2 posts tagged “naughty”

When I was in college, my personal dramas were clumsy and obscure.  All they would do was confuse people, so I kept my strident affectations to myself.

I used to call myself Catherine of Braganza.

It wasn't because I was Portuguese.

It wasn't because I was Catholic.

It wasn't because I was married to an adulterer.

It was because I felt unwanted, awkward and ignored.  I was pathetic.  As she was.

Catherine came to England in 1662 to be married. 

She sailed on the deceitful winds of political trafficking; she watched the contracts and alliances that bound her destiny sinking into the ocean that carried her:  dim, melting promises.

She was plain, devout, modest - and the English court in the mid-17th century was no stage for such a dainty player.  Cromwell was dead, Charles II was king, and the palace of St. James had become a harem of wives, whores and actresses.   Dukes were pimps and their duchesses were willing and waiting toys. 

Catherine had been raised in a convent.  Her life had been quiet, almost servile.  Yet one month after she had arrived, Charles' current mistress, Barbara Villiers, gave birth to a son.  When she heard the news, the shocked queen was carried away in a swoon, overcome by a nun's condemnation.  Yet for all of Catherine's well-bred protestations, it was Barbara, from a loyal but poor family, who lay bleeding in the royal bed.

The new queen was lost in a jungle of gossip and immorality.  She was surrounded by languid, dissipated women:  a demimonde circled around her, wearing gowns that receded from fragrant bosoms like silken tides, with hooded eyes that glittered with a constellation of sensuality.

The names of Catherine's competitors survive, evocative memories of a time when women decorated the court like cats - glinting, sleek, purring with danger:

Nell Gwyn - an actress at fifteen, and a beloved commedienne.  She specialized in 'breeches roles':  wearing male costume to show off her pleasing, hidden figure.  She became the royal mistress at eighteen.  On his deathbed, Charles pleaded, "Let not poor Nelly starve".

Moll Davis (according to Pepy's wife, "the most impertinent slut in the world") - was another royal choice taken from the theater.  Moll was a clever singer and dancer; from the stage lit with candles, above the tiny cries of the orange girls, she was a tempting bundle of wit, garters and petticoats.

Louise de Keroualle was a lady-in-waiting to Catherine, with a face that was both innocent and captivating.  There seemed to be no sin in her genteel prettiness.  But her lips were voluptuous; and her eyes narrowed as if she was appraising the worth of a jewel, a gown, a man.

In total, these ladies - and others - bore the king eleven illegitimate children.  Catherine miscarried twice - she was the king's 'barren queen'.

Many people have written about this world; one that teemed with such luscious enjoyment.  But when I was in college, I chose to ignore it and spent my time pitying myself as well as pitying the sepia memory of Queen Catherine, one more outsider.

"Welcome to Chicago.
This town stinks like a whorehouse at low tide."

No it doesn't.  It's muggy and close, yes.  But the trees are tall and broad, like the buildings.  Much of it reminds me of London, or even New York.  The buildings are big and sepia stained.  There is sidewalk greenery and mini-fences of black metal.

It keeps its age and builds on it.

There is crime, murder and naughtiness in its past:

there are slaughterhouses, industries too.  I dared to walk on Michigan Avenue and was nearly bowled over by the foot-traffic.  The skyscrapers overlook a LAKE.

 

I'm rather taken with the place.

Sunday morning we assembled in the hotel's restaurant, The Pump Room (so very Jane Austen), for breakfast.  We took pictures of our elegant breakfasts,

discussed the bird I saw yesterday, which excited me very much becuase it wasn't either brown or gray (L.A. bird colors),

and talked about our plans for the day and our pending travels back home.

Today would be art day for me - I had big plans for the Art Institute of Chicago.  Arbed, Michelle and I went together.  Now I don't know if Michelle realized she would be our unofficial Chi-Guide, but I bless her for being so.  I bless her and bus #151.

Michelle knows her city - she knows its events, places and directions.  Do I know my city?  No.  And I don't really want to.  L.A. quite often simply gives me the pip.

The AIC had many pleasant surprises - Spanish (Cotan, Goya) and Dutch (Terborch, Rembrandt), for instance.  There was a lovely Moreau, and I sat in front of it, drinking in its shadows and jewels.  A woman sat beside me, and wanted to know what I saw in the painting.  I  said that Moreau was a symbolist painter, which was a mammoth mistake as I really don't have a good definition of symbolism...but I did what I could for her.

The Beardsley drawing which I thought the museum housed I couldn't find.  He must be looking down on me, tormenting me, coughing into his cloudy sleeve, my poor TB boy.  No matter.  It's a fine museum.

Eventually our group came to a parting of ways.  Mariser and Lord K. were driving home - I will treasure my wee amber bourbon bottle - Valerae drove as well:  we left the maid a proper tip, plus a couple of handfuls of chocolates.  I'll get the DVDs to you - oh, and payment for the room.

Arbed, our clever leader, Peg (no one took the left-over pizza?), Laurie - tiny but with a powerful hug (yes, I got writer cooties) and the Cap'n - a kinder hugger - left for their planes in the afternoon, and I hope no storms shattered their itineraries.  Brown Amazon traveled with me to the airport.  Michelle, our local, went home to do her laundry.

Everyone I know is mad at me for not taking pictures that included myself in them.  Please don't hate.

"Here endeth the lesson."

(note:  all quotes courtesy of 'The Untouchables', 1987)