Sorry!

by Henry Hitchings

  The basic message is one that still resonates: the need to control one’s social space. Castiglione has often been accused of shallowness, but his appreciation of the importance of surfaces seems modern rather than merely desultory. He is alive to the way other people use one’s physical characteristics to form a view of one’s character and even of what one is likely to think. In this he seems prescient, for it was at the end of the eighteenth century, under the influence of the Swiss writer Johann Kaspar Lavater, that the doctrine of physiognomy became popular, allowing disciples to persuade themselves that they could determine a person’s temperament and trustworthiness from the form of his or her face.

  At the same time, Castiglione thinks in broader terms about self-presentation. It is not enough to do things well; one must also be seen to do them well. He introduces a truly psychological dimension to the discussion and practice of manners. One of his key realizations is that, in appraising others, we take a part for the whole: some perfect little touch of elegance or refinement will be interpreted as a sign of vast unseen continents of sophistication. Displaying some wondrous part of ourselves is a way of suggesting that we are wondrous through and through. This is the art of ‘less is more’: to make a good impression we disclose only a few sparkling details.

  Castiglione thinks of public life as theatre. A man’s construction of his identity is a feat of acting, and he should be intent on pleasing his audience. This idea does not originate with him; he probably took it over from Cicero. Yet Castiglione is supremely alert to the layers that make up a good performance. He emphasizes the physical aspect of manners. There was an established idea of how one should comport oneself in church, based on monastic principles: no shuffling from foot to foot, no slouching or leaning, no leg-crossing or foot-pointing, a fundamental quietness and restraint. But Castiglione expounds a code of physical manners for a secular audience. The preoccupation with the physical bearing of the courtly man has many times been reproduced. John Ruskin could assert in Modern Painters (its final volume, in 1860) that ‘A gentleman’s first characteristic is that fineness of structure in the body, which renders it capable of the most delicate sensation.’3 For Castiglione, ‘grace’ is paramount. He admires the ‘quiet gravity’ of the Spanish and prefers it to the French ‘quick liveliness’. Skill should be cultivated as a habit, but this self-fashioning should never turn into pedantry. At the same time he exalts skill in horsemanship as the loftiest of accomplishments; it connects the courtier to the chivalric past. Castiglione thinks of grace almost as a technology; it is an adornment that multiplies itself, because one’s own grace begets grace in others.

  There are real limitations in Castiglione’s worldview. Even though lying is condemned, there are notes of hypocrisy – and of naïvety. We may balk, too, at the lengthy discussion of jokes. ‘A very entertaining source of practical jokes, as well as of jests, is to be found in the pretence that one understands that a man wishes to do something which he most certainly does not.’ Put thus, it sounds about as entertaining as an enema. Women have a mainly decorative role in The Book of the Courtier; they are assets, icons, listeners or unreasoning chatterers. Yet while the guidance for women tends not to be of a practical bent, there are some intriguing specifics. For instance, in the presence of people talking immodestly or with undue familiarity, a lady should ‘listen … with a slight blush of shame’, and when besieged with presumptuously amorous talk by a man she should refuse to believe a word of his spiel.

  In the England where Castiglione’s ideas held sway, ladies were expected to be more rigid than men, though sobriety was not to be confused with dullness. Of particular importance was making sure that their clothes were securely fastened. A handkerchief was a useful accessory, but, when it was tucked into the sleeve, only half of it should be visible; otherwise there was a risk of its falling out and causing a commotion. A lady could invite a man to dance by means of a curtsy, but not by gesturing or using his name. When a woman sat down, she was expected to nudge her gown close to her chair, like a cat tucking away its tail. Once seated, she should be still without resembling a statue, making some small movement from time to time – perhaps with her fan.

  Some of the principles of the period feel familiar; others seem alien in being so schematic. Among men rich attire was desirable, a mark of wealth and liberality. A lady should never be offered a gloved hand. One shouldn’t walk with one’s hand on one’s hip, for fear of looking like a peacock. Even sitting was an art: in a chair with arms, one should rest one’s own left arm and cock one’s right arm so that the elbow touched the arm of the chair and the hand was free to display items such as gloves or a flower. Haven’t we all seen that posture and thought it a touch arrogant or coquettish? In Renaissance portraits, a cocked elbow was a sign of self-possession and even of provocative aggression.4

  Castiglione urges that gestures should be subtle, not affected. Other writers on this theme can seem negative, itemizing all the things you shouldn’t do with your hands and feet, but Castiglione makes gesture seem an art. He differentiates two kinds of body language: one is grave and closely regulated, the other flamboyant – the former Spanish, the latter French. For the true sophisticate, there has to be a middle way. We get a sense of the English interest in the matter that followed the translation of Castiglione by turning to the second (1609) edition of Robert Cawdrey’s A Table Alphabetical, a primitive dictionary. There Cawdrey provides an entry for the newly adopted verb gesticulate, which he explains as ‘[to] use much or foolish gesture’. Gesticulation was also a vogue word at this time; a rival dictionary defines it as ‘a moving of the fingers, hands, or other parts, either in idle wantonness, or to express some matter’.

  The English have tended not to think of themselves as gesticulators. We leave all that arm-waving, finger-wagging and grimacing to others. Or so we imagine, perhaps aware of the ancient Roman distinction: slaves gesticulated broadly, free men didn’t. The great eighteenth-century moralist Samuel Johnson would grab and restrain a man who gesticulated to add force to an argument, thereby ironically adding the force of gesture to his campaign against gesticulation. This kind of behaviour is familiar: a regulation of other people’s expressiveness that is itself a robust expression of self. The English penchant for modesty is pushily upheld.

  More appealing than artful body language, at least to those who could read Castiglione in Italian, was the notion of sprezzatura. The word has half crept into English; I have seen it used of Miles Davis, Joe DiMaggio and Edward Cullen in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight novels. Castiglione’s sprezzatura is effortless excellence, an ability to mask one’s desires, a nonchalant artfulness or studied carelessness. It is the opposite of vulgarity. Alexis de Tocqueville would some 300 years later discern the ‘aroma of aristocracy’ among the easy, non-chalant, unpompous members of the House of Lords, and attempts to define gentlemanliness have tended to include confidence, coolness and an unaffected air of disengagement. An easy, unassertive self-possession was valued by Castiglione, who mocked the kind of man who kept a comb up his sleeve in case he rumpled his hair. He was dismissive of those who exaggerated the ceremonies of politeness, as if proposing to ‘keep a book and a reckoning of it’. The most important thing was not to look like you were trying: sprezzatura carried no whiff of pretentiousness and was contrasted with affettazione, a word I hardly need gloss. Yet sprezzatura was an act of simulation, and Castiglione’s critics suggested that his advocacy of social strategy was suspect on religious grounds.

  Castiglione was not cynical in the manner of Niccolò Machiavelli, whose doctrine laid the grounds for the ruthless, crafty and risk-taking behaviour of the modern executive. It is Machiavelli, not Castiglione, whose work gets wonkily referenced by Tony Soprano (he calls him Prince Matchabelli). Whereas Machiavelli was prepared to separate the good from the useful, Castiglione insisted on maintaining a link between them. Castiglione’s elegant sprezzatura differs from Machiavelli’s celebrated concept of virtù – a mixture of masculine f
orcefulness, foresight and flexibility. Castiglione’s approach was less foxy and charismatic. Yet both were seeking to equip young men with the skills for survival and success in a highly competitive world.

  The first English translation of Castiglione was published in 1561. Interest in Italian culture was intense, and Thomas Hoby’s version capitalized on this. Although he closely followed the sense of the original, Hoby was concerned to write what he considered pure English. His prose is often rough where the original appears refined. He certainly wasn’t about to bring the glossy word sprezzatura into English and his two renderings of it, ‘disgracing’ and ‘recklessness’, look wayward. The former may strike us as especially odd; it seems that Hoby was trying to convey something along the lines of ‘negligence’ or ‘inelegance’.

  As a prose stylist Hoby deliberately set himself at odds with the exhibitionism of so many of his contemporaries. They dealt in strange imported terms; the vogue for them led to the creation of the first English dictionaries, such as Robert Cawdrey’s, which were glossaries of ‘hard’ words. Hoby promised to express himself plainly and without any borrowed ‘counterfeitness’. Nevertheless, his version of Castiglione introduced English readers to the words self-liking and youthful, and there we have an apt summary of The Book of the Courtier.

  Annotated for ease of use, Hoby’s translation was like a study guide. He included appendices which were of great use to lazy readers, providing a summary of the qualities required in courtiers and gentlewomen. The outline of ladylike ‘conditions’ was succinct yet demanding. A lady should have ‘a sweetness in language’, as well as skill in drawing, painting and music. She should be a good dancer but should need to be asked before showing this (and should not use ‘too swift measures’). Her style of dress should not be ‘fond and fantastical’; her clothes should be becoming, yet she should make it look as though she did not expend much effort on achieving this. Her sober, quiet manners should not preclude ‘a lively quickness of wit’; and she should at all times present herself gracefully but also discreetly.5

  Shakespeare’s plays demonstrate his familiarity with Castiglione’s ideas, though it is not clear whether he came to them via Hoby. Benedick in Much Ado About Nothing is an example of a character who, though worried at first about how he is perceived by his male companions, adapts rapidly, refashioning himself in a way that evinces the courtly qualities praised by Castiglione. His sparring partner Beatrice is not impressed by the flexibility and sophistication of men’s manners, and says that ‘manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue’. She means that men have become slick orators, and masculinity has been debased.

  For precisely this reason, there was hostility to Castiglione’s values. Castiglione himself recognized that Italians had a reputation for vanity and dissolute behaviour, and this ill repute drew negative comment from, among others, the educational theorist Roger Ascham, sometime tutor to the future Queen Elizabeth. In Castiglione’s praise of grace Ascham saw a weakness for empty sophistication. He thought that reading Castiglione was less harmful than travelling to Italy, which was sure to encourage lust and other vices. But Italianate Englishmen, however they were formed, seemed dangerous in their ambition. Ascham’s attitudes were influential, and he reduced upper-class enthusiasm for foreign travel, which would not fully recover from his opprobrium until the eighteenth century. Interestingly, he thought the key period during which young men should be imbued with moral discipline was between the ages of seventeen and twenty-seven; this was therefore the worst possible time for them to go gadding about abroad.

  The courtier Edward de Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, was a notable example of an Englishman steeped in Italian manners. Effeminate and erratic, with a great aptitude for dance, he was among Queen Elizabeth’s favourites. The gossipy biographer John Aubrey tells the story of how Oxford, making a deep bow before Elizabeth, ‘happened to let a fart’. He was so ashamed that he left the country – Aubrey says for seven years, though his spell abroad was in fact much shorter – and it is alleged that on his return Elizabeth greeted him with the words ‘My lord, I had forgot the fart.’

  It is not uniquely Elizabethan to draw attention to some past embarrassment while claiming to have lost sight (or scent) of it. This is teasing passing itself off as magnanimity. But we are accustomed to think of farting as unwelcome when involuntary and crass when intentional; we may therefore be surprised to find Elizabeth feeling otherwise. Before Elizabeth, though, farting had even enjoyed royal favour. In the reign of Henry II a man known as Roland le Pettour (Roland the Farter) was granted thirty acres of land in Suffolk on condition of annually at Christmas performing – all at once – a leap, a whistle and a fart; in the reign of Henry III he was obliged to switch to paying rent instead. Before we discern in Elizabeth’s quip a return to royal indulgence of farting, we should be aware that the Earl of Oxford was a cruel and violent sexual omnivore who preferred the company of a Venetian choirboy to that of his wife, killed an unarmed cook while practising with his sword, and may have plotted the murder of Sir Philip Sidney, but kept himself in royal favour with gifts of perfumed gloves. Ostensibly forgetting the fart, Elizabeth was really overlooking all his other outbursts.

  For Elizabethans negotiating a world full of posturing and counterfeitness, a word of particular significance was gentleman. The term has been employed since the thirteenth century. Originally it was a social grade, signifying someone who, though not a nobleman, was entitled to bear arms. It was not a badge of great distinction: a gentleman was the dependant of a man of higher grade (that is, a lord). The word became common in a less specific sense, denoting someone capable of fine feelings and virtuous behaviour, around 1400. In 1434 Nicholas Upton, a cleric who wrote on heraldic and military subjects, remarked that of late many ‘poor’ men had come to be considered gentlemen because of their ‘grace, favour, labour or deserving’. The nature of gentlemanliness was blurry. But the name was still valued. The previous year at Bayeux, a man called William Packington, a one-time haberdasher and now the controller of the local English garrison, stabbed to death an acquaintance, Thomas Souderne, for pronouncing him ‘no sort of gentleman’.6

  In Elizabethan England, as now, gentleman was a term defined in a variety of ways. A volume dating from 1555 and bearing the title Institucion of a Gentleman argued that ‘No man becometh gentle without virtue.’ The gentleman was a person of high social and economic standing – anyone who had to labour for his livelihood was automatically no gentleman – but he also had to possess certain intellectual attributes and moral qualities, and commentators stressed the importance of these. Definitions were mainly philosophical, but there were practical instructions too. A gentleman should not walk with his feet splayed, should keep both feet on the ground when sitting, and should on no account run in the street. He should also rehearse perfection in his mind. Roger Ascham’s Toxophilus of 1545, addressed ‘to all gentlemen and yeomen of England’, is a key work in the field, ostensibly about archery but really a guide to ‘hitting the mark’ in all departments of gentlemanly thought and conduct. A word Ascham likes to use in this context is comely, which at that time suggested a blend of sobriety and quiet decorousness. Composed and therefore able to be subtly perceptive, the comely man could see the wind before he felt it, and his aesthetic faculties had been tuned to assist his powers of reason.

  There was hostility to both the word gentleman and the thing it denoted. This was strongest among Puritans, who, beginning around 1560, attempted to bring about moral reform. Some Puritans objected to good manners on the grounds that they were little more than flattery and ingratiating slipperiness – what the poet Nicholas Breton in a treatise of 1618 called ‘wily-beguily’.7 Richard Brathwait’s The English Gentleman (1630) used the contested term in its title but distanced gentlemanliness from the courtly habit of chameleon-like mutability. He emphasized the need for men ‘of selecter rank and quality’ to pursue an active life: ‘A cre
st displays his house, but his own actions express himself,’ and ‘He holds idleness to be the very moth of man’s time.’8 This work was followed soon afterwards by the rather shorter The English Gentlewoman, which we have already encountered. Brathwait was at pains to try to reintroduce Christian values into the conception of virtue, which by the 1630s had become largely secular. After Brathwait, most Puritan literature simply stated that Christianity and the profession of gentlemanliness were at odds.

  All the while, though, there were new conduct books that gave prominence to the word gentleman, which gradually replaced courtier. Henry Peacham’s The Compleat Gentleman (1622, with an enlarged edition in 1634) outlined ‘the most necessary and commendable qualities concerning mind or body’. It made familiar claims for the benefits of learning to swim and shoot, but also attached great importance to the study of heraldry: a gentleman should be able to describe and depict not only his own coat of arms, but also those of his friends. Peacham had travelled on the Continent and felt that the education of young Englishmen lagged behind that given to their counterparts abroad. He pictured an oligarchy of virtuous noblemen, well-informed and physically fit (he recommends some leaping in the morning, but not wrestling). In The Art of Living in London (1642) he presents a more prosaic vision of the particular needs of a gentleman in a modern city: a private chamber, thrift, patience and wariness, especially where the enticements of golden harlots are concerned.

  The plural gentlemen grew common, as a form of address for a group of men of any rank, in the age of Shakespeare. Although for much of the seventeenth century there remained a tendency to think of a gentleman as a superior type who had both money and ample leisure, by 1700 the term was applied vaguely to anyone found to be socially respectable. Moreover, it was not unusual to apply it humorously to those who were deeply unrespectable. Writing in 1729, Daniel Defoe distinguished between the ‘born gentleman’ and the ‘bred gentleman’, and in doing so highlighted the word’s ambiguity.9 We can detect the same slipperiness – masquerading as certainty – in the legendary banker John Pierpont Morgan’s line that ‘you can do business with anyone but you can only sail a boat with a gentleman.’10 In 1601 Thomas Wilson reckoned that there were 500 knights and 16,000 gentlemen in England. More than four centuries on, there can be certainty about the number of knights, but none at all about the number of gentlemen.