Gentlemanliness in Ungentlemanly Times, Part I

If there’s a reason why chivalry is proverbially “dead,” it’s because the ideal has been drained of its vitality and reduced to mere manners. We mostly forgot all that stuff about an honor code for the devout aristocratic fighting man and fixated instead on holding doors open for ladies and giving up your seat on a train—so a modern man is “chivalrous” if he simply does polite things. This is how I understood the ideal until pretty recently, and it's why I wasn’t much interested. Contemporary chivalry is boring because it democratizes what ought to be elite and aspirational: holding doors open is easy, something any chump can do; becoming like El Cid or St George is difficult. Only when I discovered this more ambitious part about the Christian warrior-noble (who also happens to practice fine manners) was I intrigued.

This is how heresy often works. One part of a whole is fixated on and the rest discarded or demoted until the picture becomes warped, and a part of the truth thus becomes untruthful. Democratic, manners-only chivalry is a textbook heresy.

For these reasons, it’s necessary to demote courtesy in conversations about chivalry, so that virtues like prowess, faith, generosity, honor, and loyalty can be restored to their proper place and the ideal invigorated.

But, at the same time, social disaster has befallen us—an epidemic of lameness, indifference, sarcasm, narcissism, lazy informality, phony IDGAF proclamations, general meh-ness, and more. So a revival of courtesy must happen. Here’s an excerpt from my book (revised and expanded edition coming out soon) on gentlemanliness and courtesy in the context of the larger chivalric ideal.

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In “The Necessity of Chivalry,” CS Lewis argues that the essence of the ideal is captured in the “double demand” it makes on human nature: that a man cultivate both hardihood and gentleness. There’s an obvious tension between the demands—two things that don’t naturally go together. The gentle are not expected to be able to fight ferociously, and the ferocious are not expected to conduct themselves graciously off the field. But prowess and courtesy also intertwine in subtle ways. With his courtesy, the chivalrous man brings out the best in others, just as he protects them with his prowess. These virtues in tandem make a man something special—in Lewis’ words, a “work of art.”

I’m using courtesy to mean all the knight’s social graces, everything that makes others want to be near him—his warmth, charm, decorum, composure, conversation, and thoughtfulness. You won’t find the courteous man wearing stained sweatpants everywhere, scratching his junk for the world to see, avoiding eye contact, mumbling in conversation, talking only about himself, lashing out without cause, and so on. He musters a better effort than that.

Courtesy is tied to courtliness: the bearing and manners fit for the courts of princes and nobles. High etiquette made these gatherings more dignified, in addition to helping keep banquets from turning into bloodbaths, as was always a possibility when such high-T men gathered. Obviously the court plays a diminished (or nonexistent) role in our times, and the particular courtly manners of the 12th century baron would be outlandish today. But the rage for social informality has brought disaster upon us. Just as prowess has taken a sharp dive in recent decades, so has courtesy—and these declines are linked. No one can be surprised that fatter, slouchier, and less vigorous populations tend to become duller, grouchier, and less engaging as well. So a revival of courtesy is also past due.

Courtesy goes beyond a set of “rules” for conduct, like the kind you’d find in a contemporary manual on how to be a gentleman. I’m often humored by how unhelpful those books are. One of the worst opens with a survey of womankind’s top complaints about males: we make messes, leave dirty dishes in the sink, fail to return items to the refrigerator, and more. But the author is here to re-educate us so that we can better meet the expectations of our domestic bosses, and his book on gentlemanly manners is basically a Public Service Announcement on behalf of the longhouse.

Rather than weak-kneed compliance, the chivalric virtue of courtesy is about Christian good cheer and warm-heartedness, coming from a position of strength. The courteous man gladly takes the trouble to be considerate—not because he has been nagged into it, but because doing so shows his quality. He enjoys it, too. Courtesy is the outward display of a noble soul within.

Even if we could find a good manual on etiquette, we should turn to it last rather than first. Courtesy requires us to mind the details, but we cannot skip straight to them before establishing the personal frame which gives meaning and effect to everything a man does. Knowledge of the rules does little good without a few key prerequisites:

Energy

A man can immediately elevate his courtesy with something not usually associated with it: physical training. Here again prowess connects subtly to courtesy, and training proves to be the solution to another modern problem.

A program of vitality combats the anxiety, insecurity, tension, anger, restlessness, and other troubles that make courtesy all but impossible. With these comes moodiness, and no courteous man makes others suffer his moods. Virtues are commendable, according to Aristotle, only when they proceed from a “firm and unshakeable disposition.” In other words, the gentleman doesn’t leave us guessing what kind of temper he’s going to be in—we already know.

Physical training most especially kills the self-imposed fatigue that makes a man barely superior to a re-animated corpse. A young guy I served with in the Air Force was so chronically enervated by bad habits and lack of purpose that he could hardly function without a Red Bull in hand. His fatigue sent an undeniably rude message to all who conversed with him that their presence put him to sleep—just as everything else did. “I can’t even…” he seemed to say. Whether he intended the rudeness hardly matters; the effects of a man’s conduct override his intentions.

Conversely, he who brings manly good cheer distinguishes himself as altogether superior. An uncle of mine has a particular gift for greeting people like he was truly glad to see them—very simple stuff, I realize, but the simplest things can be the most important and far-reaching. His warmth instantly conveys your value in his eyes. The courteous man doesn’t allow himself to be too tired for a little gusto, and that’s why a visit to the gym is a decision against being a lifeless dud and for being a gentleman.

Attentiveness

Once he’s established a physical presence in which courtesy can be an embodied reality rather than just a speculative possibility, a man must commit to paying attention. This means attentiveness when others speak. But in a larger sense it means noting the conduct of others and our own reactions to it. Though the bad examples prevail in times of decline, even these can instruct. Recently I was enjoying the silence of a morning walk at our local high school track when an older lady joined me, blasting a Justin Timberlake song from the soundtrack of Trolls. “So just dance, dance, dance, dance.” She did not bother with headphones. When finding himself annoyed like this, a man ought to resolve against ever being obnoxious himself. He should apply the Golden Rule, but from a different angle: Do NOT do unto others the things that annoy you, like imposing dumb noises so needlessly.

There are good examples, too, if one is attentive enough to notice. A friend of mine is especially composed—never in a hurry, never flustered. He finishes all his sentences with an even rhythm in his voice. His composure also shows in his body language: he maintains an aristocratic stillness, refraining from nervous fidgeting and low-status ticks. When you pay attention to these things, you cannot help but note that his composure is not just dignified but also courteous, by virtue of its steadying and confidence-inspiring effect on others. Historians say this same statuesque poise made George Washington’s presence so powerful and conveyed that the man was in charge. Multiple maxims from Washington’s Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior show that he consciously cultivated this stillness, like #12: “Shake not the head, feet, or legs, roll not the eyes, lift not one eyebrow higher than the other, wry not the mouth…” When such a man does move, it’s for a purpose and it has effect.

Being present has become an overused yogacore cliche, but while being present and attentive we probably learn just as much about good conduct as any manual could teach.

Decisiveness

Though his heart might be in the right place, the dork who can’t decide instantly, who only reacts and wavers, who turns to others for cues and permission—this fellow forces others to endure his awkwardness and thus misses the mark. A gentleman must do his thing with unhesitating certainty. Anything less is discourteous. We like being around people who know what they’re doing.

Only when a man has mastered these can the “rules” be of any service to him.

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Postscript

Having mocked those guidebooks and the pointlessness of rules for conduct, I plan to totally contradict myself with Part II in this series, which will be on everything I know about gentlemanly courtesy—if only because I want to remind myself. The New Year is a good time for committing to getting one’s act together and this exercise will, at the very least, help me do that.