Long before perfume came in bottles, it came in smoke. The word traces back to the Latin per fumum, "through smoke," from the resins and herbs our ancestors burned to get the gods' attention. Eventually scent wandered from the altar to the body. The Greeks oiled themselves after bathing; the Romans, never ones for half measures, perfumed their skin, their togas, their bedrooms and very possibly the dog.
In the early thirteenth century, a band of Dominican friars arrived in Florence from Bologna and settled just outside the city walls. By 1221 they had herbs growing in the monastery courtyard and were brewing remedies from them: tinctures, balms, scented waters, the medieval equivalent of a very well-stocked bathroom cabinet. When plague swept through Tuscany in the fourteenth century, they distilled rose water to cleanse the sick rooms, which is a good deal more elegant than anything we managed in 2020. By 1612 the pharmacy had opened its doors to the public, and before long its reputation had travelled as far as India and China, rather further than most of us get on a Tuesday.
Then there is Catherine de' Medici. In 1533, aged fourteen, she left Florence to marry the future king of France, and she is said to have packed her own perfumer, along with cooks, pastry chefs and, one imagines, strong opinions about French cooking. The scent made for her, a bright blend of bergamot and citrus, became Acqua della Regina, the Queen's water. It's still the house signature. What we love about the story isn't the crown so much as the nerve: a teenager heading into a foreign court, armed with a fragrance that was entirely, unmistakably hers.
