Hahna by Rosine, launched in 1919, occupies a delicate space between exotic fantasy and modern olfactory storytelling. The name “Hahna” is thought to be a stylized interpretation of the Japanese word hana (花), meaning “flower.” It's pronounced “HAH-nah.” Though the spelling is Frenchified, the word evokes a sense of East Asian delicacy and mystery—an exoticism that fascinated European fashion and perfume circles at the time. It conjures images of distant gardens, moonlit water lilies, and veiled courtyards rich with the scent of uncommon blossoms.
Poiret’s choice of name, and the dual subtitles “L’Étrange Fleur” (The Strange Flower) and later “La Fleur Secrète” (The Secret Flower), point to the fantasy-driven Orientalism that permeated postwar French design. In the aftermath of World War I, 1919 marked the start of Les Années Folles—the French equivalent of the Roaring Twenties—a period of cultural reinvention and luxurious escapism. Women were emerging from the austerity of wartime, embracing shorter skirts, bobbed hair, and modern freedom. Perfume, like fashion, turned outward toward the exotic: distant lands, mystical flora, and sensual freedom. Poiret, long a proponent of Eastern influences in fashion and fragrance, capitalized on this sensibility.
Created by Henri Alméras, Hahna was classified as a green floral oriental—a unique hybrid for the period. While many perfumes of the early 20th century leaned toward either powdery florals or heavy orientals, Hahna floated somewhere between: fresh, luminous, and green, yet underscored by sensuality. A 1924 Rosine advertisement described it evocatively: “The perfume of damp mosses, of early blooms and shoots unfolding, near the bright waters amongst the mint and thyme. One dreams of the early awakening of spring, the buoyant dash and brilliance of the first fine days.” The fantasy deepens with the mention of ylang ylang or enchanted lotus, likened to a blossom from The Thousand & One Nights—adding a magical, mythical layer to the composition.
For the women of the era, a perfume like Hahna would have symbolized mystery and femininity untamed by convention. It was described as light and youthful, “a blending of many flowers,” suggesting it was marketed to modern young women—those stepping away from Victorian rigidity and toward personal expression through scent. In the context of its time, Hahna was a distinctive creation. It didn’t simply follow the floral or chypre trends popular in the 1910s and 1920s—it fused elements of both, offering a fresh narrative grounded in poetic imagery, global references, and a reverence for nature’s more elusive blooms.
Rosine advertisement, 1924:
"Parfum d'Hahna, L'Etrange Fleur. The perfume of damp mosses, of early blooms and shoots unfolding, near the bright waters amongst the mint and thyme. One dreams of the early awakening of spring, the buoyant dash and brilliance of the first fine days. A selection of Poiret's from the Parfums Rosine."
Scent Profile:
Hahna opens like a flower discovered by brushing aside its leaves. Rosine’s advertising imagined it as a magical ylang-ylang or an enchanted lotus from The Thousand and One Nights, while another description presented it as a light bouquet suited to a younger wearer. Both impressions come through in the supplied notes. The citrus and crushed greenery give this green floral oriental an airy opening, and even the richer flowers seem to have space around them. The deeper mystery arrives slowly, as frankincense and musk begin to show through the petals. The advertising’s jasper lends the bouquet the imagined coolness of polished stone, while its whisper of arbutus suggests a trace of woodland greenery. The following description interprets the supplied note pyramid and its listed origins.
Aldehyde C-6, or hexanal, gives the first breath the vivid smell of a blade of grass snapped between your fingers, with a slight suggestion of green apple skin. It sharpens the leafy edges of Calabrian bergamot, whose peel has the tartness of citrus and a floral bitterness reminiscent of Earl Grey tea. Reggio Calabria is a historic center for bergamot oil, and its local peel oil has a protected designation of origin. Amalfi lemon is brighter and more direct, like the fragrant spray released when you twist a strip of thick yellow rind. The coast’s distinctive Sfusato Amalfitano cultivar is valued for that aromatic peel. Seville sweet orange, taking the note listing’s “sweet” at face value, supplies a rounder, juicier zest, like the peel of an orange just opened at the table. The wording is unusual because Seville orange conventionally denotes bitter orange, whose peel would give this passage a drier, marmalade-like edge.
The fragrance moves from the fruit into the tree itself. Paraguayan petitgrain, distilled from bitter-orange leaves and twigs, smells like a crushed glossy leaf with a little dry wood still attached. Paraguay’s oil is a classic perfumery grade with a characteristic interplay of leafy bitterness and soft floral sweetness. Neroli, distilled from the blossoms, carries the same tree’s scent upward into something brighter and airier, with white petals, fresh zest and a faint green edge. Linalool adds a clean floral freshness with a touch of lavender, while linalyl acetate gives that freshness a softer, lightly fruity lift. Both occur naturally in materials such as bergamot and petitgrain. Used as individual aroma materials, they can amplify the floral side of the citrus and let the leaves, peel and blossom seem to unfold in one breath.
Persian galbanum cuts across that softness with the bitter smell of sap welling from a broken stem. The Iranian gum resin brings a pungent, almost peppery greenness that gives the green accord depth beneath its fresher impression of crushed foliage. Mediterranean thyme smells like a small sprig rubbed between warm palms, dry and savory with a prickle that can range from medicinal to gently floral depending on the oil. Moroccan mint reads as cool, sweet and freshly bruised. The origin alone leaves the mint species open, though a spearmint-like interpretation gives it the soft sweetness of a fresh leaf. Against those herbs, the Chinese lotus accord suggests a pale, moist petal just above the water, with a little creamy sweetness at its center. Natural lotus extracts exist, and an accord allows a perfumer to shape the dewy impression of the living flower. Almond adds the pale sweetness of ground kernels, with a possible bitter-almond or cherry-stone edge of the kind benzaldehyde can give. Cassie, the fragrant acacia blossom, warms that sweetness with yellow pollen, powder and a faintly leathery, almost animalic shadow.
Geranium first carries the greenery into the bouquet. Its scent recalls a rose petal crushed with its leaf, with a cool, faintly minty edge. Grasse jasmine absolute opens behind it, honeyed and warm, with the suggestion of ripe fruit and a trace of the musky scent that white flowers give off after dark. Grasse rose de mai absolute smells of densely layered May rose petals, with soft honey and a little fruit where the petals are bruised. Grasse’s distinction lies in its long cultivation and extraction traditions for jasmine and Rosa centifolia. The May rose’s rounded, petal-rich sweetness also gives a point of comparison with the often brighter, spicier character of Damask rose from Turkey or Bulgaria. Phenylethyl alcohol, a molecule naturally present in rose and also available synthetically, smells like fresh rose petals steeped in cool water. It lifts the fresh, rosy part of the absolute and lets it carry through the heavier jasmine.
Tunisian orange blossom absolute brings back the flower introduced by neroli, now smelling fuller and warmer, like white petals with honey caught at their base. Tunisia is an established source for bitter-orange blossom, and here the difference you would smell most clearly is between the richer solvent-extracted absolute and the more airy distilled neroli. Portuguese tuberose absolute lends the bouquet the scent of thick ivory petals, creamy and honeyed, with a cool green breath above their sweetness. French carnation absolute has a quieter floral warmth with a peppery, clove-like edge. France has a historical tradition of extracting carnation, and the Portuguese designation supplies a provenance for the tuberose. The waxy, honeyed facets belong to the flower more broadly, and a regional comparison would depend on the extracts themselves.
The spices make the carnation seem freshly opened. Zanzibar clove bud oil gives the sweet, hot fragrance released by cracking a dried clove, with a darker, almost medicinal edge. Zanzibar’s association with clove comes from its long trade in the dried flower buds, and the bud oil supplies an aromatic fullness distinct from the starker clove-leaf effect. Ceylon cinnamon leaf oil, from Sri Lanka’s true cinnamon tree, adds a greener, more pointed clove-like heat. Its eugenol-rich leaf oil has a different character from the sweet, woody warmth of cinnamon bark. Jamaican nutmeg oil brings a drier, rounder warmth, like nutmeg just grated, with a faintly woody, peppery freshness. The Jamaican designation places it in the Caribbean spice trade. Its particular balance of wood, sweetness and spice would vary with the oil.
A honeysuckle accord gives the impression of drawing a drop of nectar from the base of a blossom, sweet and airy with a suggestion of green vine. Lily of the valley smells cooler, like small white bells in damp shade, faintly sweet with a crisp green freshness. Because the living flower yields no practical commercial essence that faithfully captures that scent, perfumers typically build it as a muguet accord. Hydroxycitronellal gives it the radiant, softly dewy quality that makes the bells seem to hover above the denser flowers. Comoros ylang-ylang then comes through with creamy yellow petals, a little ripe banana and a heady sweetness that lingers after the first breath. The Comoros are known for distilling the flowers in successive fractions. Early cuts can be particularly floral and fruity, while later ones generally bring more weight and woodiness. The listed origin leaves the grade open.
Tuscan violet leaf cools the ylang with the wet, slightly metallic smell of crushed leaves and freshly cut cucumber. Ionone supplies the impression of violet petals, softly powdery and faintly woody. The exact shade depends on the ionone used, but its role here is easy to imagine. It lets the green violet leaf seem to have a flower above it and picks up the violet-like scent of Florentine orris below. The Tuscan orris tradition centers on cured iris rhizomes, whose scent develops as they age. They smell of cool powder, dry roots and a faintly buttery sweetness. Mignonette adds a small, honeyed breath of green flowers, with the suggestion of pollen and the mild spice of a garden at dusk. Natural mignonette extracts have been made, although the flowers give very little distilled oil.
Heliotropin, also called piperonal, gives the first warmth of the base a soft almond-and-vanilla powderiness. It draws the almond of the opening down into the orris and makes the transition from petals to resins feel gradual. Austrian oakmoss settles under it like damp bark and dry leaves, with a cool, slightly inky bitterness. Oakmoss is a lichen, and the Austrian designation places the material in a Central European sourcing context. The smell itself also depends on the harvest and extraction. Ambergris lends the base an airy, saline warmth, like sun-warmed driftwood with a faint animal sweetness. Indian ambrette seed brings a gentler musk with a suggestion of pear skin and a drop of brandy. The Indian material comes from the aromatic seeds of a musk mallow, and its fruity, seedlike warmth gives the musk a botanical texture. Tibetan musk, in the historical vocabulary of perfumery, suggests the deep, warm, faintly leathery scent associated with musk deer. Musk ketone, a synthetic nitro musk, softens that impression into a lasting, sweet powderiness, carrying the musk through the orris and heliotropin.
Haitian vetiver smells of dry roots pulled from the earth, with pepper, a trace of smoke and a lift reminiscent of grapefruit peel. Haitian grades can have a brighter edge than the more emphatically smoky, leathery oils associated with Java. Vetiveryl acetate, made by acetylating alcohols from vetiver oil, smooths the roots into a drier, more polished woody scent while leaving the natural oil’s earthiness perceptible underneath. Mysore sandalwood, historically associated with Karnataka in southern India, gives the base a creamy, almost milky woodiness, like warm wood rubbed smooth by years of handling. That softness is characteristic of Santalum album, rich in santalols. The Australian native Santalum spicatum generally gives a drier, greener impression.
Venezuelan tonka bean smells of warm hay, crushed almond and the faint sweetness of good pipe tobacco. Venezuela belongs to tonka’s traditional northern South American growing region. Coumarin, naturally abundant in tonka and also made synthetically, brings the smell of drying hay into clearer focus and lets it linger after the bean’s richer nuances recede. Madagascar vanilla supplies the scent of a dark, pliable cured pod, sweet and creamy with a faint woody depth. Madagascar is a major source of Bourbon-style Vanilla planifolia, whose familiar rounded sweetness develops during curing. Vanillin, the principal molecule behind that recognizable vanilla smell, adds a clearer, more sustained sweetness, allowing the pod’s softer woody facets to show around it.
The amber accord gathers that warmth into a soft resinous glow. Spanish labdanum, from the resinous rockrose Cistus ladanifer, adds the scent of sun-heated scrub, sticky sap and worn leather. Levantine styrax, the balsam of the Oriental sweetgum, adds a darker sweetness with hints of cinnamon and soft smoke. Siam benzoin, a historical trade name for the sweet resin of Styrax tonkinensis, brings a creamy, vanilla-like warmth. It tends to smell softer and sweeter than the smokier Sumatra type. Finally, frankincense rises through the balsams with a dry lemon-peel brightness, a suggestion of pine resin and the airy trace of incense just after it has burned. That last resinous breath recalls the citrus at the opening. By then the flowers have faded into a soft impression of violet powder, warm skin and musk, with the frankincense still discernible above them.
In 1927, La Revue des Marques de la Parfumerie et de la Savonnerie captured the spirit and success of Les Parfums de Rosine with reverent admiration, noting the house's rise over "fifteen springs" into one of the most distinguished Parisian perfumeries. What began as an artistic endeavor under the direction of couturier Paul Poiret had, by 1925, evolved into a formally independent enterprise—an industrial and commercial response to the growing demand for its fragrances. While the company was restructured, Poiret remained at its creative helm, contributing his unmistakable artistic sensibility and refined taste to each new olfactory creation.
The publication emphasizes that every Rosine fragrance represented not just a perfume, but a success—an aesthetic and emotional triumph. Citing notable creations such as Nuit de Chine, Toute la Forêt, Qui êtes-vous?, Avenue du Bois, Hahna (subtitled The Secret Flower), Arlequinade, and Maharadjah, the piece underscores the originality and luxury of both the scents and their presentations. Each perfume was imagined as a complete experience—visually distinctive, emotionally resonant, and evocative of a world shaped by Poiret's theatrical flair.
The review concludes with a bold yet telling statement: “No woman today is insensitive to Parfums de Rosine.” In this, we see the brand's impact not only on fragrance design but on the modern woman’s relationship to scent. Rosine perfumes were not simply accessories—they were expressions of individuality, fantasy, sensuality, and fashion. At a time when perfumery was still defining its modern identity, Les Parfums de Rosine stood out as a house that dared to surprise, delight, and stir emotion through every bottle.
Bottles:
The presentation of Hahna by Les Parfums de Rosine was as evocative and carefully considered as the fragrance itself, underscoring Paul Poiret's fusion of perfumery with haute couture artistry. This perfume came in several sizes, tailored to suit both the discerning collector and the casual enthusiast: a delicate ½ oz bottle, a slightly larger ¾ oz version, and a luxurious deluxe edition holding 1 ⅔ oz. Each was crafted to be as visually appealing as the scent it held, offering a tactile sense of exoticism and elegance.
The standard flacon was a square-shaped clear crystal bottle, refined in its form yet richly detailed. Molded floral motifs adorned the glass, artfully treated with a reserve finish that left the blossoms frosted in soft relief against the smooth, transparent body—an interplay of texture and light that gave the impression of dew-covered petals caught in morning mist. The bottle was crowned with a striking red Bakelite cap, carefully fashioned to resemble a piece of polished red coral, lending an Eastern flair and nodding to Poiret’s fascination with the aesthetics of the Far East.
This bottle was nestled inside a square presentation box, sheathed in coral-hued chromolithographed paper printed with stylized Japanese floral motifs and false ideograms. The gold-gilded paper shimmered subtly under the light, evoking the lacquered finish of a Chinese jewelry box or an Edo-period screen. Inside, the perfume flacon rested in a bed of white satin—a fitting contrast to the vivid exterior and a luxurious cradle for the bottle. The design spoke not just to wealth or beauty, but to an entire world of fantasy and distant lands, aligned with Poiret’s love for Orientalist themes.
As described in the Oregon News in 1920: “Hahna, L’Etrange Fleur, Rosine, Paris, France,” says a flagon of gold and red and this same ‘strange flower’ is in a Chinese kind of box of lacquered gold with flower decorations.” That journalistic description affirms the exoticism and allure of the packaging, which was as much a part of the fragrance's identity as the scent itself. Like a rare bloom pressed between silk pages, Hahna was presented not simply as a perfume, but as a treasured object—delightfully mysterious, unmistakably luxurious, and entirely in keeping with the romantic escapism of the 1920s.
The deluxe edition of Hahna by Les Parfums de Rosine exemplified the luxurious and theatrical spirit Paul Poiret infused into all his creations. While the standard version came in clear crystal with frosted floral reliefs, this elevated presentation featured a square-shaped flacon crafted from either silvered metal or gold-toned biscuit, gleaming with a subtle metallic luster. The bottle was decorated in reserve with a delicate pattern of stamped flowers, giving the surface a sense of ornate texture and visual movement, much like a pressed brocade or repoussé panel. The result was not only a perfume bottle, but an objet d’art—a tactile embodiment of Poiret’s opulent aesthetic.
Despite the change in material, the bottle form mirrored that of the crystal edition, preserving the square silhouette and rounded shoulders that gave it a balanced, architectural presence. It retained the striking red Bakelite cap, fashioned to resemble polished coral, offering a vivid contrast to the gilded or silvery body. This exotic detail echoed the perfume’s subtitle L’Étrange Fleur—“The Strange Flower”—hinting at faraway lands and mysterious blooms. The entire presentation stood approximately 8.5 cm tall, compact but radiant in presence.
Contemporary advertisements captured the allure of the perfume and its exquisite flacon. As reported by The Gazette Times in 1924:
“Paris sends us these alluring perfumes, created by Rosine, a master perfumer. Only French genius can produce such distinctive odeurs, contained in artistic flasks, charmingly packaged... Arlequinade, in gold decorated flask, with red tassel. $25. Hahna, L’Etrange Fleur in a gold finished bottle. $22.”
Such descriptions underline how Poiret’s perfumes were positioned as luxury objects, accessible yet exclusive—French fashion and fantasy captured in a bottle.
This deluxe bottle would have been cherished not only for its contents, but for the elegant craftsmanship of its design. It reflected the convergence of Art Deco sophistication, Japonisme, and theatrical flair—trademarks of Poiret’s work. With its golden finish and stylized floral motifs, the bottle echoed the perfume’s green floral oriental character and its romantic theme of “the secret flower,” conjuring mystery and springtime in equal measure.
Hahna was also presented in a standard omnibus flacon that was used for other Rosine fragrances. It was a less expensive version, made up of clear crystal and fitted with a green glass button stopper. The red paper label is identical to the one used on the other Hahna bottles. These perfume bottles were produced by French glass manufacturer Lefebure.
In a glowing 1927 tribute titled La parfumerie française et l'art dans la présentation, the world of Les Parfums de Rosine was framed not merely as a perfumery, but as a poetic and sensorial universe shaped by Paul Poiret’s artistic genius. The article opens with a reflection on the name “Rosine”—so delicate, so perfectly suited to a house devoted to fragrance. Born of the rose, queen of flowers, Rosine was also the name of Poiret’s daughter, and her name became the symbol for a perfume line that would, fittingly, elevate the most feminine and ethereal aspects of scent. One could almost imagine, the writer muses, that Poiret designed his daughter and the house of Rosine with the same aesthetic hand, each as an extension of the other.
The article marvels at how, after reshaping the silhouette of women’s fashion with his revolutionary garments, Poiret turned his talents toward perfume. He brought with him a painter’s eye and a poet’s instinct, understanding instinctively that “perfumes, colors and tones respond to each other.” Even the catalog of Les Parfums de Rosine is described as a work of art—each perfume a story, every name an invitation to dream. To read it, the author insists, is to step into a world of romance and imagination.
Le Minaret is described as transporting the wearer into a harem, with its Turkish-styled casing and the languid sensuality of silken cushions and sultanas in repose. Toute la Forêt evokes deep woodlands alive with damp moss, mushrooms, and the earthy chase of mythic fauns and nymphs. La Nuit de Chine offers intrigue—a “troubling and topical problem” awaiting discovery, while Borgia conjures Venetian nights filled with passion, crime, and drama, still scented with night-blooming flowers and ancient tapestries. Le Fruit Défendu—The Forbidden Fruit—needs no explanation; its psychological allure is immediate and timeless, calling out to every woman with the whispered promise of mystery and indulgence.
No matter the name—be it Hahna, l’Étrange Fleur, Bosquet d’Apollo, Antinea, or Arlequinade—the author assures readers that the perfumes are composed with “the most fragrant flowers, the most delicate balms,” each one meant to draw the wearer into a reverie, a dream where the senses are sweetly overcome.
The article concludes with a nod to the Rosine factory itself, praised for its cutting-edge equipment and modernity. But more than machinery, what sets Rosine apart is its vision—one in which fragrance, bottle, name, and story all unite in perfect harmony. Each perfume is not just worn; it is experienced. It is this union of art, scent, and storytelling that made Rosine, in the eyes of 1920s Paris, not just a perfumery, but a dream factory for the senses.
Fate of the Fragrance:
Launched in 1919, Hahna by Les Parfums de Rosine was one of Paul Poiret’s more poetic and enigmatic creations. Subtitled both L’Étrange Fleur (“The Strange Flower”) and later La Fleur Secrète (“The Secret Flower”), it offered an imaginative olfactory portrait of an otherworldly bloom—a fragrance described as evoking early spring shoots near mint-scented waters, steeped in the freshness of thyme and unfolding petals. It reflected not just the exoticism and fantasy that defined Poiret’s design language, but also his deep interest in storytelling through scent.
Although Hahna was initially well received, like many perfumes in Rosine’s catalog, it eventually fell victim to the financial difficulties the company faced as the decade progressed. When Les Parfums de Rosine ceased operations in 1930, Hahna—along with many other fragrances—was discontinued. Yet, the stock that remained was not discarded. Instead, it was sold at significantly reduced prices, making once-luxurious scents more accessible to a wider audience. These discounted bottles continued to circulate through department stores and specialty shops throughout the 1930s. Records indicate that even as late as 1940, consumers could still find Hahna on shelves, a delicate echo of the fragrance’s former prestige.
These clearance sales marked the final chapter for Hahna, whose legacy now survives primarily through its exquisite bottle designs, advertisements, and poetic descriptions found in period publications. It remains a fragrant relic of the Rosine house’s golden years—one of those rare perfumes that managed to blend modern artistry with timeless dreamscape.
