#2 WORD SERIES: "PANACHE"

Nov 27, ‘21 #2 WORD SERIES: "PANACHE"

PANACHE – pəˈnaSH, pəˈnäSH

            The French claim the word even though they borrowed it from the Italian “pennacchio,” meaning “plume.” In the 16th century the word meant little more than that, a plume of feather’s in a hat. Thanks to the French, the accent falls on the last syllable. 

1.    A grand or flamboyant manner; verve, dashing style, flair.

2.    An ornamental plume of feathers, tassels, or such; especially those worn on caps or helmets.

3.    In cooking, panache describes a mixture of main ingredients of differing colors, flavors, or shapes. (It’s what I often do with leftovers, having never realized how exotic a dish could be made to sound by using the right word.)

As for the OED, well, see for yourself. Even with the magnifying glass that accompanies my Compact Edition, the font size strains my patience. 

In 1898, in translation of Cyrano de Bergerac from the French, panache described swagger. We have used the word ever since to describe a grand or flamboyant manner; verve, dashing style, flair.

 Scooter Sublime says, “You talking about me again?”

“Not you, silly dog.”

“Really? Sound like me.”

“No, no. Listen to this – Cyrano’s panache rode alongside elegance. You are young yet, dear Scooter. Listen to what the writer, Elmond Rostand, had Cyrano say:

“I have a different idea of elegance. I don’t dress like a fop, it’s true, but my moral grooming is impeccable. I never appear in public with a soiled conscience, a tarnished honor, threadbare scruples, or an insult that I haven’t washed away. I’m always immaculately clean, adorned with independence and frankness. I may not cut a stylish figure, but I hold my soul erect. I wear my deeds as ribbons, my wit is sharper than the finest mustache, and when I walk among men, I make truths ring like spurs.” Elegance.

When you walk among men, Scooter, you still bark too much. You have a fierce sound but little finesse. You may well carry genes for panache, but you have some things to work out.                                                                                                                      

            Let’s say you, and your neighbor, the elegant greyhound, Ginger, are standing together on a vine surrounded balcony when you notice below a dog fight about to begin between your beautiful mutt buddy, Toby, and a terrorizing terrier from a nearby neighborhood. You start barking. You are full of bluster. You leap headlong (ouch), to the ground, vine twigs tangled on your head like plumes on a helmet. You charge with a slight limp through people on a sidewalk, knock over a planter pot or two, meaning to be the hero by bullying the bully, and rescuing your buddy.  Ginger, however, wears elegance and panache. From the balcony, in only a matter of seconds, Ginger sees the situation. She takes measure of the disagreeable dog. She notices heavy vines sloping from balcony’s edge to the grass below. She makes a graceful dive, and vine-slides a landing nearly at terrier’s toes. She captures the bully’s gaze, drops to a play position, wags her tail, starts a game, and thus, redesigns altercation. 

That, Scooter is panache. That, is panache with elegance. Here—something to consider as you shape your character. Learn from Cyrano. In response to the insolent young nobleman, Valvert, who insulted him by saying, “that thing of yours is big . . . very big,” but nothing more, Cyrano teased back until a duel ensued. From the beginning to the end of it, the man with the “very big nose” taunted relentlessly, rhyming with flair, verve, flamboyance, and dashing style, better ways to insult a nose.

Picture the 17th century crowd watching, whooping, hollering, two swords slashing, clanging, heavily clothed bodies in the dance that might well lead to death, and hear the proboscis-plagued poet proffering proofs of his opponent’s limitations:

“That’s all?” Cyrano asks incredulously, after the single insult.

“Yes,” the young man answered.

“Nothing more? There are fifty score varieties of comment. Nay, more. Just change the tone. For example . . .

“Aggressive: A Nose in such a state, I’d amputate.

“Friendly: It must dip in your cup. You need a crane to hold it up.

“Descriptive: A rock, a bluff, a cape. No, a peninsula in size and shape.

“Curious: What is that oblong? A writing desk or am I wrong?

“Gracious: Are you fond of birds? How sweet. You provide a gothic perch for them to rest their feet.

“Truculent: A smoker? I suppose the fumes goes out from that nose like a chimney on fire.

“Kind: It will drag you in the mire head-first with its weight.

“Pedant: The beast of Aristophanes, the hippocampocamalelephunt, had flesh and bone like that up front.

“Drama: It bleeds like the Red Sea.

“Impressed: What a sign for perfumery.

“Lyric: Ah, Triton rising from the waters.

“Naïve: How much the monument?

“Warlike: "Train it on the cavalry!

“Practical: Put that in a lottery for noses and it'll be first prize.

“And finally, with sighs and cries... in language deeply felt: O that this too solid nose would melt.

“That is what you could have said were you a man of letters... or had an ounce of wit in your head,” said Cyrano as he bested the man in the fight. “But you've no letters... save the three required to describe you: S.O.T.

“My elegance is interior.

“I do not go out feeling inferior from an insult... which on the exterior, leaves its mark of warning in libel and scruples in mourning. I step out smelling of scrubbed liberty and polished independence. Come see!

“This great proboscis is my pride and joy, since a fine nose is the unfailing mark of a fine man, witty, good-natured, brave, courteous and forgiving.”

See, Scooter? Panache, at its finest, requires elegance. Otherwise, and I’m not pointing fingers, flair, verve, dashing style, or flamboyant manner is, well, immature, silly, boring, and at best, avoided.

When time comes for Cyrano to die, the woman he has loved for years and from afar, Roxane, exclaims that she loves him, that he cannot die. But our badly wounded hero is done. He draws his sword, slashing at what only he can see in his darkening world, he staggers into one last fight against his “old enemies—falsehood, prejudice, and compromise.” 

To Death, he says, “take the rose, the laurel too, but in spite of you, there is one thing goes with me tonight, something still that will always be mine . . . a thing unstained, unsullied by the brute broke nails of the world, by death, by doom unfingered, unstained – my panache.”

Panache. Done well, it’s a beautiful thing.

Spell it, please