Two Centuries Too Late

Two Centuries
Too Late

by Paul Himmelein

I wasn’t born yesterday, but I wish I had been. Actually, more like two centuries ago. Not for the overflowing chamber pots or leech–slinging barber–surgeons, but for the finer things: silk–embroidered waistcoats, gilded clocks, enameled snuffboxes, areola–exposing décolletage, the sparkling wit that illuminated salons. The details of a civilized enlightened life.

I’m not so naïve as to think the 18th century was without its downside. Friends are quick to point out the shoddy hygiene, small pox epidemics, elaborate clothing, powdered wigs, duels, guillotines, and the absence of jet setting, TVs, laptops, iPods or YouTube. To me, this doesn’t sound all bad. I say stand and deliver. I’ll hazard the bad with the good. If guaranteed I could choose my class and station, I’d gladly board a Wellsian time machine and beg transport to a handsomer, politer, more sartorially resplendent epoch, something elegant, something around say, 1760.

Now more than ever, quantity and speed is the order of the day, utility the driver, while quality and ornament take a backseat, if they are not locked in the trunk all together. I’d rather have one impeccably tailored French–cuff shirt than ten chain–store button–downs in a poly blend, one perfect croissant with a dab of orange–blossom honey on Sèvres china, than a dozen jelly–filled “donuts” in a cardboard box.

Where are the days when an appointment with the tailor was a gentleman’s most important engagement, rivaling even a rendezvous with his mistress, or when snuff manufacture was a thriving industry? Where are the days when a gentleman would return home, hang up his jacket and slip into his banyan (a precursor to the smoking jacket), looking every bit as dashing behind closed doors as in public? I look about our twenty–first century landscape and see an army of overgrown boys wearing camouflage cargo shorts, ill–fitting shirts, and backpacks. I thought backpacks were for hikers or college students with a Eurail pass, not for 40–something urbanites en route to midtown offices. But what do I know. I don a tailored jacket that allows plenty of linen to show as well as one of my 200 pairs of cufflinks, a handsome tie knotted in a half–Windsor and finish it off with an antique stickpin in my lapel; mother–of–pearl seahorse, mosaic scarab, gold lion’s head or some such bauble.

I’m often greeted with What are you all dressed up for? as if I’ve done something wrong. This is especially true at the office on Fridays. I’ve never understood casual Friday. It seems emblematic of our cavalier society; not wanting to take responsibility for anything—our actions, what we say, not even our appearance. I once suggested establishing a tradition of formal Fridays; black tie—tails optional—piqué shirt, etc. They all had a good laugh since they thought I was joking. I didn’t dare tell them I wish ruffs and jabots would make a comeback. (Thank you, Paul Smith for your efforts.)

It seems every man today is a “Little Rascal” struggling against his mother forcing him into his Sunday best. I don’t understand the impulse to dumb down our language, our dress; we want to slum it 24/7.

To be fair, “slumming” has a noble history. France’s le Bien–Aimé, its Well–Beloved, Louis XV, liked to dress down and go gallivanting like an average John in what we’d call Versailles’ red–light district. Marie Antoinette would slink into Paris incognito whenever she wanted to see an illicit staging of a scandalous play her husband had banned. She even had designed what might be described as Europe’s first theme park, the Hameau, a quaint faux village with working farm where she and her girlfriends could slum it all afternoon; milk cows and play shepherdess, kind of like those two unconscionably famous socialite celebrities enjoying the reality show version of a “simple life.” Dressing down was a way the upper crust could snatch a taste of the forbidden fruits of the demimonde.

More usual, though, was the lower end of society aspiring upward. The thrust was always to dress up. The nascent middle class strove to emulate the aristocracy, often beating them at their own game. Even highwaymen established a practice of upward pretensions, infusing criminality with dandiacal tendencies. In G.W. Pabst’s 1931 film, Three Penny Opera, Mac the Knife cuts a fine figure, more dandy than cutthroat. Even the 70’s street pimp had a foppish flair, not to mention the immaculate silhouette of mobsters from Al Capone to the Dapper Don. But one frumpy day the Godfather’s newest generation mothballed the bespoke three–piece and untucked and unbuttoned. Looking sharp had become dull.

Mark Twain said, “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence in society. ” I don’t know how much longer this will hold true. The sign “Jacket and Tie Required” at restaurants is an admission that things, sartorially speaking, have gone awry. This is trumped only by the sign “Shoes and Shirts Required” at grocery stores. Judging from this signage we are harkening back to the natural state of our primitive ancestors. Perhaps, one day soon we shall all walk naked again.

I make no claim to being the second coming of Beau Brummel. I only want to look my best at all times and surround myself with beautiful things. Admittedly, I am something of an aesthete, a definite liability in this disposable age of plastics, mass production and strip malls. I cannot abide unnatural materials, or slapdash, snap–together machine–made garments.

I say, paper cup be damned! I sip my coffee from pink porcelain with painted cameos of Roman soldiers, circa 1810. I’d never be caught blundering down the sidewalk with a to–go cup in one hand and a cell phone in the other, oblivious to my fellow pedestrians. When I do see groups congregating for a sit–down coffee, too often they’re on their phones or typing intently on tiny keypads, not content with their present company. Ironically, with all the devices for communication at our disposal, we seem to have fewer conversations. Trading gossip, trading stock, making plans to hook up, venting and ranting, a swapping of electronic shorthand and emoticons does not a conversation make. Conversation was once considered an art, reaching its zenith in the eighteenth–century French salons of Madame du Deffand and Julie de Lespinasse. A facility with language, a capacity for wit, a shrewd intelligence and the ability to listen, such talents or lack of them, could elevate or sink a reputation. I’ve ventured to recreate a humble version of the salon in my pied–à–terre. I have the perfect lighting for it. I’m not troubled by the current light–bulb debate; global–warming incandescent vs. energy–efficient fluorescent. As far as I’m concerned, neither can hold a candle to, well, the candle. Not only is the candle totally off the power grid but its flickering light is a great leveler. It makes everyone look their best; smoothes out pock marks, throws age into question, even the sickliest complexions look in the pink again. I ignite the wicks of twelve–inch tapers, set out my Georgian silver and offer my guests a variety of restoratives: pots of Lapsang Souchong, decanters of sherry, sometimes it’s Chartreuse and Champagne, as we converse for hours about theatre, literature, history and ideas. I then propose we all take a “pinch” and pass around one of my antique snuffboxes. Most politely decline. With the prohibition of public smoking, I’m surprised snuff isn’t all the rage.

Several months ago, I awoke to no heat or hot water. It seemed, finally, the 18th century had come looking for me. I can’t think of waking up until a hot shower, shave and coffee have been taken. This was a true test. Was I willing to part with the basic comforts of modern living? I filled a basin with clear icy water. It seemed to burn my scalp, as I plunged in my head. It rivaled caffeine’s eye–opening effect. I was ready for anything. An extra squirt or two of vetivert parfum, in key locations, bolstered my confidence and I dressed as usual. By day three, I was thinking how overrated this bathing thing was, though I began to see the potential power of the peruke; the powdered wig, for a time, virtually eliminated the bad hair day. By day five, I would’ve welcomed one.

If I did get my wish and was able to be post–dated to Georgian London or pre–revolutionary Paris, I wonder how long it would be before I waxed nostalgic about the good old Baroque days: Oh, the flimsy, stripped–down Rococo style, where’s the substance and power? The gold? The ornamentation? I suppose, for me, the grass is always greener, yesterday. But then I hear Madame du Deffand’s words ringing in my ears, “Shallow men speak of the past; wise men of the present and fools of the future.” Perhaps, I think, I should finally learn to be content with today.