The Brash and the Beautiful
By Stiffy Byng
Bertie’s Aunt Dahlia, known in the idle rich circles of England as Lady Dahlia Travers, has been kind enough to offer me a recurring column in her now exceedingly popular magazine, Milady’s Boudoir. The editorial office insists upon calling this feature “The Brash and the Beautiful.” I suggested “The Glamorous and the Gormless” as being rather more faithful to the facts, but my amendment was overruled.
This inaugural portrait presents Baroness Pauline Stoker, Lady Roberta Wickham, Mr. Bertie Wooster and Baron Marmaduke “Chuffy” Chuffnell during a brief interval in which none of them appeared to be engaged, escaped, pursued or betrothed. Such moments are uncommon enough to deserve photographic preservation.
Lady Roberta, in scarlet, wears the expression of a young woman who has just conceived an idea which will almost certainly inconvenience several counties before the week is out. Beside her, Baroness Pauline demonstrates once again that beauty, when accompanied by complete composure, constitutes one of civilisation’s least appreciated disruptive forces.
In the background stand Bertie and Chuffy, each holding a glass and conversing with the air of men upon whose decisions the peace of Europe depended. I have since learnt that they were attempting to decide whether luncheon ought to begin with pizza or proceed directly to the wine.
The photographer deserves praise for resisting the temptation to ask the ladies to smile. Bobbie smiles only when plotting something, and Pauline has long since discovered that smiling is entirely unnecessary. As for Bertie, he naturally imagined that Aunt Dahlia wished to commemorate his literary contribution to Milady’s Boudoir. Nobody found it necessary to disturb so comforting an illusion.
We now proceed to the second photograph, where Bertram and Marmaduke are shown in their natural habitat, namely deciding what to order for dinner. I shall therefore leave them to this important undertaking and instead draw your attention to the truly remarkable sights before us.
Lady Roberta Wickham appears to have just delivered one of her observations with that innocent smile which has preceded more social upheavals than the Foreign Office generally manages in a year. Baroness Pauline Stoker, by contrast, possesses the enviable ability to look perfectly serene while causing every gentleman within eyesight to forget the point he was attempting to make.
The backdrop is the celebrated Italian coast at sunset. One cannot help admiring the picturesque terraces, the warm glow of the evening lights and the tranquil sea beyond. It says much for human nature that Bertie and Chuffy scarcely noticed any of it. They were still trying to decide between the pasta and the pizza.
In this third and final photograph, I notice that Bertram and Marmaduke have discreetly withdrawn from the proceedings. I suspect they detected the unmistakable scent of honest labour and decided that discretion was the better part of appetite.
Someone in the editorial office proposed the title ‘The Heat’. I considered it a trifle overwrought. The Italian sun is certainly doing its duty, but it has formidable competition.
Bobbie, in the foreground, is doing what Bobbie has always done: conquering the scene without appearing to make the slightest effort. The basket of grapes ought to command one’s attention. The vineyard ought to command one’s attention. The rolling Tuscan countryside bathed in golden evening light ought to command one’s attention. Instead, one’s eye travels immediately to Miss Wickham, whose extraordinary copper hair appears to have negotiated a private understanding with the sun.
Baroness Pauline Stoker provides the perfect counterpoint. Blonde, poised and entirely self-possessed, she wears the expression of a lady who understands exactly why everyone has stopped paying attention to the vineyard and finds the circumstance quietly amusing. She is not competing with Bobbie. She is observing the phenomenon with the detached interest of a natural philosopher.
I imagine the conversation among the vineyard staff proceeded along these lines:
‘Signore, the harvest is behind schedule.’
‘Indeed? Whatever is the difficulty?’
‘Nobody is working.’
‘Good heavens! Why not?’
‘They keep looking in this direction.’
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