There’s somebody I’d like you to meet, whose example has a lot to offer us in these bumptious and shameless times. Our story is supposed to be about a well-dressed man—one of the best of them all, right up there with Fred Astaire and Gary Cooper, but not as widely remembered today. This is Anthony Drexel Biddle Jr.—Tony as he was known to family, but let’s for the sake of this discussion call him AJ since this is how the photos are always captioned—all around winning fellow and definitely one of the top three most stylish men the New World has ever produced.
But alongside the facts, there’s also a message about the qualities that go into being truly stylish—namely, good character and the power of understatement.
In 1960, Esquire published George Frazier’s essay “The Art of Wearing Clothes.” This seminal piece from the golden age of journalism explores the history of male style and the components that go into it with forensic specificity (prices) and historical scope (his discussion of Lord Byron’s military wardrobe during his service in Greece), not to mention wit (the whole damn thing).
As the article unfolds, one subject emerges as the star: A.J. He was on the cover of Life in 1943, but today he is probably the best-dressed man you’ve never heard of.
Biddle was born in 1897 to inherited wealth in Philadelphia and married into more of it, then came “into himself ” during his service as a diplomat and major general in the U.S. Army. After entering very young into the first of three marriages, and an early career as an investor that could best be described as spotty, the always impeccable dandy took on the quiet and severe line and cut of his later, mature style—the elegance of economy.
Take note, hashtaggers: This he accomplished with only seven suits, as Frazier meticulously explained (one of those suits was somehow acquired by Atlantic Records founder Ahmet Ertegun, who kept it in his closet like a talisman and allowed only close friends in for a look).
The suits were made by H. Harris of New York or E. Tautz of London; the latter was known for the broad and low-slung double-breasted jackets worn by Astaire and Cooper from the late 1930s onward. Indeed, had A.J. not been among the originators of the style, upon looking at photographs of him one might say he was “sporting the Tautz,” which is what people in the know used to call it when your lapels were slightly gangster.
In the only picture I have ever seen of A.J. without a jacket, he is in fact wearing a sleeveless undershirt, assisting refugees during the German bombardment of Warsaw in 1939. (He had been ambassador to Poland since 1937.)
Any meditation on the most understatedly elegant male figures of now necessarily involves George Clooney; Bryan Cranston also comes to mind, and my personal favorite is the young king of Bhutan. I think David Letterman is on his way to becoming one of the great figures of American life in the mold of Mark Twain, though that has little to do with clothes. But there is much more to embodying these qualities than what you wear.
Not long before his death I had a conversation with A.J.’s nephew Tony Duke, himself the epitome of dash, American sportsmanship and kindness at the age of 94. Tony remembered his uncle very vividly and with a certain amount of tenderness. The sum of the stories he told about A.J. made it clear that he was a great male character and got better with age.
We barely talked about clothes. My favorite story was one he told in tones of understatement that seem to have run in the family and are in notably short supply today. During the late days of the war, A.J. took Tony to lunch at the London Ritz. After the meal and a visit to A.J.’s tailor (Tautz, of course, from whom Tony ordered one pair of trousers), A.J. said, “I want you to come meet a nice fellow.” He took his nephew to U.S. Army headquarters, and it turned out the nice fellow was Eisenhower. Tony, being so close to A.J., was warmly received. D-Day was five days later.
This story appears in the November 2017 issue of Town & Country. Subscribe Now.
