A Protest Against the Invisible Government Which Dominates the Dress of Women.
This is a fashion article. There can be no mistake because it is labeled quite plainly. And so, like nearly all other things -- as for example, women and morals, and so forth, which are also labeled quite plainly -- it will probably turn out to be something entirely different.
Personally, I suspect it of being a detective story. You will admit I ought to know. And yet, there is no doubt in my own mind that I intend it as a fashion article -- more or less. Though the "less" need not bother one as we dress to-day.
You see it is all so puzzling and difficult because properly to write a fashion article one must know intimately some persons, somewhere, whom nobody does know. One cannot even be sure who they are; or, where they live. One only knows They rule -- rule our dress and manners as completely as another mysterious institution -- termed The Tariff -- is commonly supposed to rule our pocket books.
It is astute, I think, to have discerned after much research that these persons are always born in Paris; have a townhouse in London and sometimes spend a few disdainful days on Upper Fifth Avenue on the East side. The air of Brooklyn or the Bronx proves fatal to them at once.
Now it seems to me, to allow oneself to be commanded to dress in this way, or the other, by some person, or persons, unknown, is naïve, not to mention being democratic and American. Of course in England one bows to Tradition, or the King, or whatever you want to call it. And there is some reason for doing so and -- anyhow a lot of quite stupid people are able to know what it is and what it is all about. But -- good gracious -- this monarchy of ours -- ! These Star Chamber proceedings -- over which They preside -- and we are never permitted to attend! Proceedings of which we never even know until the edict goes forth and we are told what they wish us to wear! Well -- we cannot look at ourselves in our mirrors and deny they have a sense of humor.
Of course all this mutinous literature is a pose on my part. I would no more dare disobey them than you would. I'll prove it presently. I know -- just as well as you do -- as long as we all wear clothes we are -- theirs. We may pretend we are free. But we are not. We may get desperate and declare we will stalk forth naked before they shall queen it over us another day. We never do. Custom, conventionality, what-not, are all too strong for us.
As for me I had forgotten they existed, an attitude of mind to be attained in but one way. That way is absolute solitude. But we are all human after all. I came back from mountains so high they stabbed the clouds and tore them; back over a sea as vast and deep as a dream of the future, and went directly to my tailor.
With touching faith and simplicity I told him what I wanted. Just a little coat to keep me warm; a little skirt in which I could walk about because I cannot afford to ride. A little coat with buttons on it to button into button holes. A little skirt in which I could sit down because -- sometimes I tire of standing up.
We all know what the small boy said when he saw a giraffe -- "There ain't no such animal."
The tailor listened to my tale and gravely shook his head. A tear stood in his kindly eye.
"I would like to" -- he said -- "I would really like to. You are an old customer and I am disinterestedly attached to you. Besides you write for magazines and newspapers so I might get some advertising out of it. But -- I dare not. I cannot. It would be worth my reputation to me. They are not wearing 'em."
I got down on my knees. (I was still in a skirt in which I could do so.) And I took that tailor's honest, toil-worn hand:
"Just a little coat to keep me warm." I begged -- "a little skirt in which I can walk about. Just one of each! Be kind!"
He was adamant. I saw anguish and rhetoric were alike useless. I rose from my knees. (Still, I was in a skirt in which I could do so.) "What are They wearing?" I quavered. My spirit was broken. "Show me and I will try to wear 'em too."
Then that tailor was galvanized into life. He thrust me before his long mirror.
"Do you see your silhouette?" he demanded. "It is all wrong!"
I could not see my silhouette. Moreover to myself I looked a little shabby but -- very nice.
"Slouch!" he commanded. "Slouch! Contract your lungs! Throw out your stomach; let down one hip! Slouch! They are slouching!"
I tried to slouch. I achieved a sort of slant, an effect not unlike the Cubist painting of "A Lady Coming Down the Stairs."
"That is not it at all," sighed my tailor. "You will have to study it out. I will show you some pictures. And you can walk on Fifth Avenue and watch how They wear Them."
I studied the pictures. I walked on Fifth Avenue. But I cannot do it yet. Still -- there is hope. I know what I must try to do. I know what is expected of me.
My silhouette must resemble a pyramid of ice cream in the village drug store on a hot day. The silhouette is attained primarily through use of the corset. This is an article which reaches from a point one half inch above the knee (it cannot be any longer or the slit in one's skirt would permit it to be seen) to a point one quarter of an inch above the waistline (It cannot be any higher or the cut of one's corsage would make it visible.) You will perceive its dimensions are practically arbitrary.
And I must have, on my hat, something which is very long and sticks out and is shaved except in spots where it is bushy. I do not know the name of these things. I shall have to point to one when I wish to buy it. Somehow they make me think of silly poodle dogs, clipped to indiscretion on their hind legs, but with little places, as concessions to their modesty, left here and there and on their tails.
Again there is the matter of the "Minaret Gown." They are wearing them. I must wear one too. But how? Where does one get in? How stay in? May I sit down in one if I do wear it? Or if I sit will it fly up in front and hit my teeth as would a hoop were one to step upon the edge of it? Shall I learn to manage a "Minaret Gown?" Who will teach me? Perhaps it is a talent to which certain natures are born, just as some people always vote for Bryan; or know what to answer when any one says "pleased to meet you."
Do my questions betray I am hopelessly on the outside? I fear they do. But how else learn? Besides it is exasperating. They know things and they will not tell me. The minxes! I do not even know whether my conversation should or should not have geographical limitations like my corset.
Does the young man of to-day say to the Débutant he is wooing:
"What sweet little ankles peep from beneath your slit skirt, Miss Jones!"
Just as our grandfathers said to our grandmothers:
"What dear little hands you have!"
The strictest moralist concedes that one may admire an attraction obviously put in a shop window for that purpose. Always provided one does not call it by too real a name. Even I know that horses get about on four up-rights, commonly termed "legs." But when a lady progresses in one of the diaphanous costumes of to-day she arrives there upon what is usually referred to as "additional charm." Am I right? The more your toilette reveals the more you must wrap yourself in words. There are gowns which will lose you your social position if you wear them, and your social position will be lost if you do not. The more you pay for them the less you get of them.
These may all seem little points to you. To me they are hopelessly hazy. And I wish to be set right. Almost, one could write to Mr. Bok of "The Ladies Home Journal" about them. I did begin a letter:
"Dear Mr. Bok:
I find I have reached an age where I am beginning to ask questions -- "
I did not go on. The hopelessness of the thing struck me.
I never get the right angle. Sartorially, I am always "barking up the wrong tree." When first I saw the chin strap hats I thought they were like that to keep their wearer's mouths shut. The women who wore them looked as though their mouths ought to be kept shut; if one were to preserve one's illusions. I was wrong again.
Now I think of it there should be some spirit of Spring in this article. Soon They will be telling us what we must wear for the great wedding of the Earth and Sun over which the Lord Himself presides. My answer is: "They are not wearing it this year." The Spirit of Spring is worn inside -- close to the heart. The clothes They wear do not leave room for it.
-- Ethel Lloyd Patterson. Vanity Fair, 1914.
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