Skin of Silk and Eyes of Fire

Recently faced with an hour to kill before climbing into the threads to attend a cocktail party, I glanced pessimistically around my apartment for something to read and found nothing except a copy of The Journal of Air Pollution, the previous Sunday's funnies, The Complete Plays of Björnstjerne Björnson and several contemporary novels about young men with talent, good jobs, large incomes, devoted wives, beautiful mistresses, charming children, homes in the suburbs, lively glands, all the gin they can drink, and problems. Somehow, I could not feel for them. Almost at the desperate point of snapping on the TV, I suddenly remembered a little booklet published in London in 1828 which had found its way to me. I fished it out from under Smokey Stover and rubbed my fingertips over it, sensuously, for I am (if I may coin a word) an antiquophile. That is to say, I am fascinated, infatuated, charmed and seduced by old things: old printed things, in particular. Old placards and handbills, old theatre programs, old menus, old newspapers, magazines and books. I love their archaic typefaces, their obsolete spellings, their quaint layouts, I even love their occasional broken type. It is a silly, irrational, useless love, I know; sillier than most loves, less rational and less useful. But there it is. Bring me within visible range of a first folio or a yellowed, crumbling poster or even (such is my sorry state, so far am I gone) reproductions of these things, and you will see a man shaken by lust. Understand my gladness, then, as I stroked this reproduction -- faithful even to age specks -- of The Art of Tying the Cravat: Demonstrated in Sixteen Lessons, Including Thirty-Two Different Styles, forming A Pocket Manual; and Exemplifying the Advantage Arising from an Elegant Arrangement of This Important Part of the Costume; Preceded by A History of the Cravat, from its Origin to the Present Time; and Remarks on its Influence on Society in General. The author was given as H. Le Blanc, Esq.

A quote from Addison -- admirable in itself but baffling in this context -- rated a focal position on the title page: "Nothing is more laudable than an enquiry after truth." Had I but known the lofty tenor of the book, however, the quotation would not have seemed baffling at all.

No mere how-to pamphlet, "It can be incontrovertibly asserted," asserted the author in his Introduction, "that this work, far from being an ephemeral production, will be found to contain a mass of useful information, and may be termed an 'Encyclopaedia of Knowledge.' " Further perusal confirmed this statement, for indeed the book was rich with philosophy, social views, allusions to art, science and cooking, and more than one flight of romantic fancy -- all directly inspired by neckwear. Dapper, curly-headed, acquiline-nosed Mr. Le Blanc (his portrait appeared on the frontispiece) clearly had a high regard for the cravat. "The Cravat should not be considered as a mere ornament, it is decidedly one of the greatest preservatives of health..." He had in mind the protection of the tonsils from cold drafts, I believe, but it soon became obvious as I flipped the pages that the cravat preserved health in other ways, too. He cited a Dr. Pizis: " 'I was laughing at General Lepale, on account of his enormous Cravat. At the moment of entering in to action his regiment charged, and after dispersing the enemy's cavalry returned to the bivouac. I was informed that the General had been struck by a (continued on page 81)Skin of Silk(continued from page 67) pistol shot in the throat. I immediately hastened to his assistance, and was shewn a bullet, which was stopped in its career by the very Cravat I had just been ridiculing. ... I was obliged to confess that these immense bandages were not always useless.' "

The cravat was also, according to our author, "a criterion by which the rank of the wearer may be at once distinguished" and consequently an effective weapon in the cause of Right (as opposed to Left): "In an age like the present, when the man of quality is so closely imitated by the pretender -- when the amalgamation of all ranks seems to be the inevitable consequence of the 'March of Intellect' now making such rapid strides amongst us, we think a more signal service cannot be rendered to the higher ranks of society, than by the production of such a work as this ..." Now, I may be yiping up the wrong eucalyptus, but an image of our snooty friend began to emerge for me right about here, and it seemed to me that the gentleman did protest too much, in the words of Hamlet's old lady. I had a sneaking suspicion that Le Blanc was one of the very pretenders he was looking down his lengthy nose at; that his family escutcheon was as blank as his name suggests. But let that be. Blueblood or sham, Le Blanc was passionately devoted to the cravat, was thoroughly steeped in "the mysteries of this delightful science," and was unswervingly convinced that "the Cravat has now arrived at the summit of perfection, and has been materially assisted in its progress by the use of starch." Such loyalty and optimism enlisted my sympathies at once; my heart went out to him.

Though undeniably a snob, Le Blanc believed in treating the lower orders humanely. He was quite opposed to military officers producing a false appearance of ruddy health amongst their private soldiers by forcing them to wear their cravats so tight "as almost to produce suffocation, instead of allowing them more nourishing food, or of treating them with more kindness ..." The military neckpiece he found abhorrent:"... It has been transformed into a collar as hard as iron, by the insertion of a slip of wood, which acting on the larynx, and compressing every part of the neck, causes the eyes almost to start from their spheres and gives the wearer a supernatural appearance often producing vertigos and faintings, or at least bleeding at the nose." Yes, I think we can safely say a crusading heart beat under Le Blanc's conservative exterior.

After tracing the cravat all the way back to the Roman focalium, "a term which is evidently derived from fauces (the throat)," devoting several pages to a description of the silkworm's labors and a history of silk (which involved, among other celebrated dates, the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685), Le Blanc finally got around to the core of his opus, in which he described 32 varieties of cravat and instructed his reader in the tying of each. Never re-tie an incorrectly knotted cravat, he warned: rather, dash it petulantly to the floor, select a freshly ironed one, and begin all over again. For "In the duties of the toilet, we may compare the tie of the Cravat to the liaisons de sauces blanches of the kitchen; the least error is fatal to the whole composition of either, and as a new sauce must be prepared, with entirely fresh ingredients, so a new tie must be produced by a fresh Cravat."

Of the 32 examples of cravat, seven struck me forcibly enough to mention here. The Gordian Knot was one of these ("young aspirants" must resort to "a pair of scissors" when removing it), and so was the Cravate à la Byron: "It is universally allowed that the least constraint of the body has a corresponding effect on the mind, and it must, therefore, be admitted, that to a certain extent, a tight Cravat will cramp the imagination, and, as it were, suffocate the thoughts." Lord Byron, Le Blanc avers, feared this effect: "In every portrait where he is painted in the ardours of composition, his neck is always free from the trammels of the neckcloth. The Cravat which bears the name of this noble author ... is extremely comfortable in summer and during long journeys ..."

The Cravate à la Gastronome "slackens and yields to the slightest movement of the neck -- to the least vacillation of the jaws, and even to that slight swelling of the throat which in men decidedly distinguished for gastronomic talents, so often produces impeded respiration. It also possesses the great advantage of loosening itself in cases of indigestion, apoplexy, or fainting."

A shade snide is our author on the subject of the Cravate à l'Américaine, also known among "the fashionables of the New World" as The Independence. Of the latter nomenclature, he says, sniffingly, "This title may, to a certain point, be disputed, as the neck is fixed in a kind of vice, which entirely prohibits any very free movements."

For the Cravate Collier de Cheval, his scorn is utter: "It has been greatly admired by the fair sex, who have praised it to their husbands, their lovers, and even to their friends and relations; and have thus promoted its adoption by every means in their power. ... Human life is often compared to a painful journey; and it is probably on the same philosophical principle that the Cravate Collier de Cheval was considered a proper costume for man, who often drags on his weary way, loaded with evils more insupportable than the heaviest burthens. This style is, however, (in our opinion) rather vulgar, and we have introduced it here, more that it may be avoided as an instance of false taste, than as a model to copy."

Starchy Le Blanc on infrequent occasions permitted himself a wisp of tight-lipped humor, as in this observation regarding the Cravate de Chasse: "This Cravat is by some élégans called à la Diane, although it is a kind of poetical license to suppose that this rather unfashionable Goddess wore one."

Disdain was not the only diapason available to Le Blanc, however. When deeply moved, he could pull all the stops, completely eschew restraint and pour out the purplest of panegyrics. Hear now his Song of Songs, on the theme of the Cravate Sentimentale:

"The name alone of this Cravat is sufficient to explain that it is not alike suitable to all faces. You, then, whom nature has not gifted with skins of silk -- eyes of fire -- with complexions rivalling the rose and lily; -- you, to whom she has denied pearly teeth and coral lips ... you, in fact, whose faces do not possess that sympathetic charm, which in a moment, at a glance, spreads confusion o'er the senses and disorder and trouble in the hearts of all who behold you ... avoid it; and be assured that if your physiognomy does not inspire sensations of love and passion, and you should adopt the Cravate Sentimentale, you will be a fair butt for the shafts of ridicule, which (with no unsparing hand) will be showered upon you on all sides. ... It may, then, be worn from the age seventeen to twenty-seven; but after that age it cannot, with propriety, be patronized by even the most agreeable."

And here I must voice a delicate supposition. For upon reading his description and instructions, and upon referring to the plate wherein the cravat in question was delineated, and then comparing all this to the portrait of the rhapsodic author that appeared in the front of the book, it seemed (but no, no, it could not be -- and yet --) it seemed to me that possibly, just possibly, the meringue-like construction around his throat, "strongly starched, and fastened with a single rosette at the top, as near as possible to the chin," was none other than the Cravate Sentimentale. Did our friend then consider himself possessed, of those glowing qualities without which the wearer of such a cravat descended to the perigee of presumption? Oh, vanity, vanity, Le Blanc!

It proves, I suppose, that austere Le Blanc was a human being with human foibles, but even so, one does not like to see the clay feet of one's idols revealed. I clutched at a straw of hope: the reproduction of the plates was really quite imperfect ... perhaps Le Blanc was not wearing the Cravate Sentimentale after all ...

Cheered up by this thought, I turned to the final lesson in the book. Here were offered some "Important and necessary Observations." The virtues of loose neckwear were recommended to "Those who are accustomed to sleep in the Cravat," and it was pointed out that "The Cravat should invariably be loosened before the commencement of study, or of any important business." A bit of advice was directed toward "Those who have a short neck, high shoulders, a round, full, and fresh coloured face, and who are at all subject to head aches, beatings of the temples, &c." Such unfortunates "should be most careful to wear the Cravat loose."

I discovered, to my profit, that one should not, unless one is desirous of dodging pistol balls in the gray and dewy dawn, go about seizing gentlemen by the cravat: "The greatest insult that can be offered to a man, comme il faut, is to seize him by the Cravat; in this case blood only can wash out the stain upon the honour of either party."

In conclusion, Le Blanc painted a roseate picture of the well tempered cravatomane: "If his Cravat is savamment and elegantly formed -- although his coat may not be of the last cut -- every one will rise to receive him with the most distinguished marks of respect, will cheerfully resign their seats to him, and the delighted eyes of all will be fixed on that part of his person which separates the shoulders from the chin."

I put down this "far from ephemeral production" with a heavy sigh and reluctantly returned to a world without elegance, a world of "ties" but not of cravats. Evening was approaching and, with it, the cocktail party to which I was invited. I began preparations. As I trimmed my beard I examined my face in the mirror with as much objectivity as I could summon. Could this face get away with the Cravate Sentimentale? Was it capable of spreading confusion o'er the senses, disorder and trouble in the hearts of all who beheld it? Well, no. If only for the fact that it would never see 27 again.

I dressed desultorily, opened the door of my wardrobe and appraised my tierack with a dull and joyless eye. There were at least 30 neckties hanging there in the gloom: of these, 29 no longer pleased my fickle sense of pattern. The remaining one, a simple black silk thing, was wrinkled. I lifted a hideous plaid number off its hook and blew away the dust. It was much too wide, I hated the colors, and I could never get it to knot correctly, but it made a pretty good conversation piece.. I had bought it for one dollar, by mail, from a firm in Scotland which had sent me a form letter addressed to all the Russells in creation and describing the wonders of owning a neckpiece done up in the true, original, authentic tartan of the Russell clan. It was a sorry bit of apparel, but it was always good for anywhere from five to 20 minutes of banter. I would allow it to dangle outside of my jacket, or let the wind fling it dashingly over one shoulder, and sooner or later the lady would be coerced into saying, "What a lovely tie." "Do you like it?" I would respond, or rather, "D'ye like it, now?" with a touch of heather in my voice. Then I would go on in this vein, explaining it was the emblem of my clan. The Scottish burr in my speech would somehow give way to an Irish brogue and then slither into a kind of Welsh or Yorkshire or Cockney or something and finally end up as Drama School Standard English (flapped Rs and broad As), liberally laced with frequent bonnys.

But as I began to knot the gaudy Russell plaid, a line of Le Blanc's, like a tolling knell, vibrated through my brain: "As to coloured Cravats, they are entirely prohibited in evening parties." (Lesson I, Preliminary and Indispensible Instructions.) Humbled, I bowed my head and removed the offending tartan (the bowed head presented difficulties in removal of the necktie, but I surmounted them: "What would Le Blanc have done?" I asked myself, and proceeded, dauntless), dropped it into a yawning waste receptacle, and substituted the wrinkled black silk number, consoling myself with some remembered refreshment from my newfound hero: "The black silk Cravat is now generally worn ... Napoleon generally wore a black silk Cravat, as was remarked at Wagram, Lodi, Marengo, Austerlitz, &c." Ah, but what, what color cravat did he wear at the site of his ignominious defeat? The well-informed Le Blanc, repository of all knowledge cravatorial, knew the answer: "At Waterloo it was observed that, contrary to his usual custom, he wore a white handkerchief [a synonym for cravat in Le Blanc's vocabulary] with a flowing bow, although the day previous he appeared in his black Cravat."

That settled it: the black cravat for me. Needless to add, at the party that evening, several people rose to receive me with the most distinguished marks of respect and cheerfully resigned their seats to me -- my short neck, high shoulders, round, full, fresh coloured face and beating temples notwithstanding.