Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

It’s been said that I am vain. I can’t think why. I am the most modest of men and deserve honours from the king.

Jane joins me at the mirror. Her dress swishes as she walks. There are three mirrors in our parlour. The high one over the mantelpiece, the long mirror on the wall opposite the window, and the sizeable bevelled mirror on the oak dresser. Mirrors, especially huge mirrors, make the room look more expansive. And they offer the opportunity for me to readily assess my pose as I navigate the room. It is important to present oneself with the most impressive account. A standing position is accomplished to the highest effect by placing one foot forward in a manly fashion and holding the head erect.

If one is required to circumnavigate other people and items of furniture, it must be conducted gracefully; a slight waft of the hand at such times is considered timely. Many a clumsy man has besmirched his name, smashing ornaments or unbalancing fellow guests. Over the years, I have learnt to make a statement by how I carry myself. I don’t slouch or meander. I enter a room forcefully and adopt a stance which reflects a firm resolution. My demeanour is noticed and esteemed, although nobody has ever said that. Somebody once told me I strut, which I flatly denied……

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He hasn’t noticed my new dress, so expensive, my new wig, my makeup which took ages to apply, my new shoes. All he does is fiddle with his ribbon. I nudge him aside to look in the mirror. Little man, even with his high heels on. He’s always fussing in the mirrors. Anyway, too many mirrors in this room. It looks like a dress shop.

Where’s my fan? I left it on the table. Don’t panic, I’ll find it. Oh no, he’s wearing that bright blue coat again, wants to be noticed. Time he threw it out. It’s a pity his dress sense doesn’t match his painting. I do hope he is not going to strut about in front of the king. It’s just so embarrassing. Standing with his foot jutting out like a ballerina.

Ah, there’s my fan, on the floor. He’s knocked it off wafting his hand about. He gets so nervous, so desperate to get honours.

Excerpt from Hogarth, The Strutting Saboteur.