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April 7, 1895

Chère June,

Another trip to London and I find myself writing to you once more, even though I did not send the letters from the last trip. How could I have? Even in these enlightened times, a missive of that sort would be incriminating for one such as me. I am a thorn in the side of the privileged, and the opportunity to pluck me and toss me upon the dung heap would not go unheeded. Even the faux-bohemians would rejoice in my downfall, I fear. I threaten even them with my radical ways.

So I write to you because I must confess to someone, and a priest is out of the question. (The clergy would have me on my poor crippled knees, beating myself with a bouquet of thistles if they knew the wicked thoughts that crowd my mind.)

I have tried, during this little jaunt, to behave as a responsible citizen. As we docked, I calmed the initial flurry of excitement in my belly by reminding myself that the cast of characters at the Moulin Rouge changes so frequently (excluding the main attractions such as La Goulue, Nini and you, of course, but even you have retired from the public eye) that some nights I am surprised to see a dancer I know. London’s more salacious attractions can be no different.

There is no guarantee he is even in London, let alone working in the same neighbourhood (not that I ever learned in which neighbourhood he worked) or even in the same line of business.

A million things could happen to change the world. It is only my luck that my world would be changed by someone capable of so thoroughly disappearing. Of course, my not knowing his name rendered him all the more elusive. I tried to tell myself it was just as well I never learned it. If I had asked, he likely would have asked me whom I wished him to be. I would never have been able to think of a suitable name for one so stunning.

However nameless he remained, I had hoped to find him lurking about the Museum, or at least lounging impertinently at one of Oscar’s parties.

At first, M. Binyon would not admit to knowing such a disreputable character. I convinced him, at length, to admit that he knew a pretty young man matching the description of my bellâtre, and that he might have shown him some of my work during my exhibit last fall.

This young man, M. Binyon finally told me, is a follower of the arts, and goes by a variety of names. ‘Joe’, he is sometimes called. (I could not imagine that.) And ‘William’ (Banal.) And ‘Shy’ (Surely not!)

And ‘Orlando’.

Orlando. In a month of Sundays I could not invent a more appropriate name. Golden as the sun, and well deserving of fame throughout the land. But as M. Binyon so helpfully (and irritatingly) pointed out, it is no more likely to be authentic than any of his other names.

Besides which, he had not been to the museum in months.

Undaunted, I set out to find him through other means.

Unfortunately, this journey has gone by without opportunity of M. Wilde’s company. He and Bosie have secreted themselves in a hotel, hiding for shame one would presume. The two of them actually took Bosie’s father to court for insinuating that Oscar is a sexe doute. Can you imagine the cheek? Silly boys. They do not know how to pick their battles. The trial was a ridiculous farce, of course. It is not as if Oscar can, or should, deny the little snot is his lover. Although I would. I would be ashamed to have a lover who would insist upon such a ridiculous lawsuit!

(And if I were Oscar, I would be far more upset about the banning of Salome than about an ill-educated brute such as Bosie’s father calling me names!)

I know it is all Bosie’s idea. Either that, or Oscar has let his reputation go to his head even more than I thought. One should never presume the indulgence of the authorities. But then, they have not had a revolution in England for some time, and so they forget how vicious the law can be. (We have only but to look to our beloved Communards for proof that the legislature is no friend of the people.)

At any rate, the somewhat optimistic (and now thoroughly discredited, in my opinion) theory of the Propaganda of the Deed cannot be applied to a libel trial. Oscar’s indignation about his treatment will not inspire riots in the streets in favour of greater freedom. In fact, it appears to have done the quite the opposite.

Perhaps if he were not Irish, his status might be different. Unfortunately for him, the opportunity to take down an upstart barbarian with bohemian qualities is something the British bourgeoisie will never let pass.

I only know these rather salacious details of the case because M. Charles Ricketts came to see me on the eve of my departure. (We shall not be working together, as I had anticipated, which is a pity, but we had a lovely chat. The other Charles should consider himself blessed; his Charles is a charming man.)

Not half so charming, though, as the man I had hoped to find.

I did find time to wander the streets in search of him, but the renters seem to have vanished for the most part, into the woodwork or wherever it is the unwanted and shameful hide in that city. It is not unlike the phenomenon of rats deserting a sinking ship, I presume. Times are troubled indeed. I cut my visit a few days short for I could feel a great storm coming, and who wishes to be in the thick of it when freedom falls?

One grows a sixth sense for these things, as you know. Do you remember when the police came seeking Félix? He knew ahead of time and prepared for their arrival. It did not spare M. Fénéon his time in custody, but it spared him a worse sentence.

I still cannot believe Félix had anything to do with that bombing. He is such an intellectual, working on his reviews and magazines and theories. Those types rarely take real action. But what do I know? I was shocked when I discovered Marie-Christine was after my (nonexistent) fortune.

And there I have gone, spoiling another letter for the post. Even if I did mean you to learn all my secrets, I could not send it with such idle gossip about anarchistes and their activities or lack thereof, not to mention the slander against my former ‘lover’.

It is of no consequence. I feel the urge to express myself somehow. The lamp has grown too dim for even me to sketch by, but I can write in the dark. I used to write letters to my dear cousin Madeleine when I was lying flat on my back, the paper on a hard book cover on the bed beside me. They were legible enough, so this will be as well.

I have such an urge to record every moment, as I did when I was so young and hopeful. It is rare, these days, for me to feel hope. The doctors butchered Madeleine and she is no longer with us. They butchered me as well, but I am still here. So I live on, and the world grows bleaker every passing season.

I would give up on happiness altogether if it were not for these occasional, brilliant suspicions that life is not such a waste after all, very like the one I am feeling right now.

It is palpable. I can feel something. It might merely be the sea air, to which I am not accustomed, but I think not. Since I landed on English soil, I have had the oddest sensation, as if I had landed not on the shores of stolid old Britain, but on the shores of some undiscovered country.

Sadly, I did not find that country. The few renters I did manage to find were of no help at all. Too encumbered by their drug addictions to speak a sentence clearly, let alone help me find the one I seek. And I had so hoped, no yearned to meet him again, the beautiful young man who has haunted my dreams and my mind so captivatingly.

The entire visit has been a disappointment. My work has been deemed corrupt by some, vulgar by others, and the bulk of the rest do not comprehend it at all. There is such a rigid, unimaginative attitude toward art in some quarters.

‘Too simple’, some have said of my work. Can you imagine? Too simple. As if that is not the point of it all!

As if art could ever be too simple.

Plain colours, plain strokes (or none at all), a delicate spatter of contrast, or a rush of hurried strokes to capture movement. Unposed and unwitting, and not formal. Designs drawn from living moving reality, not boxed in and worked to death. Movement and the music of line. Like the words of Bruant’s songs. Truthful, beautiful and free. You know them, chéri. That new girlfriend of yours sings them often enough.

How is Yvette, by the way? Did she show you the last portrait I did of her? She thinks it coarsens her features. “You want everyone to look like you, little man,” she said. But she kept the portrait, I noticed.

Yvette may be terribly insecure about her looks, but she understands what the masses want. Keep her as long as possible, chéri; she has style. If nothing else, Yvette Guilbert is an artiste. She knows what art should be about, even if she does not always appreciate my efforts immediately.

And what should art be? Simple words, honest images, the capturing of a moment in time in the shape or note. Not convolution and obfuscation. Not draconian laws of perspective and slavish dedication to the static physical form.

Perhaps if Wilde were to make his points about freedom (and he does make some valid points) using simpler language, the people could understand him better. Alas, he is too witty for his own good; he alienates the masses.

My simple little channel crossing (and I paid a fortune for this private room, but I could not stand to be around the chatter of the salon after my woeful visit) is being interrupted by an insistent knock at the door. The purser urgently requires my attention. One pays for privacy, but one cannot count upon it. I will return, chéri!…



Chéri, it is a miracle! I shall try to contain myself, but it will not be easy. I have now returned to Paris, but I am not alone. I cannot sleep for joy; I cannot even rest for the utter bliss within my breast. I have no desire to go to the studio to use this delicious energy for the sake of art; I cannot leave this exquisite creature for a moment. Words will have to suffice for now.

Words I would not dare share with anyone but you, and only this imaginary you, at that. When you meet him, you will understand. If you meet him.

I hope you will meet him!

I will set this all to the page as des bons souvenirs, a precious record of la merveille. The purser was at the door. That is where I left off.

The purser informed me that my good name was being abused in a most heinous fashion by a common stowaway. I politely inquired, using my best aristocratic haughtiness, as to how I might be abused without my knowledge. He told me a young man named Orlando was claiming to be my lost travelling companion, although he had no money, no identification, and no ticket for the crossing.

I knew it had to be my beauty in an instant. I wished it to be. I willed it to be.

And even if it were not he, I would not allow a young, poor man be sent to the gaol for the crime, which is no crime at all, of taking passage to far superior pastures. I had no doubt the young man was fleeing England for a reason.

The purser brought me to the captain, a portly stodgy man with little sense of humour. And there, in the corner, under the watchful eye of a hulk of a sailor, he stood.

He was paler than I last saw him, and even more slender, and far less well-groomed. The beauty was still undeniable, but it was tempered by a jittery vigilance, the grace supplanted in part by obvious fear. His eyes implored me, large and moist. I could almost imagine his soft voice pleading for my help.

I must have stared a moment too long, for he pursed his lips and inclined his head, silently urging me to act. But how? “This young man…” I began, stammering, uncertain of how to continue.

Orlando bowed his head, his whole body. “I am not worthy of being your apprentice,” he said vehemently, and so suddenly all eyes turned to him. “How can you ever forgive me?”

Such a clever lad! I slammed my cane on the deck in a terrific show of temper, reclaiming the attention of the room. “Absentminded boy!” I bellowed. “You are forever getting lost, losing your ticket, misplacing your belongings.” This next part I addressed to the stunned captain. “Why I put up with him I do not know. Alas, the lad is terribly talented. And we must harness that talent lest too much freedom cause it to flit away like stardust!”

Oh, I was every inch the impressive, outraged, temperamental artiste! The captain stared at me with his jaw gaping comme un poisson.

The lad had his face directed at the deck, persuasively chastised by my tirade, although I suspect the gesture served the dual purpose of hiding his smirk. I was, I admit, rather over-emoting. Then I caught a flash of warning when he tipped his head up for a scant second. A lovely little frown.

Not wishing to overdo the thing, I pulled myself together. “Besides,” I added mildly, “I promised his parents I would look after him. They are old friends of my dear father, the Comte Alphonse de Toulouse-Lautrec, you know.” Ah, what the magical dropping of the aristocratic title in the middle of a conversation can accomplish! The Capitaine showed some small remorse at the sound of those words.

“Well, come along, young ruffian,” I fussed. “I swear to you, Capitaine, I will chain le gamin in the cabin, if need be, to keep him from troubling you further. At least there I can get the rest I need.”

Was it the mention of chains, the vehemence of my speech or the reminder of my poor health? It matters not. The captain insisted I wait back in my cabin and they would deliver my recalcitrant apprentice directly to me.

I would have preferred not to let the boy out of my sight, but it became clear that his hands, those beautiful hands of which I have dreamt of for months, had remained hidden from my view for a reason. The captain wanted me out of the room before he had his thug remove the irons from those delicate wrists.

It was just as well. I could not have borne the sight of him bound in such a manner.

I made a great show of pulling my cloak about my shoulders and shivering, to emphasise my sensitivity to the cold. The shivering was a complete farce. In fact, I was burning up. I returned to my little cabin and had enough time to compose myself before the next phase of the deception. I was somewhat stable when the door opened and there Orlando stood.

“Forgive me, my master,” he said formally. “I was… exploring.”

I had to look irritated for the act to work, when all I wanted was to throw myself at his feet and beg him to enter the cabin. “Never mind that. Get in here and cause these men no further trouble.”

The purser muttered something about the ‘lost’ ticket, and I felt it was time to further play up my role of infirme, so I resolutely ignored him.

“Hurry, boy, my poor legs fail me!” I warned.

He rushed to my side and I enjoyed his touch as he gently helped me to the chair. “I am so sorry, master,” he lilted breathily. “Had I known my carelessness would make you suffer so…”

The purser lingered yet in the doorway.

Orlando, or so he was claiming to be called at this moment, knelt at my feet and looked up at me with sly, slightly wicked eyes. “The countess will be furious with me.”

The purser wavered.

Orlando remained at my feet. “Do you need me to apply the ointment to your legs, master?” He began to unfasten my trousers.

The purser magically vanished.

Such is the power of an aristocratic title, even in these modern days, coupled with the prospect of viewing the withered legs of a cursed cripple.

Orlando laughed quietly. “That was quite a performance, Master.” He put a peculiar emphasis on the ‘master’, which made me shiver with excitement.

He had the top two buttons of my trousers undone by the time the door had closed, and those lovely hands lingered over the opening. “Is there some particular ointment you wish me to apply?” This was said in the smoothest tones you have ever heard, chéri.

“Perhaps,” I said. My voice shook. The ointment in question would take little time to appear. He need only smile at me once more and I would be ready to produce copious amounts.

“Or is there some other unguent you wish me to… fetch.”

Saucy lad. But such activity is too risky on a boat. He must have recognized my apprehension. “Perhaps later?” he suggested.

I nodded and he fastened my trousers hastily.

“My apologies for my forwardness,” he said formally, as if he were not ordinarily paid to be forward in that precise manner.

“No need to apologise, I assure you,” I replied, once I regained the ability to breathe. “That was rather daring. What if I had not caught on to your little ruse?”

He was disarmingly casual about the whole matter. A little too casual. It appears I am not the only one prone to over-acting. “I would have thought of some other way to be free of them. There is always some guard willing to be... susceptible to my charms.”

I have no doubt that his considerable charms could free the wretched of all France, if given half the chance. His smile was brilliant, his manner delightfully cocky, yet still subservient. A practiced subservience, but with a hint of honesty beneath it.

I eyed him suspiciously over the top of my pince nez, and he withered under my gaze. (You know how formidable I can be when I put my mind to it.)

The poor dear bowed his head, resting it on my knee (but without truly putting his weight on me, which made me question his sincerity at first, until I realised he was being mindful of my leg.)

“You have rescued me,” he said, “and I will never be able to adequately repay you.”

That I very much doubted, but it was such a charmingly modest notion I let I pass without comment. I did, however, feel the need to clear a few questions from my mind before I could let down my guard and resume my unabashed lust for him (from a much closer range than I had previously hoped possible.)

“What are you doing here?” I asked. Surely he had not had the audacity to assume there would be someone aboard willing to hide him or pay his passage simply on the basis of his (considerable) attractiveness. “Why on earth do you need to go to France so badly? And for that matter, why should I help you?”

“Monsieur Artiste,” he said, “I beg of you, do not put me off the ship. You have heard, have you not, of the arrest of Oscar Wilde?”

I had not, but I would later learn it had been all the rage to whisper of it up on deck. I had been too intent on wallowing in my loneliness to hear the news.

“The police came looking for me a few days ago.” He raised his head. “They wanted me to testify against Oscar… against Monsieur Wilde.”

“Testify?” I said aloud. How awful. Can you imagine testifying against someone for loving you? Perhaps not loving, but I know enough about Oscar to know he would never harm the lad.

“They say he is… you know what they say. And they suspect I am a favourite of his. They want me to say we did things together. They want me to testify against him in court. And I cannot. I will not. Oscar has always been good to me. He is a generous and kind man.” My poor dear became quite flustered at that, with reddened cheeks and misty eyes. They made him even more beautiful, whether or not they were genuine.

I dared to reach out and touch his smooth, hot cheek. “Go on,” I urged him as gently as possible. Just to feel his skin made me weak.

“They said if I do not testify against him, they will put me in the gaol. I lied to them; I told them I would go to the courthouse, but I ran away. I have been hiding ever since. Sir, I beg of you, I need only safe passage to France, and I will bother you no more. But hard labour I cannot bear. And just look at me, Monsieur. What do you think would become of one who looks as I do… in prison?”

I did not even wish to contemplate the possibilities.

I do not know if I entirely believed the tale. It was almost too simple. But he certainly seemed convincing enough. And the fear in his eye chilled me.

At the same time, the gentle touch of his forehead to my knee warmed me filled me with impure thoughts worthy of a true hedonist. The contradictions were enough to topple me with a feather.

“You are not only a great artist, but a good person. I can see that in your eyes, Monsieur. I saw you from the dock and took this chance, hoping I would not be discovered on the ship, but trusting to your good nature that you would help me.”

Very clever of him, do you not think, chéri, to appeal to me from so many different directions at once? An unnecessary effort on his part, since I could not, in good conscience, allow him to suffer.

Nor would I have cared what my conscience had to say on the matter if it had been troubled. I would give anything to this lad. Anything.

I told him I would not only be his escort for the journey, but that I would be delighted to escort him to our great city. He has promised to work off his debt to me and, again, I do not know how much I believe him, but he seems sincere.

The voyage was almost over by then, so I barely had time to put away my papers and prepare to disembark. He jittered nervously as he helped me put on my coat.

“You need not fear,” I told him. “I will not betray you.”

He gave me a weak smile, not the confident one from Oscar’s party. Whatever courage he had found to perform such a bold stunt had fled him, and he looked even paler and thinner, suddenly. I realised he had probably not eaten for some time. There were dark circles under those lovely eyes, with a haunted air about them. I resolved to procure the necessary victuals and rest for him as soon as possible.

On landing, we took a room at an inn for the night. It was small, cosy, quite intimate in atmosphere. And there, as he built a fire in the little hearth and heated water for the washstand, I pondered my great difficulty.

You know me well. I have never shied from an encounter of any kind, nor have I stinted the world in the distribution of my seed. And therein lies the rub, as they say.

During the last medical consultation with my esteemed physician and former roommate Henri Bourges, I was informed of the progression of my condition. He is becoming an expert in the field of the venereal diseases, syphilis in particular, thanks to the tutelage of Doctor Fournier.

Bourges has become quite dedicated to the eradication of syphilis (something of which I wholeheartedly approve, so long as its eradication does not lead to my own demise.) He has assured me that the new treatments he has been conducting upon me, as unpleasant as they may be, will improve my condition.

He is equally adamant that any continuation of my sexual exploits will lead to the propagation of the disease in others.

Ordinarily, this would not concern me. It is up to others to worry about such complications. No one cared for my welfare when I contracted the dreadful condition. But in the case of this young man…

You see my dilemma, chéri. I want him, with all my soul, but to have him would be to condemn him.

And so, once we were washed and fed and settled in, I granted him his freedom.

I told him he was under no obligation to me at all. He insisted on performing his duties, as he saw them. I insisted he was under no contract to service me. He averred that he desired the encounter, not out of any sense of duty, but for the pleasure of the experience.

You have seen me, Jane. You must know how ridiculous that sounded. Especially since he is of such a rare beauty. But he managed to say it with surprising conviction.

I put it off as best I could. How can I tell this delightful, beautiful, rare young man that I cannot take his body in payment because of something so fearful as the pox? He would run from me the moment I looked the other way.

I chose, for purely selfish reasons, to let him believe I was merely deferring payment. I told him I was exhausted from the journey, that the sea air aggravates the pain in my crippled legs, and he believed me at once. If there is one thing people are quick to believe about me, it is that I am weaker than I really am.

I told him not to fear me. I assured him I would be happy to feed him and keep him warm and safe, and that he could repay me when I was well.

His reaction humbled me. He bent his head and laid his cheek on my withered leg (but once more did not put its full weight on me, so considerate is he) and promised he would do whatever I commanded of him if I only let him stay with me for a while. There was, I do not exaggerate, a tear in his eye.

Of course, he is alone and terrified, in a new country, with a language he only partially understands. And he has been personally threatened by recent events in London.

Even if he were not so personally involved, this vendetta against Oscar could easily become a witch hunt. All young men of his ilk are in danger. The revolution will be crushed. Or at least the authorities will attempt to crush it. They will never be able to crush the will to love, but they will make it damnably difficult to fulfil one’s desires.

Orlando, in all likelihood, does not care about lofty ideals. His aim is self-preservation.

My aim is even less noble. I want to keep him at my side for as long as possible, and if deceit is required then I will deceive. I have no guarantee he is not waiting to rob me in my sleep or worse. The risk, though, is worth the reward.

“I am in need of an apprentice,” I said to him during the journey to Paris. “It is becoming difficult for me to do my work. I need help mixing the paints and reaching the upper parts of the canvas. You are young and strong. I can offer a small wage and training in the arts. If you would like the position, it is yours.”

A fair exchange, you might think. A brief apprenticeship in exchange for his freedom.

It is, in fact, a particularly noble gesture on my part, as it will result in no end of torture for me. He seems to have believed me wholeheartedly about the state of my physical condition, and assumes that once we have settled here in Paris he will be servicing me in all respects. His teasing touches and smiles are full of promise, a promise I will never see fulfilled, since I intend to deny myself. I will not condemn him; I will be strong.

How long he will accept it, I do not know. He may find that he will be better off plying his trade on the streets of Paris. There is certainly a market for a young man of his semblance and skills, and it would pay more than I can afford for an apprentice. Yet he shows a genuine interest in art, and has vehemently expressed a desire to learn. I do not know if I shall ever truly understand him.

He has been courteous and formal in public, warm and caring in private. His behaviour on the journey to Paris was exemplary. He has remained alert and while he never stops letting me know that I need only say the word and all his charms are mine, he does keep a respectful distance from me, mindful of my alleged pain and unwilling to cause me any further distress.

What delicious distress he causes! His voice gives me a warm shiver, his eyes captivate me with every glance, his skin glows, his hair entices, his limbs are strong and graceful, and he even smells heavenly. Unfortunately, he is so attentive, I have barely found a moment to relieve myself of this aching desire for him.

So I write this to you as I watch him sleep. He is stretched on the bed, perfectly, as if I posed him for a picture. His gaze can hold a wickedness, his tongue can be wicked with words as well, and I am sure in other ways I do not care to dwell upon too closely. He is not doubt experienced in a great many salacious acts, but his sleep is the sleep of the innocent. Fearless and open he lies, with limbs outflung, eyelashes fluttering with his dreams across those perfect cheeks.

I have cheated on my vow of absolute celibacy, but only to touch his hair. No longer oiled and tamed as it was when he came to me, as I convinced him to wash it and let it go free, if only for tonight, it surround that beautiful face in riotous angelic curls of richest chestnut. I have allowed my thick, ungainly fingers to weave their way through them. Silken they are, those precious curls. Silken and supple.

He stirs, and I fear he will awaken if I do not douse the light immediately. I dare not rouse him, for tomorrow he could be gone. At least, even at this darkest time of night, I can sit and enjoy the gentle sound of his breath, and take comfort in the knowledge that I was the one to set him free.

So this is what it is to be truly in love.

I hope it will be worth whatever pain accompanies it.

Avec tout mon amour,
Henri



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