AND ANOTHER THING
Pauline Borghese's feet, Wordsworth's legs and thoughts about calves
PAUL JOHNSON
Ihave been thinking about feet — my feet in particular, but also feet in general. The reason is this. Not long ago, my wife Marigold was troubled about one of her toes. She had never been to a chiropodist before but eventually found one, a nice Irish lady, not far from our house, at a health centre off the Portobello Road. She was so impressed by the treatment she received that she urged me to see the Irish lady too; and, as usual when Marigold urges things, I complied. The lady said, `Well, what is wrong with your feet?' I replied, 'Nothing, really. I have just sur- vived a week's strenuous walking in the Alps without any more damage than a little blister or two. But my big toes have a curi- ous characteristic. Whenever I do a lot of walking in the hills, and however comfort- able my boots are, my big toes turn black and eventually the nails come off. I have just got a beautiful new pair of boots which suit me excellently, but the same thing hap- pened last week. I suppose my big toes stick out more than most people's, and the only solution is to have a pair of boots specially made for me.'
The foot-lady said, 'I'll bet there's noth- ing wrong with your boots. Take off your shoes and socks and let's see how you walk.' So I walked up and down the corri- dor of the health centre while she scruti- nised my tread carefully. Then she announced, 'You have a walking defect. You tend to walk on the outside edge of your feet. That pushes your big toe up and explains why it gets damaged. It is a simple matter to correct.' So she has made for me a specially designed inner sole which push- es my feet in the right direction, corrects the imbalance and ensures my big toes are not hurt. I am impressed. All my life I have been walking, and I suppose running, in the wrong way. I have run the mile for my school, served in the Light Infantry, march- ing 140 paces to the minute, climbed in the Alps, the Pyrenees and the Atlas, traversed the Lake District from north to south, and the Scottish Highlands from east to west, in a day, and done many of the Munros. I reg- ularly walk for 10 to 20 miles in the Quan- tock Hills and I always get about London on foot if I have the time. But it seems I have been doing it all wrong and, slowly but surely, turning myself into a cripple. The foot-lady says this is quite common. Many, perhaps most, of us have a way of walking which damages our feet, eventually leads to trouble and can easily be remedied if an expert is consulted in time. It is exactly like teeth. But whereas everyone goes to a den- tist regularly, few visit a chiropodist at any time in their lives. Then they complain, 'My feet are killing me.' That is why Margaret Thatcher, for instance, always kicks off her shoes if she gets the chance. What busy lady doesn't?
Feet vary enormously in size, as a result of nature and human agency. The feet of Pius X, the last pope to be made a saint, were colossal, as is revealed by his white satin slippers, preserved in his patriarchal church in Rome. At the other extreme, Jung Chang, the beautiful Chinese lady who wrote that enchanting book Wild Swans and who lives round the corner from us in Bayswater, owns a pair of her grand- mother's shoes which are only four inches long — a result of the horrible Chinese tra- dition of binding the feet of well-born ladies. In between, history records some beautiful feet, notably those of Bonaparte's sister, Pauline Borghese. She was so proud of her delicately formed feet that she held special receptions at the Palazzo Borghese in Rome, for guests to see them washed. The occasions were known as La toilette des pieds. Printed cards were issued to the Roman nobility and distinguished visitors. The English were specially keen to partici- pate, the women just as enthusiastic as the men. A Lady Ruthven left a description of one of these parties. When the guests arrived, they found Princess Pauline with her 'exquisitely white' little feet displayed on a velvet cushion. When she gave a sig- nal, her maids entered, touched her feet with sponges and dusted them with powder. The Duke of Hamilton, who was a regular, used to take up one foot and tuck it into his waistcoat, 'like a little bird'. I am surprised that some of our London beauties who are proud of their dainty feet do not re- establish such a ceremony. But it would be sure to get into the gutter press, and so be ruined by a rush of foot-fetishists.
Of course in Pauline Borghese's day, feet, which could be seen, attracted a great deal of sexual attention, as opposed to women's legs, which were usually invisible. It was the men's legs, elegantly displayed in silk or satin hose and knee-breeches (until the coming of trousers hid the shape), which were noticed and praised. Until about 1825, it was considered quite proper for a lady to comment on a gentleman's legs, which were carefully observed and compared — and not just by women, either. Horace Walpole was a great expert on men's legs. And Thomas De Quincey caused great offence to Wordsworth, his wife and sister, by publishing unfavourable comments on the poet's legs. He said that they were 'pointedly condemned by all the female connoisseurs in legs that ever I heard lecture on that topic. Not that they were bad in any way that would force itself upon your notice — there was no absolute deformity about them; and undoubtedly they had been serviceable legs beyond the average standard of human requisition.' He calculated that Wordsworth, a great walker, had tramped over 175,000 miles on his legs, `a mode of exertion which, to him, stood in the stead of wine, spirits and all other stim- ulants . . . to which he has been indebted for a life of unclouded happiness and we for much of what is most excellent in his writings. But, useful as they have proved themselves, the Wordsworthian legs were certainly not ornamental; and it was really a pity, as I agreed with a lady in thinking, that he had not another pair for evening dress parties, when no boots lend their friendly aid to mask our imperfections from the eyes of female rigorists.'
Today, alas, the position is reversed: women's legs are shamelessly displayed (or judiciously concealed) while men's legs are ignored. But we cannot assume this lack of attention will continue for ever. Trousers have now been worn by men for 200 years and have proved the most enduring male garment in history. But maybe the millen- nium will bring a change and we men will have to think again about what De Quincey called 'our contours'. I have been looking at my calves and consider they might just pass muster. In the meantime, I am deter- mined to get my pedestrian performance right, so that my feet will be in good nick for walks in Cumbria this summer.
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