A pint of ale, my good man!

I say, isn’t this nice, the bastion of England; the English boozer. It’s nice to get away from the stuffiness of one’s clubs once in a while and just sit and enjoy an ale with my fellow country men… none of this “your membership fees are due for renewal” nonsense.

And you there young man, what’s that you are reading?

Karl Marx, eh?

I see…

I see…

Yes, I will watch out young man, thank you for warning me .

Gosh, all this talk about seeing and watching reminds me of a little hoo-hah I had back in the spring. Let me tell you about The Peeping Parisian …

I was in Paris with my good friend Lady Watson, Do you know her at all? Of course you don’t , silly me. Well, I shall continue. It was all terribly, terribly exciting. Lady Watson had been asked to play in the Open Lawn Tennis tournament and I was to be her chaperon – a duty I did not take lightly, I might add.

Paris, as usual, was absolutely charming and the tournament got off to a most stupendous start. Lady Watson was up against the Italian entrant Fiorella Ricci and it was even-stevens right up to the last set, until Lady Watson really gave her one. The second day was a day of nail biting as she was trailing to the Bulgarian, but fought back magnificently in the final three sets to qualify through to the third day – but I digress!

My story begins on that first night, for you see, I was awaiting for Lady Watson outside the changing room chalet enjoying a quick shag, when all of a sudden there was a scream from inside. I immediately dropped my pipe and went to investigate.

No sooner had I stepped one foot inside, when the Countess Tanja and Lady Watson appeared. They told me that some cheeky sod had been peeking through the window as they were getting changed – I do have to say, they were in remarkably good spirits about the whole affair, but to put them and the rest of the young ladies at ease. I volunteered that the next night, I would patrol the chalet.

And patrol I did, with my cane under my arm and my top hat on – obviously the peeper must be a ragamuffin, so I was counting on the fact that a gentlemen being present would be enough of a deterrent.

Imagine my horror when, ten minutes later, I heard a scream come from the changing rooms. The low life blighter had cunningly taken up refuge inside, unseen, hours earlier, hiding himself behind a firescreen and a pile of dirty towels.

That certainly had put the willies up the girls, so I took them all back to the Hotel Bristol where Lady Watson and I were staying and insisted they all had a stiff one. A peeping tom is one thing, but one that hides behind a firescreen, jumps out and then runs off with one’s pantaloons is something else.

It was over these brandies that my artful plan was hatched. Now, as an old Oratorian and as I’m sure every ex public school boy would attest, wearing women’s clothing is de rigueur and that is exactly what I planned to do. The Romanians had been unable to muster up a player this year, so with the aid of one of the Countess wigs, I would take their place. My name was to be Lvantie.

To aide to my disguise, as I no longer have the legs of a pubescent boy, Lady Watson was most kind in helping me prepare. I also came up with a most ingenious way to attach a cricket box to hide ones modesty without the use of straps.

Match day, I was to play in the last game of the afternoon. To even things up, my opponent was an overly balanced Austrian named Greta. It was fair to say we were evenly matched in stature and I don’t mind admitting I lost the game. I consoled myself with the fact that I was not there to win, but to catch a peeper. Having an inclination that the peeper in question might be in the crowd, I did something that would have been unspeakable had I been a real lady. As I went to shake hands with Greta, I scratched my debonair, in the process raising my skirt a good whole three inches and flashing my ankle which was met by a huge gasp from the crowd.

Back at the changing chalet, I entered alone and facing the wall, stripped down to how God made me – except for the wig and the cricket box. Sure enough my ankle flash had done the trick as the moment I had finished removing my brassiere, I heard the window latch go. I kept as still as a statue as the vagabond entered and listened as he approached. Choosing my moment carefully I spun around and shouted:

“Ecce Homo!”

His face was a right royal picture and on the spot he froze. After a quick adjustment to my cricket box which had nearly come off, I shouted:

“I don’t know if you speak Anglais, you pesky peeping tom, but I know one language you will understand.” And with that, I proceeded with a single left-right hook combination. When he got up off the floor, I picked him up, marched him outside and gave him a good kick in his derriere to send him packing.

For the rest of the competition, the girls were safely able to get changed in private. Sadly Lady Watson was knocked off by the German on the fifth day, but it was a jolly good effort and she held her head high.

I say, just noticed the piano over there. Who’s up for a good old sing song of “I’ve got two lovely black eyes”?

It is to be my greatest work – “The Temptation of St. Anthony”. In this space here the great Saint will be on his knees with his arms up to heaven as he is surrounded in the desert by the most foul trickery the devil can conjure. I shall be using both subtlety and the explicit to depict the temptations; this line here will be the long path that St. Anthony has walked. Over here will be a creature representing sloth and I will draw the viewer’s eyes to the blisters on the Saint’s feet – that is just one of many examples that I will create in this piece.

The work has been commissioned by none other than Prince Albert of Monaco himself, I might add, and a thousand hours alone have been spent on the primary sketches. The canvas I had specially made, due to it size, by sailmakers in La Rochelle, and I have not been able to enter my humble bedroom for three weeks now, as that has been given over to stockpiling the paint needed for my masterpiece.

My greatest preparation has been, however, facing the devil and the demons in my own soul. For forty days and forty nights, I did not leave this building and created my own hell by taking residence on the roof, and existing with nothing but the clothes I wear now and drinking nothing but Absinthe – I know my demons’ names.

Today, I start on working on the Virgin Temptress who will be standing inches away from St.Anthony, offering herself unconditionally to him. In this void here, I will create beauty, temptation and strength. And … ah, here comes the model herself, recommended by my good … well, friend Toulouse-Lautrec

“Bonjour, Madame, are you ready for pure beauty in encapsulation?”

“I’ve heard it called a lot of things in my time, but not that. How do you want me, on top or below?”

“What are you doing?” I cried, as she started to unbutton my flies.

“Oh right, it’s that and not the other – silly me. You would not believe this morning I’ve had. I don’t know If I am coming or going and…”

Mon Dieu! I thought, as I noticed she had teeth befitting the English, but still she did have a certain femme fatale look about her. “Madame, if you wouldn’t mind, we have a lot to do and I want to capture you before I lose the magnificent light coming through the skylight.”

“Right then, who am I am going to be then? Last week I was Arse-Miss”

“Arse-Miss ?”

” Arrrssseee-Miss-I was standing there bow in one hand with a doggie at me feet”

“You mean Artemis, the Greek Goddess of hunting?”

“Yeah, thats the one, Arse-Miss.”

I sighed before continuing, “I am painting the Temptation of St Anthony.”

“Who was he then?”

“He was the father of all monks who had a divine connection with the heavenly and fought a supernatural battle of the mind against temptation from the devil.”

“You’ll have to go a bit slower, I didn’t quite get that all, now his father was a monk and…?”

“Madame, please if you don’t mind …the light. Now if you could just disrobe and I need you to show Temptation…. No, no need to put your hand out… or your leg…. or your hand on your hip… Do you mind if I…?”

“Brrr, your hands are cold.”

“Now Madame, if you can just hold this pose.”

“No problem, you know I was with Bernard last week, and he said Elita if there is one thing you do good, and that is to hold…”

“Madame, please – the light. I really do need to get started.” Finally, I said silently as I began to mix the Tempera with my brush. As any artist will tell you, you can not beat that first stroke to canvas and… Christ, why had this creature begun laughing? “Madame?”

“Up there, that picture behind you?”

“Pandora opening the box? What about it ?” God knows why I asked.

“Yeah, that’s Eloise from the Ruse Des Moulins isn’t it? I’d recognize that bum anywhere! Amount of laughs me and her have had. One time it was the both of us and this Greek gentlemen who wanted us to …”

“MADAME! The light! Please! ”

“Sorry, here I am chatting away and you’re trying to ..”

“MADAME!” Ah, silence at last, but then: “Madame, did you just pass wind?

“Sorry, as I said, been running around all morning. Been on my back, up against a wall, only had had time to gulp my lunch before I came….”

I scowled at her, which seemed to do the trick. Finally my brush was on canvas and I could begin my magic, oh Christ!

“Do you think my left boob is slightly smaller than the right?”

–00–

…It was just shortly after that, that I grabbed my pallet knife and well, I imagine it was the women below me who ran out to the street when the screaming started. I do have to say Gendarme, I am surprised how little time it took you to turn up. Normally there is never a policeman when you need one in this part of town. I have to say, for such a horrid creature, she looks wonderfully peaceful lying there – despite all the blood. Would it be terribly rude of me, if i grabbed my sketchbook? … oh.

“Et tu Brute?”

The words echoed loudly around the room as Brutus thrust his dagger into Caesars Chest and watched silently as the dictators body, now devoid of any life, fell to the floor.  The lights came down and the crowd went wild.

Duke Vessèy had done it again, as the lights came back on and the crowd shouted “Bravo!”, he stepped forward still holding the knife and bowed to the audience who continued to shower him with praise.

He only put on one play a year and it was normally of a historical context and strictly for one night only. The audience were invited personally by the Duke himself and he carefully selected people he believed to be of a certain bel espirit.  There were many who had tried and failed miserably to obtain an invitation by bribery, for his plays were the talk of legend in European aristocracy.

The plays were written by the Duke himself who was fluent in Ancient Greek, Latin and French and even if the time period was not classical or part of French history, he would normally assimilate the play into one of those languages.  The preparation work that went into them was staggering and he would spend all of the 364 days between them as a recluse, meticulously planning, writing and organising the next one.

He paid the patronage of several artists at the Royal Academy of Painting and Sculpture in Paris and  in return, they provided set designs and backdrops, which were masterpieces in their own right . Three years ago the play had been about the Rape of the Sabine women the main backdrop of a burning city was so atmospheric that the audience swore that somehow the Duke had made the flames move. One scene in this year’s play had featured Caesar giving a speech in the city of Rome and the perspective was so perfect and the illusion set, that the audience started looking around the room trying to trace the continuation of imaginary walls.

The Duke had set up a palazzo in Florence for the sole purpose of making the costumes each year and they were made of the finest silks and materials money could buy. Cleopatra’s robes had taken over  two thousand man hours and was sewn with real gold thread. The costumes from previous years’ plays were proudly displayed in the great hall at his Château which his guests would walk past on their way to the theatre he had set up in the East wing – perfect for getting his audience in the mood.

No expense was spared on props either: last years play had been based on the story of Ivan the Terrible and the Tsar’s staff had been decorated by no less than fourteen of the finest goldsmiths of  London. This year twelve  armourers were employed and installed on the grounds to produce the Armour for the large battle scene depicting Caesar conquering the Gauls.

The effects were also perfectly executed: the audience dived to the floor as a volley of arrows flew past their heads into the Gauls on stage. Huge gas lamps high above the audience made them sweat as the action moved to ancient Egypt, but it was the blood they loved most. The front row was sprayed as a Centurion brought his sword across a barbarian’s neck, to which they responded with a cheer. When King Ptolemy brought the freshly decapitated head of the General Pompey through the audience, splattering them in blood and entrails, they let up a large roar of approval.

The crowd rose to their feet as the house lights came up, and the Duke continued to bathe in the ovation. He stood there for a good five minutes before bringing his fingers to his lips and requesting his guests to join him out on the patio – he would of course get changed first so as not to shatter the illusion of the world he had just created.

As the guests piled out, no one had noticed that Caesar hadn’t moved.