Archer Huntington founds The Hispanic Society of America at Audubon Terrace, in 1904.  Archer was Arabella's son by her first marriage to a Mr. Worsham, adopted by her second husband Colis P. Huntington who was the uncle of her third husband Henry Huntington who married Arabella in 1913 when they were both in their 60s. 



Now I see through an Arabella darkly... My partner in near-crime, RJK of The Daily Blague, reflected in the Visitor's Center display at the Huntington Library and Gardens, 19 June 2008.

Arabella's intimidating portrait by Sir Oswald Birley (maternal grandfather of Loulou de la Falaise, muse to the late Yves Saint Laurent) hangs in the entrance hall of the Huntington Library in San Marino (read Pasadena) California.   Her grim visage staring out of widow's weeds and horn-rimmed glasses, however, could not intrude on my great pleasure in escorting my good friend RJK on our pilgrimmage to peek at the Ellesmere Chaucer and to visit the newly renovated Huntington mansion with its portrait collection which includes the international favorites Pinkie and BlueBoy and also starring Georgiana Duchess of Devonsire along with many other illustrious and pink-cheeked English.  Also of note was Arabella's extensive collection of Sevres porcelain which has been removed from the hard-to-view vitrines in a dark back service hall in the library and is now beautifully displayed upstairs at the mansion, where it can be more easily appreciated.  Heaven.

The day's adventures did not stop there however, but continued in a leisurely drive via surface streets through downtown Los Angeles and points west until we reached MacArthur Park, where as you are doubtless aware more than just cakes melting in the rain has been known to transpire.  Needless to say, the two of us with our easy virtue and devil-may-care appreciation of British art and decoration were sinister figures on the scene.  My equally suspect vehicle, a curiously un-pimped-out ride (not even a low-rider and lacking tinted windows) quickly drew the attention of an alert LAPD officer on motorcycle.  His speedy and decisive use of alarm and colored lights quickly drew attention to our potentially unsavory presence.  Not only pedestrians but independent entrepreneurs and vendors paused in the midst of their business transactions involving home-made recreational drugs and fake identification cards to watch as I threw caution to the wind and threatened whiplash with my prompt and complete curbside stop. 

As I was soon to discover, my passenger is a feisty and no-nonsense New Yorker unused to the customs and conventions of travel in this part of the country, who commenced to reply to the officer's attention-getting rap on the window and subsequent interogation with a spritely and brisk tone which, although it would be unfair to characterize as belligerent, was in marked contrast to my own more obsequious and one might even argue servile, grovelling, and abject demeanor as I begged the officer to consider the fact of my passenger's recent arrival in our great city and his obvious infirmity, both physical and emotional -- here I swirled a finger at the side of my own head and explained that I was on my way even then to seek medical attention for him but if it pleased the officer I could also just as easily send him straight back to where he came from, the sooner the better in fact, and good riddance, I swear, right now, he's leaving, doesn't know what he's saying, pay no attention, I barely know him, I just picked him up by mistake, total stranger, never saw him before --

"He has to put his seat belt on," the officer explained calmly, ignoring my blatant attempt to throw my friend under the bus.

And then, because there is a God and Miracles are Everywhere, with but a passing and largely unnecessary remark about my driving ability which was evidenced in how I narrowly avoided a fatality in stopping (which I would argue was at his insistence, but nevermind), he let us go with a warning.  No ticket.

As the image of newschoppers overhead capturing my person spread-eagled face down on the pavement, surrounded by a crowd of people chanting in their colorful native language for justice and my swift execution -- while this image slowly faded from mind, I can say that RJK and I continued our on our way with a figurative lightness in our step, in heady spirits, rejoicing even, enjoying our excellent adventure, secure in the knowledge that our safety is uppermost in the minds of those in whom the power to protect is vested, and also grateful and relieved not to have added "felon" to our resume, or another "strike" to our respective rap sheets.