And you once stopped to talk to me.
Sincerely your friend,
Martin Luther Jackson
4th March
He kept me awake and would not let me go. I could only sleep during the day, and once nearly missed a matinee performance as a result. It was only because a rough and unseen hand shook me awake at the last moment that I made it to the theatre on time.
At night he always walked with me through foggy streets of solitude. My friends whom I shunned must have thought I was mad, but what could I do? He was my making and could be my breaking, or so he constantly reminded me. What was I to do?
The solution, as I eventually realised, lay in the manuscript of Countess Otho itself. As the Countess says in Act III: ‘My Acts of Madness must be proclaimed from the church tower. They must be sung and rung throughout the land. They must reach the lowliest rat in the street, and the foulest drab in her fœtid sheets, They must pierce like a dagger through the hearts of proud prelates and psalm-singers. They must be in the minds of merchants and newsboys and sting them to life!’
So I went and saw an old schoolfriend who works at Sotheby’s. As luck would have it—was it luck, or my mad destiny?—he happened to be organising a new departure for the famous auction house: a specialist sale of the memorabilia of crime. Countess Otho would be the star item. That night, for the first time the man in the overcoat smiled.
Today at Sotheby’s they sold the manuscript of Countess Otho amid a fanfare of publicity. Sitting at the back of the auction room, watching the bidding pass the reserve and then go on until it left behind anything Vince will achieve for his wretched Louis XVI escritoire, I feel a sense of triumph and vindication not simply for me, but for another. Meanwhile they are queuing to see me in Rue Morgue and I shall sleep soundly. As I arrive at the stage door this evening I see him quite clearly, standing behind a greasy little knot of Book People. He nods and smiles again. We smell of success. The whole world rings with our madness.
MEETING WITH MIKE
I
It looked as if one of Mad King Ludwig’s fantasy castles had developed middle age spread. It clung to a steep, fir-clad slope; the many turrets and pinnacles, Gothic in appearance if in nothing else, turning its skyline into a forest of steep conical roofs. Between the turrets were stretches of wall into which rows of identical French windows with tiny balconies had been set, each one with a south-facing view over the glittering lake below. Immediately in front of this bloated pseudo-palace, terraced gardens and promenades had been laid out to pleasure a sedentary and unadventurous clientèle. It was, of course, a Swiss hotel.
Or rather, it had been. The fashion for holidaying in Switzerland during the summer was more or less dead by the end of the Second World War and the St Germain Palace Hotel, as it had been called in its heyday, passed through several hands until it was bought by an organisation called the Institute for Psychic Health and made into its headquarters. I knew nothing about the Institute for Psychic Health (usually referred to by the acronym I.P.H.): all I understood was that I was going to its headquarters to see a king about his autobiography.
How this came about can be briefly explained. I am a historian with several fairly successful books to my credit, mainly about the Balkans in the early twentieth century. Have you heard of Paths to Sarajevo , or Crisis in Bosnia ? I wrote them, and it was at the launch of the latter in the Traveller’s Club that I first met Princess Helen of Slavonia.
Experiences with royalty in the past had taught me that its members have a peculiar concept of friendship. To them a friend is a kind of unpaid upper servant. Royals can be enormously kind to you, but you know that at some time they will call in their favours, and you must oblige them or go into the dark. For this reason I was wary of Princess Helen from the beginning,
Sincerely your friend,
Martin Luther Jackson
4th March
He kept me awake and would not let me go. I could only sleep during the day, and once nearly missed a matinee performance as a result. It was only because a rough and unseen hand shook me awake at the last moment that I made it to the theatre on time.
At night he always walked with me through foggy streets of solitude. My friends whom I shunned must have thought I was mad, but what could I do? He was my making and could be my breaking, or so he constantly reminded me. What was I to do?
The solution, as I eventually realised, lay in the manuscript of Countess Otho itself. As the Countess says in Act III: ‘My Acts of Madness must be proclaimed from the church tower. They must be sung and rung throughout the land. They must reach the lowliest rat in the street, and the foulest drab in her fœtid sheets, They must pierce like a dagger through the hearts of proud prelates and psalm-singers. They must be in the minds of merchants and newsboys and sting them to life!’
So I went and saw an old schoolfriend who works at Sotheby’s. As luck would have it—was it luck, or my mad destiny?—he happened to be organising a new departure for the famous auction house: a specialist sale of the memorabilia of crime. Countess Otho would be the star item. That night, for the first time the man in the overcoat smiled.
Today at Sotheby’s they sold the manuscript of Countess Otho amid a fanfare of publicity. Sitting at the back of the auction room, watching the bidding pass the reserve and then go on until it left behind anything Vince will achieve for his wretched Louis XVI escritoire, I feel a sense of triumph and vindication not simply for me, but for another. Meanwhile they are queuing to see me in Rue Morgue and I shall sleep soundly. As I arrive at the stage door this evening I see him quite clearly, standing behind a greasy little knot of Book People. He nods and smiles again. We smell of success. The whole world rings with our madness.
MEETING WITH MIKE
I
It looked as if one of Mad King Ludwig’s fantasy castles had developed middle age spread. It clung to a steep, fir-clad slope; the many turrets and pinnacles, Gothic in appearance if in nothing else, turning its skyline into a forest of steep conical roofs. Between the turrets were stretches of wall into which rows of identical French windows with tiny balconies had been set, each one with a south-facing view over the glittering lake below. Immediately in front of this bloated pseudo-palace, terraced gardens and promenades had been laid out to pleasure a sedentary and unadventurous clientèle. It was, of course, a Swiss hotel.
Or rather, it had been. The fashion for holidaying in Switzerland during the summer was more or less dead by the end of the Second World War and the St Germain Palace Hotel, as it had been called in its heyday, passed through several hands until it was bought by an organisation called the Institute for Psychic Health and made into its headquarters. I knew nothing about the Institute for Psychic Health (usually referred to by the acronym I.P.H.): all I understood was that I was going to its headquarters to see a king about his autobiography.
How this came about can be briefly explained. I am a historian with several fairly successful books to my credit, mainly about the Balkans in the early twentieth century. Have you heard of Paths to Sarajevo , or Crisis in Bosnia ? I wrote them, and it was at the launch of the latter in the Traveller’s Club that I first met Princess Helen of Slavonia.
Experiences with royalty in the past had taught me that its members have a peculiar concept of friendship. To them a friend is a kind of unpaid upper servant. Royals can be enormously kind to you, but you know that at some time they will call in their favours, and you must oblige them or go into the dark. For this reason I was wary of Princess Helen from the beginning,
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