Saturday, February 19, 2011

February 19, 1936

Oh, la! The sun is shining - bright and glorious - Spring cannot be far behind, can it? Oh, I do say, I'm completely withered and wan, having had to endure this beastly Winter, here in beastly Portland. Cold and damp and grey, cold and damp and grey, with no relief at all. And it isn't even ever a nice, dramatic sort of awful: no blizzards or floods or killer pea-soupers. No it's all a mezza voce sort of awful, so who could ever enjoy that, I ask you?

But perhaps I shan't expire just yet: I visited my lawyer* this fine, sunny morning, as there were ridiculous residency papers and such that needed signing - as if I actually wanted to stay here, mouldering away as I am. Upon returning to my hotel Albert, my driver, opened the door to the automobile and, as I stepped forth onto the carpeted threshold, I spied a thin strip of earth along down beside the sidewalk. And I swear to you, my darlings, there were several happy clutches of daffodils ranged there, fairly tall, their buds fattening. I can't begin to tell you what a great, silly thrill it gave me! Soon they'll all be popping open. Then the bluebells. Then, soon enough, the lilacs. And peonies. A silly American acquaintance of mine swears she's already seen croci sticking up their vulgar heads. But I do so loathe the pushy little crocus, the candy-coloured mushroom of the floral world. Tasteless people always claim them to be the harbinger of Spring, but I think the little show-offs best ignored; truly, I always avert my eyes. Daffodils and narcissi are the true heralds of the earth's rebirth. Why, they even have little trumpet-shaped centres - oh, I'd never thought of that before. Oh...haha!

I shan't have Alyssia lay out my new bathing costume** just yet, of course, but I do expect I'll need my sun shades when I go out to tea. Marvelous!

À bientôt, my darlings!

* I know - I know - you will not begin to fathom why I should have gone to him, when he should have called on me. What sort of a lawyer has a lady come to his office, much less one so elevated, shall we say, as I? Well, the dear fellow fell down a flight of stairs, Wednesday last, and twisted a leg nearly round his neck, poor wretch. So I only thought it kind, just this once, to go to him.

** By Patou. Yes, we have reconciled. And not a moment too soon; the nouveauté of la Schiaparelli was beginning to pall. Only so much trompe-l'œil and only so many unexpected animal bits can be incorporated into any given toilette before one is forced to ponder if one appears just a trifle too...fantastic.