In That Suit You May Pass Anywhere

Arthur Conan Doyle’s 1896 novel Rodney Stone follows the adventures of a young and ambitious boxer as he navigates the world of professional prizefighting in early 19th-century England. Along the way, Stone encounters a colorful array of characters, including the father of dandyism himself, Beau Brummell. Doyle acknowledges in the preface that Brummell’s portrayal is indebted to Captain Jesse’s Life of Brummell.

In Chapter 9, Stone’s dandy uncle, Sir Charles Tregellis, takes him under wing to be fitted for a bespoke outfit by the famous regency tailor Weston. During the first fitting they meet England’s Prime Minister of Elegance:

The measuring was a most solemn and serious function, though it was nothing to the trying-on two days later, when my uncle stood by in an agony of apprehension as each garment was adjusted, he and Weston arguing over every seam and lapel and skirt until I was dizzy with turning round in front of them.  Then, just as I had hoped that all was settled, in came young Mr. Brummell, who promised to be an even greater exquisite than my uncle, and the whole matter had to be thrashed out between them.  He was a good-sized man, this Brummell, with a long, fair face, light brown hair, and slight sandy side-whiskers.  His manner was languid, his voice drawling, and while he eclipsed my uncle in the extravagance of his speech, he had not the air of manliness and decision which underlay all my kinsman’s affectations.

“Why, George,” cried my uncle, “I thought you were with your regiment.”

“I’ve sent in my papers,” drawled the other.

“I thought it would come to that.”

“Yes.  The Tenth was ordered to Manchester, and they could hardly expect me to go to a place like that.  Besides, I found the major monstrous rude.”

“How was that?”

“He expected me to know about his absurd drill, Tregellis, and I had other things to think of, as you may suppose.  I had no difficulty in taking my right place on parade, for there was a trooper with a red nose on a flea-bitten grey, and I had observed that my post was always immediately in front of him.  This saved a great deal of trouble.  The other day, however, when I came on parade, I galloped up one line and down the other, but the deuce a glimpse could I get of that long nose of his!  Then, just as I was at my wits’ end, I caught sight of him, alone at one side; so I formed up in front.  It seems he had been put there to keep the ground, and the major so far forgot himself as to say that I knew nothing of my duties.”

My uncle laughed, and Brummell looked me up and down with his large, intolerant eyes.

“These will do very passably,” said he.  “Buff and blue are always very gentlemanlike.  But a sprigged waistcoat would have been better.”

“I think not,” said my uncle, warmly.

“My dear Tregellis, you are infallible upon a cravat, but you must allow me the right of my own judgment upon vests.  I like it vastly as it stands, but a touch of red sprig would give it the finish that it needs.”

They argued with many examples and analogies for a good ten minutes, revolving round me at the same time with their heads on one side and their glasses to their eyes.  It was a relief to me when they at last agreed upon a compromise.

“You must not let anything I have said shake your faith in Sir Charles’s judgment, Mr. Stone,” said Brummell, very earnestly.

I assured him that I should not.

“If you were my nephew, I should expect you to follow my taste.  But you will cut a very good figure as it is.  I had a young cousin who came up to town last year with a recommendation to my care.  But he would take no advice.  At the end of the second week I met him coming down St. James’s Street in a snuff-coloured coat cut by a country tailor.  He bowed to me.  Of course I knew what was due to myself.  I looked all round him, and there was an end to his career in town.  You are from the country, Mr. Stone?”

“From Sussex, sir.”

“Sussex!  Why, that is where I send my washing to.  There is an excellent clear-starcher living near Hayward’s Heath.  I send my shirts two at a time, for if you send more it excites the woman and diverts her attention.  I cannot abide anything but country washing.  But I should be vastly sorry to have to live there.  What can a man find to do?”

“You don’t hunt, George?”

“When I do, it’s a woman.  But surely you don’t go to hounds, Charles?”

“I was out with the Belvoir last winter.”

“The Belvoir!  Did you hear how I smoked Rutland?  The story has been in the clubs this month past.  I bet him that my bag would weigh more than his.  He got three and a half brace, but I shot his liver-coloured pointer, so he had to pay.  But as to hunting, what amusement can there be in flying about among a crowd of greasy, galloping farmers?  Every man to his own taste, but Brookes’s window by day and a snug corner of the macao table at Watier’s by night, give me all I want for mind and body.  You heard how I plucked Montague the brewer!”

“I have been out of town.”

“I had eight thousand from him at a sitting.  ‘I shall drink your beer in future, Mr. Brewer,’ said I.  ‘Every blackguard in London does,’ said he.  It was monstrous impolite of him, but some people cannot lose with grace.  Well, I am going down to Clarges Street to pay Jew King a little of my interest.  Are you bound that way?  Well, good-bye, then!  I’ll see you and your young friend at the club or in the Mall, no doubt,” and he sauntered off upon his way.

“That young man is destined to take my place,” said my uncle, gravely, when Brummell had departed.  “He is quite young and of no descent, but he has made his way by his cool effrontery, his natural taste, and his extravagance of speech.  There is no man who can be impolite in so polished a fashion.  He has a half-smile, and a way of raising his eyebrows, for which he will be shot one of these mornings.  Already his opinion is quoted in the clubs as a rival to my own.  Well, every man has his day, and when I am convinced that mine is past, St. James’s Street shall know me no more, for it is not in my nature to be second to any man.  But now, nephew, in that buff and blue suit you may pass anywhere; so, if you please, we will step into my vis-à-vis, and I will show you something of the town.”

 

Later in the chapter the trio meet again:

 

“There is Mr. Brummell, sir,” said I.

“Yes, he’ll come to us presently.  That young man has certainly a future before him.  Do you observe the way in which he looks round the room from under his drooping eyelids, as though it were a condescension that he should have entered it?  Small conceits are intolerable, but when they are pushed to the uttermost they become respectable.  How do, George?”

“Have you heard about Vereker Merton?” asked Brummell, strolling up with one or two other exquisites at his heels.  “He has run away with his father’s woman-cook, and actually married her.”

“What did Lord Merton do?”

“He congratulated him warmly, and confessed that he had always underrated his intelligence.  He is to live with the young couple, and make a handsome allowance on condition that the bride sticks to her old duties.  By the way, there was a rumour that you were about to marry, Tregellis.”

“I think not,” answered my uncle.  “It would be a mistake to overwhelm one by attentions which are a pleasure to many.”

“My view, exactly, and very neatly expressed,” cried Brummell.  “Is it fair to break a dozen hearts in order to intoxicate one with rapture?  I’m off to the Continent next week.”

“Bailiffs?” asked one of his companions.

“Too bad, Pierrepoint.  No, no; it is pleasure and instruction combined.  Besides, it is necessary to go to Paris for your little things, and if there is a chance of the war breaking out again, it would be well to lay in a supply.”

“Quite right,” said my uncle, who seemed to have made up his mind to outdo Brummell in extravagance.  “I used to get my sulphur-coloured gloves from the Palais Royal.  When the war broke out in ’93 I was cut off from them for nine years.  Had it not been for a lugger which I specially hired to smuggle them, I might have been reduced to English tan.”

“The English are excellent at a flat-iron or a kitchen poker, but anything more delicate is beyond them.”

“Our tailors are good,” cried my uncle, “but our stuffs lack taste and variety.  The war has made us more rococo than ever.  It has cut us off from travel, and there is nothing to match travel for expanding the mind.  Last year, for example, I came upon some new waist-coating in the Square of San Marco, at Venice.  It was yellow, with the prettiest little twill of pink running through it.  How could I have seen it had I not travelled?  I brought it back with me, and for a time it was all the rage.”

“The Prince took it up.”

“Yes, he usually follows my lead.  We dressed so alike last year that we were frequently mistaken for each other.  It tells against me, but so it was.  He often complains that things do not look as well upon him as upon me, but how can I make the obvious reply?  By the way, George, I did not see you at the Marchioness of Dover’s ball.”

“Yes, I was there, and lingered for a quarter of an hour or so.  I am surprised that you did not see me.  I did not go past the doorway, however, for undue preference gives rise to jealousy.”

“I went early,” said my uncle, “for I had heard that there were to be some tolerable débutantes.  It always pleases me vastly when I am able to pass a compliment to any of them.  It has happened, but not often, for I keep to my own standard.”

So they talked, these singular men, and I, looking from one to the other, could not imagine how they could help bursting out a-laughing in each other’s faces.  But, on the contrary, their conversation was very grave, and filled out with many little bows, and opening and shutting of snuff-boxes, and flickings of laced handkerchiefs.  Quite a crowd had gathered silently around, and I could see that the talk had been regarded as a contest between two men who were looked upon as rival arbiters of fashion.  It was finished by the Marquis of Queensberry passing his arm through Brummell’s and leading him off, while my uncle threw out his laced cambric shirt-front and shot his ruffles as if he were well satisfied with his share in the encounter.  It is seven-and-forty years since I looked upon that circle of dandies, and where, now, are their dainty little hats, their wonderful waistcoats, and their boots, in which one could arrange one’s cravat?  They lived strange lives, these men, and they died strange deaths—some by their own hands, some as beggars, some in a debtor’s gaol, some, like the most brilliant of them all, in a madhouse in a foreign land.