Monte Carlo bound, sniping and snarling
Rude, ungentlemanly Carl lays into silly little chit Virginia
Cannes, Nov 26, 1923. The family arrived en masse. We saluted Carl formally and all departed to the hotel. I was quite overjoyed to see them after so many days adrift in the sea of life without a mother’s guiding hand. Parker and Carl and I went to the station, where Parker was intent on retying my shoe strings which he said were indicative of my slapdash mind.
When the ties were finished, Carl and I hurled ourselves into a limousine and charged over to Nice to fall into the arms of Dick Speare – Dick was out “breathing” with Christmas – Princeton 1917. That’s the way Virginia expressed it, her beau, Mr. Christmas. They are kindred souls – he a tenor – she a coloratura soprano.
Carl took an instantaneous dislike to Virginia. "Typical queener,” said he, “affected in conversation and actions” and so he refused to take off his enormous coat – instead he sank lower and lower into its submerging gulfs – only now and then poking his head out – like a snail – to make some crushing remark.
Like most girls of her type, Virginia launched forth on personalities – all Harvard men are serious – brainy. Yale men are flippant. For a good time give me a Yale man – for a life on a desert island give me a Harvard man. They are interesting and wear well. “But wouldn’t your rather go to Yale to a dance than Harvard?” “Never been to either,” sez I.
After this, she turned her whole attention to Carl. He delivered a eulogy on girls – “I know everything there is to know about girls – they are all rouge and powder – you don’t.” She did, but I was generous and permitted her to remain with me in the class of the unpainted lilies. “They all think they’re modern – amazing, unusual – they aren’t – they’re all stupid bores.” In the end, the Count came in and separated them.
She thought that Carl was rude and ungentlemanly. He thought she was a silly little chit. While enjoying the bread and butter in the jolly little cakes of the count and countess, Carl told her he had been trying to make up his mind whether it would be worth the trouble to take her out to tea. He assured her with an engaging smile that he had just decided it wasn't worth the effort when the count came in.
If she rallied from this shot, it was after we left. Soon we were surrounded by the titled folk of ancient and impoverished places, for whom the lures of Monte Carlo proved too much and each had one by one laid his pearls and patrimony at her feet.
Parker gave me a tennis racket, had it re-strung for me. The old dear. As the days flit by, he is gaining a stronger ever stronger hold upon us. May he become my brother-in-law. I ask nothing more at the moment. Christmas is coming. I may think other things. Parker and Olive and Gladys and I have gathered our centimes and set forth to break the Bank of Monte Carlo.
The hooter wouldn't fly and so the garage man presented the car with a coffee grinder effect which made a flatulent and vulgar roar whenever I wound the handle with any sort of energy. With one blast, I could scatter chickens and baby cubs and send myself into a fit of ecstatic laughter. Gladys and Parker soon tired of this sport in which they were only disgusted onlookers and forbade any more misuse of the trumpet. And so being sweet tempered, I rolled out several singing crescendos and gave myself up to a quiet contemplation of the lovely Mediterranean fringed with terraced promontories.
Notes and Commentary
Been a long time since I posted anything. Various illnesses and obligations have intervened. As well, I’m waiting for something *more* to happen in the diaries and so far I’ve not gotten it. Guess I will continue to plod on. Plod on.
I wonder if there’s an interstitial way to indicate those moments in the text that I find noteworthy, without having to comment on them directly here. Not a lot of options on Substack. Italics? Bold? Ugh. Ugh. A simple single asterisk? I don’t know.
Behind the scenes, I’ve been cleaning up lots of what I’ve transcribed and one reason I haven’t published more of it is that it makes me sad, living with Kathi through her words, and feeling her the way she was, and knowing that nothing she ever dreamed of would come to pass. It doesn’t break my heart. But it does make me a little … feverish … at times, oddly so.
Queener: US, Stanford University, slang, dated) A student who takes an interest in courting women.
Chit: a dismissive term for a girl who is immature or who lacks respect
Hooter (plural hooters):
A person who hoots.
The horn in a motor vehicle.
(Britain) A siren or steam whistle, especially one in a factory and used to indicate the beginning or the end of a working day or shift.
(slang) A nose, especially a large one. [from 1950s]
An owl.
(slang, especially US, usually in the plural) A woman's breast. [from 1970s]
(slang) A penis. [from 1990s]