Parthenope’s journal . . .

Just before I direct you to Pat’s new chapter, can I urge you to return to the invitation page and see the RSVP’S.  Fun!

The Devil take Sarina, Lucia, Rodolfo, and all the rest of them. I am certain they fondly imagine themselves seasoned conspirators, and their whispering, skulking, and intriguing to be unobserved by all Venische. I find myself utterly unable to bend my mind to truly important concerns whilst taking an unwilling part in their play-acting, for I’ve come near as dammit to social disaster.


My masquerade costume and mask are completely unsuitable. What I hoped to achieve by parading myself before the ton in this sadly antiquated garb, I cannot conceive. I, who was once as giddy as a schoolgirl in her first long dress, now view the modiste’s drawing with horror.


I must comprehend the fact that this is indeed the Nineteenth Century – the old boned stays and long waists are more forgiving flattering to those gifted with embonpoint, but are most certainly not a la mode. I do not wish to expose myself to the censorious as mutton dressed as lamb.


Neither do I wish to appear as ten pounds of dung in a five pound poke. These thin white Grecian wisps suit only the very young, the very lithe, and the very very thin. What are women of substance to do? “Oh, the old fopperies of ribbons upon ribbons, bows upon bows, and print and pattern over all was mere decoration.” lectures my niece. (What should dress be if not decorative?) “The new modern gowns depend only upon cut for their beauty, thus freeing women from the frivolous and silly, and raise dress to the sober elegance of the Ancient art it emulates.” Mercy on me, where does she hear such stuff? I confess I could not entirely conceal my laughter, and the poor chit took offence, but it is so vexatious! I shall visit my mantua-maker tomorrow and see what’s to be done.

To hell in a hand-basket . . . –>