy. It's a phrase that evokes nostalgia, tranquility, and the reflective stillness of late afternoons bathed in golden light.

The late 1950s marked the end of a post-war decade defined by structure, optimism, and elegance. It was a time when women embraced tailored silhouettes, ladylike sophistication, and a growing independence in self-presentation. Fragrance followed suit. The era saw an increasing demand for perfumes that could be worn daily—sophisticated but approachable, fashionably in tune with the seasons. Golden Autumn tapped into that shift by offering something more nuanced than the standard floral fare. Where summer scents were fresh and airy, and spring florals soft and youthful, Golden Autumn introduced complexity. It invited wearers to embrace a cooler mood—thoughtful, warm, and grounded.