Man's Last Embellishment

THE necktie came into being when some savage, overpowered by political enemies and left gracefully swaying from the lower branches, was cut down on the timely arrival of a man from his home town, sufficiently friendly to be of service. We can fancy the survivor now, the noose still dangling from his neck, returning con moto to His anxious spouse and celebrating the timeliness of the rescue in the light of his longevity. And we can see him, further, in a spirit of blatant conceit, wearing the very same noose for the rest of his life, as a child might display the first tooth extracted, or a cowboy a bullet-pierced sombrero: a proof, as it were, of a surviving something, a memento of a crisis passed.

And so throughout the ages it has endured until it has risen to the exalted position of being man’s only embellishment. Often we have looked enviously at the male pheasant as an example of what we might have accomplished, had we started right. Often we gaze about ourselves at a social gathering and admit how utterly outclassed we are, ostentatiously and sartorially, by those whom we call the weaker sex. For weak as they are, they have preémpted the one male distinction in the rest of the animal kingdom — beauty of covering. Here we are far advanced in the twentieth century, with no claim to splendor in garb save a small province of color, bounded on the north by sharp, rugged cliffs of stiff white linen, and on the south by the ever-advancing frontier of the waistcoat.

How valueless intrinsically it is; it serves no purpose whatever. Our hats and our suits tend to keep us warm. Our shoes cushion the shock between man and concrete. But the cravat neither warms nor protects. Time may have been when the collar was kept in its appointed place by its embrace. Now, O mores! the collar keeps the tie in its place and prevents its rising ever above its station. Sadly we see its usefulness wither until in those efficient creations worn by the lower classes we see it entirely dependent upon the collar, clinging to it with atrophied lugs that are as valueless in their function of security as the feathered stumps of the cupid are for aviation. But dignity demands it. We men may remove our hats and coats and still be received and respected. But let us once appear sans cravat and we have lost our dominating position and prestige.

It requires a woman to appreciate her own hat or that of another woman. Similarly, no one but a man can fully enjoy a necktie. Every fabric has its meaning and value. The coy, delicate and ephemeral crepé, the naïve and brilliantly conventional foulard, the joyous and single-minded poplin, the illusive and resplendent satin, the patient and long-enduring knit tie, — we love them all for their beauties and we coddle them in spite of their obvious deficiencies.

Only the wearer can select a scarf; this is an unbending rule. But how often is it disregarded! Imagine the smug self-sufficiency of the feminine mind which considers itself capable of selecting a man’s necktie, the most exacting bit of silk in the world! Fancy the futility of suchamind passing judgment on it! Criticize, and with reason, the cut of our clothes and hair; advance theories upon gloves and footwear; but be silent if you cannot commend the neckwear of a man. There you have the artistic culmination of the male. Censure it, and you insult at the same time his judgment, pride, and sense of beauty.

Every morning we stand before the mirror, flap the large end over and around, push it behind and up and draw it carefully through. It becomes a habit, and yet, like dining, it has a certain fascination. The keen pleasure of a new and uncreased cravat helps to make a whole week brighter. And that dread day when a white spot appears in the centre of the front of our favorite green one, or when the beloved brown parts internally, and, while appearing the same without, tells us that it is gone forever — that day our coffee is bitter and the mercury low.

But we never cruelly desert a faithful friend. For a couple of times after the white spot appears we try to tie it farther up or lower down, usually with pathetically ineffectual results. And then we pasture it back somewhere on the rack with the bow-ties that are not good taste any more and the selections made by a worthy aunt at a reduction sale, and let it enjoy a quiet old age. Somehow eventually it disappears. We do not know how. Perhaps a careless maid drops it in a waste-basket, or a plotting wife makes way with it. But most probably, like old watches and college textbooks, it has some unseen heaven of its own whither it is wafted after its life amongst us is over.

In the necktie, then, lingers our one surviving beauty of the past, our one hope of distinctiveness for the future. We have forsaken the ruffles and laces, we have abandoned the purple breeches and plum-colored coats. The fancy waistcoat is slinking out of sight. Deserted and alone, the cravat remains a tiny mirror reflecting the splendor of man’s bygone ages, a rebel against the increasing usualness of male attire. Symbolic of the breaking away from the tightening noose of convention, it hangs about our necks a spot of happiness in the gathering gloom of sombre shades.

Curs’d be the fashion promoter who dares abolish the necktie; who would originate a scarfless garment, or a cravatless collar. He is not only a radical and an iconoclast: he is cutting at the last tenuous but enduring support of the glory of man himself.