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.