Reconsidering Jass

A new torment wrenches my soul, and I fear greatly to confess it. I fear that to name it shall bring ruin upon me, nay, upon the good name of the van Seethinbottom family, even my good father, Adolphus Hilliard van Seethinbottom III, industrialist most eminent.

Many fortnights ago, I witnessed a shocking event that was to begin a precipitous descent into a whirlwind of psychic torments, of nervous collapses, of neurotic fugues, of spontaneous hysterical paroxysms. Indeed, I believe that even the decline in my physical health was due to this event.

My spiral into near-madness has been well-documented in these pages. In so transcribing the nightmare of my life during these horrendous weeks, I cared not to augment my torments, nay, I only wished to share with my admirers the hardships that a lady must endure if she is to become a Lady: the hardship, par exemple, of resting her head on brocaded silk pillows imported from the Far East.

It is with the unhappy months of the recent past in mind that I approach the following subject with no small degree of trepidation. Why should I care to revisit the horror that led to my insanity? –yet I find myself spellbound by the very thing that did so: yes, I refer to that animalistic amalgam of sounds known as jass.

Lately, the lovely metallic melody that floats from Horace’s euphonium feels not so much an amorous attempt at acquiring my affections; the lilting notes lack some transcendent trait. I have not the lexis to identify that which declines to inspire – yet I find my psyche crying. ‘Tis foolish, true, but 'tis labor to turn my attention to his tunes. My mind defies, nay, betrays his love; I glance out the glass to witness the lush knolls undulating unto the distance, virid ‘neath a limpid lid of sky. I consider the melody: cultivated, idyllic. Next, he performs a march played vittorioso, perhaps a piece by Vincent D’Indy. To kid me, he will play a rapid Yiddish ditty, accompanied by Archibald on his fiddle.

But I must admit I have not rid my reminiscences of the primitive motifs of jass. Horace plays; I look askance; I fancy not simple serenade – ‘tis deficient of dimension, ‘tis rife with ostentation – I necessitate some extra facet. Have compassion when I assert that my soul fails to dance, but traipses glacially, as molasses, when Horace plays a classical passage on his brass. Alas! ‘tis disgraceful to the status of a lass, yet: I fear I can feign aversion for not one further fortnight: I must confess, I am frightfully fond of that crass music, JASS!

The Glad Swastika

My maidservant is absent, ‘tis true, but slight gladnesses brighten my sagging spirits. ‘Tis all a lady can do: one must distract oneself with pleasant diversions and even more pleasant thoughts when one’s maidservant dies a gruesome death on an abortionist’s filthy table. I’ve no one to tighten my corsets, save Minnie, the foyer’s maid, but her hands are most gruesomely wizened with age and labor, and I swoon more easily when I feel her rough skin brush against my glowing, satin-y skin, aged a mere 19 years. I allow my nurse-maid, Tillie, to tend to my corsets when she makes her weekly call, but alack! her visits are too infrequent, and she grumbles over the task.

And who is there to tend to my silken tresses? Dear Marguerite can help, of course, and her own maid-servant, Birdie, yet all their efforts do not achieve the same effect as the wretched Orpha was able to achieve. ‘Tis true, Celtic blood flowed in her wretched veins, but in spite of this flaw she was a brilliant coiffeuse.

But Papá and Step-Mother Celestine have been of great assistance to my emotional frailty, as has the dashing Horace. At twilight he calls with his euphonium. He arrives directly from his job managing his father’s haberdashery. Ah, the work that men do! I do not believe I should choose to possess the intellectual and social superiority of a gentleman if a requirement of this superiority be the hard toil that a man must endure! I should choose to remain in my gentle state, quietly resting away the hours of my blissful life, far from the exhausting energy required of one who spends his days in the world of industry!

Horace brought me a new fan from the Orient to add to my collection, adorned in peacock feathers and various filigrees most pleasing to my blue eyes. And, in what is certainly a symbol of glad tidings, to-day my little nieces Millie and Florrie rushed into the Gazebo at the back of the estate, where I was engaged in daydreams most whimsical, and they were in a very excited state.

“See what came by post today, Auntie Katharina!” Said Millie.

And they each opened their hands to reveal a little swastika pin and thimble which is the beneficiary of all those with membership in the Ladies’ Home Journal’s Girls’ Club!

“How wonderful!” I cried. “’What every girl wants – her own swastika!’” I said, reciting the well-known slogan of the Girls’ Club.

“We shall wear the pins proudly on our taffeta!” Said Florrie.

This sent me into peals of laughter. “Why, you mustn’t ruin your good taffeta dresses in such a fashion, you naughty little girls!”

“Oh, Florrie, you kid so,” Millie admonished her twin sister. “Of course, we shall display them only on our wool coats come winter.”

“There’s a good girl,” said I.

“Auntie Katharina,” said Florrie, blushing a bit, “you are so kind to us, I want you to have this. I’ve no use for it.” She extended her hand to deliver the little thimble into my own.

“Why, what a good deed you have done, Florrie! You are most suited for membership in the Girls’ Club!”

I was most touched by this little gesture; of course, I have no use for a thimble either; sewing would coarsen my fingers so, but I shall display it proudly on my dressing-table! The swastika, that ancient token of good fortune and all-‘round joy, could never have any unpleasant associations! No, when I gaze upon it, I feel only comfort, as it ever shall be with the swastika!

Death of the Wretched

The wretched Orpha is dead, a victim of her own low morals. The story of her demise, which our family was able to beat out of the other servants, proceeds thusly: whilst under quarantine for typhoid two months past she copulated with a similarly uncultivated cottar, also suffering from typhoid. As a result of her dalliance with this raffish lad she found herself in a most deplorable condition. She requested a forenoon's furlough from serving me; after lashing her soundly with a willow switch for her impudent transgression of soliciting a favor, I granted her the mercy she sought. Unbeknownst to me, she journeyed to the squalid tenements of lower Man-hattan to seek the assistance of an Irish madame in extracting the results of her licentiousness from her womb. What horrific and sullied conditions met her on the operating table, I do not care to contemplate, but 'twas nothing she did not fully deserve.

She returned at tea-time appearing more ill than usual, with a verdant hue to her skin. I again lashed her for not being present to place silk slippers on my pedal extremities, as is my habit when I am taking my imported Darjeeling and crumpets with Devon cream and candied violets. Instead of merely whimpering, which is her usual reaction to beatings, she slumped to the floor unconscious! I had the manservants, Elbert and Lemuel, carry her nearly lifeless body to the servants' quarters behind the Armagnac cellar. When, morning next, Minnie went to inquire as to how she was getting on, she found that the wretched Orpha O'Callaghan, my maidservant for 21 years, had succumbed to injuries incurred at the hands of the insalubrious Irishwoman.

I trust I do not need to expound on the reasons for my wrath over Orpha's slightly untimely demise (she was all of 22, which is seven whole years prior to the average lifespan for a girl of her class and ethnicity.) I am livid at the prospect of sailing on the R.M.S. Titanic, the society event of the year (nay, perhaps the decade), sans a maid to attend to the refinement of my natural beauty and to comfort me when I encounter life's minor calamities.  I am able to take solace in knowing that she met her quietus justly.

Instruments and tinctures that led to Orpha's demise.

Pictorial images for the reader's edification

The suspense, the anticipation, are staggering. All I can dream of is standing on the bow of the formidable R.M.S. Titanic, the salty vapors of the Atlantic blanching my complexion, the cold briny zephyrs causing my wispy frame to melt into Horace's arms. Ah, well, naught to be done but wait half a dozen more fortnights. In the meanwhile, I have been distracting my psychic meanderings by gazing upon photographs of yore. I should like to share two personal favorites with the reader. 

My brother, Archibald Pierce van Seethinbottom, aged half a decade.

And me, at the same sitting, aged 6. The occasion for the photographs was this: I was temporarily deprived of my wretched maidservant, Orpha, for this was the third time she had contracted diphtheria and she was quarantined with the pigs and other contagious servants on a farm about a dozen furlongs distant. I was livid at her selfishness in failing to avoid miasmal air and so sickening herself, thus forcing Mamá or one of my sisters to curl my ringlets, tighten my corsets, tidy my playthings, and drive my play rickshaw (the former, of course, they refused to do, and so I was left rickshaw-less for the duration of Orpha's illness). Mamá decided to cheer me up by taking brother Archibald (whose manservant, Albert, was quarantined with polio) and me on a trip to the Adirondacks, during which time we both sat for photos. So the wretched Orpha's bout with diphtheria had a happy ending for me after all! (Not, though, for Orpha, who to this day experiences tingling in the extremities due to her manifold exposures to the dreaded disease.)

Je les ai!

I have in my possession a ticket allowing me to sail on the great ship the RMS Titanic! I shall be in the company of Papá, step-mother Celestine, sister Marguerite, nurse-maid Tillie, the wretched maidservant Orpha, and my beloved Horace. What joys await us, I cannot adequately fathom! A mere three months...yet 'tis an eternity to wait!

Merry!

Ah, how Christmas-time makes my heart leap with joy! O the gaiety! O the merriment! O the poor orphaned children begging in the street; how the pennies do flow into their threadbare caps via the hands of benevolent souls throughout the month of December! 'Tis enough to make one sing and weep with joy, simultaneously! And Dr Schultheiß says I am rid of my consumption! Can there be a happier lass on Papá's estate?



Whate'er reason I may have for ungratefulness, at the very least my Yuletide sha'n't be passed in the fashion of the waifs above! Hooray, I am wealthy!

A Light-hearted Tune

Music has eased my spirits as of late. I miss the dashing Horace and his Euphonium, but my nieces Millie and Fannie have visited me at the Glensheen estate, which we are currently renting from its owners, and brought the latest popular sheet music to play on the piano-forte. I am certainly not well enough to dance, or, verily, to sit upright; Papá would disapprove of such liveliness, even in times of health.

My Apothecary-Cabinet

Dr. Schultheiß has prescribed to me an array of compounds, tinctures, and patent-medicines to aid in my recovery. They are of the most modern extraction, using the latest technology: Wolcott’s Instant Pain Annihilator, Dr. Guertin’s Nerve Syrup, Buffalo Lithia Water, Mug-Wump Specific, Dr. Williams' Pink Pills for Pale People, Dr. Morse’s Indian Root, glycerited asafœtida. He discovered that I was taking Dr. King’s New Discovery for Consumption (not under the advisement of any of my physicians; rather, this was brought to me by Nurse-Maid Tillie) and has insisted that I cease ingestion of this product. It is a wholesome compound of morphine and chloroform, and since I began taking it in aught-nine my inhalation and exhalation have been less laboured; nonetheless, Dr. Schultheiß tells me it is nothing but to my detriment.











A sampling of the nostra recommended for my manifold conditions.

A hiatus from Society

I am recovering from the awful restive lung cure; my convalescence is to be spent in the horrid town of Duluth, Minnesota. Dr Schultheiß insists that next to the Himalayan air, nothing can benefit my ill lungs more than the vapors of the great Kitchi Gami.

Shall I be Nepal-bound?

Dr. Schultheiß has proposed drastic measures in order to speed my recovery from the dreaded Consumption: either rest my affected lung by causing it to collapse, or undertake what he calls "the Himalaya cure:" 8 months' time passed in the culturally nefarious environs of Nepal. He assures me that the mountain air would cause the tubercles staining my delicate lungs to evaporate like morning dew. Papá did not waste time with equivoques: "NO" was his answer, and No it remains.

"Why not a Mediterranean cure?" Step-mother Celestine wanted to know, "Last year Katharina's physician said nothing could be more beneficial to her lungs than the salty air."

"Zat vass before recent developments in medical technology," saith Dr. Schultheiß.

"How about time in Colorado, or Wyoming?"

"I am afraid, Madam," the good Dr. stroked his beard, as Teutonic physicians are wont to do, "zat zee altitude is quite simply insufficient for vat vee are trying to accomplish."

In the end it was agreed that a surgeon shall rest my lung, a horrendous procedure that shall inflict upon me greater pain than the disease itself (much as my thrice-weekly vibratory treatment is more gruesome than my frequent bouts of hysterical fits). Should this fail to eliminate all sign of Consumption from my ailing body, I am afraid I have no choice but to make the arduous journey to the Orient.

Further ill health

I have spent an extended period in a medical facility off of the estate. My tubercular symptoms have worsened. Horace commented, during one of his frequent visits, that I never looked so lovely: all the rosy color has drained from my face, and my wrist circumference is so slight that Horace jested that I must be mistakenly ingesting Orpha’s daily ration of barley gruel. I could not summon the strength to titter.

Verily, my appetite is such that I no longer have appetite even for Cook Effie's sorghum gelatin mold, though Dr. Schultheiß cautions that I must eat, at the very least, a steaming bowl of veal consommé with soda crackers daily.




A doctor’s assessment of a consumptive patient ca. one century past; how medicine has advanced!

I adore ships

One of the great passions of my life has been sea-faring. One would not know this to gaze upon my pale visage and feeble constitution, but an adventurous streak runs through me as surely as the Mississippi River runs through some of the more pastoral of the 46 states of our glorious nation! I insist on being the first on the passenger list of any new ship that is christened; ‘tis fortuitous that Papá is none other than the eminent industrialist, Adolphus Hilliard van Seethinbottom III, for he is able to easily secure my passage on any great vessel which may sail the mighty seas (but not, dare I say, the vile Black Sea; once one passes through the straits of Dardanelles, one may witness a dizzying array of malfeasant activities committed by the various unsavoury peoples that populate her shores. Likewise, I should not like to travel too close to the horrendous shores of old Eire). By far the most exciting ocean liner I have sailed on was the RMS Mauretania. I insisted on journeying on her maiden voyage from Liverpool, a fetid, plebeian city which will never yield any productive or renowned citizens. The Mauretania’s interior was as stately as Mr. Rockefeller’s summer cottage; its meals as lavish as I could expect from the finest hotels of Paris or Monaco.

At this moment in Britain the White Star Line has undertaken the daunting task of constructing three ships that shall rival even the largest and most opulent liners of the grand Cunard Line. The RMS Olympic sailed on her maiden voyage last month, and I threw a fit unbecoming of a lady when Papá refused to grant me permission to be the first to board, due to my recent psychic maladies. However, White Star is working on two sister ships, the RMS Gigantic and the RMS Titanic, the latter of which was launched earlier this year and shall embark on her maiden voyage in the spring. Certes, to be seen on her hull as she departs the brackish waters surrounding Merrie Olde England will be the society event of the year. In addition to being the most luxurious of ships, pioneers of seafaring technology are deeming these ships positively unsinkable, due to their extra-ordinary engineering. It is my greatest hope that Drs. Weißmüller, Frankenthaler, et al. pronounce me well by April of next year so that I may participate in this historic event.




The grand RMS Olympic leaving port.

About the good Doctor F.

Dr. Frankenthaler has proclaimed that after 12 fortnights of hypnotic therapy, I have made a breakthrough! He would not divulge to me the nature of the breakthrough; when I made a feeble inquiry, he merely stroked his straggly beard, continued to jot in his ledger-book, and grumbled in his Teutonic dialect, "Hmmm....Perhap a mere 182 fortnights remain in your hypnotic treatment. By zen I believe we shall have made real progress. Good-day, Miss Seezinbottom."

Dr. Frankenthaler never looks me in the eye, or so I assume: a lady of my stature must never look at a distinguished psycho-analyst anywhere other than his wrists.

A Letter for Orpha

The wretched servant girl, Orpha, was filled with glee when this arrived for her in the post-box morning last:



"A postal card? For me?" We were all of us shocked and gathered in the foyer to examine the mysterious arrival.

I simply could'n't help myself: I burst into laughter! "Why, whoever would want to correspond with an illiterate scullery maid?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, madam," she replied in her lower-class brogue. "Mail has never arrived for me before. Please, tell me what it says."

My sister Marguerite quickly snatched the thing and began to peruse it. She tittered, then announced, "I'm so terribly sorry, Orpha, but they seem to have reached you in error. They were looking for one Orpha O'Callaghan, to be sure, but certainly not you. Your name must be common enough amongst the race of Irish-Iberians to which you belong."

Orpha looked crestfallen. Meekly, she stammered, "Well -- may I ask, Miss Marguerite, what the letter says?"

"Er...I shall read it verbatim. Dear Mrs. O'Callaghan -- you are certainly not married, are you, Orpha?" Marguerite teased.

Again, my laughter could not be contained. "The very idea!" said I, "A suitor willing to offer a hand in marriage to Orpha? Why, he would have to be a Scotsman!"

"Quiet down, Katharina. You are such an impetuous sort!" Marguerite continued: "We had occasion to visit Galway Inn and Stables in May and are writing to extend our thanks anew for your gracious hosting of us in your fine inn whilst we journeyed in America. The next time we find occasion to cross the sea, we shall certainly remember your establishment, and we shall recommend it to all our acquaintances. Sincerely, Lord Ashby Clive Mortimer Hollingberry and Lady Philippa Hallybone Hollingberry. Why, Miss Orpha!" Marguerite feigned shock, "You didn't inform us that you were both an equestrienne and a proprietress! And that you are hosting the British nobility at your inn!"

Miss Orpha! Imagine! Marguerite has always played the rôle of the clown, and her reversal of the polite address system in this instance made me nearly fall to the hand-woven Constantinople carpet in hysterics!

Orpha, in her simple Gaelic mind-set, was unable to grasp the nuanced humour. She continued to look dejected. "I ... I s'pose they had in mind a different Orpha O'Callaghan..." She shuffled off, the limp in her left foot taking on a pronounced stagger. (The limp is a relic of a childhood injury; Mamá, furious with Orpha for not properly curling my ringlets, pushed her out of a briskly paced buggy.) Poor wretched Orpha!

Spring is upon us.

The cherries in Papá's orchard are blooming, hurrah, hurrah! On such occasions I imagine I am in old Toke-yo.

A tragic event in the city

A horrible tragedy this week in Man-hattan. Fire consumed the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, located in the Asch Building near Washington Square. Scores of Germanic, Slavic, and Italic girls perished in the inferno; a goodly number jumped to their deaths. A witness described the frightening thud of bodies on the pavement as some sixty girls jumped 9 stories to their death. Some were as young as 12; they died fifteen years before their time. Horrors!



Despite the tragedy, one must remark on how the downtrodden often bring such misfortune on themselves through their heedlessness and haste. Witnesses remarked that the factory was in a disarray, with scraps of fabric and paper patterns strewn about the floor. It is speculated that such conditions contributed to the fire's fierce and rapid spread through the upper floors of this building. Compounding the difficulty of escaping, one of the exit doors was locked to bar union organizers from entering. It is my hope that union officials note with great sorrow and shame the way in which they have contributed to many more deaths than were necessary.



A moment to remember those who died such brutal, senseless deaths.


...

The astute reader will recall that garment workers from this very factory instigated the Uprising of 20,000 in 1909; slothful seamstresses walked off the job en masse, indignant at having to work a mere 14 hours a day. I asked at the time and I ask now, if they were to work a 12-hour day, as they demand, how exactly do they plan to while away the remaining 12 hours? "The devil makes work for idle hands," and this phrase applies doubly to the impoverished.

A day of modern psychiatric treatments

During a recent hypnosis session with Dr. Frankenthaler, it seems I mentioned the shocking scene I witnessed at the lowly jass-hall. Dr. Frankenthaler, a colleague of Dr. Freud himself, is opposed to sharing with me the revelations I confess to during hypnotherapy, believing my statements to be his intellectual property. However, he was intrigued by my admission of having personally heard jass music. He inquired where he might listen to such music. I gave him an approximate address and asked whether viewing such a depraved sight may have contributed to my breakdown. He murmured that the precise causes of my condition can only be determined after many grueling months or even years of hypnosis and various other therapies.

The rest of the therapeutic session passed as usual; I endured hydrotherapy to assuage neurasthenia and vibration therapy to remedy congestion of the genitalia. Dr. Weißmüller assures me that the vibratory treatment will no longer be necessary once Horace and I have consummated our marriage.

Ah, the treatments I must endure to be well again!





A sampling of my gruesome treatments.

Man-hattan

This eve, my first return to the isle of Man-hattan since my psychic calamity. Dinner at the charmingly workaday Delmonico's. I did not save a current menu, but here is one Mamá had saved from a similarly impoverished dinner many years ago:



I am on a strict diet and so nibbled only on the nonpareil salad. Yet, when Papá and nurse Beulah were'n't looking, I enjoyed several nips from cousin Roscoe's Palmettes of Snipe à la Osborn.

My literary return

My team of physicians has granted me tentative permission to use pen and paper.

They have not, however, granted me permission to keep a diary, especially not one allowed into the public via this perilously revelatory forum. Thus, I pen these words in secret, early in the morn -- only the servants are awake at this dark hour, diligently preparing today's bread and terrine of Rouennais duckling.

Papá has said that all the romantic literature I read goes to my head -- I previously scoffed at this notion, but perhaps there is some truth in his pronouncement. 'Tis not only a well-accepted tenet of decent society, but a fact reinforced and documented by modern psychiatric science, that the female mind is more excitable than that of her sterner counterpart, that it is more easily swayed by passions, more easily tempted by evil, less able to comprehend what is in her own best interest; the female is more apt to be tantrum-prone, and to overestimate her own capacity to cope with matters intellectual. Exposure to ideas and theories is likely to reduce her to a sobbing heap of neurotic flesh and hard, arid uterus. None of this is in dispute; both convention and empirical evidence are in agreement on this. The dilemma arises from attempting to quell the thirst within me to learn, to explore the unsavory areas of life and the mind. It is not a healthy thirst, merely a natural one. Yet man (and woman, dare I say) has conquered nature before. If the hand of man can craft the gleaming metropolis of Man-hattan out of nothing but savage wilds,



then why shouldn't I be able to suppress my inherent urges? I can find solace in the fact that Horace is a bold navigator of the mind, and that I am a part of him. I may allow him to delve into literary matters, while I step aside and tend to the partaking of petit fours with other society ladies.

Love doth conquer all

In spite of my manifold dolorous ailments of body, mind, and spirit, I at the very least have a suitor.



How wonderful to have a Gentleman like Horace as my protector!