1901: Alban Fitzartur, Viscount d’Anatis, Mallory Chase
Letter to Elspeth Mallard, Anatis House
You quote that splendid audacity from Wedderburn on Women—“It is an offence for a man to dress as a woman, but not for a woman to dress as a man..”. Ah, Wedderburn! That seasoned champion of progress who always forgets to invite human nature to his meetings. The remark, however, reflects with mischievous clarity the wisdom of our lawmakers: they tremble before petticoats not because they despise them, but because they fear what they might disclose. The female garment has, it seems, an ancient power—the instant a man adopts it, he ceases to be comprehensible and therefore must be lunatic. Whereas a woman who borrows a waistcoat is pronounced sensible, enterprising, and “apt for modernity.”
You will understand that these little paradoxes are the natural scarf‑pins of my existence. Having, on more than one occasion, been obliged to don petticoats for the stage (and once, at a charity ball, wholly without coercion), I admit that no gown, however satiny, could conceal my sanity for long. What it did uncover—and here I must whisper it only to you—was a peculiar freedom: the revelation that identity is not a prison, but a costume cupboard. We actors are blessed to recognise that every soul is made of several wardrobes; some of us simply have the courage to try on the forbidden drawers.
When I first appeared as Rosalind in my youth—the critics called me “dangerously convincing”, which I accepted as high praise—there was a murmur in the pit that an honest man should not wear lace. I might have replied that honesty is a far more delicate fabric, and tears quite as easily. How remarkable that no one sees indecency in a soldier wearing scarlet, but only outrage when a poet wears silk!
We English are, alas, too fond of arranging the universe by waist measurements. The ruling assumption is that if a man looks becoming in chiffon, civilisation itself may collapse; and that, my dear cousin, is giving chiffon entirely too much credit. Yet your citation from Wedderburn suggests a faint crack in the plaster: that a woman may steal from man’s wardrobe to restore her liberty, while man must go mad before he borrows so much as her ribbon. How like a comedy of restoration—the women seizing boots for power and the men, in crisis, discovering slippers for grace.
You write that your tailor is to cut you a riding suit “after the manner of a Hungarian Hussar”. Splendid! I imagine you will look like an empress prepared to duel. Do, however, beware of alarming your parish; should they accuse you of impropriety, assure them you are merely improving yourself, Wedderburn-wise. As for me—the law permitting, I might improve myself by the converse method, though I daresay my bosom requires architectural assistance.
These are curious times, Elspeth. Queen Victoria, who presided so majestically over the suppression of nonsense, has passed into eternity, and already London chatters as though fancy dress might now be permanent. The theatres are full of nervous laughter, the kind that hides envy. There is much speculation, mind you, that the next century may belong to women. If that be true, I beg them to be gentle with their first converts.
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