The Unauthorized Letters of Oscar Wilde

By C. Robert Holloway

HEMINGWAY FIRST NOVEL PRIZE
Critical Comment: D.T. Max, New York Times Book Review: Exceptional, smart and playful, a novel of quiet seductions. An imagined correspondence between Wilde and the author that turns into a drama of cross-century friendship.
Merlin Holland; author, grandson of Oscar Wilde:A charming read. Im sure Grandfather would have seen the fun of it.
Hillary Hemingway; Director, Hemingway Literary Festival: What a delight to discover this unique voice. The novel is already the buzz of New York.
Jill Jackson,Syndicated columnist, King Features:A brilliant correspondence, beautifully written and researched. Very funny stuff.
Ellis Hanson, Author, Decadence & Catholicism:A style so conversational and amusing, it felt like Holloway was sitting at my dinner table. Postmodern parallels with Wilde abound theatre is transmogrified into TV commercials, rentboys into go-go types in a hustler bar, Reading Gaol into a psycho-prison for sexual outcasts. They make for interesting echoes and dissonances between decadence and post-modernism, aestheticism and camp, innuendo and outness, sex as gross indecency and sex as medical problem.
Giovanna Franci,Professor of English, University of Bologna, Italy:What a wonderful concept! Beautifully realized! I couldnt put it down.

LINER NOTES: In February of 1993, enroute from Capetown, South Africa to Los Angeles, during a lay-over at Londons Cadogan Hotel, C. Robert Holloway is convinced he witnessed the arrest of Oscar Wilde from the very room hes occupying.
After badgering a reluctant night-manager, he learns that his room is indeed the same suite from which Wilde was ignominiously hauled away to Bow Street Police Station in April of 1895.
Emboldened by a split of honor-bar rose and a chocolate rush, he drafts a letter to Wilde, at once part apology - part adulation - part exorcism and no small part jet-lagged foolishness.
Next morning,he deposits it in a Piccadilly post-box, and shortly departs for California, never giving it a second thought.
Two weeks later a thick envelope tumbles from Holloways mail-box in West Hollywood. Filling several pages, the flamboyant hand bears a strong resemblance to Wildes. Its authors observations on Holloways lineage and threadbare education are accurate enough to unnerve him, albeit momentarily.
Thus begins an audacious, outrageous, occasionally trenchant, often hilarious correspondence between a little-known TV producion designer and the most famous gay man in the Western world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 30, 1998
• ISBN: 9781462814602

Book preview

THE UNAUTHORIZED LETTERS OF

OSCAR WILDE

a novel by

C. ROBERT HOLLOWAY

Grand Prize Winner

1996 Hemingway

First Novel Contest

missing image file

The Unauthorized Letters of Oscar Wilde, a Novel

Copyright © 1997 by C. Robert Holloway.

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, including illustrations, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the Author or his representatives:

Susan Crawford Laura Morris

Crawford Agency Abner Stein Agency

94 Evans Road 10 Roland Gardens

Barnstead, NH 03218 London SW73PH, England

Fax: [phone] Fax: [phone]

Library of Congress Catalog Number: 98-86214

ISBN (Hardcover): 0-7388-0047-3

ISBN (Softcover): 0-7388-0048-1

eBook 9781462814602

Holloway, C. Robert, 1936

Oscar Wilde: The Unauthorized Letters / C. Robert Holloway

Includes illustrations and dictionary

The article Oscar as Salomé? (Page #246) is reproduced with the kind permission of Merlin Holland and the Times Literary Supplement (London).

Newsclip, Page #289 Gielgud Honors Wilde, is reproduced by kind permission of Frontiers Magazine, Los Angeles, CA., and columnist Rex Wockner, San Diego, CA.

Photocopies courtesy of William Andrews Clark Memorial Library, University of California, Los Angeles. The author is indebted to the kindly staff of that magnificent facility, with special gratitude to Suzanne Tatian.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

HOTEL D’ALSACE

EL MIRADOR

TAVERNE F. POUSSET

(LATER)

THE LOWER PONTALBA

(FORMERLY) VILLA GIUDICE

LOWER PONTALBA

RAMADA

THE LOWER PONTALBA

POSTCARD

BABBACOMBE CLIFF

LOWER PONTALBA

HOTEL DE LA PLAGE

POSTCARD

POSTCARD

POSTCARD

OMNI ROYAL ORLEANS

POSTCARD

16 TITE STREET

EL MIRADOR

THE SAVOY

EL MIRADOR

H. M. PRISON HOLLOWAY

VILLA FISHER

POSTCARD

POSTCARD

146 OAKLEY STREET

MITSUKI PLAZA CONDOS

HER MAJESTY’S PRISON

MITSUKI PLAZA CONDOS

OVERSIZED POSTCARD

MITSUKI PLAZA CONDOS

HER MAJESTY’S PRISON

TORONTO

HER MAJESTY’S PRISON

SKY DOME

31 UPPER BEDFORD PLACE

UPPER BEDFORD PLACE

MAIN SEWER

ALL ABOARD AMTRAK

L’IDEE, LE PERREUX

ABOARD ‘THE NIGHT BOAT’

THE LOWER PONTALBA

THE LOWER PONTALBA

HOTEL SANDWICH

THE LOWER PONTALBA

HOTEL VOLTAIRE

THE LOWER PONTALBA

JACKSON SQUARE

10 & 11 ST. JAMES PLACE

CONDADO VISTA TOWERS

ZAGA FILMS

HOTEL AVONDALE

WAREHOUSE/STAGE

ZAGA FILMS

21 WESTLAND ROW

CONDADO VISTA TOWERS

HOTEL TERMINUS

EL MIRADOR APTS

GRANDE HOTEL DE FRANCE

CAPE FEAR MOTOR LODGE

CAPE FEAR MOTOR LODGE

CAFE SUISSE

HOTEL DES BAINS

ABOARD DELTA AIRLINES, N.O. TO D.C.

FALLS CHURCH, VA

JUNE MITCHELL

HOTEL GRAND HYATT

HOTEL GRAND HYATT

EL MIRADOR APTS.

PHOTOCOPY

HOTEL DE NICE

STOUFFER ORLANDO RESORT

HOLBORN VIADUCT HOTEL

THE LOWER PONTALBA

POSTCARD DEPICTING

HANDSOME ALPINE SKIER

KEATS HOUSE

POSTCARD:

THE LOWER PONTALBA

CADOGAN HOTEL

THE LOWER PONTALBA

THE LOWER PONTALBA

HOTEL MARSOLLIER

THE LOWER PONTALBA

ST. JAMES’S THEATRE

TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 1995

HOTEL CADOGAN

HER MAJESTY’S GAOL

READING

EXPRESSIONS AND CONTEMPORARY

CATCH PHRASES

CONTEMPORARY EUPHEMISMS FOR

‘GAY’ OR HOMOSEXUAL

Dear Reader,

In February of 1993, I was returning to Los Angeles after a month-long trip to South Africa and stopped in London to visit friends, take in a couple of West End shows, and as it turned out, nurse a monumental jet-lag.

On landing at Heathrow, the British Air representative handed me a message informing me that Sandra, my hostess-to-be, had been called to Liverpool on an emergency. Her note said not to worry for she’d booked a room for me at the modest but centrally located Cadogan Hotel, and promised to phone me that evening with an update on, among other things, my MISS SAIGON tickets.

The dour, Yorkshire-accented cabbie, seeing my multi-tagged bags and sunburned face, observed, Just in from Miami, then? Or is it Los Angeles, Sir?

I said that he was looking at a freshly baked Capetown tan and did he know the Cadogan Hotel in Sloan Street? (I’ve always loved the way the English say ‘in’ such-and-such street rather than ‘on’ it).

I thought I detected a tiny catch in his voice when he answered, Of course I know the Cadogan. ‘Though its not often a Yank destination, if I may say so, Sir?

After he’d stowed my bags and pulled away from the curb, I asked, Why is it you think Americans don’t stay at the Cadogan?

He glanced at me in his rear-view mirror, and yelled over the din, They say their rooms are on the smallish side and they don’t provide amenties such as like you’re used to getting at the Hyatt and Hilton, Sir.

I barely heard him for I’d become mesmerized by the meter which, with Heathrow still in easy view behind us, registered three pounds ten. Jesus, Driver! What’s this ride likely to cost me?

Again he addressed his mirror. Always been a special breed what stays at the Cadogan, and punctuated his comment with a nearly imperceptible wink.

I persisted. How much is this going to cost? Your meter looks like its on Speed!

All very standard, Sir. The fares is printed on the tariff card right by your arm rest, Sir. Heathrow to Sloan Street, with your extras, I shouldn’t think will run you more than 35-40 pounds.

My God, that’s almost sixty bucks! The last time I landed at Heathrow it cost me three pounds to get to town - including tip.

Couldn’t have been a private taxi, Sir.

Of course it was. Not much different from this one, if I remember.

"Must have been a very long time ago, indeed, Sir."

He was right. I realized I hadn’t visited London since 1973, and was too embarrassed to admit it to him.

I slid the partition closed, retreated to the back seat and spent the rest of the ride in grateful silence. I was fairly exhausted, having said goodbye to my friend at Johannesburg’s ‘Jan Smuts’ terminal 19 hours before.

So it was that, not having seen a bed for more than twenty-four hours, vexed that Sandra hadn’t met me and whisked me to her olde Englishe cottage; and poorer by thirty-eight pounds taxi-fare, my four bags of dirty laundry and I dragged ourselves into the open-cage elevator of the quaint hotel with the vaguely familiar name and were shown to our room.

I splashed some water on my face, fell onto the narrow bed, glanced at my watch which read 12:30 and tried to remember if London was two hours ahead or two hours behind Johannesburg? For some asinine reason it seemed crucial to know whether I’d gained or lost two hours.

Before the answer came, I was engulfed by the sleep of the dead, or the purgatory of the undisciplined traveler, depending on who’s talking.

In what seemed five minutes, the insistent double-ringing of a telephone infiltrated my great dreamy landscape. It’s brrinng-brrinng sounded just like all those old J. Arthur Rank movies and I wondered why Alec Guiness or Margaret Rutherford wasn’t picking it up. I was rudely awakened by a voice screaming, Somebody answer the goddam English phone!

Of course the voice was mine, and of course the room was pitch black and the telephone was nowhere near the bed but hidden behind a lamp and a stack of Time Outs located on a little marble-topped table in the sitting area. Until the moment when I lurched into it and knocked the whole ensemble onto the floor, savagely stubbing my toe in the process, I hadn’t realized I had a sitting area.

Fuuuuuuuuck!

Halloo, Mr. Holloway? Sorry to trouble you, Sir. It’s your wake up call.

Despite the nauseating pain, I located a wall switch and was momentarily blinded by the overhead fixture. There, hidden under the debris, was the receiver and like a madman possessed, I seized it. Yes, it’s me - it’s Mr. Holloway, Operator. I think I just broke my goddam toe. Sweet Jesus - what time is it?

It’s coming on 17:45, Sir.

I can never remember how military-time works, Operator. Just tell it to me in English. American English!

This served to make her aggressively petulant. "It’s 5:45 - PM. We’ve been ringing your suite for the past fifteen minutes, Sir."

Oh, well, look, I’m sorry. It’s just that I stubbed my God - my toe and I couldn’t remember where I was and I thought you were Sandra, and, well, I apologize for sounding so rude.

It was clear she wasn’t buying any of it, Very well, Sir. You received two messages while you were napping. Would you care to hear them now?

Yeah, sure. Fire away.

"They’re both from a Miss Sandra Swann. The first was left at 16:57 hours. It reads, ‘Liverpool client meeting delayed until tomorrow A.M. Will call when I return to agency. Much love, Sandra.’

Did she leave a number, Operator?

Apparently not, Sir. Shall I read the second one?

Did she say anything about my ‘Miss Saigon’ tickets?

Let us see. This was taken at 17:25. ‘Not looking good for Miss Saigon", but pulling every string. Please be patient, and try to get some sleep. Hugs, Sandra’.

What should I do about tonight, Operator?

She didn’t say, Sir.

Do you think I should bother trying to get tickets to something else?

"I have no idea, Sir. But we do wish you a very pleasant evening", and she hung up.

My friend Sandra Swann - typical advertising executive - controlled information, confusingly dispensed. Thanks Sandra. Left to hobble about with throbbing toe, buzzing head and an attack of the hungries, who could think about sleep? I decided to get dressed and check out the neighborhood when I spied the ‘Honor Bar’, with its ubiquitous array of ‘international snacks’. I grabbed a bag of Korn Krinkles, a Tobelerone pyramid, a split of Portuguese Rosé and headed for the bathroom. If only I’d thought to check the price list first...

The shower wand wasn’t much to speak of - a calcium-encrusted sprayer on a length of gnarled plastic hose - but the tub was one of those British marvels, calling to mind a lap pool on clawed legs. I filled it with the hottest water I could stand, poured in a vial of herbal gel courtesy of the Hyatt Grand Cayman, neatly arranged my rosé, Krinkles and chocolates on the stool beside it, and lowered my aching bones into its soothing depths.

Blissful pain - painful bliss. My arms seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each as I reached for the snacks and wine - taking care not to drop the glass onto the tile floor, or worse, into the tub. I slid down into the foamy brine, rested my head against the rim and fibrillated at the rush of cold and hot, steam and sugar. I knew if I could close my eyes for a few minutes, I’d rebound good as new. Watch out London nightlife...

Suddenly someone was pounding at my door. I struggled to choke out, Who’s there? when it was rudely opened by a nervous-looking waiter followed by two unsmiling men wearing bowler hats, heavy overcoats and thick mustaches.

Dumbstruck, I tried to ask what in hell was going on but couldn’t articulate beyond a garbled whisper.

The two men stood by the bathroom door, their backs to me. The taller one spoke first, gruffly but distinctly. Mr. Woild, I believe?

From across the room came a plummy, wearied voice. Yes, yes. I am Oscar Wilde.

I’m Inspector Richards and this is Sargeant Allen. We are police officers. We have a warrant here, Mr. Woild, for your arrest on a charge of committing indecent acts.

Oh, really...

Other voices murmured in despair. It’s all over, Oscar! We tried to warn you. You should have taken the boat-train. You’re done for - ruined! And finally, a voice hoarse with fear, What’s to become of him, Inspector?

The shorter officer spoke as if by rote. I must ask you to accompany us to Bow Street, Sir.

Shall I be granted bail?

The officers glanced at each other and shook their heads.

That’s not likely, Sir.

Very well, if I must go I will give you the least possible trouble. If someone will help me with my great-coat...?

There came the sound of hushed movement, the sound of several bodies standing at once.

Robbie, if you could go ‘round to Tite street and bring me a change of clothes...?

Of course, Oscar. Of course. Gulping back sobs, he asked, How much should I tell Constance?

Tell her the tables have been turned in the worst possible way. Tell her to lock my study and give the keys to you. And most importantly, tell my boys their Poppa loves them very much.

Inspector Richards cleared his throat pointedly. Very well then. We must be on our way, Mr. Woild.

Certainly Inspector. Might I be permitted to bring this little book with me? I haven’t quite finished it, as yet.

Again the shorter one spoke, We’d better have a look at it, then.

I caught glimpse of a sallow-skinned hand with tapering fingers as it offered the yellow-bound book to the officer.

As you can see, it’s called ‘Aphrodite’ - written by my friend Pierre Louÿs. I promised him my appraisal by week’s end. It’s quite harmless, I assure you...

The policemen conferred in hurried whispers, then pronounced, almost in chorus, Very well. Doesn’t appear to be any harm in it. You may bring it along, Mr. Woild. Let’s be off, then.

Seven, possibly eight figures filed out the door, led by the tallest of them, staggering slightly, his head held at a rakish angle as if to distance himself from these events. The waiter checked about the room and shouted in my direction, Terribly sorry for the intrusion, Sir. Ring if you need anything, then quietly closed the door behind him.

As readily as my room had received the invasion, it restored itself to a startling silence.

I hadn’t realized how slippery the bath gel made my hands until I reached to pour another rosé, and dropped the squat, oval bottle into the tub. I stared in helpless fascination as its pale-red contents emptied into the sudsy water, transforming my bath into a moment from ‘Marat/Sade’.

The proposition of rosé being absorbed through my pores completed my mesmerization. Was I drunk? Hallucinating? Delirious? Enduring cardiac arrest? Incapable of the slightest movement, I sat for what seemed a half-hour, trying to recapture, in slow motion, the black-and-white newsreel looping in my mind. Ultimately, it was the water turned icy-cold that startled me from the tub and into one of the hotel’s plush robes.

Later, as I sat at the little writing desk near the window, my attention was drawn to the black-on-white sign bolted to the iron fence across the street. ‘Pont Street, SW1, it said. Hmmm. Hadn’t I entered on Sloan Street? My second floor room must be overlooking the back or side of the hotel. I remained fixated on the words,’Pont Street’ when the name "Betjeman’ commenced to reverberate around the recesses of my brain.

Betjeman - Cadogan, Cadogan - Betjeman, Sloan Street - Pont Street, 6:00 o’clock - hock. Sloan Street - Pont Street, 6:00 o’clock - hock... Over and over the words thumped in my head, like something of Noel Coward’s set to Rap.

I dialed the hotel operator. Could you connect me with the manager, please? Yes, I’ll hold.

I looked around the oddly shaped rooms for clues as to how they used to be laid out. Certainly the three casement windows would have been there, but I wasn’t so sure about the flush toilet. The ceilings were probably higher, having been lowered to accomodate the heating and air-conditioning. I was imagining the hiss of a gas-jet, its blue-green flame dancing inside the bricked-up fireplace when a chirpy female voice came on the line.

Mrs. Moira Marchant here. How may I be of assistance to you, Mr. Holloway?

Thank you, Moira. I have an odd request...

"I prefer Mrs. Marchant, if you don’t mind?"

Of course, how presumptuous of me. I was wondering - Mrs. Marchant - are you familiar with the history of this hotel?

Quite! And a splendid one it is. Because of our proximity to the Theatre District, the Cadogan has long played host to many of its luminaries. There’s a plaque on the side of the hotel commemorating Lily Langtry’s apartments which she kept here at the turn of the century.

Is there anything to indicate Oscar Wilde stayed here?

Nothing of that kind, I’m afraid.

Nothing to show he was arrested here?

Was that a stridency in her reply? No. The management has held the position that calling undue attention to such unsavory affairs could only bring disfavor to the hotel’s good name. The Cadogan has maintained this policy for nearly a century now. Quite successfully, I might add.

Got it. Let me ask you this? Do you know what room he was arrested in and is it still part of the hotel?

I’m so sorry, but I must put you on hold, Mr. Holloway. As she did, I used the moment to check the number on my door. Like the phone, it was ‘118’.

I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I was speaking with our front desk about a possible vacancy for you.

I don’t understand. Have there been complaints about me already?

Of course not, Mr. Holloway. It’s just that, quite often, certain of our guests, on learning the history of #118 have asked to be relocated.

Was somebody murdered in here?

Certainly not! But the Cadogan has been redecorated several times and the rooms have been renumbered. It was during one of those refurbishings that Room #53 became #118.

Oh - my - God! You mean to say I’m in the notorious room #53? I can’t believe this has happened to me!

I quite understand, Mr. Holloway, and the Cadogan is prepared to upgrade you to another, somewhat larger suite, at no increase in rates, of course. I can have the bellman there in a matter of...

Are you kidding? This is absolute goose-bumps time! I can dine out for months on how I lucked into Oscar Wilde’s room at the Cadogan! This is too terrific!

The relief in Mrs. Marchant’s voice was palpable. Really? I must say everyone has a different reaction, Mr. Holloway. After a dignified pause she continued, "May I presume there is no Mrs. Holloway?"

You got that right, Moira. Fortunately there’s no ‘Bosie’ either. This is absolutely fantastic! Now, if you could switch me to room-service, I think I’ll stay in tonight and have supper right here.

Delighted to, but the kitchen has already closed. For now, it’s only sandwiches and light faire, I’m afraid.

No problem. I can’t thank you enough, Moira, er, Mrs. Marchant. You’ve absolutely made my visit to London. And please give my regards to Mr. Marchant, if you remember.

Her voice turned to ice.

I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question. Good evening, Mr. Holloway.

Shortly a waiter delivered a perfectly presented chicken and watercress sandwich, a cup of vichyssoise, a portion of trifle and a pot of tea. As I was signing the bill I couldn’t help notice how ill-at-ease he seemed.

Aren’t you the one who was in here earlier?, I asked.

He blushed and shuffled and admitted he was fairly new on the job. I was making my start-of-shift rounds and forgot to knock first. Completely forgot. I’m so sorry, Sir. Wasn’t ‘til it was too late I realized you were in your bath. Please accept my apologies. Won’t happen again, Sir. I promise.

Thank you, er, ah... I squinted to read his name tag.

Taylor, Sir, Alfred Taylor.

Thank you, Alfred. One other thing. Am I going crazy or were you with two other men?

To which he flushed a deeper red and looked around as if to find the nearest escape. Absolutely not, Sir. That would be totally against the rules! Like I said, I was making my rounds and forgot to knock, that’s all. I hope you can see your way not to report this infraction to my supervisor? It could land me in the bad soup.

As the total for my ‘snack’ came to twenty-eight pounds with tip, I said I’d beaten him to it.

How’s that, Sir?

Landing in the bad soup.

I don’t understand, Sir.

Never mind, Alfred. It wouldn’t survive the explanation, and I handed him the check. It’s been a very, very long day and I’m afraid I’m a little punchy.

He glanced at the tip in that quasi-surreptitious fashion of the novice and broke into a broad grin. Bowing his way out the door, he thanked me repeatedly. Don’t hesitate to ring, if you need anything, Mr. Holloway. G’night, then.

I picked at my food, for I wasn’t nearly as hungry as anticipated and found myself staring at the Pont Street sign again. Suddenly I was possessed by an irresistible urge to write down everything I had just experienced. As I was looking around for pen and paper, another idea came to me.

Several years back, I had read The Letters of Oscar Wilde, and been profoundly moved by the man’s wit and compassion - and amazed by his taunting of Victorian morés and seeming disregard for the consequences. The essence of him seemed to leap from every page, as if he was talking to me personally.

Why not write to the man himself? A letter could serve as a kind of completion, while letting this poet, playwright and raconteur know how much I admired him, how deeply I appreciated all his life’s work, including his agonizing years in prison and exile; how his heart-breaking legacy had inspired so many to stand up and be counted.

I wrote him at length, filling both sides of several pages, finishing shortly before midnight. For some odd reason, I remembered the name of his last publisher, and just for the heck of it, addressed one of my personal envelopes to Oscar Wilde in his care.

I woke up early next morning, having slept like a baby, pulled on the last of my clean clothes and set out for a hike in the brisk winter air. Eventually I spotted a bright red postbox and, feeling a bit mischevious, slipped my letter into its grinning mouth. And never gave it another thought.

Happily, Sandra came through with the ‘MISS SAIGON’ tickets that night and, over the next two days, I was able to rendezvous with several friends.

I arrived back in California a day late, my credit cards maxxed-out, but totally exhilarated from my London stopover.

One morning, two weeks later, at my apartment in West Hollywood, an envelope tumbled from the mailbox which contents were so startling, they forever changed my life.

Please allow me to share my good fortune with you?

C. Robert Holloway

missing image file

HOTEL D’ALSASCE, PARIS

HOTEL D’ALSACE

13 rue des Beaux Arts

Paris

27 Feb 1993

My Dear Mr. Holloway,

I write in reply to your presumptuous and rather inelegant missive posted to me in care of my publisher, Mr. Leonard Smithers, formerly of the Royal Arcade, Old Bond Street, London, and somehow forwarded to me. I reply to you despite misgivings about your family name, and the hideous memories it recalls. Perhaps more on that unfortunate coincidence later.

It is one thing to compliment a genius, a celebrated gentleman of letters, a playwright of glittering social comedies, a man of high social position and revered lineage, one who had, for a halcyonic and purple time, all of gilded London and hordes of enthralled Americans at his pampered feet.

It is quite another to hurl your crude bouquets at him in the hope your unfortunate absence of rudimentary higher learning will go unobserved. It is apparent you know nothing of Greek or Latin. Your withered nosegays of French and Spanish are held in sniggering contempt by those unfortunate citizens whom you’ve attempted to impress whilst abroad. Their high-bred courtesy forbids them display of grimaces engendered by your caterwauling. Mine does not.

But there, I have, in a thrice, divulged that I already know something about you. However, I must caution you not to read any more into it than implied for I know something about everyone. Well, nearly everyone. Save those hypocritical cretins who, for reasons fathomable only to themselves, never troubled to learn something good of me.

One wonders at your motive in contacting me nearly a century after my demise? Before my ruinous days in the dock at Old Bailey, I had grown accustomed to the sight and scent of a stalking syncophant. Particularly in ’82 when I lectured across America as a kind of human billboard for Gilbert and Sullivan’s Patience, elucidating profundities on esthetics: The English Renaissance of Art and Decorative Art for the Home, usually to capacity lyceum, I might add.

At the conclusion, all the bright young things would surge toward me, the homelier and witless poseurs crowding ahead of the golden-haired and more attractive students of Euripedes. I could spot the pretenders at some distance and would