A very unusual gentleman

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A series of  ‘lost’ diaries, recently discovered in a house belonging to the estate of one of England’s historical seated families, has brought to light a most intriguing story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The author of this substantial piece of work, totaling some 100 volumes, is something of a mystery to the public at large. Although better known through his influence as one of the leading art experts in a select, albeit, smaller circle of societies oldest wealth, his life beyond these social engagements, writings and public talks was completely secret; Until now.

P K Randolph was a hugely prolific writer, and the adventures, explorations and reflections on matters of art, taste and manners plays out over years through a series of correspondence between himself and his compatriot Marmaduke.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Experts are calling this discovery the most important literary, artistic and social find of the century, and plans are already afoot to publish these journals for all the world to marvel, revel and take delight in.

George Renaig, who represented the estate of Randolph, called this collection “Significant” and “As important a piece of literature as I have ever read”.

Professor Angus T. Cruft made the following comment on the historical and social context of the works; “In a time when being British is something that confuses people. In a time when manners have given way to debauchery, lack of style and complete absence of social etiquette. In a time when pleasantries exchanged between strangers in public places has been replaced by the insane rantings of those more at home in the cold rat infested containment of Bedlam, at last every gentleman has a mentor and every lady a hero. For me, Randolph represents everything that is fine, decent and good about the moral fiber of a golden age of enlightenment, class and fine taste.

We can learn a lot from Randolph and his perfect sense of what is proper and good bringing a little bit Randolph to our everyday bleakness”.

In short, these adventures are destined to become best sellers and would be hugely entertaining as a motion picture.

Dear Marmaduke – A chance encounter with Mungo ZarZar and his gypsy violin

Mungo Zarzar – gypsy violinist  ’The Amazing Mungo ZarZar and his Gypsy Violin’ the poster proudly proclaimed, as if Mungo’s violin had some sort of equal billing alongside that of his own. Or was indeed possessed of some special dark magic power which rendered it a performing entity in it’s own right. I had first met Mungo in a small Parisian café near Sacré-Cœur in a late night/ early morning drink in following a rowdy night with some chorus girls from the Follies Bergier. Egged on largely by his own alter-ego he reluctantly thou quickly retrieved his violin from a case under the table. Taking it from what appeared to be a camel skin covered case, lined in some equally hairy skin surfaced dirty interior, he flicked a gold coin across the body of his beloved instrument each bounce catching a string and sounding a note, which he then proceeded to tune in a second, before catching the coin between his equally resplendent gold teeth to a rapturous, exited and down right inebriated audience applause. That was just his opener! He was rumored to be related to the great Paganini himself, but given his predisposition for self publicity and a legend in his own lunchtime, that may have been gypsy spin. Certainly his trousers were as tight as old Nic and the ladies swooned and fell faint at the friction, pace and apparently sparks which flew from his bow in an unworldly and intoxicating dexterity of tritons and harmonics only audible by the outside canine circles rummaging through yesterdays Poulet au vin blanc. He struck a pose, feet astride and chuckled to himself a strangely international chuckle derived from his native territory which ranged from eastern Europe to the Caspian Mountain ranges and down as far as North Africa. Indeed another rumor had it that he had fathered some six hundred and sixty six children along the various shifting borders and spice routes he and his Romany band had traveled since he began playing at the age of 2. He stopped at that number for two reasons, the first for obvious anecdotal and mythological reasons and the second due to an accident while performing a stunt where he rode two horses astride – one foot on each, while playing the violin, ending the performance when both horses failed to stop at the rehearsed point and ran either side of a Bedouin Tent spike.

Yours

PK

Grissald Grissalski – Upon a visit to Cheltenham

Taken on a visit to Russia - One of the few pictures that did not capture P K as he had just stepped out of frame to pick up a drink.

Sunday 14^th

Dear Marmaduke,

I happened to run into Grissald Grissalski today at Cheltenham. Having always vowed that since the incident in Nairobi I would keep a discreet distance, the opportunity to question him on the connection between the ancient artifacts and this Gunter fellow seemed fortuitous. Although he had just returned from a commission tutoring the children of the oldest seated royal family in Europe, he was again penniless and living in a run down Jacobean mansion with some wealthy heiress who kept him in food, drink and oil paints. I always remember his Russian – Prussian and Bulgarian lectures on the virtues of turpentine.

Marmaduke, do you remember his single most impressionable advice that he gave to us in our short but heady period under his expert guidance. “Never judge an artist buy his paintings, but always by the state of his brushes”! That inspiration has carried me through many a sitting as I curiously fixed my gaze on the side table for days, and then refused to even look at the finished portrait!

He was pleased to see me and ventured a conversation in broken English for a change.

Apparently this Gunter Schnippe is obviously a preposterous pseudonym as by way of terse research found through the google almanac he turned out to be “-” a fellow famed for his collection of ‘Automata-Sexualle’. He also apparently composed scores for adult orientated cinema, I dare say the dirty fellow damn well stars in them! I’ll let you know the nature of these events in due course. As usual, if you do not hear from me by the agreed time – see to the arrangements and publish the photographs in one of those sordid little dailies!

Yours PK

The curious tale of Hazrat Babajan and the Hound – Dear Marmaduke

 

 

Hazrat Babajan

 

Dear Marmaduke,

Blast damn and bury those cursed flies!.Duke, I really must apologize for the delay in replying to your dinner invitation last month. I am sure it was a pleasant affair.

Under duress, I attended a society function where I was to speak on the brief but significant encounter with Hazrat Babajan and the significance of the facial hirsute prophet’s sandals – both left footed..Although, to my delight Lady Isabelle Clover was in attendance, I felt ill at ease with the whole paraphernalia and pomp. My levels of tolerance towards polite company these days leaves me severely frayed at the edges as I battle to keep my composure. Indeed it is all I can do to avoid severely horsewhipping the nearest scoundrel who tries to engage me in meaningless conversations about the mundane world they inhabit. Is there no one capable of a meaningful intellectual sparing?

I do find comfort in staring covertly at Isabelle’s splendid neckline, which is usually enough to distract my hostility towards these cretins..Anyway, damn it all to hell and beyond! Tristian Tattler also made a rather obvious entrance with all his usual amateur theatrics at around 10. I was half way across the hall to give him a right thrashing when an Irish wolf hound ran across my path and near spilling my glass of Romane Conti  followed by a scurrying female figure being dragged wholesale after on the other end of the leash!.Damndest thing! .

I heard a mans voice calling after the wench, Ms Harris, who resembles one of these new genetic experiments I read about in the institute paper – half female hobbit and half Cornish pixie with what can only be described as the gobble of an hysterical turkey for a laugh.

The room erupted into spontaneous laughter and hysteria as all manor of hell broke loose. Tables flying, cream cakes tossed and spectators diving for cover as the dog was frenziedly pounding back and forth dragging Ms Harris along.

In the fracas, a plate of Bavarian sausage was upturned and sent flying, saucer like, across the spatial contours of the barrel vaulted ceiling. No sooner had this weird scene unfolded than I turned to spy the collision of the said sausage, which caused a dangling chandelier to begin whirring perilously high over Isabelle’s head like the sword of Damocles. I dived headlong, like a prancing leopard, over the heads of some of the more static audience and landed on a cake trolley. This gave the wheeled apparatus enough torque and drive to continue in a westerly direction towards the plate glass French windows. Half way across the oak floor however, one of the castors hit an ill fitted iron nail and jarred my progress. Spinning like a jenny I continued a few degrees off my westerly path, but still able to reach out and grab Lady Isabelle, pulling her from danger, delivering her to a place of safety at the extremity of the hall and saving the day. Or at least that was what I thought had taken place.

I awoke on the terrace looking up a crowd of faces all jeering at me and one gentleman tutting severely as he prodded me with his walking stick, shouting ‘Damn pervert’! as I looked at my right hand clutching what was left of Isabelle’s skirt and half of her undergarments!

I immediately realized I had misjudged my grasp of the lovely lady by some inches as I span out of control, and instead had managed to grip only her garments, half removing them as she screamed and shielded her nether region from the on-looking crowd. Added to my dismay, Tattler had been at hand (literally) to assist her in shielding her peach-like derriere), the Chandelier had fallen on the hound which was now indiscernible from the Bavarian sausage, and all eyes were on me as sole perpetrator of the entire scene.

 Once I had fully comprehended my error I sprang to my feet once and, as if inhabited by the ghost of Hazrat Babajan herself, began speaking in tongues as I created a ruse under which my actions could be accounted for. The crowd were spellbound by my performance and I spent the remainder of the evening feigning a recovery from my psychic encounter to rapturous applause and a hefty sale of my book on the subject..I later apologized to Isabelle for any incident caused beyond my control.

Yours PK

Dear Marmaduke – Wednesday 29th January

The following correspondence was take from volume 5 of P K Randolph’s letters to Marmaduke. Each volume held some 900 entries and was used by Historian Hertz Van Rental to clearly chart Randolph’s travels during the spring of that year. He had travelled extensively in mainland Europe in February and had returned home unexpectedly, for one week only, to attended a charity event in Bloomsbury.

Little has been discovered as to the exact nature of what followed, but within 2 days he had left the country and did not return for some 13 months. He was reportedly spotted in Vienna and subsequently Moscow by a contemporary of the Royal Society of English Antiquities at a cafe on the outskirts of Vienna, but this was never verified beyond the gossip of society circles. There is however a brief mention of the sudden departure in a letter from Prince Albert to the Royal Horticulture Society at Kew, Subscribers and Patrons review yearbook (Page 10, Paragraph 4) and a further brief mention in the local Police report, following the initial incident.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                               

              

Dear Marmaduke,

I am flummoxed and confounded! And not to say a little miffed!

Having taken my morning bath at the unearthly hour of 10.30 a.m. I was pondering the distinction between mechanical predetermined process in application of two dimensional pattern, artistic endeavor and cultural expectation as a counterpoint to my theory that all exhibited art renders itself ornament in a derogatory sense when displayed to those who cannot afford it.

I had just finished a shave with lavender scented shaving soap lathered to a perfect consistency by Clementine, my maid. It exactly resembled the meringue mix I specified and she applied it with gusto but precision. My 19^th Century cut throat razor proudly emblazoned the Initials ST and is reputed to have belonged to the fabled barber of old London town.

This lineage does not bother me, for it shaved so perfectly that I could forgive any previous user the occasional slip. Easily done.

To the purpose of my correspondence? I can tell you that it came as something of a surprise when, as I asked Clementine to pass me my Egyptian cotton towel, she got out the bath and reached for the robe only to shriek at the top of her little French voice.

“Mr. Randolph! There is someone at the window four fox eggs!”

“Odd?” I thought aloud, “we are on the second floor! And even with Clementine’s adapted phonetically learned swearing I was more than a little intrigued”

I got out the bath as Clemintine, who had used my robe to shield her naked employee qualities from the gaze of the stranger, ran out of the bathroom and into her quarters, leaving me with a scrubbing brush and careful choreography to shield my own modesty from the stranger.

Sure enough, there was a face barely discernable through the window. Luckily the room was populated by enough steam to have rendered the transparent plane fairly opaque and he was unaware of his captive performers.

I made my way to the beautiful proportions of the four paned sash window and lifted the bottom runner up.

“Can I help you?” I enquired as he bent down to the opened surface and engaged in conversation with my scrubbing brush. I quickly realized this was a mistake and opened the top panel instead.

“Ah! Sorry to bother you!” Replied the stranger, who turned out to be a member of her majesty’s constabulary.

“I should damn well think so!” I replied “It’s not even eleven in the morning!”  I protested with a little to much gusto. ‘What do you want officer….?”

“Sergeant” he replied

“Officer Sergeant?” I replied

“Just Sergeant” He retorted as the steam plumed out of the window to reveal the full error of his untimely interruption.

“Well if you want to be formal! My name is…

“Randolph” He interrupted again ‘I know Sir. You see I’m very sorry to bother you at such an early hour, but I had a report that someone in the vicinity had been acting suspiciously and had been spotted entering your estate via the paddock”.

“Ah that’ll be Panhandle, my manservant” I replied and went to close the window.

“I fear not Sir” replied the Plod “I know Panhandle Sir, he is a regular at our amateur dramatic societies and often plays Widow Twanky in our Christmas pantomimes.”

“Really? I replied with some degree of astonishment that Panhandle had this clandestine pursuit I was not familiar with, “I’m sorry I missed his performance” I exclaimed

“Oh no your not!” replied the Sergeant with mock pantomime retort. “Anyway Sir, back to the mystery in hand.”

“Mystery? I exclaimed “Surely a bit premature” fearing that the Sargeant had picked up far too much of the dramatics from his weekend performance’s “Has a crime been committed? Apart from your good self imitating a peeping tom?”

I suggested that for the sake of my good health, modesty and to enable the Sergeant, clearly a sufferer of vertigo, descend the ladder he was clinging to, and that we reconvene at the front door and continue the conversation.

Well, Duke I can tell you, I was dressed and down those stairs within 45 minutes! Eager to see what was afoot and to let the Sergeant out of the cold December snow.

Dear Marmaduke – Wednesday 4th May

My Dear Marmaduke,

Damn that arrogant cock Tattler!

I today received a curriously worded letter addressed to me in hand and delivered by an unknown messenger by cover of dusk, slipped under the front door.

It interested me emensley as it carried a post mark from the Indian subcontinant and made reference to an issue of urgent attention. Apparently my uncle’s plantation had fallen into the hands of a guerrilla army who, in an attempt to usurp and annex the last bastillion of the British Empire, planned to start trading the bananas for arms, I have chartered a rather small rusted china-clipper and will set sail for Malta from where I would board a cargo ship bound for India.

Duke, I am concerned in no small part to read this on two accounts. Firstly that my uncle has no plantation I was aware of, and secondly that Tattler will be left at large in the home counties without me to keep the peacock strutting cad in his place. This could not have been timed in a more inconvenient manner, as it is the May ball season and just the time that Tattler holds one of his huge balls all the ladies talk about. I do hope my dearest does not attend while I am away.

I have left my house and estate in the hands of my Panhandle, my odious but trusty manservant with strict instructions that he should not again enter the village naked, and that he should leave the goats alone. As usual he protested, and even suggested the compromise of wearing a fez, but I assured him that people in Surrey didn’t like that sort of lewd behavior.

 

Yours

 

P K Randolph