The Dressmaker's Speech

Well spoken, dear fellow-banqueters, well spoken! The longer I hear you speak the more I grow convinced that you are fellow-conspirators—I greet you as such, I understand you as such; for fellow-conspirators one can make out from afar. And yet, what know you? What does your bit of theory to which you wish to give the appearance of experience, your bit of experience which you make over into a theory—what does it amount to? For every now and then you believe her a moment and—are caught in a moment! No, I know woman—from her weak side, that is to say, I know her. I shrink from no means to make sure about what I have learned; for I am a madman, and a madman one must be to understand her, and if one has not been one before, one will become a madman, once one understands her. The robber has his hiding place by the noisy high-road, and the ant-lion his funnel in the loose sand, and the pirate his haunts by the roaring sea: likewise have I may fashion-shop in the very midst of the teeming streets, seductive, irresistible to woman as is the Venusberg to men. There, in a fashion-shop, one learns to know woman, in a practical way and without any theoretical ado.

Well said, my dear fellow diners, well said! The longer I hear you speak, the more convinced I become that you are fellow conspirators. I greet you as fellow conspirators, and I understand you as fellow conspirators. You can recognize fellow conspirators from far away. And yet, what do you know? What does your little theory, dressed up as experience, amount to? And what about your little bit of experience, turned into a theory? Every now and then you believe her for a moment, and in a moment you are caught! No, I know woman through her weakness. In other words, I know her. I stop at nothing to make sure of what I have learned. For I am a madman, and you must be a madman to understand her. And if you have not been a madman before, you will become one once you understand her. The robber has his hideout beside the noisy highway, and the ant-lion has its funnel in the loose sand. The pirate has his haunts beside the roaring sea. Likewise, I have my fashion shop right in the middle of the crowded streets. My shop is as seductive and irresistible to women as the Venusberg is to men. There, in a fashion shop, you come to know woman through practice, without any fuss about theory.

Now, if fashion meant nothing than that woman in the heat of her desire threw off all her clothing—why, then it would stand for something. But this is not the case, fashion is not plain sensuality, not tolerated debauchery, but an illicit trade in indecency authorized as proper. And, just as in heathen Prussia the marriageable girl wore a bell whose ringing served as a signal to the men, likewise is a woman's existence in fashion a continual bell-ringing, not for debauchees but for lickerish voluptuaries. People hold Fortune to be a woman—ah, yes it is, to be sure, fickle; still, it is fickle in something, as it may also give much; and insofar it is not a woman. No; but fashion is a woman, for fashion is fickleness in nonsense, and is consistent only in its becoming ever more crazy.

Now, if fashion meant only that a woman stripped off all her clothes in the heat of desire, well, then fashion would stand for something. But that is not the case. Fashion is not straightforward sensuality or tolerated debauchery, but an illicit trade in indecency officially approved as proper. And just as a girl of marriageable age in pagan Prussia wore a bell that signaled to men, so a woman's life in fashion is one continuous ringing of a bell. The signal is not for debauchees but for lustful pleasure-seekers. People say Fortune is a woman. Ah, yes, Fortune is certainly fickle. Still, Fortune is fickle about something and may also give much. In that respect, Fortune is not a woman. No, but fashion is a woman, for fashion is fickleness about nonsense. Fashion is consistent only in becoming ever crazier.

One hour in my shop is worth more than days and years without, if it really be one's desire to learn to know woman; in my shop, for it is the only one in the capital, there is no thought of competition. Who, forsooth, would dare to enter into competition with one who has entirely devoted himself, and is still devoting himself, as high-priest in this idol worship? No, there is not a distinguished assemblage which does not mention my name first and last; and there is not a middle-class gathering where my name, whenever mentioned, does not inspire sacred awe, like that of the king; and there is no dress so idiotic but is accompanied by whispers of admiration when its owner proceeds down the hall—provided it bears my name; and there is not the lady of gentle birth who dares pass my shop by, nor the girl of humble origin but passes it sighing and thinking: if only I could afford it! Well, neither was she deceived. I deceive no one; I furnish the finest goods and the most costly, and at the lowest price, indeed, I sell below cost. The fact is, I do not wish to make a profit. On the contrary, every year I sacrifice large sums. And yet do I mean to win, I mean to, I shall spend my last farthing in order to corrupt, in order to bribe, the tools of fashion so that I may win the game. To me it is a delight beyond compare to unroll the most precious stuffs, to cut them out, to clip pieces from genuine Brussels-lace, in order to make a fool's costume—I sell to the lowest prices, genuine goods and in style.

One hour in my shop is worth more than days and years outside it, if you truly want to understand women. In my shop, the only one of its kind in the capital, competition is unthinkable. Who, indeed, would dare compete with someone who has devoted himself entirely to serving as high priest of this idol worship? And I still devote myself to that service. No, there is not a single gathering of high society where my name is not mentioned first and last. Nor is there a middle-class gathering where mentioning my name does not inspire sacred awe, like the king’s name. No dress is so ridiculous that people do not whisper admiringly when its owner walks down the hall, provided the dress bears my name. No lady of noble birth dares walk past my shop without entering. Nor does any girl of humble birth pass without sighing and thinking: if only I could afford it! Well, she was not deceived either. I deceive no one. I supply the finest and most expensive goods at the lowest prices. In fact, I sell below cost. The truth is, I do not want to make a profit. On the contrary, every year I sacrifice large sums. And yet I intend to win. I mean to. I will spend my last penny to corrupt and bribe the instruments of fashion so that I may win the game. Nothing delights me more than unrolling the most precious fabrics, cutting them out, and snipping pieces from genuine Brussels lace. All to make a fool’s costume. I sell genuine, fashionable goods at the lowest prices.

You believe, perhaps, that woman wants to be dressed fashionably only at certain times? No such thing, she wants to be so all the time and that is her only thought. For a woman does have a mind, only it is employed about as well as is the Prodigal Son's substance; and woman does possess the power of reflection in an incredibly high degree, for there is nothing so holy but she will in no time discover it to be reconcilable with her finery—and the chiefest expression of finery is fashion. What wonder if she does discover it to be reconcilable; for is not fashion holy to her? And there is nothing so insignificant but she certainly will know how to make it count in her finery—and the most fatuous expression of finery is fashion. And there is nothing, nothing in all her attire, not the least ribbon, of whose relation to fashion she has not a definite conception and concerning which she is not immediately aware whether the lady who just passed by noticed it; because, for whose benefit does she dress, if not for other ladies!

Perhaps you believe a woman wants to dress fashionably only at certain times? Not at all. She wants to dress fashionably all the time, and that is her only thought. For a woman does have a mind, but she uses it about as well as the Prodigal Son used his wealth. And a woman does have an incredibly strong ability to reflect. For nothing is so holy that she cannot quickly find a way to reconcile it with her finery. And fashion is the highest expression of finery. Is it any wonder she finds the two compatible? For isn't fashion holy to her? And nothing is so insignificant that she will fail to find a way to use it in her finery. And fashion is the most foolish expression of finery. And there is nothing, nothing in her entire outfit, not even the smallest ribbon, whose relation to fashion she hasn't considered. She also knows immediately whether the lady who just passed noticed that ribbon. Because who does she dress for, if not other ladies!

Even in my shop where she comes to be fitted out à la mode, even there she is in fashion. Just as there is a special bathing costume and a special riding habit, likewise there is a particular kind of dress which it is the fashion to wear to the dressmaker's shop. That costume is not insouciant in the same sense as is the negligée a lady is pleased to be surprised in, earlier in the forenoon, where the point is her belonging to the fair sex and the coquetry lies in her letting herself be surprised. The dressmaker costume, on the other hand, is calculated to be nonchalant and a bit careless without her being embarrassed thereby; because a dressmaker stands in a different relation to her from a cavalier. The coquetry here consists in thus showing herself to a man who, by reason of his station, does not presume to ask for the lady's womanly recognition, but must be content with the perquisites which fall abundantly to his share, without her ever thinking of it; or without it even so much as entering her mind to play the lady before a dressmaker. The point is, therefore, that her being of the opposite sex is, in a certain sense, left out of consideration, and her coquetry invalidated, by the superciliousness of the noble lady who would smile if any one alluded to any relation existing between her and her dressmaker. When visited in her negligée she conceals herself, thus displaying her charms by this very concealment. In my shop she exposes her charms with the utmost nonchalance, for he is only a dressmaker—and she is a woman. Now, her shawl slips down and bares some part of her body, and if I did not know what that means, and what she expects, my reputation would be gone to the winds. Now, she draws herself up, a priori fashion, now she gesticulates a posteriori; now, she sways to and fro in her hips; now, she looks at herself in the mirror and sees my admiring phiz behind her in the glass; now, she minces her words; now, she trips along with short steps; now, she hovers; now, she draws her foot after her in a slovenly fashion; now, she lets herself sink softly into an arm-chair, whilst I with humble demeanor offer her a flask of smelling salts and with my adoration assuage her agitation; now, she strikes after me playfully; now, she drops her handkerchief and, without as much as a single motion, lets her relaxed arm remain in its pendent position, whilst I bend down low to pick it up and return it to her, receiving a little patronizing nod as a reward. These are the ways of a lady of fashion when in my shop. Whether Diogenes⁴⁴ made any impression on the woman who was praying in a somewhat unbecoming posture, when he asked her whether she did not believe the gods could see her from behind—that I do not know; but this I do know, that if I should say to her ladyship kneeling down in church: "The folds of your gown do not fall according to fashion," she would be more alarmed than if she had given offense to the gods. Woe to the outcast, the male Cinderella, who has not comprehended this! Pro dii immortales,⁴⁵ what, pray, is a woman who is not in fashion; per deos obsecro,⁴⁶ and what when she is in fashion!

Even in my shop, where she comes to be dressed in the latest style, she is fashionable. Just as there are special clothes for bathing and riding, there is a fashionable outfit for visiting the dressmaker. That outfit is not casual in the same way as her negligée. A lady is pleased to be caught wearing her negligée earlier in the morning. There, the point is that she is a woman, and the flirtation lies in letting herself be caught. Her dressmaker outfit, however, is designed to look relaxed and a little careless without embarrassing her. This is because her relationship with a dressmaker differs from her relationship with a gentleman. Here, the flirtation consists in showing herself this way to a man whose social position keeps him from expecting her acknowledgment as a woman. He must be content with the incidental rewards that fall to him so abundantly, without her ever thinking of them. She never even considers behaving like a lady before a dressmaker. In a sense, then, the fact that she is of the opposite sex is left out of account. Her flirtation is canceled out by the aristocratic lady's contempt. She would smile if anyone suggested that any relationship existed between her and her dressmaker. When someone visits her in her negligée, she covers herself, displaying her charms through that very concealment. In my shop, she displays her charms with complete indifference, for he is only a dressmaker, and she is a woman. Now her shawl slips down, baring some part of her body. If I did not know what that means, and what she expects, my reputation would be ruined. Now she straightens up in a priori fashion, now she gestures a posteriori. Now she sways her hips from side to side. Now she looks in the mirror and sees my admiring face behind her. Now she speaks with affected delicacy. Now she walks with dainty little steps. Now she seems to float. Now she drags her foot carelessly behind her. Now she sinks gently into an armchair. Meanwhile, I humbly offer her a bottle of smelling salts and soothe her agitation with my adoration. Now she takes a playful swipe at me. Now she drops her handkerchief. Without making even a single movement, she leaves her relaxed arm hanging down. Meanwhile, I bend low to pick up the handkerchief and return it to her. My reward is a little patronizing nod. These are the ways of a fashionable lady in my shop. Diogenes⁴⁴ once saw a woman praying in a rather indecent posture. He asked whether she did not believe the gods could see her from behind. Whether he made any impression on her, I do not know. But I do know what would happen if I spoke to her ladyship while she knelt in church. Suppose I said: "The folds of your gown do not fall in the fashionable way." She would be more alarmed than if she had offended the gods. Woe to the outcast, the male Cinderella, who has not understood this! By the immortal gods,⁴⁵ what, pray, is a woman who is not fashionable? For the gods' sake,⁴⁶ and what is she when she is fashionable!

Whether all this is true? Well, make trial of it: let the swain, when his beloved one sinks rapturously on his breast, whispering unintelligibly: "thine forever," and hides her head on his bosom—let him but say to, her: "My sweet Kitty, your coiffure is not at all in fashion."—Possibly, men don't give thought to this; but he who knows it, and has the reputation of knowing it, he is the most dangerous man in the kingdom. What blissful hours the lover passes with his sweetheart before marriage I do not know; but of the blissful hours she spends in my shop he hasn't the slightest inkling, either. Without my special license and sanction a marriage is null and void, anyway—or else an entirely plebeian affair. Let it be the very moment when they are to meet before the altar, let her step forward with the very best conscience in the world that everything was bought in my shop and tried on there—and now, if I were to rush up and exclaim: "But mercy! gracious lady, your myrtle wreath is all awry"—why, the whole ceremony might be postponed, for aught I know. But men do not suspect these things, one must be a dressmaker to know.

Is all this true? Well, put it to the test. Let a young man’s beloved sink into his arms in rapture, murmuring indistinctly: "yours forever," and burying her head against his chest. Just let him say to her: "My sweet Kitty, your hairstyle is not at all fashionable." Perhaps men don’t think about such things. But a man who understands them, and is known for understanding them, is the most dangerous man in the kingdom. I don’t know what blissful hours a lover spends with his sweetheart before marriage. But he hasn’t the slightest idea of the blissful hours she spends in my shop, either. Without my special permission and approval, a marriage is null and void anyway, or else an entirely lower-class affair. Suppose the couple are just about to meet at the altar. Let her step forward, perfectly at ease, knowing everything was bought and tried on in my shop. Now suppose I rushed up and exclaimed: "Good heavens! My dear lady, your myrtle wreath is completely crooked." Why, for all I know, the whole ceremony might be postponed. But men don’t suspect such things. You have to be a dressmaker to know.

So immense is the power of reflection needed to fathom a woman's thought that only a man who dedicates himself wholly to the task will succeed, and even then only if gifted to start with. Happy therefore the man who does not associate with any woman, for she is not his, anyway, even if she be no other man's; for she is possessed by that phantom born of the unnatural intercourse of woman's reflection with itself, fashion. Do you see, for this reason should woman always swear by fashion—then were there some force in her oath; for after all, fashion is the thing she is always thinking of, the only thing she can think together with, and into, everything. For instance, the glad message has gone forth from my shop to all fashionable ladies that fashion decrees the use of a particular kind of head-dress to be worn in church, and that this head-dress, again, must be somewhat different for High Mass and for the afternoon service. Now when the bells are ringing the carriage stops in front of my door. Her ladyship descends (for also this has been decreed, that no one can adjust that head-dress save I, the fashion-dealer), I rush out, making low bows, and lead her into my cabinet. And whilst she languishingly reposes I put everything in order. Now she is ready and has looked at herself in the mirror; quick as any messenger of the gods I hasten in advance, open the door of my cabinet with a bow, then hasten to the door of my shop and lay my arm on my breast, like some oriental slave; but, encouraged by a gracious courtesy, I even dare to throw her an adoring and admiring kiss—now she is seated in her carriage—oh dear! she left her hymn book behind. I hasten out again and hand it to her through the carriage window, I permit myself once more to remind her to hold her head a trifle more to the right, and herself to arrange things, should her head-dress become a bit disordered when descending. She drives away and is edified.

Understanding a woman’s thoughts takes such immense reflection that only a man who devotes himself entirely to the task can succeed. Even then, he must be gifted to begin with. Happy, then, is the man who has nothing to do with any woman. For she is not his anyway, even if she belongs to no other man. She belongs instead to fashion, that phantom born from the unnatural mating of a woman’s reflection with itself. You see, for this reason a woman should always swear by fashion. Then her oath would carry some weight. After all, fashion is what she always thinks about. Fashion is the only thing she can connect with everything else and work into everything else. For example, the good news has gone out from my shop to all fashionable ladies. Fashion now requires a particular kind of headdress for church. The headdress, in turn, must be somewhat different for High Mass and the afternoon service. Now, as the bells ring, the carriage stops outside my door. Her ladyship steps out. For fashion has also decreed that no one but me, the fashion dealer, can adjust her headdress. I rush out, bowing deeply, and lead her into my private room. While she reclines languidly, I put everything in order. Now she is ready and has looked at herself in the mirror. As swift as any messenger of the gods, I hurry ahead and open the door of my private room with a bow. Then I hurry to the shop door and place my arm across my chest, like some Eastern slave. But, encouraged by her gracious curtsy, I even dare to blow her an adoring, admiring kiss. Now she is seated in her carriage. Oh dear! She has left her hymn book behind. I hurry out again and hand her the book through the carriage window. Once more, I take the liberty of reminding her to hold her head a little farther to the right. I also remind her to make any adjustments herself if her headdress gets a little disturbed as she steps out. She drives away, spiritually uplifted.

You believe, perhaps, that it is only great ladies who worship fashion, but far from it! Look at my sempstresses for whose dress I spare no expense, so that the dogmas of fashion may be proclaimed most emphatically from my shop. They form a chorus of half-witted creatures, and I myself lead them on as high-priest, as a shining example, squandering all, solely in order to make all womankind ridiculous. For when a seducer makes the boast that every woman's virtue has its price, I do not believe him; but I do believe that every woman at an early time will be crazed by the maddening and defiling introspection taught her by fashion, which will corrupt her more thoroughly than being seduced. I have made trial more than once. If not able to corrupt her myself I set on her a few of fashion's slaves of her own station; for just as one may train rats to bite rats, likewise is the crazed woman's sting like that of the tarantula. And most especially dangerous is it when some man lends his help.

Perhaps you believe that only high-society ladies worship fashion, but far from it! Look at my seamstresses. I spare no expense on their clothes, so that fashion’s doctrines may be proclaimed most forcefully from my shop. They form a chorus of half-witted creatures, and I lead them as high priest and shining example. I squander everything solely to make all womankind ridiculous. For when a seducer boasts that every woman’s virtue has its price, I do not believe him. But I do believe that every woman will, early on, be driven mad by fashion’s lessons in self-scrutiny. This maddening, degrading self-scrutiny will corrupt her more thoroughly than being seduced. I have tested this more than once. If I cannot corrupt a woman myself, I send a few of fashion’s slaves from her own social class after her. For just as rats can be trained to bite other rats, a woman crazed by fashion stings like a tarantula. And the danger is especially great when some man lends his help.

Whether I serve the Devil or God I do not know; but I am right, I shall be right, I will be, so long as I possess a single farthing, I will be until the blood spurts out of my fingers. The physiologist pictures the shape of woman to show the dreadful effects of wearing a corset, and beside it he draws a picture of her normal figure. That is all entirely correct, but only one of the drawings has the validity of truth: they all wear corsets. Describe, therefore, the miserable, stunted perversity of the fashion-mad woman, describe the insidious introspection devouring her, and then describe the womanly modesty which least of all knows about itself—do so and you have judged woman, have in very truth passed terrible sentence on her. If ever I discover such a girl who is contented and demure and not yet corrupted by indecent intercourse with women—she shall fall nevertheless. I shall catch her in my toils, already she stands at the sacrificial altar, that is to say, in my shop. With the most scornful glance a haughty nonchalance can assume I measure her appearance, she perishes with fright; a peal of laughter from the adjoining room where sit my trained accomplices annihilates her. And afterwards, when I have gotten her rigged up à la mode and she looks crazier than a lunatic, as crazy as one who would not be accepted even in a lunatic asylum, then she leaves me in a state of bliss—no man, not even a god, were able to inspire fear in her; for is she not dressed in fashion?

I do not know whether I serve the Devil or God. But I am right, and I shall be right. I will be right as long as I have a single farthing, until blood spurts from my fingers. The physiologist draws a woman’s figure to show the terrible effects of wearing a corset. Beside that drawing, he draws her natural figure. All of this is entirely correct, but only one drawing reflects reality: all women wear corsets. So describe the miserable, stunted perversity of the woman obsessed with fashion. Describe the insidious self-scrutiny that eats away at her. Then describe womanly modesty, which is least aware of itself. Do this, and you have judged woman. You have truly passed a terrible sentence on her. If I ever discover such a girl, content and modest, not yet corrupted by indecent association with women, she shall fall nevertheless. I shall catch her in my snares. Already she stands at the sacrificial altar, in other words, in my shop. I size her up with the most scornful look that arrogant indifference can muster. She nearly dies of fright. A burst of laughter from the next room, where my trained accomplices sit, destroys her. Afterwards, I get her dressed in the latest fashion, and she looks crazier than a lunatic. She looks so crazy that even a lunatic asylum would not accept her. Yet she leaves me in a state of bliss. No man, not even a god, could frighten her. For is she not dressed in fashion?

Do you comprehend me now, do you comprehend why I call you fellow-conspirators, even though in a distant way? Do you now comprehend my conception of woman? Everything in life is a matter of fashion, the fear of God is a matter of fashion, and so are love, and crinolines, and a ring through the nose. To the utmost of my ability will I therefore come to the support of the exalted genius who wishes to laugh at the most ridiculous of all animals. If woman has reduced everything to a matter of fashion, then will I, with the help of fashion, prostitute her, as she deserves to be; I have no peace, I the dressmaker, my soul rages when I think of my task—she will yet be made to wear a ring through her nose. Seek therefore no sweetheart, abandon love as you would the most dangerous neighborhood; for the one whom you love would also be made to go with a ring through her nose.

Do you understand me now? Do you understand why I call you fellow conspirators, even if only distantly? Do you now understand my view of woman? Everything in life is a matter of fashion. Fear of God is a matter of fashion, as are love, crinolines, and a ring through the nose. So I will do everything I can to support the lofty genius who wants to laugh at that most ridiculous animal. If woman has made everything a matter of fashion, then I will use fashion to prostitute her, as she deserves. I, the dressmaker, have no peace. My soul rages when I think of my task. She will yet be made to wear a ring through her nose. So do not seek a sweetheart. Stay away from love as you would stay away from the most dangerous neighborhood. For the woman you love would also be made to wear a ring through her nose.

Thereupon John, called the Seducer, spoke as follows:

Then John, known as the Seducer, said: