Powder and Patch

 

By Georgette Heyer

Poor Philip Jettan. Both the girl he loves, Cleone,  and his own father view him as a country bumpkin. He doesn't dress right, he doesn't fight right, he doesn't dance right, he just doesn't measure up. Goaded by their criticisms and by an ignoble defeat in a duel by a man he dismissed as a painted puppy, Philip leaves England and goes to Paris in order to learn the airs and graces his father and Cleone claim they want him to acquire.

So off to 1740s France to study the ways of the French nobility. In the process, however, Philip discovers he has knack for it. He becomes the darling of French high society and learns to dress well and dance well and fight a duel well. After some adventures in France, he soon comes back to Cleone and his father, the painted puppy they thought they wanted. But somehow, Cleone views the changes with disfavor, thinking that Philip is no longer a manly man, but has been transformed into a vain, shallow and weak dandy! Little does she know that underneath that beautiful, dainty exterior beats the heart of the country bumpkin she used to know. And then some.

This was an OK read, if a tad unbelievable. Here is a fellow who is more interested in cows than in society manners who transforms himself in the space of less than a year into an expert at everything high society values, including learning to speak French like a native and becoming expert at fencing. I actually felt kind of sad for Philip who becomes the darling of French society by putting aside the country life he loved for the superficial trappings that really mean very little in the long run. All for the love of a girl who didn't value his true worth because he wasn't polished enough. 

Another thing that I really didn't like was the constant appearance of French throughout the book. I don't comprehend French. Maybe English people of Heyer's generation were familiar enough with French to understand what Philip is saying every time he spouts French. But that's not me and probably not most people who read her books over fifty years later. At one point she includes a poem by Philip that is twelve lines long and entirely in French with no English translation except for the title, "To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear." Seems a tad pretentious to me. Or maybe just snooty.

Here is a review by Lucy Bertoldi on Austenprose.