Disraeli's Ideal?

This peer was a noble Crœsus, acquainted with all the gradations of life; a voluptuary who could be a Spartan; clear-sighted, unprejudiced, sagacious; the best judge in the world of a horse or a man; he was the universal referee; a quarrel about a bet or a mistress was solved by him in a moment, and in a manner which satisfied both parties. He patronised and appreciated the fine arts, though a jockey; respected literary men, though he only read French novels; and without any affectation of tastes which he did not possess, was looked upon by every singer and dancer in Europe as their natural champion. The secret of his strong character and great influence was his self-composure, which an earthquake or a Reform Bill could not disturb, and which in him was the result of temperament and experience (Disraeli, Coningsby).

Who anymore straddles high culture and low, cockpit and opera box, gin house and gallery, like the old Tories of the late Regency Fancy? A rum bunch, they bridged the chasm between the Rake and the rich, the gambler and the gamboller. Only the extravagantly wealthy could maintain a civil reputation whilst slumming it with the depraved, for commoner and Lord were of a piece, if their own traditionalist rhetoric was anything to go by. They were united by a common bond of being freeborn and a love of pluck, derring-do and deep play. The horses the one owned, the other trained; the arts the one patronised, the other performed; and the money won by one would be lost by the other. These self-described Great Men knew a thing or two about courage, having handled dozens of cocks in the heat of battle, spurring them on to pluck victory from the jaws of certain death. For self-composure read self-assurance. Never was there a more conceited coterie of self-congratulators. Doubtless they grew rich and fat and saw their names into the history books (gout excluded). Regency nobs could visit the gutter without becoming of the gutter.

The ultimate fancy story, Pierce Egan's Life in London, 1821

I doubt we can entertain such luxury, or buy such a pass through society’s dark enchantments, without being marked by the journey. We must regard the noble Fancy as an historical fact, but as historical nonetheless. Our lines of life, be they blue-blooded or otherwise, are narrower but not necessarily less rich. For although the Fancy aristocrat of Disraeli’s experience consorted with company high and low, his nature was ultimately low. Racing and horses, loose women and political skulduggery he knew through and through. Regarding high culture he was a dilettante, or a pedantic, not a connoisseur. Now, the vagaries of the democracy we enjoy being what they are, none of us is excluded from this once most exclusive of possibilities. Of course, one must be properly raised, exposed, educated. But the appreciation and understanding of the beautiful is, as never before, available. How interesting it is to observe that so few take the opportunity. What was once an aristocracy by birth, with all the possibilities for the failure of the blood, is now an aristocracy of choice. Surely that is a safer bet than Disraeli’s ideal?

Keeping It In The Family

‘Tis said that tweed only comes into its own when passed down to the next generation. Generally speaking, it’s worth hanging on to well-made, well-cut clothes, so long as there is someone on hand to wear them. The following example is a case in point. No longer doing quite the job for my father-in-law, this Aquascutum lovely has come my way, just as I was needing a new overcoat. Its splendidness is matched only by its having come freely my way, from one who was pleased as punch to see its life not only extended, but kept in the family to boot.

Oddly enough, I was wearing this coat on the plane back from Canada, and as I was disembarking in London, the purser (male) looked me up and down, sighed, and exclaimed, ‘Now that’s what I’m talking about! A proper Englishman!’ I was tempted to reply in German, but as always when this kind of thing happens, I offered humble thanks and went on my way, wondering what, precisely, makes me look so English. On this occasion, wearing an entirely Canadian coat built on the foundations of English sartorial heritage, I wondered how my father-in-law would have reacted to such a statement (he is ancestrally French, with a touch of Scandinavian; until now, the family has been unsullied by English blood). Sacrebleu!

The Grand Tour

If it were possible, illustrious philosopher! to write to you without that respect which hinders the imagination by introducing a degree of fear, I should flatter myself that I could entertain you with an account of my tour of Italy. I shall do my best; and if I am not successful you will know what to ascribe my failure to.

    You were indeed right to congratulate me when my father gave me permission to travel in Italy. Nine months in this delicious country have done more for me than all the sage lessons which books, or men formed by books, could have taught me. It was my imagination that needed correction, and nothing but travel could have produced this effect (Boswell to Rousseau, 1765).

Athens, 1813

Aristocratic I am not. But then, seldom few are anymore. And yet, as only an aristocrat could in days of yore, I have travelled and learned, consuming culture as if I were entitled to it. I am not alone in this. Travel has been democratised to an impressive, if not alarming, level. What, for the millions who pack up and jet off, is it for?

I have a sense of loss, or rather, of opportunity lost. For modern travel is an empty experience for most travellers. The masses who line up to escape set about recapitulating the things from which they run as soon as they arrive at their destination. In the West, we tour in crowds of our peers, consuming kitsch that has no bearing on its location other than that it is sold there. For years, as an undergraduate living in the north of England, I sold Christmas decorations in the shape of Royal Guards to Americans. The decorations were made in China, and marked up 300 per cent. And now they sit, in their thousands, annually adorning the plastic trees of Texans, as memorials of their European tour. The English (not all of them, naturally, but as a composite generalisation) seek only a warm place to eat the same greasy food, drink the same bland lager, and engage in the same meaningless ‘relationships’ as can be found in any sleazy nightclub at home. From what I can gather, the discerning classes (a term I use to denote a relatively rare cosmopolitan intellect) of each Occidental nation carry a degree of shame with respect to their countrymen who, when abroad, represent their respective national characters in the worst possible light.

Emil Brack, Planning the Grand Tour

The world is small to us, but has become so only in proportion with the narrowing of our minds. When it took purpose, planning, and considerable effort to travel, it was undertaken with a view to enrichment – of the mind (and perhaps the purse, for some). For certain, there have always been voyeurs and opportunists, but the ideal of travel was to complete one’s education; to be enriched by cultures and histories richer than one’s own; and to return with a broadened, a more experienced mind. This possibility is upon us now, and with a simplicity of execution hitherto unknown and, for aught we know, for only a small window of time. Most of us spurn this opportunity, instead wreaking havoc on the lands upon which we trespass, in both senses.

The world, despite its borders and restrictions, is, to the privileged West, largely open. What if we were to visit it with an open mind?

Travelling, Mac? Or, An Itinerant’s Wardrobe

You’re probably aware that I’m something of the peripatetic sort. If you were polite you might call me an itinerant intellectual. If you were less guarded you might call me an academic vagrant. In any case, I travel a lot, and that presents its peculiar problems, sartorially speaking.

For years now, with only the occasional exception, my clothes have been separated across international borders. Each time I hop on a plane/train/bus (depending on which country I’m in and going to) a selection must be made, which varies according to the season, duration of stay, and purpose. Clothes are like old friends and, like my actual old friends, I have to leave them behind all too often.

how unspeakably important is it to know what course, of survey and conquest, is the true one; where the footing is firm substance and will bear us, where it is hollow, or mere cloud, and may engulf us!... ‘Society sails through the Infinitude on Cloth, as on a Faust's Mantle, or rather like the Sheet of clean and unclean beasts in the Apostle’s Dream; and without such Sheet or Mantle, would sink to endless depths, or mount to inane limbos, and in either case be no more’ (Sartor Resartus).

The latest German expedition has proven fraught with difficulties on the clothes front. All the wrong choices were made in September, thinking that Germany’s winter wouldn’t really get going until January. That assessment couldn’t have been more wrong, and now I have returned armed with heavier duty kit I find that the temperature is mild (for now). To complicate things, this trip will be in the order of five-months duration, meaning that somehow winter, spring and summer have to be taken account of, while staying within a two-suitcase limit. Success seems unlikely.

A rare peek inside the VB inner sanctum

Despite the trickiness of staying elegant but lightweight while on the go, I can share some basics that do work, at least in principle. I try to leave balance in my wardrobes, home and away, so that if I have two stable bases, I don’t need to pack very much for trips to and from. Right now, all the work is in Old Europe, all the play in Montreal, which means the suits are mainly here, the rakish odd jackets there. I’m kitted out here with a couple of tweed jackets, a blue blazer, and something in burgundy velvet (you never know, I might get round to having fun at some point). The other wardrobe has all the linen, cotton and silk (and I just hope it doesn’t get too hot too soon in Germany). Knitwear is evenly distributed, as are shirts, ties and hats. A smattering of cedar, in addition to the bagging of some choice items ought to keep the moths at bay in Montreal. Shoes are problematic. Anything summery is currently tucked up in bed, save for the boat shoes, which are left over from last year and might be sacrificed to a warm spring. I’m left here with winter boots, Chelsea boots (black and brown), black oxfords and brown brogues. It’s not enough, but what can you do? Scents are also evenly split, and I’ve taken to using Eau de Parfum since it lasts longer in all respects. Wherever you meet me, that place will have a corresponding smell. Coats are a pain because they’re so big, so I’m limited to three: a smart overcoat; a three-quarter length leather coat; and a leather jacket for spring. In storage lie the other overcoat, the other leather jacket, the loden coat, and the sheepskin.

The handkerchief is one way to stay distinctive while keeping the weight down

What all this amounts to is something of a split personality. One has to question what one wants to portray in a given context, and the limitations of travel force one to make sharp distinctions. I largely intend to be taken seriously in my current abode, and you will find me seriously dressed for the most part. Elsewhere, I can give full play to the lighter side, and dress accordingly. Most people get to decide these things everyday. If I get to decide once every three months I am doing well.

And of course, where would a man be without his sundry sartorial tools?

Happy travels, wherever you might be headed.

Game On; or, Manly Cuisine

Men aren’t nearly so afraid of cooking as perhaps they were twenty years ago and more, but there’s an awful lot of knife wielding, fire building and grunting going on. It’s almost as if channelling your inner cave man is a good idea, and I can think of no greater insult to the great achievements of civilisation – of the refinements of skill, thought, and art – than to extol the virtues of the cave. Really, the so-called crisis of masculinity that has abounded, especially in the US, since the early ‘90s, is nothing short of a resignation. The romantic notion of a time when men were real men – an image of loincloth-wearing, spear-carrying, knuckle-dragging hominids – is plainly absurd. From the Greeks on down, refinement in food preparation, eating, drinking, and philosophising about it all, has been the remit of the greatest men and the greatest minds. Lighting a grill just doesn’t cut it. And the gnashing of teeth makes you little better than an ape. It’s time to put the manliness back into food.

Inspired in part by my good friend who likes to eat like an Edwardian, and by thoughts of things honestly raised and honestly killed, I ventured to make this game terrine:

Several things immediately strike me as worthy about this. First, nothing in it came from a supermarket. Second, and relatedly, I was given a reason to visit a number of local butchers and grocers, which are still like little community centres if you can find them. My Hungarian butcher was stunned by a request for streaky bacon, which he had not heard before in fifty years dealing with pigs. I still have a lot to learn about the English language outside of England. While he was giving me a tour of his bacon varieties his colleague was busy trying to give financial advice to an old eccentric who only knew the poles of extravagance and destitution, with nothing in between. The butcher offered to put money aside, for the lean times, but whiskey dreams beat out the benevolent butcher banker. Third, the making of such an intricate dish connects one with a wealth of tradition. Fourth, there was so much of it – four pounds of meat went into it, including venison (fillets and livers), duck, ostrich, sausage, and the aforementioned bacon – that it did the rounds at the holiday parties, and brought friends together. Food is the bedrock of friendship – cum panis, company – so isn’t it all the better if we can supply it?

Most importantly, perhaps, this dish was honest. It is was somewhat labour intensive, but it contained absolutely no processed crap. Somehow it embodied provision, and this, perhaps, is what ought to define the manly cook.