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hetalia2009-11-13 01:27 am
surelyyoujest.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-11-13 01:27 am
Entry tags:
[Fic] All Right at the End
Title: All Right at the End
Rating: PG-13
Characters: America, England, France, Germany, Austria, Condé Nast, Vivienne Westwood, and a few brief appearances by the artist formerly known as F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Summary: Alfred wants to sell his magazine in Europe; his dads are not impressed. Worldwide haberdashery and dandysim ensue.
Notes: FASHION HISTORY, WOO! I sort of hate myself for not being able to make this as panoramic in scope as I wanted to. ;_; I was hoping to cover more of the history of fashion, design, and visual culture (especially with regard to American consumer culture), but after two months of beating my head against books on fashion and American art history, this happened instead. Regardless, enjoy!
London, 1919
Right now, life is just damn ducky for Alfred F. Jones.
All things considered, he’s done pretty well for himself as of late, you know? Don’t believe it? Just look at Misters Rockefeller and Carnegie. Good golly, miss Molly, did those boys go far. Needless to say, he’s doing pretty well for himself right now. Naturally, he’s looking to expand his horizons— in a manner of speaking. Money is empowerment, and he’s got plenty of that, but it’s not exactly power in and of itself. As far as crochety old high hats like Roddy and pops care, all Alfred’s windfall amounts to is a hefty sum sitting on the lap of a country bumpkin.
You can have money without being moneyed, or some other such codswallop like that.
Then along comes this guy, this Mister Nast. Condé’s a seriously swell guy. He works magazines. Advertising, to be precise. But he’s looking to expand his horizons right now, the same way Alfred’s looking to expand his, and there’s nothing Alfred loves as much as a kindred entrepreneurial spirit. In 1892, Alfred gives Mister Nast a ring on his shiny, new telephone and Mister Nast invites Alfred down to his office for a drink or two. They talk for hours and when all’s said but not yet done, Mister Nast takes one good, hard look at Alfred from across the desk where he edits his newly-purchased magazine and says, “Alright, then. I think I can work with this.”
The rest is ancient history. (Twenty years is a heck of a lot of time, you know, when you’re only a century and a half young, constitutionally speaking.) So now Alfred’s having a gas of an afternoon tea with pops in fancy, stuffy suits, in that fancy, stuffy old garden of his. You know the kind: the sit-down taking of tea where you have to wear a suit and sit at a little garden table and eat watercress and cucumber sandwiches cut into neat triangles. The fancy, stuffy kind. The moneyed kind. And he’s the sort of fella that prefers coffee, but he’s here to talk seriously today and to remind his old man and his old money of old scars would be, as they say in the business, undiplomatic. So he drinks his tea and he drinks it black. Or plain. Or whatever the hell they call it when you take it straight up. No milk, no sugar, and definitely no lemon for him, no siree.
His collar’s too stiff and itchy for the warm weather. He doesn’t fix it, though, just like a proper young man. And he even drinks his tea in tiny sips. He doesn’t fix it and he watches pops watching him over a cuppa done up with every kind of fixing, and eventually Alfred just says:
“I’ll be sending somebody your way soon.” He tries to sound casual about it, but it’s not easy.
Mister Nast is a really neat guy, and he’s pretty certain Arthur’s going to like his work. It’s so fresh. Novel. Revolutionary, even. But none of that changes the fact that Alfred’s trying to carve out a place for himself in a market that everyone’s saying isn’t his to put a chisel to. And sheesh, he thinks. It’s always “no” with these old types. No, Alfred, that won’t work. No, Alfred, your quaint little styles won’t sell here. Really, Alfred, what were you thinking with that flying machine of yours? Don’t be absurd, Alfred, royal colonies don’t need silly old things like representation.
See? But it’s that revolutionary kind of thinking that he likes about his folks. You can’t move things forward without doing a teeny bit of collateral damage to the status quo in the process. That’s just how progress works. And he’d know— he’s an expert on revolutions.
It figures that Arthur snorts into his tea like he’s getting too old to be putting up with this kind of thing from him. Like pops is thinking “Oh, geez, this was cute when he was little and all, but at this age it’s getting ridiculous”. Like he’s thinking “For God’s sake, Alfred, when will you just grow up already and join the rest of us in the real world?”
So Alfred, amends his announcement. “A publisher. He’s a publisher. You know, he’s got some keen ideas, Mister Nast does.”
“Keen?” Arthur asks.
“Real keen.” And that’s a promise. “I think you’re going to like ‘em . His magazine’s called Vogue; I brought a few copies if you want to see…”
“You shouldn’t have, really.”
He says, and he actually means that. This is Arthur speaking. Alfred would be a damn fool to hear him any other way. The old guy’ll play an insult like a hand of cards, and it takes a seasoned gamesman to know when he’s bluffing.
Alfred calls.
“Nah, it wasn’t any trouble—he got a few of his best ones together for you to look at. Like a little preview of what he wants to put on your market. Whaddya say? I can run out to the car now if you don’t mind a minute’s wait.”
“I don’t suppose it could hurt.”
“Great!” Alfred grins. “Just hang tight, okay?”
London, 1845
Mister Worth’s shop is empty.
Arthur looks around at the bare tables and the corners he can’t see into for want of light and wonders when this happened. Yes, it’s true he hasn’t set foot in here for quite some time, but surely he would have noticed something was…
…was amiss, as it were. The dust lies thick on nearly every surface. He removes his gloves and drags a finger through it so that he leaves some impression upon room. He’d feel too much like a ghost if he didn’t.
He returns home without the shirts he’d counted on. He’s back earlier than planned, and really it’s just as well. He has some letters to write.
Paris, 1909
Francis has a knack for being in the right place at the right time, he finds. All of their kind do, by virtue of their being who they are being precisely what they are. He wishes he doesn’t remember the fourteenth of July some hundred and twenty years ago as well as he does, for one. But he does, and he remembers the heads he bore through the street. He remembers his people’s screams for bread and blood.
“Let them eat cake,” his queen had said.
And so here Francis sits in a twentieth-century café, dressed like a twentieth-century man, and wouldn’t you know? He’s having his cake and he’s eating it, too. Cake, along with some coffee brought to him by a pretty young thing called Coco.
You see? It’s serendipity.
That’s not the name her parents gave her, of course— not “Coco”, but “Gabrielle”. Which is a very pretty name, he thinks, as befits a very pretty girl. And fitting in other ways as well. Gabriel was the name given to the angel who brought good tidings from on high, was it not? He’d like to think that pretty, clever Coco has been sent unto him by God.
She must have been, for whose hands save for an angel’s could bear him such beautiful hats? For that is how she starts, with hats for the ladies, and favors for the gentlemen. And the gentlemen start with favors for her in return, and before he knows it, she’s got herself a fashion house all her own, and Francis is positively up to his neck in cake—chiffon and satin and red velvet and more.
It’s utterly delicious.
London, 1845
Roderich sends no reply, but Francis does and Arthur’s not sure whom he resents more for it. The letter reads:
Mon cher Arthur,
I am pleased to say that I have indeed seen M. Worth about. He came to see me recently, looking for a place to make his dresses. His work is truly astounding! How could I refuse him? He has been in Paris as of late, and I assure you that he is in good health. Her imperial majesty is pleased by his creations, too. (Arthur takes note that he does not call her by name. This king will not remain for long, then.)
He seems content to remain in her service for the time being, but if you are interested in having him dress you, perhaps you might visit soon? It has been so long, love, and I do so ache for your company. I hope with the whole of my being that you will take it into consideration. Until then, my fondest wishes will have to suffice.
Yours as ever,
Francis
Attached, there is a postscript, one presumably not penned under the king’s watchful eye. Arthur burns it.
The greasy bastard can keep Worth, then, for all he cares.
New York City, 1885
Eating and partaking of voyeurism, Francis decides, are the two things Arthur’s little hellion does best. For when he comes to pay a call on Alfred, they take pause for lunch in a hotel with large windows overlooking the street before they do anything else. Alfred points at women in tall hats and men in silk shirts below them as they pass, chattering animatedly around mouthfuls of his food. This is all very new and exciting for the boy, it seems, to have his women dressed as such and out in the open, and to be talking about it, too. Francis idly wonders if the boy ever stops to breathe, even for a moment.
Only idly, of course, because he does know the answer to that. If there’s anything he’s ever liked about the child, and God in heaven only knows how little there is of that, it’s that he doesn’t stop moving, regardless of which direction he’s headed. It’s endearing— almost dangerously so. After all, there’s a reason his majesty has hired himself a man to clear out the little alleys and corners in the city of lights. Wouldn’t want to have another uprising on his hands, you know.
“So whaddya say? Want to see?”
Alfred’s voice is high and sharp, still trapped in that raw tenor some young men are inclined towards; it cuts Francis’ thoughts through to the quick, and when he comes back to himself, Alfred has finished with the pedestrians and his meal both. He grins a cheeky little grin, and Francis says:
“Begging your pardon, love, I was caught up in the spectacle. See what, exactly?”
Alfred leans in over their table, grinning even broader now and casting furtive glances around like he’s about to share some great secret.
“Geez! The stores, of course! Let me tell you, pops, they get everything in the windows dressed up real nice and smart this time of year with tinsel and mistletoe and all sorts of things. Lordy,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s really something—if you eat quick, I can take you to see.”
This he says, but he twists his gloves in his hands so hard it’s straining the seams. They’re good ones, too. Real white kidskin, and he’s twisting them like that. So eager to consume with eyes these days as much as he does by other means. How very endearing indeed, Francis thinks.
When they have had enough, they gather up their coats and hats and step down onto Fifth Avenue, where the lights are so beautiful that it almost brings a tear to his eye. Only almost, of course—his own are still more beautiful by far. Alfred leads him down the thoroughfare, but they are too busy chasing after the sight of the women to take much note of the window displays. Girls pass them by in silks and satins and scarves and furs. Even governesses and shopgirls in their matronly shirtwaists have a plumed hat or carry a beaded purse at the very least. It’s a feast for the eyes, and they two gorge happily, and Francis thinks it’s all very strange, very strange. He watches the men trail behind the ladies in their garb of gray and black and he decides that he doesn’t like how dull their coats have become in this day and age.
Paris, 1941
Ludwig used to be such a darling child, you know. It seems to Francis like it was only yesterday that Ludwig was still just an awkward young thing, far too tall for his self and not yet settled into the length of his limbs. How he used to cling to his brother’s coattails— hardly more than a confederation! It could not have been more than a half-century ago, Francis thinks, and he just can’t imagine for the life of him when that changed. He sees not the slightest trace of that shy little boy in the man who stands like a prison guard beside his workdesk now, his body ramrod straight, and facing the door opposite them. Francis tuts softly, and re-inks his pen.
(Little Ludwig’s temper tantrums don’t frighten him, now matter now far across the continent they might sprawl. And Francis is by no means a stranger to imprisonment.)
He never could get used to those fountain contraptions, you know; he rather likes the lines the dip nibs afford him. One cannot create quite the same flow with them, cannot produce the same organic quality of form, not with one’s ink stopping up and crusting all the time.
His girls are lovely and sweet and soft, and must be rendered accordingly when put to paper. He draws them as Coco draws them. As the others draw them. A swooping curve to suggest their full breasts and another for their hips. He keeps his designs as he always has: simple, yet elegant. Coco has always been, above all, a sensible woman.
(Sensible, without compromise. He thinks he would like to see more dramatic headwear on his ladies in the near future, even if the rest of Europe will not.)
Ludwig had looked at him oddly when he’d caught sight of the designs.
“You won’t be rationing textiles?” He’d asked. Ludwig had been facing the door opposite them then, too. Facing opposite Francis at his workdesk, who is facing opposite the door.
“I cannot see why not,” Francis had replied, inking his pen once more. There’s no sense in rationing under occupation, it would have only served Ludwig. “I do have a reputation to protect.”
(And this much is true; the occupation has driven his visionaries elsewhere. Arthur and his little hellion will have their eye on the gap left in his sartorial absence.)
“They won’t be seeing you,” Ludwig reminds him, and Francis would like nothing more to beat his face in for being so kind, but then he’d get blood all over the spring’s look, and all his hard work would be ruined.
He continues drawing, and Francis decides that this new, cold sort of comportment doesn’t suit Ludwig. Uniforms do, yes, it’s as if his form were made for them, but he does not wear them well these days. There’s something vital missing in his bearing. Something truly soldierly—some measure of dignity. Or some measure of…
…of shame, perhaps. Or no, humility. For what is a soldier if not a servant first and foremost? Ludwig, he thinks, would do well to wear his colors as a servant and not a conqueror. It’s more than mere politics. It’s a matter of carriage, you see. Because an image depends equally on the wearer and what is worn. Not unlike a painting, the effect hinges on the sublime unity of form and function. The loveliest of garments are wasted on the wrong wearer, this is the simple principle of couture. Hand-made wear is imbued with a special something, a personal something to fit it to the wearer just so.
Because any old person can just wear a piece of clothing. It’s that spiritual skin-fit –carriage— that makes all the difference.
The Longchamps, 1976
“I’m not wearing any knickers,” Arthur leans over to whisper, and for a moment Alfred thinks he’s misheard him around that stupid lip ring he’s got in these days, which makes it impossible to understand a goddamn word he’s saying. They’re at the races, see, and even though Arthur’s dressed like he’s crawled out of somebody’s dumpster, all covered in safety pins and shit, he sits back up nice and properish in his seat with perfect posture like he’s talking about which thoroughbred he’s betted on, and hey, maybe he is. So, you know. Alfred has no reason to believe he’s heard him right or anything.
“Yeah.” He nods, scanning the gates. “He’s got decent odds, probably oughta gone with him.” There’s a fair chance he meant number six is quicker. Possibly.
“I said, I’m not wearing knickers today.”
Or not.
“Oh,” Alfred says. “That’s, uh. That’s cool, I guess.”
Arthur makes a little humming sound and keeps on surveying the track, too, and the more Alfred thinks about it –about pops done up like some angry Londonite brat, and knickers-free to boot (at the Longchamps, no less)— the more surreal it gets by the moment. So against his better judgment, he leans in, too, and asks:
“Why not?”
Arthur shrugs.
“Just because.”
“But doesn’t it, like. You know—” oh, fucking hell, it makes him squirm just thinking about it “—chafe? And stuff?”
Arthur shrugs again, and Alfred decides that, yanno what, he doesn’t even want to know, he really doesn’t. He rights himself in his seat and then the gun cracks and they’re off.
London, 1919
Okay, so maybe pops doesn’t look too impressed with the magazine, but Alfred’s pretty sure he’s playing hardball for appearance’s sake. Arthur’s always been big on appearances, even though he likes to pretend it ain’t so. He’s “a man of sensibilities” and all that hoodlee-hoo. The sort of gent who can’t be bothered to fuss over haberdashery and dandyism because he’s got more important things on his mind than his glad rags. But this whole scene he’s making of flipping through the pages like he can’t believe what he’s got to put up with is absolutely positively all for show, so Alfred waits for him to finish before he pipes up.
It’s a toughie, too, to just stay put and take it. The whole waiting business makes him real antsy, but this pitch means a lot to Mister Nast, and for that he’s willing to try. He takes a sandwich and works away at it in small bites while Arthur reads.
They’re quiet for a long time, and when he’s starting to think he’s kept his mouth shut long enough, Alfred washes down the last bit of fancy sandwich with a cup of tea and says he likes Arthur’s shirt.
“It’s Turnbull and Asser’s, right?”
Arthur looks up.
“How d’you know Turnbull and Asser’s?”
Alfred smiles and taps his temple lightly.
“I make it a point to know my way around,” he says. “They’re beautiful shirts, absolutely topping. Never seen such beautiful shirts before in my entire life. Couldn’ta missed ‘em even if I’d tried.”
Arthur nods, scrutinizing the magazine on his lap again.
“Well. Good eye, then.”
“Thanks, pops.”
Arthur doesn’t respond. So Alfred takes the initiative.
“So whaddya say, pops? Think you could give it a shot?”
Arthur waves a hand, brows furrowed, and Alfred takes that as a cue to shut his gums before he blows it big time. He’s got his gloves in his lap, and he twists them like he knows he shouldn’t be doing, but when he’s got his nerves all shook up like this, he just can’t help himself.
“I won’t make you any promises,” Arthur says, and Alfred stops with the gloves wrung tight to listen. “But I’ll see what I can do. I think you’re going to find it’s a tough sell over here, especially with the Catholics. Need I remind you that we invented fashion on this side of the pond?"
So, okay, Alfred walks away from the garden with no assurances, but he’s got a bellyful of food and he’s down a few back issues of Vogue, which is a whole hell of a lot more than he’d expected to get out of this little excursion.
He’d like to think it turned out all right at the end.
Notes:
Condé Nast -- of Condé Nast Publications. It indeed was a tough sell, and though Nast's first magazine, Vogue, took off in England, it crashed at first in Spain and elsewhere. Today, it's the publication group behind Glamour, Lucky, Vanity Fair, Allure and more.
The German Occupation of France -- Decapitated the fashion world. Up until the 20th century, there was a massive amount of push-pull between centers of fashion, as being the arbitrator of taste afforded some measure of superiority. Stylishness was as much a political concern as an aesthetic one. France was the forefront of design in the late 19th/early 20th century, and during the occupation, indeed, did not ration. They bounced right back into the lead, even in spite of the huge exodus of designers during the war.
Charles Worth -- considered to be the first ever designer of haute couture. British born, moved to France, where his dresses were a hot commodity among the royals. Shoulda hung onto him, Arty.
Vivienne Westwood, the Punk movement -- Okay, I was totally just messing around with a hilarious bit of trivia I learned recently. Apparently she's turned up at events like her own appointment as "Dame" Vivienne Westwood...commando. And said as much to get a rise out of people. Once a punk designer, always a punk designer, I suppose!
The department store -- a new invention of the late 19th/early 20th century. Brought women and their consumption out into the public sphere. Compounded with the full actualization of industrialism and urbanization in America and a new mass visual culture, the female body (and everything that went on it) began to be a highly public entity. Consumption and voyeurism at its finest! Just look at People for a prime example!
Such beautiful shirts, "all right at the end" -- Beautiful shirts make Daisy Buchanan cry. :D
Rating: PG-13
Characters: America, England, France, Germany, Austria, Condé Nast, Vivienne Westwood, and a few brief appearances by the artist formerly known as F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Summary: Alfred wants to sell his magazine in Europe; his dads are not impressed. Worldwide haberdashery and dandysim ensue.
Notes: FASHION HISTORY, WOO! I sort of hate myself for not being able to make this as panoramic in scope as I wanted to. ;_; I was hoping to cover more of the history of fashion, design, and visual culture (especially with regard to American consumer culture), but after two months of beating my head against books on fashion and American art history, this happened instead. Regardless, enjoy!
London, 1919
Right now, life is just damn ducky for Alfred F. Jones.
All things considered, he’s done pretty well for himself as of late, you know? Don’t believe it? Just look at Misters Rockefeller and Carnegie. Good golly, miss Molly, did those boys go far. Needless to say, he’s doing pretty well for himself right now. Naturally, he’s looking to expand his horizons— in a manner of speaking. Money is empowerment, and he’s got plenty of that, but it’s not exactly power in and of itself. As far as crochety old high hats like Roddy and pops care, all Alfred’s windfall amounts to is a hefty sum sitting on the lap of a country bumpkin.
You can have money without being moneyed, or some other such codswallop like that.
Then along comes this guy, this Mister Nast. Condé’s a seriously swell guy. He works magazines. Advertising, to be precise. But he’s looking to expand his horizons right now, the same way Alfred’s looking to expand his, and there’s nothing Alfred loves as much as a kindred entrepreneurial spirit. In 1892, Alfred gives Mister Nast a ring on his shiny, new telephone and Mister Nast invites Alfred down to his office for a drink or two. They talk for hours and when all’s said but not yet done, Mister Nast takes one good, hard look at Alfred from across the desk where he edits his newly-purchased magazine and says, “Alright, then. I think I can work with this.”
The rest is ancient history. (Twenty years is a heck of a lot of time, you know, when you’re only a century and a half young, constitutionally speaking.) So now Alfred’s having a gas of an afternoon tea with pops in fancy, stuffy suits, in that fancy, stuffy old garden of his. You know the kind: the sit-down taking of tea where you have to wear a suit and sit at a little garden table and eat watercress and cucumber sandwiches cut into neat triangles. The fancy, stuffy kind. The moneyed kind. And he’s the sort of fella that prefers coffee, but he’s here to talk seriously today and to remind his old man and his old money of old scars would be, as they say in the business, undiplomatic. So he drinks his tea and he drinks it black. Or plain. Or whatever the hell they call it when you take it straight up. No milk, no sugar, and definitely no lemon for him, no siree.
His collar’s too stiff and itchy for the warm weather. He doesn’t fix it, though, just like a proper young man. And he even drinks his tea in tiny sips. He doesn’t fix it and he watches pops watching him over a cuppa done up with every kind of fixing, and eventually Alfred just says:
“I’ll be sending somebody your way soon.” He tries to sound casual about it, but it’s not easy.
Mister Nast is a really neat guy, and he’s pretty certain Arthur’s going to like his work. It’s so fresh. Novel. Revolutionary, even. But none of that changes the fact that Alfred’s trying to carve out a place for himself in a market that everyone’s saying isn’t his to put a chisel to. And sheesh, he thinks. It’s always “no” with these old types. No, Alfred, that won’t work. No, Alfred, your quaint little styles won’t sell here. Really, Alfred, what were you thinking with that flying machine of yours? Don’t be absurd, Alfred, royal colonies don’t need silly old things like representation.
See? But it’s that revolutionary kind of thinking that he likes about his folks. You can’t move things forward without doing a teeny bit of collateral damage to the status quo in the process. That’s just how progress works. And he’d know— he’s an expert on revolutions.
It figures that Arthur snorts into his tea like he’s getting too old to be putting up with this kind of thing from him. Like pops is thinking “Oh, geez, this was cute when he was little and all, but at this age it’s getting ridiculous”. Like he’s thinking “For God’s sake, Alfred, when will you just grow up already and join the rest of us in the real world?”
So Alfred, amends his announcement. “A publisher. He’s a publisher. You know, he’s got some keen ideas, Mister Nast does.”
“Keen?” Arthur asks.
“Real keen.” And that’s a promise. “I think you’re going to like ‘em . His magazine’s called Vogue; I brought a few copies if you want to see…”
“You shouldn’t have, really.”
He says, and he actually means that. This is Arthur speaking. Alfred would be a damn fool to hear him any other way. The old guy’ll play an insult like a hand of cards, and it takes a seasoned gamesman to know when he’s bluffing.
Alfred calls.
“Nah, it wasn’t any trouble—he got a few of his best ones together for you to look at. Like a little preview of what he wants to put on your market. Whaddya say? I can run out to the car now if you don’t mind a minute’s wait.”
“I don’t suppose it could hurt.”
“Great!” Alfred grins. “Just hang tight, okay?”
London, 1845
Mister Worth’s shop is empty.
Arthur looks around at the bare tables and the corners he can’t see into for want of light and wonders when this happened. Yes, it’s true he hasn’t set foot in here for quite some time, but surely he would have noticed something was…
…was amiss, as it were. The dust lies thick on nearly every surface. He removes his gloves and drags a finger through it so that he leaves some impression upon room. He’d feel too much like a ghost if he didn’t.
He returns home without the shirts he’d counted on. He’s back earlier than planned, and really it’s just as well. He has some letters to write.
Paris, 1909
Francis has a knack for being in the right place at the right time, he finds. All of their kind do, by virtue of their being who they are being precisely what they are. He wishes he doesn’t remember the fourteenth of July some hundred and twenty years ago as well as he does, for one. But he does, and he remembers the heads he bore through the street. He remembers his people’s screams for bread and blood.
“Let them eat cake,” his queen had said.
And so here Francis sits in a twentieth-century café, dressed like a twentieth-century man, and wouldn’t you know? He’s having his cake and he’s eating it, too. Cake, along with some coffee brought to him by a pretty young thing called Coco.
You see? It’s serendipity.
That’s not the name her parents gave her, of course— not “Coco”, but “Gabrielle”. Which is a very pretty name, he thinks, as befits a very pretty girl. And fitting in other ways as well. Gabriel was the name given to the angel who brought good tidings from on high, was it not? He’d like to think that pretty, clever Coco has been sent unto him by God.
She must have been, for whose hands save for an angel’s could bear him such beautiful hats? For that is how she starts, with hats for the ladies, and favors for the gentlemen. And the gentlemen start with favors for her in return, and before he knows it, she’s got herself a fashion house all her own, and Francis is positively up to his neck in cake—chiffon and satin and red velvet and more.
It’s utterly delicious.
London, 1845
Roderich sends no reply, but Francis does and Arthur’s not sure whom he resents more for it. The letter reads:
Mon cher Arthur,
I am pleased to say that I have indeed seen M. Worth about. He came to see me recently, looking for a place to make his dresses. His work is truly astounding! How could I refuse him? He has been in Paris as of late, and I assure you that he is in good health. Her imperial majesty is pleased by his creations, too. (Arthur takes note that he does not call her by name. This king will not remain for long, then.)
He seems content to remain in her service for the time being, but if you are interested in having him dress you, perhaps you might visit soon? It has been so long, love, and I do so ache for your company. I hope with the whole of my being that you will take it into consideration. Until then, my fondest wishes will have to suffice.
Yours as ever,
Francis
Attached, there is a postscript, one presumably not penned under the king’s watchful eye. Arthur burns it.
The greasy bastard can keep Worth, then, for all he cares.
New York City, 1885
Eating and partaking of voyeurism, Francis decides, are the two things Arthur’s little hellion does best. For when he comes to pay a call on Alfred, they take pause for lunch in a hotel with large windows overlooking the street before they do anything else. Alfred points at women in tall hats and men in silk shirts below them as they pass, chattering animatedly around mouthfuls of his food. This is all very new and exciting for the boy, it seems, to have his women dressed as such and out in the open, and to be talking about it, too. Francis idly wonders if the boy ever stops to breathe, even for a moment.
Only idly, of course, because he does know the answer to that. If there’s anything he’s ever liked about the child, and God in heaven only knows how little there is of that, it’s that he doesn’t stop moving, regardless of which direction he’s headed. It’s endearing— almost dangerously so. After all, there’s a reason his majesty has hired himself a man to clear out the little alleys and corners in the city of lights. Wouldn’t want to have another uprising on his hands, you know.
“So whaddya say? Want to see?”
Alfred’s voice is high and sharp, still trapped in that raw tenor some young men are inclined towards; it cuts Francis’ thoughts through to the quick, and when he comes back to himself, Alfred has finished with the pedestrians and his meal both. He grins a cheeky little grin, and Francis says:
“Begging your pardon, love, I was caught up in the spectacle. See what, exactly?”
Alfred leans in over their table, grinning even broader now and casting furtive glances around like he’s about to share some great secret.
“Geez! The stores, of course! Let me tell you, pops, they get everything in the windows dressed up real nice and smart this time of year with tinsel and mistletoe and all sorts of things. Lordy,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s really something—if you eat quick, I can take you to see.”
This he says, but he twists his gloves in his hands so hard it’s straining the seams. They’re good ones, too. Real white kidskin, and he’s twisting them like that. So eager to consume with eyes these days as much as he does by other means. How very endearing indeed, Francis thinks.
When they have had enough, they gather up their coats and hats and step down onto Fifth Avenue, where the lights are so beautiful that it almost brings a tear to his eye. Only almost, of course—his own are still more beautiful by far. Alfred leads him down the thoroughfare, but they are too busy chasing after the sight of the women to take much note of the window displays. Girls pass them by in silks and satins and scarves and furs. Even governesses and shopgirls in their matronly shirtwaists have a plumed hat or carry a beaded purse at the very least. It’s a feast for the eyes, and they two gorge happily, and Francis thinks it’s all very strange, very strange. He watches the men trail behind the ladies in their garb of gray and black and he decides that he doesn’t like how dull their coats have become in this day and age.
Paris, 1941
Ludwig used to be such a darling child, you know. It seems to Francis like it was only yesterday that Ludwig was still just an awkward young thing, far too tall for his self and not yet settled into the length of his limbs. How he used to cling to his brother’s coattails— hardly more than a confederation! It could not have been more than a half-century ago, Francis thinks, and he just can’t imagine for the life of him when that changed. He sees not the slightest trace of that shy little boy in the man who stands like a prison guard beside his workdesk now, his body ramrod straight, and facing the door opposite them. Francis tuts softly, and re-inks his pen.
(Little Ludwig’s temper tantrums don’t frighten him, now matter now far across the continent they might sprawl. And Francis is by no means a stranger to imprisonment.)
He never could get used to those fountain contraptions, you know; he rather likes the lines the dip nibs afford him. One cannot create quite the same flow with them, cannot produce the same organic quality of form, not with one’s ink stopping up and crusting all the time.
His girls are lovely and sweet and soft, and must be rendered accordingly when put to paper. He draws them as Coco draws them. As the others draw them. A swooping curve to suggest their full breasts and another for their hips. He keeps his designs as he always has: simple, yet elegant. Coco has always been, above all, a sensible woman.
(Sensible, without compromise. He thinks he would like to see more dramatic headwear on his ladies in the near future, even if the rest of Europe will not.)
Ludwig had looked at him oddly when he’d caught sight of the designs.
“You won’t be rationing textiles?” He’d asked. Ludwig had been facing the door opposite them then, too. Facing opposite Francis at his workdesk, who is facing opposite the door.
“I cannot see why not,” Francis had replied, inking his pen once more. There’s no sense in rationing under occupation, it would have only served Ludwig. “I do have a reputation to protect.”
(And this much is true; the occupation has driven his visionaries elsewhere. Arthur and his little hellion will have their eye on the gap left in his sartorial absence.)
“They won’t be seeing you,” Ludwig reminds him, and Francis would like nothing more to beat his face in for being so kind, but then he’d get blood all over the spring’s look, and all his hard work would be ruined.
He continues drawing, and Francis decides that this new, cold sort of comportment doesn’t suit Ludwig. Uniforms do, yes, it’s as if his form were made for them, but he does not wear them well these days. There’s something vital missing in his bearing. Something truly soldierly—some measure of dignity. Or some measure of…
…of shame, perhaps. Or no, humility. For what is a soldier if not a servant first and foremost? Ludwig, he thinks, would do well to wear his colors as a servant and not a conqueror. It’s more than mere politics. It’s a matter of carriage, you see. Because an image depends equally on the wearer and what is worn. Not unlike a painting, the effect hinges on the sublime unity of form and function. The loveliest of garments are wasted on the wrong wearer, this is the simple principle of couture. Hand-made wear is imbued with a special something, a personal something to fit it to the wearer just so.
Because any old person can just wear a piece of clothing. It’s that spiritual skin-fit –carriage— that makes all the difference.
The Longchamps, 1976
“I’m not wearing any knickers,” Arthur leans over to whisper, and for a moment Alfred thinks he’s misheard him around that stupid lip ring he’s got in these days, which makes it impossible to understand a goddamn word he’s saying. They’re at the races, see, and even though Arthur’s dressed like he’s crawled out of somebody’s dumpster, all covered in safety pins and shit, he sits back up nice and properish in his seat with perfect posture like he’s talking about which thoroughbred he’s betted on, and hey, maybe he is. So, you know. Alfred has no reason to believe he’s heard him right or anything.
“Yeah.” He nods, scanning the gates. “He’s got decent odds, probably oughta gone with him.” There’s a fair chance he meant number six is quicker. Possibly.
“I said, I’m not wearing knickers today.”
Or not.
“Oh,” Alfred says. “That’s, uh. That’s cool, I guess.”
Arthur makes a little humming sound and keeps on surveying the track, too, and the more Alfred thinks about it –about pops done up like some angry Londonite brat, and knickers-free to boot (at the Longchamps, no less)— the more surreal it gets by the moment. So against his better judgment, he leans in, too, and asks:
“Why not?”
Arthur shrugs.
“Just because.”
“But doesn’t it, like. You know—” oh, fucking hell, it makes him squirm just thinking about it “—chafe? And stuff?”
Arthur shrugs again, and Alfred decides that, yanno what, he doesn’t even want to know, he really doesn’t. He rights himself in his seat and then the gun cracks and they’re off.
London, 1919
Okay, so maybe pops doesn’t look too impressed with the magazine, but Alfred’s pretty sure he’s playing hardball for appearance’s sake. Arthur’s always been big on appearances, even though he likes to pretend it ain’t so. He’s “a man of sensibilities” and all that hoodlee-hoo. The sort of gent who can’t be bothered to fuss over haberdashery and dandyism because he’s got more important things on his mind than his glad rags. But this whole scene he’s making of flipping through the pages like he can’t believe what he’s got to put up with is absolutely positively all for show, so Alfred waits for him to finish before he pipes up.
It’s a toughie, too, to just stay put and take it. The whole waiting business makes him real antsy, but this pitch means a lot to Mister Nast, and for that he’s willing to try. He takes a sandwich and works away at it in small bites while Arthur reads.
They’re quiet for a long time, and when he’s starting to think he’s kept his mouth shut long enough, Alfred washes down the last bit of fancy sandwich with a cup of tea and says he likes Arthur’s shirt.
“It’s Turnbull and Asser’s, right?”
Arthur looks up.
“How d’you know Turnbull and Asser’s?”
Alfred smiles and taps his temple lightly.
“I make it a point to know my way around,” he says. “They’re beautiful shirts, absolutely topping. Never seen such beautiful shirts before in my entire life. Couldn’ta missed ‘em even if I’d tried.”
Arthur nods, scrutinizing the magazine on his lap again.
“Well. Good eye, then.”
“Thanks, pops.”
Arthur doesn’t respond. So Alfred takes the initiative.
“So whaddya say, pops? Think you could give it a shot?”
Arthur waves a hand, brows furrowed, and Alfred takes that as a cue to shut his gums before he blows it big time. He’s got his gloves in his lap, and he twists them like he knows he shouldn’t be doing, but when he’s got his nerves all shook up like this, he just can’t help himself.
“I won’t make you any promises,” Arthur says, and Alfred stops with the gloves wrung tight to listen. “But I’ll see what I can do. I think you’re going to find it’s a tough sell over here, especially with the Catholics. Need I remind you that we invented fashion on this side of the pond?"
So, okay, Alfred walks away from the garden with no assurances, but he’s got a bellyful of food and he’s down a few back issues of Vogue, which is a whole hell of a lot more than he’d expected to get out of this little excursion.
He’d like to think it turned out all right at the end.
Notes:
Condé Nast -- of Condé Nast Publications. It indeed was a tough sell, and though Nast's first magazine, Vogue, took off in England, it crashed at first in Spain and elsewhere. Today, it's the publication group behind Glamour, Lucky, Vanity Fair, Allure and more.
The German Occupation of France -- Decapitated the fashion world. Up until the 20th century, there was a massive amount of push-pull between centers of fashion, as being the arbitrator of taste afforded some measure of superiority. Stylishness was as much a political concern as an aesthetic one. France was the forefront of design in the late 19th/early 20th century, and during the occupation, indeed, did not ration. They bounced right back into the lead, even in spite of the huge exodus of designers during the war.
Charles Worth -- considered to be the first ever designer of haute couture. British born, moved to France, where his dresses were a hot commodity among the royals. Shoulda hung onto him, Arty.
Vivienne Westwood, the Punk movement -- Okay, I was totally just messing around with a hilarious bit of trivia I learned recently. Apparently she's turned up at events like her own appointment as "Dame" Vivienne Westwood...commando. And said as much to get a rise out of people. Once a punk designer, always a punk designer, I suppose!
The department store -- a new invention of the late 19th/early 20th century. Brought women and their consumption out into the public sphere. Compounded with the full actualization of industrialism and urbanization in America and a new mass visual culture, the female body (and everything that went on it) began to be a highly public entity. Consumption and voyeurism at its finest! Just look at People for a prime example!
Such beautiful shirts, "all right at the end" -- Beautiful shirts make Daisy Buchanan cry. :D
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They're all such brats about it, too. XD I can just imagine things escalate into violence at international fashion shows over whose got the better shoes, prettier models, etc, etc, etc...good times!
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And thank you for reading! A great deal of research and careful thought went into this, so I really do appreciate it. ♥
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Aw, Iggy has a habit of letting slip great designers to France. But hey, recent articles say he's still bringing them out. XD
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I guess he learned his lesson with Worth! When you let the first ever designer slip through your fingers....well, that's gotta be a mistake you only make once!
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I <3 punk Iggy!!
Now with fewer spelling errors, haha!
I know, right? Fashion history's so cool, I really do wish we'd have more Hetalia'd fashion history. Figured, if nothing else, I could help contribute to the pool a little bit, maybe bring other fashion geeks out of the woodwork. And thanks so much for reading!