It would seem, according to the society press, that beauty is a very common article. Indeed, if we are to accept the innocent ebullitions of the callow youths who drink beer and play skittles in the Social-Paragraph line of journalism, and who in their soft guilelessness are taken in and “used” by certain ladies of a type resembling Miss Skeggs and Lady Blarney in theVicar of Wakefield, we are bound to believe that beautiful women are as common as blackberries, only more so. In the columns devoted by newspaper editors to the meanderings of those intelligent persons, male and female, who sign themselves as Onlookers, Observers, Butterflies, Little Tomtits, and what may be called “I Spys!” generally, one hardly ever sees the name of a lady without the epithet “beautiful” tacked on to it, especially if the lady happens to have money. This is curious, but true. And supposing the so-called Beautiful One has not only money, commonly speaking, but heaps of money, mines of money, she is always stated to be “young” as well. The heavier the bullion, the more assured the youthfulness. If unkind Time shows her to be the mother of a family where the eldest sprout is some twenty odd years of age, the complaisant“I Spy” is equal to the occasion and writes of her thus—“The beautiful Mrs. Juno-Athene brought her eldest girl, looking more like her sister than her mother.” Whereat Mrs. Juno-Athene is satisfied,—everybody smiles, and all things are cosy and comfortable. If any one should dare to say, especially in print, that Mrs. Juno-Athene is not “beautiful” at all, nor “youthful” in either looks or bearing, there would be ructions. Somebody would get into trouble. The “I Spy” might even be dismissed from his or her post of social paragraphist to the Daily Error. Heaven forbid that such a catastrophe should happen through the indiscretion of a mere miserable truth-monger! Let Mrs. Juno-Athene be beautifully and eternally young, by all means, so long as she can afford to pay for it. The humbug of it is at any rate kindly and chivalrous, and does nobody any harm, while it puts money in the purse of the hardworking penster, who is compelled to deal delicately with these little social matters sometimes, or else ruminate on a dinner instead of eating it.
Nevertheless, despite the “I Spys,” and the perennial charms of Mrs. Juno-Athene, beauty is as rare and choice a thing as ever it was in the days of old when men went mad for it, and Greeks and Trojans fought for Helen, who, so some historians say, was past forty when her bewitching fairness set the soul of Troy on fire. A really beautiful woman is scarcely ever seen, not even in Great Britain, where average good looks are pleasantly paramount. Prettiness,—the prettiness which is made up of a good skin, bright eyes, soft and abundant hair, and a supple figure,—is quite ordinary. It canbe seen every day among barmaids, shop girls, and milliners’mannequins. But Beauty—the divine and subtle charm which enraptures all beholders,—the perfect form, united to the perfect face in which pure and noble thought is expressed in every feature, in every glance of eye, in every smile that makes a sweet mouth sweeter,—this is what we may search for through all the Isles of Britain, ay, and through Europe and America and the whole world besides, and seldom or never find it.
Nine-tenths of the women who are styled “beautiful” by the society paragraphist, possess merely the average good looks;—the rest are generally more particularly distinguished by some single and special trait which may perchance be natural, and may equally be artificial, such as uncommon-coloured hair (which may be dyed), a brilliant complexion (which may be put on), or a marvellously “svelte” figure (which may be the happy result of carefully designed corsets, well pulled in). Most of the eulogized “beauties” of the Upper Ten to-day, have, or are able to get, sufficient money or credit supplied to them for dressing well,—and not only well, but elaborately and extravagantly, and dress is often the “beauty” instead of the woman. To judge whether the woman herself is really beautiful without the modiste’s assistance, it would be necessary to see her deprived of all her fashionable clothes. Her bought hair should be taken off and only the natural remainder left. She should be content to standsanspaint,sanspowder,sansback coil,sanscorsets, in a plain white gown, falling from her neck and shoulders to her feet, and thus cheaply, yet decently clad, submitherself to the gaze of her male flatterers in full daylight. How many of the “beautiful” Mrs. Juno-Athenes or the “lovely” Lady Spendthrifts could stand such a test unflinchingly? Yet the simplest draperies clothe the Greek marbles when they are clothed at all, and jewels and fripperies on the goddess Diana would make her grace seem vulgar and her perfection common. Beauty, real beauty, needs no “creator of costume” to define it, but is, as the poets say, when unadorned, adorned the most.
Now it is absolutely impossible to meet with any “unadorned” sort of beauty in those circles of rank and fashion where the society paragraphist basks at his or her pleasure. On the contrary, there is so much over-adornment in vogue that it is sometimes difficult to find the actual true colour and personality of certain ladies whose charms are daily eulogized by an obliging press. Layers of pearl enamel picked out with rouge, entirely conceal their human identity. It is doubtful whether there was ever more face-painting and “faking up” of beauty than there is now,—never did beauty specialists and beauty doctors drive such a roaring trade. The profits of beauty-faking are enormous. Some idea of it may be gained by the fact that there is a certain shrewd and highly intelligent “doctor” in Paris, who, seeing which way the wind of fashion blows, brews a harmless little mixture of rose-water, eau-de-cologne, tincture of benzoin and cochineal, which materials are quite the reverse of costly, and calling it by a prettysobriquet, sells the same at twenty-five shillings a bottle! He is making a fortune out of women’s stupidity, is this good“doctor,” and who shall blame him? Fools exist merely that the wise may use them. One has only to read the ladies’ papers, especially the advertisements therein, to grasp a faint notion of what is being done to spur on the “beauty” craze. Yet beauty remains as rare and remote as ever, and often when we see some of the ladies whose “exquisite loveliness” has been praised for years in nearly every newspaper on this, or the other side of the Atlantic, we fall back dismayed, with a sense of the deepest disappointment and aggravation, and wonder what we have done to be so deceived?
Taken in the majority, the women of Great Britain are supposed to hold the palm of beauty against all other women of the nations of the world, and if the word “beauty” be changed to prettiness, the supposition is no doubt correct. It is somewhat unfortunate, however, that either through the advice of their dressmakers or their own erroneous conceptions of Form, they should appear to resent the soft outlines and gracious curves of nature, for either by the over-excess of their outdoor sports, or the undue compression of corsets, they are gradually doing away with their originally intended shapes and becoming as flat-chested as jockeys under training. No flat-chested woman is pretty. No woman with large hands, large feet, and the coarse muscular throat and jaw developed by constant bicycle-riding, can be called fascinating. The bony and resolute lady whose lines of figure run straight down without a curve anywhere from head to heel, may possibly be a good athlete, but her looks are by no means to her advantage. Men’s hearts are not enthralled or captured by a Somethingappearing to be neither man nor woman. And there are a great many of these Somethings about just now. I am ignorant as to whether American women go in for mannish sports as frequently and ardently as their British sisters, but I notice that they have daintier hands and feet, and less pronounced “muscle.”
At the same time American women on an average, are not so pretty as British women on the same average. The American complexion is unfortunate. Often radiant and delicate in earliest youth, it fades with maturity like a brilliant flower scorched by too hot a sun, and once departed returns no more. The clear complexion of British women is their best feature. The natural rose and white skin of an English, Irish or Scottish girl,—especially a girl born and bred in the country, is wonderfully fresh and lovely and lasting, and often accompanies her right through her life to old age. That is, of course, if she leaves it alone, and is satisfied merely to keep it clean, without any “adornment” from the beauty doctor. And, though steadily withholding the divine word “beauty” from the greater portion of the “beauties” at the Court of King Edward VII. it is unquestionably the fact that the prettiest women in the world are the British. Americans are likely to contest this. They will, as indeed in true chivalry they must, declare that their own “beauties” are best. But one can only speak from personal experience, and I am bound to say that I have never seen a pretty American woman pretty enough to beat a pretty British woman. This, with every possible admission made for the hard-working society paragraphist,compelled to write of numerous “beautiful” Ladies So-and-So, and “charming” Mrs. Cashboxes, who, when one comes to look at them are neither “beautiful” nor “charming” at all.
But British feminine prettiness would be infinitely more captivating than it is, if it were associated with a little extra additional touch of vivacity and intelligence. When it is put in the shade, (as frequently happens,) by the sparkling allurements of the Viennese coquette, the gracefulsavoir faireof the Frenchmondaine, or the enticing charm of lustrous-eyed sirens from southern Italy, it is merely because of its lack of wit. It is a good thing to have a pretty face; but if the face be only like a wax mask, moveless and expressionless, it soon ceases to attract. The loveliest picture would bore us if we had to stare at it dumbly all day. And there is undeniably a stiffness, a formality, and often a most repellent and unsympathetic coldness about the British fair sex, which re-acts upon the men and women of other more warm-hearted and impulsive nations, in a manner highly disadvantageous to the ladies of our Fortunate Isles. For it is notrealstiffness, orrealformality after all,—nor is it the snowy chill of a touch-me-not chastity, by any means,—it is merely a most painful, and in many cases, most absurd self-consciousness. British women are always more or less wondering what their sister women are thinking about them. They can manage their men all right; but they put on curious and unbecoming airs directly other feminine influences than their own come into play. They invite the comment of the opposite sex, but they dread the criticism of their own. Theawkward girl who sits on the edge of a chair with her feet scraping the carpet and her hands twiddling uneasily in her lap, is awkward simply because she has, by some means or other, been made self-conscious,—and because, in the excess of this self-consciousness she stupidly imagines every one in the room must be staring at her. The average London woman, dressed like a fashion-plate, who rustles in at afternoon tea, with her card-case well in evidence, and her face carefully set in proper “visiting lines,” offers herself up in this way as a subject for the satirist, out of the same disfiguring self-consciousness, which robs her entirely of the indifferent ease and careless grace which should,—to quote the greatest of American philosophers, Emerson,—cause her to “repel interference by a decided and proud choice of influences,” and to “inspire every beholder with something of her own nobleness.” She is probably notnaturallyformal,—she is no doubt exceedingly constrained and uncomfortable in her fashionable attire,—and one may take it for granted that she would rather be herself than try to be a Something which is a Nothing. But Custom and Convention are her bogie men, always guarding her on either side, and investing her too often with such deplorable self-consciousness that her eye becomes furtive, her mouth hard and secretive, her conversation inane, and her whole personality an uncomfortable exhalation of stupidity and dullness.
Nevertheless, setting Custom and Convention apart for the nonce, and bidding them descend into the shadows of hypocrisy which are their native atmosphere, the British woman remains the prettiestin the world. What a galaxy of feminine charms can be gathered under the word “British”! England, Ireland, Wales and Scotland offer all together such countless examples of woman’s loveliness, that it would be difficult, if not impossible, to give the prize for good looks to one portion of Britain more than to the other. America, so far as her samples have been, and are, seen in Europe, cannot outrival the “Old Country” in the prettiness of its women. But it is prettiness only; not Beauty. Beauty remains intrinsically where it was first born and first admitted into the annals of Art and Literature. Its home is still in “the Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung.”
Nothing that was ever created in the way of female loveliness can surpass the beauty of a beautiful Greek woman. True, she is as rare as a butterfly in a snow storm. True, the women of Athens and of Greece generally, taken in the rough majority, are not on an average, even pretty. Nevertheless the palm of beauty remains with them—because there are always two,—or may be three of them, who dawn year by year upon the world in all the old perfection of the classic models, and who may truly be taken for newly-descended goddesses, so faultlessly formed, so exquisitely featured are they. They are not famed by the paragraphist, and they probably will never get the chance of moving in the circles of the British “Upper Ten” or the American “Four Hundred.” But they are the daughters of Aphrodite still, and hold fast their heavenly mother’s attributes. It is easy to find a hundred or more pretty British and American women for one beautiful Greek—but when found, the beautiful Greek eclipsesthem all. She is still the wonder of the world,—the crown of womanly beauty at its best. She shows the heritage of her race in her regal step and freedom of movement,—in the lovely curves of her figure, in the classic perfection of her face with its broad brows, lustrous eyes, arched sweet lips and delicate contour of chin and throat, and perhaps more than all in the queenly indifference she bears towards her own loveliness. So,
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,On Suli’s bank and Parga’s shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there perhaps some seed is sownThe Heracleidan blood might own!
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,On Suli’s bank and Parga’s shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there perhaps some seed is sownThe Heracleidan blood might own!
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,On Suli’s bank and Parga’s shore,Exists the remnant of a lineSuch as the Doric mothers bore;And there perhaps some seed is sownThe Heracleidan blood might own!
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine,
On Suli’s bank and Parga’s shore,
Exists the remnant of a line
Such as the Doric mothers bore;
And there perhaps some seed is sown
The Heracleidan blood might own!
And there still, may be found the perfection of womanhood—the one rare Greek lily, which blossoming at few and far intervals shows in its exquisite form and colouring what Woman should be at her fairest. To her, therefore, must be given the Palm of Beauty. But after the lily, then the rose!—or rather the roses, multitudinous, varied, and always sweet—of the Fortunate Isles of Britain.
To dress well is a social duty. Every educated self-respecting woman is bound to clothe her person as neatly, as tastefully and becomingly as she can. But just as a virtue when carried to excess develops into a vice, so the art of dressing well, when allowed to overstep its legitimate uses and expenditure, easily runs into folly and madness. The reckless extravagance of women’s dress at the present day is little short of criminal insanity. A feverish desire to outvie one another in the manner and make of their garments appears to possess every feminine creature whose lot in life places her outside positive penury. The inordinately wealthy, the normally rich, the well-to-do middle class and the shabby genteel are all equally infected by the same hysterical frenzy. And it is a frenzy which is humoured and encouraged on all sides by those who should have the sense, the intelligence and the foresight to realize the danger of such a tendency, and the misery to which in many cases it is surely bound to lead.
Latterly there have been certain growlings and mutterings of discontent from husbands who have had to pay certain unexpectedly long bills for their wives’ “creations in costume”—but, as a matter of fact, it is really the men who are chiefly to blame for the wicked waste of money they afterwards resentand deplore. They are the principal instigators of the mischief,—the aiders and abettors of the destruction of their own credit and good name. For they openly show their admiration for women’s clothes more than for the women clothed,—that is to say, they are more easily captured by art than by nature. No group of male flatterers is ever seen round a woman whose dress is un-stylish or otherwise “out-of-date.” She may have the sweetest face in the world, the purest nature and the truest heart, but the “dressed” woman, the dyed, the artistically “faked” woman will nearly always score a triumph over her so far as masculine appreciation and attention are concerned.
The “faked” woman has everything on her side. The Drama supports her. The Press encourages her. Whole columns in seemingly sane journals are devoted to the description of her attire. Very little space is given to the actual criticism of a new playasa play, but any amount of room is awarded to glorified “gushers” concerning the actresses’ gowns. Of course it has to be borne in mind that the “writing up” of actresses’ gowns serves a double purpose. First, the “creators” of the gowns are advertised, and may in their turn advertise,—which in these days of multitudinous rival newspapers, is a point not to be lost sight of. Secondly, the actresses themselves are advertised and certain gentlemen with big noses who move “behind the scenes,” and are the lineal descendants of Moses and Aaron, may thereby be encouraged to speculate in theatrical “shares.” Whereas criticism of the play itself does no good to anybody nowadays, not even to the dramatic author. For if such criticism beunfavourable, the public say it is written by a spiteful enemy,—if eulogistic, by a “friend at court,” and they accept neither verdict. They go to see the thing for themselves, and if they like it they keep on going. If not, they stay away, and there’s an end.
But to the gowns there is no end. The gowns, even in anun-successful play, are continuously talked of, continuously written about, continuously sketched in every sort of pictorial, small and great, fashionable or merely provincial. And the florid language,—or shall we say the ‘fine writing’?—used to describe clothes generally, on and off the stage, is so ravingly sentimental, so bewilderingly turgid, that it can only compare with the fervid verbosity of the early eighteenth century romancists, or the biting sarcasm of Thackeray’sBook of Snobs, from which the following passage, descriptive of ‘Miss Snobky’s’ presentation gown, may be aptly quoted:—
“Habit de Courcomposed of a yellow nankeen illusion dress, over a slip of rich pea-green corduroy, trimmeden tablierwith bouquets of Brussels sprouts, the body and sleeves handsomely trimmed with calimanco, and festooned with a pink train and white radishes. Head-dress, carrots and lappets.”
By way of a modern pendant to the above grotesque suggestion, one extract from a lengthy “clothes” article recently published in a daily paper will suffice:
“Among the numerous evening and dinner gowns that the young lady has in hercorbeille, one,a l’Impératrice Eugénie, is very lovely. The foundation is of white Liberty, with a tulle overdress on which are four flounces of Chantilly lace arrangedin zig-zags, connected together with shaded pinkgloriaribbons arranged in waves and wreaths. This is repeated on the low corsage and on the long drooping sleeves of the high bodice.
“A richer toilette is of white Liberty silk, with a flounce of magnificent Brussels lace festooned by leaves of the chestnut, formed of white satin wrought in iris beads and silver on white tulle. The whole gown is strewn with like leaves of graduating sizes, and the low corsage has abertheof Brussels lace ornamented with smaller chestnut leaves as are also the sleeves.” And so on, in unlimited bursts of enthusiasm.
I cannot say I am in the least sorry when “modistes” who ‘create’ costumes at forty, fifty and even one hundred and two hundred guineas per gown, are mulcted of some of their unlawful profits by defaulting creditors. In nine cases out of ten they richly deserve it. They are rightly punished, when they accept, with fulsome flattery and servile obsequiousness a “title” as sufficient guarantee for credit, and in the end find out that Her Grace the Duchess, or Miladi the Countess is perhaps more wickedly reckless and unprincipled than any plain Miss, or Mrs. ever born, and that thesegrandes damesfrequently make use of both rank and position to cheat their tradespeople systematically. The tradespeople are entirely to blame for trusting them, and this is daily and continuously proved. But the touching crook-knee’d worship of mere social rank still remains an ingredient of the mercantile nature,—it is inborn and racial,—a kind of microbe in the blood generated there in old feudal times, when, all over the world, pedlars humbly soughtthe patronage and favour of robber chieftains, and unloaded their packs in the ‘Castle hall’ for the pleasure of the fair ladies who were kept at home in “durance vile” by their rough, unwashen lords. And so perhaps it has chanced through long custom and heritage, that at this present day there is nothing quite so servile in all creation as the spectacle of the ‘modiste’ in attendance on a Duchess, or a ‘ladies’ tailor’ bending himself double while deferentially presuming to measure the hips of a Princess. It is quaint,—it is pitiful,—it is intensely, deliciously comic. And when the price of the garment is never clearly stated, and the bill never sent in for years lest offence is given to ‘Her Grace’ or ‘Her Highness’—by firms that will, nevertheless, have no scruple in sending dunning letters and legal threats toun-titled ladies, who may possibly keep them waiting a little for their money, but whose position and credit are more firmly established than those of any ‘great’ personages with handles to their names, it is not without a certain secret satisfaction that one hears of such fawning flunkeys of trade getting well burnt in the fires of loss and disaster. For in any case, it may be taken for granted that they always charge a double, sometimes treble price for a garment or costume, over and above what that garment or costume is really worth, and one may safely presume they base all their calculations on possible loss. It is no uncommon thing to be told that such and such an evening blouse or bodice copied ‘from the Paris model’ will cost Forty Guineas—“Wemightpossibly do it for Thirty Five,”—says the costumier meditatively, studying with well-assumed gravitythe small, flimsy object he is thus pricing, a trifle made up of chiffon, ribbon, and tinsel gew-gaws, knowing all the while that everything of which it is composed could be purchased for much less than ten pounds. Twenty-five guineas, forty-five guineas, sixty-five guineas are quite common prices for gowns at any of the fashionable shops to-day. One cannot, of course, blame the modistes and outfitting firms for asking these absurd fancy prices if they can get them. If women are mad, it is perhaps wise, just, and reasonable to take financial advantage of their madness while it lasts. Certainly no woman of well-balanced brain would give unlimited prices for gowns without most careful inquiry as to the correct value of the material and trimming used for them,—and the feminine creature who runs into the elaborate show-rooms of Madame Zoë or Berenice, or Faustina, and orders frocks by the dozen, saying chirpingly: “Oh, yes!Youknow how they ought to be made! Your taste is always perfect! Make themverypretty, won’t you?—muchprettier than those you made for Lady Claribel! Yes!—thanks! I’ll leave it all in your hands!” this woman, I say, is a mere lunatic, gibbering nonsense, who could not, if she were asked, tell where twice two making four might possibly lead her in the sum-total of a banking account.
Not very long ago there was held a wonderful “symposium” of dress at the establishment of a certain modiste. It was intensely diverting, entertaining and instructive. A stage was erected at one end of a long room, and on that stage, with effective flashes of lime-light played from the “wings” at intervals, and the accompanimentof a Hungarian band, young ladies wearing “creations” in costume, stood, sat, turned, twisted and twirled, and finally walked down the room between rows of spectators to show themselves and the gowns they carried, off to the best possible advantage. The whole thing was much better than a stage comedy. Nothing could surpass the quaint peacock-like vanity of the girlmannequinswho strutted up and down, moving their arms about to exhibit their sleeves and swaying their hips to accentuate the fall and flow of flounces and draperies. It was a marvellous sight to behold, and it irresistibly reminded one of a party of impudent children trying on for fun all their mother’s and elder sisters’ best “long dresses” while the unsuspecting owners were out of the way. There was a “programme” of the performance fearfully and wonderfully worded, the composition, so we were afterwards “with bated breath” informed, of Madame la Modiste’s sister, a lady, who by virtue of having written two small skits on the manners, customs and modes of society, is, in some obliging quarters of the Press called a “novelist.” This programme instructed us as to the proper views we were expected to take of the costumes paraded before us, as follows:
FOR THE DINNER PARTYTopasElusive JoyPleasure’s ThrallRed Mouth of a Venomous Flower
FOR THE DINNER PARTY
TopasElusive JoyPleasure’s ThrallRed Mouth of a Venomous Flower
The “Red Mouth of a Venomous Flower” was a harmless-looking girl in a bright scarlet toilette,—neitherthe toilette nor the sensational title suited her. But perhaps the “Cult of Chiffon” presented the most varied and startling phases to a properly receptive mind. Thus it ran:
THE CULT OF CHIFFONThe Dirge O’er the Death of PleasureThe Fire MotifThe Meaning of Life is ClearMoss and StarlightIncessant Soft DesireA Frenzied Song of Amorous ThingsA Summer Night Has a Thousand Powers
THE CULT OF CHIFFON
The Dirge O’er the Death of PleasureThe Fire MotifThe Meaning of Life is ClearMoss and StarlightIncessant Soft DesireA Frenzied Song of Amorous ThingsA Summer Night Has a Thousand Powers
Faint gigglings shook the bosoms of the profane as the “Incessant Soft Desire” glided into view, followed by “A Frenzied Song of Amorous Things,”—indeed it would have been positively unnatural and inhuman had no one laughed. Curious to relate, there were quite a large number of “gentlemen” at this remarkable exhibition of feminine clothes, many of them well known and easily recognizable. Certainflaneursof Bond Street, various loafers familiar to the Carlton “lounge,” and celebrated Piccadilly-trotters, formed nearly one half of the audience, and stared with easy insolence at the “Red Mouth of a Venomous Flower” or smiled suggestively at “Incessant Soft Desire.” They were invited to stare and smile, and they did it. But there was something remarkably offensive in their way of doing it, and perhaps if a few thick boots worn on the feet of rough but honest workmen had come into contact with their smooth personalities on their way out of Madame Modiste’s establishment, it might have done them good and taughtthem a useful lesson. Needless to say that the prices of the Madame Modiste who could set forth such an exhibition of melodramatically designated feminine apparel as “The Night has a Thousand Eyes,” or “Spring’s Delirium,” were in suitable proportion to a “frenzied song of amorous things.” Such amorous things as are “created” in her establishment are likely to make husbands and fathers know exactly what “a frenzied song” means. When the payment of the bills is concerned, they will probably sing that “frenzied song” themselves.
It is quite easy to dress well and tastefully without spending a very great deal of money. It certainly requires brain—thought—foresight—taste—and comprehension of the harmony of colours. But the blind following of a fashion because Madame This or That says it is “chic” or “le dernier cri,” or some parrot-like recommendation of the sort, is mere stupidity on the part of the followers. To run up long credit for dresses, without the least idea how the account is ever going to be paid, is nothing less than a criminal act. It is simply fraud. And such fraud re-acts on the whole community.
Extravagant taste in dress is infectious. Most of us are impressed by the King’s sensible and earnest desire that the Press should use its influence for good in fostering amity between ourselves and foreign countries. If the Press would equally use its efforts to discourage florid descriptions of dress in their columns, much of the wild and wilful extravagance which is frequently the ruin of otherwise happy homes, might be avoided. When Lady A sees her loathëd rival Lady B’s dress described in half a column of newspaper “gush” shestraightway yearns and schemes for a whole column of the same kind. When simple country girls read the amazing items of the “toilettes” worn by some notorious “demi-mondaine,” they begin to wonder how it is she has such things, and to speculate as to whether they will ever be able to obtain similar glorified apparel for themselves. And so the evil grows, till by and by it becomes a pernicious disease, and women look superciliously at one another, not for what they are, but merely to estimate the quality and style of what they put on their backs. Virtue goes to the wall if it does not wear a fashionable frock. Vice is welcomed everywhere if it is clothed in a Paris “creation.” Nevertheless, Ben Jonson’s lines still hold good:
Still to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art’s hid causes are not foundAll is not sweet, all is not sound.
Still to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art’s hid causes are not foundAll is not sweet, all is not sound.
Still to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art’s hid causes are not foundAll is not sweet, all is not sound.
Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder’d, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
“All is not sweet, all is not sound,” when women think little or nothing of ordering extravagant costumes which they well know they will never be able to pay for, unless through some dishonourable means, such as gambling at Bridge for example. Madame Modiste is quite prepared for such an exigency, for she does not forget to show “creations” in clothes which, she softly purrs, are “suitable for Bridge parties.” They may possibly be called—“The Tricky Trump”—or “The Dazzling of a Glance too long” or “The Deft Impress of a Finger nail”! One never knows!
Any amount of fashion papers find their way intothe average British household, containing rabid nonsense such as the following:
“There were wonderful stories afloat about Miss B’s dresses. Rumour has it that a dressmaker came over specially from New York to requisition the services of the most important artistes in Paris, and gold lace and hand embroidery were used with no frugal hand; yet,despite thisand the warm welcome accorded her by an English audience, Miss B does not seem to have made up her mind to stay with us long, for it is said the end of June will see the end of her season. We have sketched her in her pink chiffon wrap, which is made in the Empire shape covered with chiffon and decorated with bunches of chiffon flowers and green leaves held with bows of pink satin—a most dainty affair, full of delicate detail and pre-eminently becoming.”
“Despite this,”—is rich indeed! Despite the fact that “gold lace and hand-embroidery” were used “with no frugal hand,” Miss B is determined to leave “the gay, the gay and glittering scene,” and deprive us of her “pink chiffon wrap in the Empire shape”! A positively disastrous conclusion! Nay, but hearken to the maudlin murmurs of the crazed worshippers of Mumbo-Jumbo “Fashion”—
“Do you yearn for a grey muslin dress? Half my ‘smart girl’ acquaintances are buying grey muslins as though their lives depended on it. I fell in love with one of them that was in bouilloné gathers all round the skirt to within eight inches of the hem, while the yoke had similar but smaller bouillonés run through, well below the shoulder-line, with a wide chiné ribbon knotted low in front. Beneath this encircling ribbon the bodice pouched inblouse fashion over a chiné waist-ribbon to match, with long pendant ends one side; the sleeves were a distinct novelty, being set in a number of small puffs below one big one, a chiné ribbon being knotted around the arm between each puff.”
“Do you ‘yearn’ for a grey muslin dress?” O ye gods! One is reminded of a comic passage in the “Artemus Ward” papers, where it is related how a lady of the “Free Love” persuasion rushed at the American humorist, brandishing a cotton umbrella and crying out: “Dost thou not yearn for me?” to which adjuration Artemus replied, while he “dodged” the umbrella—“Not a yearn!”
“I should like,”—says one of the poor imbecile “dress” devotees, “the skirt finished off with a wadded hem, or perhaps a few folds of satin, but otherwise it should be left severely plain. These satin, brocade, or velvet dresses should stand or fall by their own merits, and never be over-elaborated.”
True! And is it “a wadded hem” or a padded room that should “finish off” these people who spread the madness of clothes far and wide till it becomes a positively dangerous and immoral infection? One wonders! For there is no more mischievous wickedness in society to-day than the flamboyant, exuberant, wilful extravagance of women’s dress. It has far exceeded the natural and pretty vanity of permissible charm, good taste and elegance. It has become a riotous waste,—an ugly disease of moral principle, ending at last in the disgrace and death of many a woman’s good name.
When people tell the truth they are generally disliked. From Socrates, to the latest of his modern philosophic imitators, the bowl of death-dealing hemlock has always been mixed by the world and held to the lips of those who dare to say uncomfortably plain things. When the late W. E. H. Lecky set down the truth of Cecil Rhodes, in his book entitledThe Map of Life, and I, the present writer, ventured to quote the passage in “The Vulgarity of Wealth,” when that article was first published, a number of uninformed individuals rashly accused me of “abusing Cecil Rhodes.” They were naturally afraid to attack the greater writer. Inasmuch, said they: “If Mr. Lecky hadreallysuggested that Cecil Rhodes was not, like Brutus, ‘an honourable man,’ he, Mr. Lecky, would never have received the King’s new ‘Order of Merit,’ nor would Mr. Rhodes have been the subject of so much eulogy. For, of course, the King has readThe Map of Life, and is aware of the assertions contained in it.” Now I wish, dear gossips all, you would readThe Map of Lifefor yourselves! You will find, if you do, not only plain facts concerning Rhodes, and the vulgarity, i.e. the ostentation of wealth, but much useful information on sundry other matters closelyconcerning various manners and customs of the present day. For one example, consider the following:
“The amount of pure and almost spontaneous malevolence in the world is probably far greater than we at first imagine.... No one, for example, can study the anonymous press, without perceiving how large a part of it is employedsystematically,persistentlyanddeliberatelyin fostering class, or individual or international hatreds, and oftenin circulating falsehoods to attain this end. Many newspapers notoriously depend for their existence on such appeals, and more than any other instruments, they inflame and perpetuate those permanent animosities which most endanger the peace of mankind. The fact that such newspapers are becoming in many countries the main and almost exclusive reading of the million, forms the most serious deduction from the value of modern education.”
Let it be noted, once and for all, that it is not the present writer who thus speaks of “the anonymous press,” but the experienced, brilliant and unprejudiced scholar who was among the first to hold the King’s “Order of Merit.” And so once again to our muttons:—
“Some of the very worst acts of which man can be guilty are acts which are commonly untouched by law, and only faintly censured by opinion. Political crimes, which a false and sickly sentiment so readily condones, are conspicuous among them. Men who have been gambling for wealth and power with the lives and fortunes of multitudes; men who for their own personal ambition are preparedto sacrifice the most vital interests of their country; men, who in time of great national danger and excitement deliberately launch falsehood after falsehood in the public press, in the well-founded conviction that they will do their evil work before they can be contradicted, may be met shameless and almost uncensured in Parliaments and drawing-rooms. The amount of false statements in the world which cannot be attributed to mere carelessness, inaccuracy or exaggeration, but which is plainly both deliberate and malevolent, can hardly be overrated. Sometimes it is due to a mere desire to create a lucrative sensation, or to gratify a personal dislike, or even to an unprovoked malevolence which takes pleasure in inflicting pain. * * * Very often it (i.e. the false statement in the press) is intended for purposes of stock-jobbing. The financial world is percolated with it. It is the common method of raising or depreciating securities, attracting investors, preying upon the ignorant and credulous, and enabling dishonest men to rise rapidly to fortune. When the prospect of speedy wealth is in sight, there are always numbers who are perfectly prepared to pursue courses involving the utter ruin of multitudes, endangering the most serious international interests, perhaps bringing down upon the world all the calamities of war.... It is much to be questioned whether the greatest criminals are to be found within the walls of prisons. Dishonesty on a small scale nearly always finds its punishment. Dishonesty on a gigantic scale continually escapes.... In the management of companies, in the great fields of industrial enterprise and speculation, gigantic fortunes are acquiredby the ruin of multitudes; and by methods which though they avoid legal penalties are essentially fraudulent. In the majority of cases these crimes are perpetrated by educated men who are in possession of all the necessaries, of most comforts, and of many luxuries of life, and some of the worst of them are powerfully favoured by the conditions of modern civilization. There is no greater scandal or moral evil in our time than the readiness with which public opinion excuses them, and the influence and social position it accords to mere wealth, even when it has been acquired by notorious dishonesty, or when it is expended with absolute selfishness or in ways that are absolutely demoralising. In many respects the moral progress of mankind seems to me incontestable, but it is extremely doubtful whether in this respect, social morality, especially in England and America, has not seriously retrograded.”
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Now had I written the foregoing lines, some hundred or so of pleasant newspaper friends would have accused me of “screaming” out a denunciation of wealth, or of “railing” against society. But as Lecky,—with the King’s “Order of Merit,” appended to his distinguished name,—was the real author of the quotation, I am not without hope that his views may be judged worthy of consideration, even though his works may not be as thoughtfully studied as their excellence merits. It is not I—it was Mr. Lecky, who doubted whether “socialmorality both in England and America, had not seriously retrograded.” But, if it has so retrograded, there need be very little difficulty in tracing the retrogression to its direct source,—namely, to the carelessness, vanity, extravagance, lack of high principle, and entire lapse of dignity in the women who constitute and lead what is called the Smart Set. These women cannot be termed as of the Aristocracy, for the Aristocracy, (by which term I mean those who are lineally entitled to be considered the actual British nobility, and not the mushroom creations of yesterday), will, more often than not, decline to have anything to do with them. True, there are some “great” ladies, who have deliberately and voluntarily fallen from their high estate in the sight of a scandalised public, and who, by birth and breeding, should assuredly have possessed more pride and self-respect, than to wilfully descend into the mire. But the very fact that these few have so lamentably failed to support the responsibilities of their position, makes it all the sadder for the many good and true women of noble family who endeavour, as best they may, to stem the tide of harmful circumstance, and to show by the retired simplicity and intellectual charm of their own lives, that though society is fast becoming a disordered wilderness of American and South African “scrub,” there yet remains within it a flourishing scion of the brave old English Oak of Honour, guarded by the plain device “Noblesse Oblige.”
The influence of women bears perhaps more strongly than any other power on the position and supremacy of a country. Corrupt women makea corrupt State,—noble, God-fearing women make a noble, God-fearing people. It is not too much to say that the prosperity or adversity of a nation rests in the hands of its women. They are the mothers of the men,—they make and mould the characters of their sons. And the centre of their influence should be, as Nature intended it to be, the Home. Home is the pivot round which the wheel of a country’s highest statesmanship should revolve,—the preservation of Home, its interests, its duties and principles, should be the aim of every good citizen. But with the “retrogression of social morality,” as Mr. Lecky phrased it, and as part and parcel of that backward action and movement, has gone the gradual decay of home life, and a growing indifference to home as a centre of attraction and influence, together with the undermining of family ties and affections, which, rightly used and considered, should form the strongest bulwark to our national strength. The love of home,—the desire tomakea home,—is far stronger in the poorer classes nowadays than in the wealthy or even the moderately rich of the general community. Women of the “upper ten” are no longer pre-eminent as rulers of the home, but are to be seen daily and nightly as noisy and pushing frequenters of public restaurants. The great lady is seldom or never to be found “at home” on her own domain,—but she may be easily met at the Carlton, Prince’s, or the Berkeley (on Sundays). The old-world châtelaine of a great house who took pride in looking after the comfort of all her retainers,—who displayed an active interest in every detail of management,—surrounding herself with choicefurniture, fine pictures, sweet linen, beautiful flowers, and home delicates of her own personal make or supervision, is becoming well-nigh obsolete. “It is such a bore being at home!” is quite an ordinary phrase with the gawk-girl of the present day, who has no idea of the value of rest as an aid to beauty, or of the healthful and strengthening influences of a quiet and well-cultivated mind, and who has made herself what is sometimes casually termed a “sight” by her skill at hockey, her speed in cycling, and her general “rushing about,” in order to get anywhere away from the detested “home.” The mother of a family now aspires to seem as young as her daughters, and among the vanishing graces of society may be noted the grace of old age. Nobody is old nowadays. Men of sixty wed girls of sixteen, women of fifty lead boys of twenty to the sacrificial altar. Such things are repulsive, abominable and unnatural, but they are done every day, and a certain “social set,” smirk the usual conventional hypocritical approval, few having the courage to protest against what they must inwardly recognize as both outrageous and indecent. The real “old” lady, the real “old” gentleman will soon be counted among the “rare and curious” specimens of the race. The mother who wasnot“married at sixteen,” will ere long be a remarkable prodigy, and the paterfamilias who never explains that he “made an unfortunate marriage when quite a boy,” will rank beside her as a companion phenomenon. We have only to scan the pages of those periodicals which cater specially for fashionable folk, to see what a frantic dread of age pervades all classesof pleasure-loving society. The innumerable nostrums for removing wrinkles, massaging or “steaming” the complexion, the “coverings” for thin hair, the “rays,” of gold or copper or auburn, which are cunningly contrived for grey, or to use the more polite word, “faded,” tresses, the great army of manicurists, masseurs and “beauty-specialists,” who, in the most clever way, manage to make comfortable incomes out of the general panic which apparently prevails among their patrons at the inflexible, unstoppable march of Time,—all these things are striking proofs of the constant desperate fight kept up by a large and foolish majority against the laws of God and of Nature. Nor is the category confined to persons of admittedly weak intellect, as might readily be imagined, for just as the sapient Mr. Andrew Lang has almost been convicted of a hesitating faith in magic crystals, (God save him!) so are the names of many men, eminent in scholarship and politics, “down on the list” of the dyer, the steamer, the padder, the muscle-improver, the nail-polisher, the wrinkle-remover, and the eye-embellisher. Which facts, though apparently trivial, are so many brief hints of a “giving” in the masculine stamina. “It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of gain-giving as would perhaps trouble a woman.” VideHamlet. Such it may be,—let us hope that such it is.
No doubt much of this fantastic dread of “looking old,” arises from the fact that nowadays age, instead of receiving the honour it merits, is frequently made the butt of ignorant and vulgar ridicule. One exception alone is allowed in the case of our gracious Queen Alexandra, who supportsher years with so much ease and scarcely diminished beauty. But there are hosts of other women beside the Queen whom it would seem that “age cannot wither,”—Sarah Bernhardt, for example, whose brilliant vitality is the envy of all her feminine compeers; while many leading “beauties” who never scored a success in their teens, are now trampling triumphantly over men’s hearts in their forties. Nevertheless the boorish sections of the Press and of society take a special delight, (Mr. Lecky calls it “pure malevolence,”) in making the advance of age a subject for coarse jesting, whereas if rightly viewed, the decline of the body is merely the natural withering of that chrysalis which contains the ever young and immortal Soul. Forced asunder by the strength of unfolding wings, the chrysalismustbreak; and its breaking should not cause regret, but joy. Of course if faith in God is a mere dead letter, and poor humanity is taught to consider this brief life as our sole beginning and end, I can quite imagine that the advance of years may be looked upon with dislike and fear,—though scarcely with ridicule. But for the happy beings who are conscious that while the body grows weaker, the Soul grows stronger,—who feel that behind this mere passing “reflection” of Life, the real Life awaits them, age has no drawbacks and no forebodings of evil. The prevailing dread of it, and the universal fighting against it, betoken an insecure and wholly materialistic mental attitude.
Of the feminine indulgence in complexion cures, combined with the deplorable lack of common sense, which shows itself in the constant consultation of palmists and clairvoyants, while home andfamily duties are completely neglected or forgotten, the less said the better. By such conduct women appear to be voluntarily straying back to the dark ages when people believed in witches and soothsayers, and would pay five shillings or more to see the faces of their future husbands in the village well. Happy the man who, at the crucial moment, looked over the shoulder of the enquiring maiden! He was sure to be accepted on the value of his own mirrored reflection, apart altogether from his possible personal merits. To this day in Devonshire, many young women believe in the demoniacal abilities of a harmless old gentleman who leads a retired life on the moors, and who is supposed to be able to “do something to somebody.” It would be a hard task to explain the real meaning of this somewhat vague phrase, but the following solution can be safely given without any harm accruing. It works out in this way: If you know “somebody,” who is unpleasant to you, go to this old gentleman and give him five shillings, and he will “do something”—never mind what. It may be safely prophesied that he will spend the five shillings; the rest is involved in mystery. Now, however silly this superstition on the part of poor Devonshire maids may be, it is not a whit more so than the behaviour of the so-called “cultured” woman of fashion who spends a couple of guineas in one of the rooms or “salons,” near Bond Street, on the fraudulent rascal of a “palmist,” or “crystal-gazer,” who has the impudence and presumption to pretend to know her past and her future. It is a wonder that the women who patronize these professional cheats have not more self-respect thanto enter such dens, where the crime of “obtaining money on false pretences” is daily practised without the intervention of the law. But all the mischief starts from the same source,—neglect of home, indifference to home duties, and the constant “gadding-about” which seems to be the principal delight and aim of women who are amply supplied with the means of subsistence, either through inherited fortune, or through marriage with a wealthy partner, and who consider themselves totally exempt from the divine necessity of Work. Yet these are truly the very ones whose duty it is to work the hardest, because “Unto whom much is given even from him (or her) shall much be required.” No woman who has a home need ever be idle. If she employs her time properly, she will find no leisure for gossiping, scandal-mongering, moping, grumbling, “fadding,” fortune-telling or crystal-gazing. Of course, if she “manages” her household merely through a paid housekeeper, she cannot be said to govern the establishment at all. The housekeeper is the real mistress, and very soon secures such a position of authority, that the lady who employs and pays her scarcely dare give an order without her. Speaking on this subject a few days ago with a distinguished and mild-tempered gentleman, who has long ceased to expect any comfort or pleasure in the magnificent house his wealth pays for, but which under its present government might as well be a hotel where he is sometimes allowed to take the head of the table, he said to me, with an air of quiet resignation:—“Ladies have so many more interests nowadays than in my father’s time. They do so many things. It is reallybewildering! My wife, for example, is always out. She has so many engagements. She has scarcely five minutes to herself, and is often quite knocked up with fatigue and excitement. She has no time to attend to housekeeping, and of course the children are almost entirely with their nurse and governess.” This description applies to most households of a fashionable or “smart” character, and shows what a topsy-turveydom of the laws of Nature is allowed to pass muster, and to even meet with general approval. The “wife” of whom my honourable and distinguished friend spoke to me, rises languidly from her bed at eleven, and occupies all her time till two o’clock in dressing, manicuring, “transforming” and “massaging.” She also receives and sends a few telegrams. At two o’clock she goes out in her carriage and lunches with some chosen intimates at one or other of the fashionable restaurants. Lunch over, she returns home and lies down for an hour. Then she arrays herself in an elaborate tea gown and receives a favoured few in her boudoir, where over a cup of tea she assists to tear into piecemeal portions the characters of her dearest friends. Another “rest” and again the business of the toilette is resumed. Whenen grande tenueshe either goes out to dinner, or entertains a large party of guests at her own table. Atête-à-têtemeal with her husband would appear to her in the light of a positive calamity. She stays up playing “Bridge” till two or three o’clock in the morning, and retires to bed more or less exhausted, and can only sleep with the aid of narcotics. She resumes the same useless existence, and perpetrates the same wicked waste oftime again the next day and every day. Her children she scarcely sees, and the management of her house is entirely removed from her hands. The housekeeper takes all the accounts to her husband, who meekly pays the same, and lives for the most part at his club, or at the houses of his various sporting friends. “Home” is for him a mere farce. He knew what it was in his mother’s day, when his grand old historical seat was a home indeed, and all the members of the family, young and old, looked upon it as the chief centre of attraction, and the garnering-point of love and faith and confidence; but since he grew up to manhood, and took for his life-partner a rapid lady of the new Motor-School of Morals, he stands like Marius among the ruins of Carthage, contemplating the complete wreckage of his ship of life, and knowing sadly enough that he can never sail the seas of hope again.
The word “Home” has, or used to have, a very sacred meaning, and is peculiarly British. The French have no such term. “Chez-moi” or “chez-soi” are poor substitutes, and indeed none of the Latin races appear to have any expression which properly conveys the real sentiment. The Germans have it, and their “Heimweh” is as significant as our “home-sickness.” The Germans are essentially a home-loving people, and this may be said of all Teutonic, Norse and Scandinavian races. By far the strongest blood of the British is inherited from the North,—and as a rule the natural tendency in the pure Briton is one of scorn for the changeful, vagrant, idle, careless and semi-pagan temperament of southern nations. As thelast of our real Laureates sang in his own matchless way: