There is a universal idea in England, shared even by the travelled, that the sea bathing of France is superior to ours. I think this only means that we find it more amusing to bathe in French than in English surrounding, for there is really not much in the French bathing arrangements that is worthy of imitation over here. In some French seaside places ╤ Calais, for instance ╤ the arrangements are much the same as ours. One bathes from a machine, as at Margate or anywhere else, and the tide goes out so far that, after a warning shout from outside of ╥Attention, s╒il vous plait!╙ the bather finds himself jolted and bumped over the sand till he is conveyed, with luck, to a depth of three feet of water, beyond which it is only possible to wade after an argument with a presiding Neptune in yellow oilskin, who blows a tin trumpet and screams at any hardy swimmer who is out of his depth. At most places, though, France certainly supplies the little lath-and-canvas hut so highly admired by the English visitor ╤ I suppose because it is distinctly French, and therefore suggestive of summer holidays, for I can think of no better reason. The only difference I can see between the bathing machine and the bathing hut is that the one is movable and the other fixed, and the latter is a doubtful advantage when the hut is placed high up on the beach. I have always found both equally uncomfortable, stuffy and ill-lighted, and I have never been able to understand why neither is improved by the simple method of making the roof of ground glass and inserting a skylight in it. The solitary advantage enjoyed by French over English sea baths resolves itself into the tub of hot water supplied at the former, for which one has to pay twice over, first in the form of a ticket and secondly in that of a tip.
The fact is it is very difficult to make ideal bathing arrangements for the million. The only enjoyable way to bathe is to live on the seashore, use one╒s bedroom for a machine, and swim whenever inclined. I admit this does not meet the requirements of the mass of summer holiday bathers, but, then, I am never really convinced that the summer holiday bathers want to bathe as much as they pretend they do. I am not referring to swimmers; they never bathe in the summer holiday sense. They go out before breakfast without talking about it, and return with an appetite that commands respect for their silence. They do not discuss the state of the water and the temperature, they do not shudder with a fearful joy at the sight of breakers, they do not spend half the morning waiting for a bathing machine with a sneaking hope that they will not get one, and the other half, five minutes subtracted for the bathe, in dressing themselves with numbed fingers. It would be interesting to know how many people can stand shivering on the steps of a bathing machine without wishing it were all over and that they were dry and dressed again. I know the alleged reason for sea-bathing is that it makes you feel so well afterwards; but so does any unpleasant experience, merely by force of contrast. It has never seemed to me an argument for going to prison, for instance. However, the summer holiday world really thinks it likes bathing, and for that reason the dress in which it bathes becomes of some consequence.
In France the quality of the bathing dress is higher than in England, though I have seen as ugly visions at Boulogne as at Folkestone, and as charming ones at Folkestone as at Boulogne. Still, mixed bathing, slowly becoming general over here, has always existed in France, and this has naturally made the French costume of more importance. At the same time some of the best costumes I have seen, on either side of the water, have been worn by Englishwomen;
and I think this is because the Englishwoman, being by instinct more of a sportswoman than her French sister, would not sacrifice utility to appearances quite so much, and at the same time, having once grasped the necessity of being charmingly as well as practically clad in the water, will attain both ideals the more successfully of the two. I do not mean by this that English swimming is necessarily better than French; from what I have seen of both there is little to choose between them, and some of the best diving I ever saw was done at Dieppe, largely by the natives. But there is this difference between them ╤ the Frenchwoman who cannot swim simply does not bother about it; she frankly bathes in a few inches of surf, and spends her time conversing with her friends on the beach. The Englishwoman, on the other hand, always keeps up the fiction that she is there to swim, and, if she can do nothing better, stands with one foot on the ground and does the arm stroke, getting quite a respectable distance by a series of little hops ╤ and deceiving no one. Therefore the least skilful of English bathers has some regard for the practical side of her costume, just as the most skilful of French swimmers has some regard for the appearance of hers. And there is not the least reason why a bathing dress should not be practical as well as becoming. In the shops they are, as a rule, neither one nor the other; and I should strongly advise feminine bathers, if possible, to make their costumes at home. The ready-made dress is nearly always made of serge, a fairly good material for the purpose, as it does not shrink, or cling, or tear; but, even when very fine, wet serge becomes heavy. For bathing in public a dress has to contain so much material that its texture, since it is to be saturated with water, becomes of the first importance. For those who can afford it I should unhesitatingly recommend taffeta silk of the strongest kind. The prettiest and most serviceable bathing-dress I have seen, worn at Dieppe by an English girl, was in black taffeta, and would satisfy every requirement of the woman who wants to swim and look well at the same time. It was light, strong, did not sling, looked the same wet or dry, and dried quickly when exposed to the air. I cannot speak with experience of its wearing possibilities, but this one saw the season out at Dieppe, and taffeta should wear as well as most materials if chosen carefully. We cannot all afford silk costumes, however, and Italian cloth makes a very good substitute. This wears well, I know, retains its glossy appearance when wet, and is not heavy, besides being both cheaper and lighter than serge. I must confess, though, that it is inclined to cling when drenched with water, an objection that cannot be urged against bunting, another excellent material for a bathing costume. Bunting repels rather than holds the water, and although light and loosely woven is as strong as can be desired; in dark blue it is very successful, and the cost is small. I should always be inclined to recommend dark rather than light colours for the water, though red can be effective enough if the wearer can rely upon keeping her colour when bathing.
There is as little variety in the shape as in the material of the ready-made bathing dress, and here, again, it seems as though it had been designed neither for use nor for appearance. It has a flapping sailor collar that clings round the head in the water; it has stuffy, tight sleeves which impede the swimmer by cutting her arms horribly; it is made in two pieces, the bodice and skirt being combined in a shapeless tunic that more than reaches the knee but is not long enough to hide the baggy knickerbockers that protrude below it as in early Victorian pictures of little girls. Now nothing ever devised by a dressmaker could well be more unbecoming than a garment that ends well below the knee; a figure of perfect Greek proportions could not be clothed in it and stand the test. Yet it is so easy to design and make a pretty bathing dress. To begin with, the bodice and knickerbockers should be combined into one garment, fastening on the shoulders; the short circular skirt well gored, should be put on separately. The knickerbockers must end above the knee and the skirt reach to the knee, and not an inch lower. Any disinclination to show the knee can easily be obviated by the wearing of stockings, which is very generally done abroad, and adds a finish to the costume without impeding the swimmer. Sailor collars, even when stitched firmly all round, give a high-shouldered appearance which should be avoided; an ordinary turned-down shirt collar could take its place, or the dress might be finished off round the neck with a narrow feather-stitched band, or with a square opening if preferred, though this latter must fit well to keep out the water during a dive. As to the sleeves, I think nothing can better the very simple one I have always worn and found most comfortable for swimming. It consists of an under-sleeve brought into a band round the arm just above the elbow, and it leaves the upper arm bare from shoulder to elbow. Needless to say, all these hints are intended only for the woman who wants to bathe in public; for the swimmer who can bathe unseen there is nothing better than the regulation racing dress to be bought at athletic outfitters.
The peignoir is another important part of the costume, especially in France, where the walk from the bathing hut to the sea is to be considered. Some people think that a kind of opera cloak without sleeves, made in bath-towelling, is all that is required; but I cannot help thinking that this sort of cloak when wrapped round a dripping figure merely suggests the indoor bath. The best shape is that of the Japanese kimono, and if the cotton material in which this is generally made is considered too limp for the purpose, the shape can easily be copied in something that repels the wet, such as bunting or, better still, the rough house-flannel of which we are now making our walking skirts. Personally I prefer a warm woollen wrap when I come out of the water, and it certainly looks better. As to the colour of the peignoir, it should, if possible, harmonise with the rest of the costume, but this is not very important.
