There’ll be bluebirds over… Fleurs de Rocaille by Caron The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

A frightful busy week for The Dandy I’m afraid. Saw a picture of David Niven today at the National Theatre and suddenly I thought of Caron’s masterpiece. Yours ever, The Perfumed Dandy

The Perfumed Dandy.

His hair has the silver white hue of the chalk cliffs he walks each morning.

Following his path implacably, without regard to the weather, his eyes are fixed in the middle distance looking out towards where the sea is, though he does not see it.

In the warmer months he appears a little happier, it’s hard to tell: his face changes so little with the seasons.

Arrested in an air of benign, bemused detachment it is the visage of a kindly if disinterest god.

Only his body gives away that things are better in summer, he holds himself more upright and alert, his whole being seeming relieved not to have to fight against the wind and rain that will battle him all winter.

From your window you have watched him steer this same course for years and as the years have passed you have seen him grow more fragile, his…

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