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May 26, 1900
Dear Mademoiselle Avril,
I apologise for writing so abruptly. We have not seen each other for such a long time, but I am sure you remember me. I am Henri’s friend Orlando. We first met, briefly, at Monsieur Fénéon’s newspaper office. I was there with Henri before dinner one night, and we became engaged in a rather lively discussion concerning the appropriate response to Oscar Wilde’s imprisonment. I believe the last time we saw each other was at Le Chat Noir, after Mademoiselle Satine’s funeral.
I am sure you have by now learned of Henri’s passing. It is very sad for us all. He was a great artist and a loyal friend. To me, he was also a remarkable lover as well. I write to you because I know you were a good friend to him. Henri spoke of you often and warmly. You were always so good to him, even when he was being difficult. Of all people who knew him, I know I can trust you with the truth.
Most importantly, you must know that I never left him of my own will. I loved Henri with all my heart and soul, not only my body. And he loved me back. I was not some passing furia to be left behind as whim dictated. I was devoted to him, no matter what unpleasant gossip may claim to the contrary.
Since Henri’s death, I have returned to Montmartre. I need to be where we were happiest together. While searching through the rooms we shared, I discovered the four letters included with this missive. I realise that he did not intend to send them, but I believe he would have, had he known what the future held.
I feel no shame when I admit to weeping as I read them, and I weep still even to think of them. I regret every doubt or fear he suffered on my account. Henri was not himself at the end; he suffered from an awful temper and dark, despairing moods. His excessive drinking and the ravages of his disease took a terrible toll. Some days, I did not even know him. It is a blessing to be reminded of the depth of his feeling for me.
As much as I would like to keep the letters forever, to read whenever loneliness strikes, I think it is best for you to have them. At least then, when I die, someone will have known and understood what Henri and I shared, private though it was. You must believe me that Henri would approve. He would never have set pen to paper if he did not want someone to know about us.
His letters are, for the most part, accurate. Henri exaggerates my beauty and underestimates his own charms, but you know that was always his way.
I will not lie to you. I was a renter when he met me, I was on the run from the law, and I did follow him onto that boat in hopes of using my wiles to procure passage to safety. It makes me seem a mercenary, but you must believe me when I say I also had purer motives, beyond those of self-preservation.
Henri mentioned a gentleman who works at the British Museum, a poet and supporter of the arts. At first Monsieur Binyon’s interest in me was strictly physical, or I should say carnal, in nature. But I wanted him to teach me more about art and poetry and painting. He was amused by what he called my ‘pretensions’.
“You’re a lovely boy,” he said. “Why would you want to fill up that pretty head with things that will make you frown?” I was able to convince him I had some education and was not entirely ignorant about art. “So you are only using me for access to the collection,” he laughed with a patronising air. But at least he agreed to let me see the art.
My introduction to Henri came several days before I actually met him. A row of stunning lithographs were lined up against the wall in a work room while Lawrence took inventory of them. I was staggered by that first glimpse of Henri’s genius. I pressed Lawrence for information about this extraordinary artist, this man who could present the conditions of the wretched and unfortunate with such heartbreaking honesty.
“He is a dwarf,” Lawrence said. “A dwarf from a noble family. But I do not believe he has much of the money, if that is what interests you.”
I was appalled that he would assume such a motive. I may have been a renter, but that did not mean I could not appreciate art. Or the artist. I kept my temper, though, and coaxed more information from him.
It was not difficult to get invited to Mister Wilde’s party. I was always a favourite of Oscar’s. I was confused when I spied Henri serving drinks to the other guests. He later confessed that it was his habit at parties. The bar was a shield, Henri’s private fortress, and the alcohol was a comfort to be near, and his weapon. He loved to mix inventive drinks almost as much as he loved to prepare those incredible, complicated dinners.
I did everything possible to attract his attention, short of lying on the bar naked and offering myself to him as a tribute to his work. After reading his letters, I realise that had I been bolder in my approach, Lord Alfred might never have had the chance to hire me that night, and events might have transpired very in a different way.
I should not waste paper on such speculation. What is done is done. You will read in Henri’s letters of how we came together, up until our arrival in Paris. What I want is to tell you of what happened after that.
The most important detail is that I never really left him. Our separations were none of my doing. (I could curse Henri’s family for its interference in our affairs, but how could they know they were hastening his demise?)
One afternoon, shortly after Henri wrote that last letter, Henri’s mother visited. She had heard rumours of a scoundrel taking advantage of her little boy. She never saw me (Henri hid me under the bed) but I could hear her. She did not yell or scream (which is what I expected.) She was quite calm and proper as she all but ordered Henri to kick me out onto the street.
He called her a meddling goat. She threatened to cut off his funds. He scoffed at her bravely (although I know his financial situation caused him no end of worry when he was sober.) She threatened to tell the authorities of my existence and have me arrested and deported.
I wish I could have understood everything that was said. My knowledge of French was basic at the time. I had only learned what I needed to understand Henri when he slipped into his native tongue. I knew obscenities. And “prêt au jouir!” and, of course, “combien pour l’absinthe?” But I could hear all the passion in Henri’s voice as he gave his second great performance on my behalf.
Henri broke down in tears. He wailed and confessed that he had, indeed, brought home a renter. He called me names – a social parasite, a thief and a rogue – and accused me of no end of evil. He sobbed to her that he had been blinded by my beauty, accused me of bewitching him and, comme un voleur dans la nuit, stealing all his money and his valuables. (There was no mention of his heart.)
Mama Adéle, of course, believed her son. Was Henri not a pathetic excuse for a man? How could she deny her poor, crippled, luckless child the comfort he required? It sickened me to hear Henri play this part, and play it well he did. He even had the audacity to ask her for more money to replace what I had stolen.
“My poor dear, I should never have left you to fend for yourself,” she cooed over him. She gave him some money and told him to meet her for dinner.
When I emerged from my place of hiding, I was stunned and subdued. I feared that his performance could not have been so convincing if it had not held a kernel of truth. Yet only minutes after all the wailing and gnashing of teeth over my treachery (minutes after calling me a cheap whore and a liar) Henri was kissing my face and laughing about his success. “Did you see that?” he crowed, “She was completely fooled!”
He turned serious, though, when he realised she would not be so easily fooled a second time. The countess made a habit of arriving unannounced. I soon grew tired of the cramped space beneath the bed, and the stress was not good for Henri’s health.
I had to leave, if only for a while. Once she left Paris, I would be able to return to Henri’s side. In the meantime, Henri would see about procuring rooms further up the hill, preferably in a part of Montmartre so seamy and disreputable, she would not dare visit.
I was not pleased about the plan. I did not wish to let Henri out of my sight for a moment. He had been growing more robust under my care. He drank less, ate more regularly and slept more soundly. As soon as I discovered he had been lying awake, late at night, watching me as I slept, I thoroughly rebuked him. I introduced tempting rewards for sound sleep, most of which involved me waking him in the morning with a degree of vigour in relation to how much he had slept the night before.
I assure you that the regular physical activity between us did him far more good than harm. I was careful not to overtax him.
Without me, and my incentives, I feared he would go back to spending entire nights in the taverns and weaving his way drunkenly home, to be robbed or beaten or worse. I fretted constantly, but he insisted I go outside the city for my own protection. I would return when his family was no longer a threat to me.
So that is the truth of my “mysterious disappearances”. Some vile people will insist I was working the streets or servicing some count at his manor. They gossip of horrific fights, and secret lovers. They whisper of me draining Henri’s pocketbook and seeking greener pastures. The real story could not be more innocent.
Henri knew a woman, an old Communard who took in lost souls of various sorts. I was on her farm, earning my keep honestly, not far from Paris, but far enough to be out of the clutches of his dear Mama.
It was a poor solution, but the best we could find. Henri could not bear the thought of me being deported, and I could not bear the thought of him being left penniless on my account. I could have worked to support us, but that would have broken his heart. You can see the dilemma we faced.
Unfortunately, Mama Adéle was not daunted by the rooms Henri took at the Hôtel L’Amour Fou. I had to ‘disappear’ far too often for my liking. I am told Henri was often in a foul temper while I was gone. I know he drank and caroused to a debilitating extent. I always rushed back to Paris as soon as it was safe. With time, after we grew used to the separations, it was not as much of an ordeal. There was less anger, but more drinking.
Always, there was more drinking.
Henri was never an angel. I have no illusions about him. His reckless habits and his debauchery always lurked near the surface. I could not change that. It dismayed me that his behaviour worsened during my absences, and each time I returned I tried all the harder to help him heal. Had I been at his side at all times, perhaps he would still be with us. One cannot say for certain. All I know is that the last separation would seal his fate.
Henri had been in a frenzy. He had been working constantly, perhaps too much. Painting in the mornings, sketching in the afternoons, planning big things in the evenings, drinking at night, unless I made a concerted effort to stop him. There was even less money than usual, since he was spending so much on all his projects. He was up late with his friends and colleagues, and no amount of inducement could convince him to rest more. With a flat full of bohemians, there was no keeping him from the absinthe, and there had been little privacy for our more private pursuits.
I hoped his family’s visit to the city would be short. His mother’s attentions often brought out the worst in him, and, unlike me, she never stayed into the night to subdue the circus-like atmosphere. Henri was like a top wound tighter and tighter until it became inevitable that the string would break.
It was at that time that the infamous and tragic events at the Moulin Rouge unfolded, events with which you are familiar.
Tragedy is never of our own doing when it occurs. I look back and wonder if I could have done something to alleviate the tremendous stresses that led to his breakdown and final decline. Guilt, anguish, torment – these I have felt. Regret is a constant companion.
But regret is not my only companion. I have my cherished memories, and I share them with you as I share Henri’s letters with you.
Please read them and believe me when I tell you how much I loved him, for the truth lies not in the idle gossip and slander you hear on the streets. The truth lies in my heart.
Sincerely,
Orlando
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