Please remember
to slash responsively!

This is adult material. If you are not of legal age to read adult material, bugger off.

October 14, 1894

Chère Jane,

It is dreary and pompous and dull.

I am in England!

I joke with you, because you of all people will understand the joke. You have been here often enough, and had such intimate relations with a certain Englishman. There are individuals one can tolerate, or even adore, in your case. (Are you still in touch with the gentleman in question or has he succumbed to family pressures? You should have known better than to become involved with someone from a family as illustrious as his!) On the whole, though, it is a far from bohemian sort of place.

The people stare at me, as they do everywhere, but in England I always fear it is because they believe me to be some sort of leprechaun. Of course, the freak show is very popular here, almost as popular as the exotic, erotic dancers in our city.

And how is my favourite dancer? Are you being treated well, chéri, or must I rush back to the Moulin Rouge to stave off the ruffians with my cane? Tell Zidler I will remove all my work from the premises and tear down every single poster of mine if a single hair on the lovely head of my beloved Jane Avril is harmed in any way. (After all, my work featuring your image has brought in the lion’s share of the business that keeps his precious electricity flowing.)

My show here in England, I am hoping, will be well received. I met a charming gentleman, a M. Lawrence Binyon who works in the prints department of the British Museum. I am counting on him, as one might imagine, to absolutely flood the Museum with my work. What use is there having friends in useful places if they are not willing to lend a hand? I do not wish to give the wrong impression, though. He is an admirer of my technique and genuinely wants to help. I have not abused his good nature at all, or any part of him, for that matter.

A few days ago, M. Conder, whom you may know is now residing in fair London, took me to the lovely house called the Vale. M. Charles Ricketts and M. Charles Shannon keep this cottage as a salon of sorts, for writers and artists, for the most part, and for those of particular taste in liaisons of the romantic sort, comme les Charles.

M. Ricketts is a talented lithographer and we have discussed a collaboration. He is as keen on my work as I am on his. Wonderful, moody detail, quite unlike my large blocks of colour and ephemeral shapes. Together we could create something unique. I always enjoy the collaboration of opposites.

But that is not what is important about the Vale, is it? It is the literary pedigree that counts. Yes, I write of the same cottage that served as Oscar Wilde’s model for the setting of Dorian Gray. When in the cottage, one can imagine the story coming to life around us.

Did you know that he named the character after John Gray? You remember him; the pretty, young man who used to linger at the Moulin Rouge after hours, looking for even younger stray boys. He and Oscar… well, you know all about that, do you not? Why waste precious paper on old scandals when I can feed you new gossip.

Alas, there is precious little new good gossip. Although, speaking of the Vale, Dorian Gray’s “study” was Whistler’s study at one point. The cottage used to belong to M. Whistler, and he still keeps in contact with les Charles. I had dinner with the man himself two nights past. We went to a perfectly awful “French” restaurant, and he ordered an abomination. Why can the English not roast a decent fowl? No imagination, I tell you. It was a fiasco, but I saved the evening by ushering M. Whistler across the street to a little establishment Anglais and ordering a perfect British dinner – roast beef and all. It was very good.

(They can do good work here if they stick to what they know. Tailoring, for example. There is no substitute for a Savile Row cut suit.)

So, you see, in spite of my whining about the dreariness of England, life is not entirely dull.

I expect this evening will turn out far more salacious, though likely not more illustrious. That rascal Monsieur Wilde has invited us to one of his little soirees, which will no doubt involve an entire flock of witty, fresh, amiable and oh-so-impoverished young men.

He adores the pretty lads, Oscar does, and I must admit that my tastes, when I find myself on the wrong side of the Channel, wander away from my usual red-haired Parisian ladies and more toward a more masculine persuasion. Not too masculine, of course. You will never catch me chasing after the burly gents.

Nevertheless, these London “gentlemen” have a particular charm, as you well know. Especially since so many of them have such naughty secrets hidden behind those smouldering gazes. I would not wonder if every renter in the country has at least a smidgeon of aristocratic, or at the very least bourgeois, blood in his veins.

Renters, yes, that is what they call them here. So typically British - no mystery, no glamour. They do not pretend, either. The rent boys. They loiter in the open, on the street and are absolutely fearless. The poor things probably endure no end of abuse from the dreadful police. And you know the only reason the bobbies beat them is because they wish they could fuck them. It is like that everywhere.

Oh, how the authorities love to put down any revolution, even one so innocent as the sensual revolt of a soul seeking the company of a more exotic spice than the average!

Not that many of Oscar’s boys are of the truly revolutionary ilk. Hardly bohemian, they merely seek enough money to survive, and most have no other means by which to procure it. That desperation alone should automatically make them revolutionary but, alas, it tends only to bring out a hungry demeanour and a thirst for cash-up-front.

The others, the invited guests (not the hired help) have pretensions of bohemian behaviour, but most cannot overcome their coddled upbringings, no matter how much they posture. They think they will change the world by wearing a gaudy cravat and giving it to a lad.

I can hear you laughing at me already, my dear. Those of you who come from humbler origins despise those of us with a title on sight. You must believe me; in spite of the title and family money, I was never part of that aristocracy. My inability to hunt or dance assured my ostracism. My father all but disinherited me when he sold the family villa, which I, by tradition, should have come into. And the money from mama is not what it used to be.

No matter – my art sells well and I am comfortable in my own way. I support myself enough to live, or at least spend a good deal of my time where I wish to be, which is in les maisons de grande tolerance (they call them bawdy houses here) among my beloved fonctionnaires de l’amour.

There is so much more to it than merely living with the wretched, though. This is the truth Oscar’s young fops cannot seem to embrace. It is not about a pose; it goes to the very heart of a being, to one’s core.

The likes of Lord Alfred Douglas cannot grasp this. Everything, for les gars such as Bosie, is all about them, and them is the image of them, not the real them. I wonder if any of them have anything real left inside.

Oh, that Lord Alfred. I tell you, Jane, he vexes me to no end. The truth is, I have an abysmally low tolerance for Bosie. He is pretty enough, and well educated enough to seem intelligent, but I cannot abide the way he plays Oscar. Or rather, the way Oscar allows himself to be played by his lover.

Perhaps that is what being in love is all about.

I would not know. I do not know if I have ever truly experienced it. I thought I was in love, but I was the one well and truly played in that game. After what Marie-Christine did to me, I do not know that I will ever be able to trust a pair of seductive eyes again. Not after being used so heartlessly.

Alas, what can I hope for – an ugly little drug-addled dwarf such as myself? A drunken gnome. I seek and yearn for love with every fibre of my being, but I will likely have to settle for a willing (as long as he’s being paid) renter. That is if I am able to find one willing to take my rather cumbersome equipment where it counts.

That would seem like bragging, but you have seen my service trois pièces, and felt it; you should know.

Did you feel it, or had you medicated yourself too well in order to be able to tolerate my presence?

That was too crude, even for me. Forgive me, or not. I can tell that any letter I write while in this mood will not be fit to send. Perhaps I should consider this my private confessional and burn it before the ink dries…

Since I will not, in all likelihood, actually post the letter, I will take some small pleasure in writing down my desires and schemes for the evening. (Had you not made it so painfully clear that ours was a once-in-a-lifetime assignation, you know I would hold out for you, chéri. As things stand, the renters will indeed have to suffice. So naughty of me.)

You see? I have not been spoiled forever. I am still capable of a little jest, still willing to seek companionship, no matter how Marie-Christine broke my heart, and you crushed the pieces under your exquisitely booted foot.

But enough about your sexual charms.

“Be strong and take it like a man,” as papa likes to say. I sincerely doubt he intended me to apply the sentiment to the making do with a boy of questionable background in lieu of your considerable, and no less questionable charms.

(Not that I question them. I am more than acquainted with your beauty, your grace, the ethereal heart-expanding loveliness of your dancing, and your formidable intellect, and I look forward to our next political debate at Le Chat Noir, if they will let me back in after the incident last time we went – you do forgive me, do you not? It was the drink that made me call that woman an overgrown chimpanzee. How was I to know she was the barmaid’s lover?)

I agree with Papa Alphonse on one subject, though. One must take one’s assets and do what one can with them. It is better to be hard than to be self-pitying, and it is best to take it like a man.

However, I much prefer to give it like a man. So a night of ‘Wilde’ carousing it will be. I can only hope some saintly soul will have thought to procure some authentic absinthe. The last time I was here, there was nothing available but a piss-tasting concoction that might as well have come from my own cock (except it likely had a lower alcohol content than any fluid coming out of my body.)

Adieu, ma cher,

Henri



Next: Two - Beauty

Comment on this fic, or anything related to it here.

[Home] [heartofslash LJ] [Fandoms] [Army of Two] [Boondock Saints] [The Island 100] [Assassins] [Kingdom of Heaven] [LOTR] [Moulin Rouge] [Pirates of the Caribbean] [Real People Slash] [Soldier Porn] [Star Wars] [Troy]

Feedback, complaints, rants and threats should be sent to heartofslash at gmail.com
or posted in a comment on the heartofslash LJ.

Any similarities to existing characters or real people are intended as a visual aid only
and should not be considered and infringement of anything (except, perhaps, good taste.)
No profit is made from the writing of this fic.  No harm; no foul.

Please remember to slash responsively!