Mary S. McWilliams - who are you? A woman of a certain age, a fair and humorous temperament and two grown daughters, both pregnant. Probably based in Chicago. That's it. I know nothing else about her.
After a stormy romance, one daughter married a Spaniard and moved to Madrid. To her absolute shock, Mrs. McWilliams is invited to remain with her daughter and her husband during the birth.
"You will be with me at the confinement?" he asked.
"Right through? Oh! No, it is not usual with us. You will be there?"
"Of course. Who should be there if not me?"
I hesitated and hinted at an absence of protective hygiene. My main reason I did not mention, but Pedro guessed it. I should be less prepared mentally than physically. My English mother had referred to my expectations as little craft to be launched. Now, with the dashing Dr. Alvedo and the romantic Pedro I was to face the naked fact of birth right through."
A very shocking prospect for Americans for many years to come.
In Spain, Mrs. McWilliams was part of the family - the grandmother, honored and needed. Not so much in Chicago: "It was as antiseptic as a refrigerator and as instructive as an university. . . After disinfecting myself, I occasionally viewed my grandson from a safe distance . . ."
What happened to Marian and Pedro and their little daughter? And to Jane in Chicago with her antiseptic baby? I haven't a clue. Was this fake? I don't put it past Vogue of that era.
This essay appears in the spot in Vogue that seems to exist to cut the ads - an early form of "content." In today's Vogue, a personal essay, "Up Front," appears in roughly the same spot - between the masthead and the main editorial pages. "Up Front" is a lot more personal, often controversial - an embedded war correspondent hides her pregnancy. (Not this month: a rich woman remembers she liked to play tennis; takes it up again.) The architecture of Vogue remains roughly the same from at least the 1950's.
What is going on in this picture? Not Alice in Wonderland. Maybe Little Red Riding Hood and a double? No: "In the enchanted forest, you, in Alison's Shiffli embroidered floral sprays. Sheath and scoop-neck dress with bolero, designed by Lucel. Both by fine, exclusive, imported Belgian Linen, imported by Sichel." No prices. A couple of pages back, if you remember, we had Irish Linen:
A much better ad - you can at least see the dresses. Irish linen does not appear to be trademarked. Belgian Linen is. Here is the blog of the Linen & Hemp Community of Europe; unfortunately (for me), most of it is in French, but there are a lot of interesting pillows, totes and curtains and links to whole worlds of textile trade fairs. I am not sure that this is in the best of taste, but I want it anyway:
* A town besieged by a biker gang on horses hires a private security consultant.
* That clip had it all, including Anthony Quinn's weirdly lingering hand on the guy with the gun, which goes well with earlier mentions of his strong interest in decorating Henry Fonda's rooms. We have the corpselike Henry Fonda, the always reliably sociopathic Richard Widmark, Anthony Quinn in the Dean Martin role and bonus performances by DeForest Kelley and Frank Gorshin. Actually, it's missing Dorothy Malone as an ex-prostitute who was married to either Anthony Quinn or Henry Fonda, or both or something. I have about 20 minutes left, but I've had enough.
* Based on book by the late Oakley Hall, whose name leapt out because he's still mentioned a lot around here as a writing guru. Protege of Wallace Stegner (bored senseless by Angle of Repose and loathed Crossing to Safety) and mentor of Michael Chabon, a fellow Berkeleyite who wrote a very good essay on Berkeley. And we'll leave it at that. Not inclined to track down the book. But, did the NYT like it? Mostly, yes. BTW, Jane Fonda will be showing up one of these pages. Stay tuned.
Thank God for Bones.
Next week: Shalimar and a different Mr. Mort.
No comments:
Post a Comment