Biography: It was disappointing to read in the Guardian last June the boast of a well-known British fashion journalist that the name George Brummell meant nothing to him. Disappointing, but not altogether surprising.
As Ian Kelly observes, Brummell could be stigmatised as the originator of the contemporary cult of celebrity. He was a man famous simply for being famous, his name as well-known throughout early 19th-century Europe as those of Napoleon or Wellington, although, unlike them, he had achieved nothing of note.
Nothing, that is, other than to assume the role of reformer of male dress. That daring act of assumption has to be emphasised. Brummell's background was modest; his grandfather had been a gentlemen's valet. In an era when society was far less flexible than is the case today, he was able to exert enormous authority thanks to a combination of personal charm and confidence. At the height of his fame, large numbers of men would collect in Brummell's London house simply to observe him wash and dress. Their admiration was not overtly homo-erotic: they admired Brummell as the supreme arbiter of style and taste and wished to learn from a man who carried the moniker Beau.
Brummell was unquestionably a dandy, but not in the way that term is now understood. His approach to fashion was severe, he disapproved of opulence or ostentation and restricted himself to a narrow palette of buff, blue and white for the day and black and white for evening. Kelly notes that his aesthetic was informed by two sources: the costume occasionally worn while a schoolboy at Eton and the uniform of the 10th Light Dragoons which he subsequently joined.
Brummell developed the concept of the modern suit, but men today rarely devote the amount of time and attention to their appearances as he did to his. Hours were passed every morning on a toilette which, unusually for the time, included bathing. One of Brummell's best-known diktats was to declare against perfume, generally used to mask the smell of an unclean body. Instead, he argued for "very fine linen, plenty of it, and country washing". Such was his addiction to perfection in dress that he would daily go through an abundance of fresh clothes before being satisfied with his appearance. On one occasion, his manservant was questioned about the quantity of crumpled neckcloths being carried from Brummell's dressing-room. "Oh, these, sir?" he replied. "These are our failures."
Though it came from an employee, this laconic remark is typical of Brummell, exemplar of gentlemanly insouciance under all circumstances. Certainly, in his prime, he seemed to have no cares or responsibilities, other than that of being at all times better dressed than anyone else, including the Prince Regent. That vain and capricious creature was, for many years, one of Brummell's greatest friends and admirers. But the Prince was notoriously fickle in his loyalty and after a series of minor mishaps the two men eventually fell out. After being cut by the Prince at a evening party, Brummell turned to the man beside him and loudly drawled "Alvanley, who's your fat friend?" For this he never received a royal pardon.
The loss of the Prince Regent's friendship might have been of no consequence had Brummell had other means of support, specifically financial. Although left a reasonable inheritance by his astute father, he rapidly frittered away the money rather than investing it in land, which would have produced an annual income. Moreover, Brummell became addicted to gambling, and it was this that led to his precipitate downfall. Unable to meet his debts and faced with the threat of criminal prosecution, one night in May 1816 he fled England never to return.
The following 24 years were spent on the coast of France and involved a precipitate descent into penury. The man who had once been acknowledged leader of London society was reduced to sending begging letters across the English Channel in an effort to stave off the indignity of imprisonment - without success, because that was what befell Brummell at the age of 56. By then, his looks were gone, along with his hair and teeth, a prized collection of snuff boxes and his elaborate wardrobe. Eventually he lost his wits too, dying of tertiary syphilis in a lunatic asylum. No one other than the resident Anglican clergyman attended his funeral and as the coffin passed through the streets of Caen a little girl asked for the deceased's identity. "Un pauvre fou," explained her mother. "Un certain Brummell."
It's a grim morality tale, told here with elegance if not always with economy, Kelly being inclined towards prolixity. But he writes with a flair that his subject would have admired and with an abundance of entertaining information on subjects as diverse as the history of gentlemen's clubs and 19th-century diagnosis and treatment of sexually-transmitted diseases. And there is a delight in incidental snippets such as the fact that the word "toff" derives from toffee-nosed: a consequence of snuff-taking. He also makes a strong case for Brummell deserving to be better remembered than is now the case, rightly emphasising his influence on subsequent writers including Byron, Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde and even Albert Camus. Certainly his name and legacy should be known to any competent journalist of fashion.
Robert O'Byrne is a writer and journalist. His most recent book is Mind Your Manners: A Guide to Good Behaviour
Beau Brummell: The Ultimate Dandy. By Ian Kelly. Hodder & Stoughton, 578pp. £20