A Connoisseur's Journey Being the artful memoirs of a man of wit, discernment, pluck, and joy.

Preface by the author.

This is my twentieth book, but only the first of my memoirs. Over the course  of my long connection with books, the discovery, the reading, the writing, the rewriting and rereading I have come across many volumes of memoirs, some glorious and gloriously written, some so forgettable that you cannot remember the author even a moment after putting the dreary pages down, vowing to avoid him like the plague forever after. 

However I, dear reader, shall give you what you want in a memoir... humor, indiscretion, secrets, stories of the rich and famous, stories about places and situations you've longed to visit and enjoy. You will learn much in the least demanding of ways... and feel more and more intelligent as you read. You will be in the hands of a man of learning, privilege, and audacity, who has been there, done that, and lived to write the tale. 

There is nothing fair or objective in what you're about to read. Nor should there be. For a memoir is all about you, your life, your point of view, your  unique journey wherever on Earth and in whatever way you choose to make it. And if some—even you!—cavil or object to even a single word or sentiment, why then write your own memoirs, for the genre is open to all. 

Chapter 1

Begin by playing Purcell's masterpiece Sound the Trumpet. I  prefer the  version by that toothsome charmer Alison Balsom. Find it in any search engine...  and turn up the sound. Then turn it up again... 

Welcome again to my very special corner of the world, a  place I first dreamed and then crafted piece by extraordinary piece over so many years now. Here there is unsullied beauty, well earned repose, a never ending plethora of mysteries and enigmas, and, always, those catchyour-breath moments that come when you see, as if for the first time, an old friend who shows you a new side and confides a secret you have longed to learn and now at last know, making you glad all over again that you did all that had to be done to acquire this cherished acquisition which enriches your life every single day. 

It is my privilege to welcome you... for by being here you must be a kindred spirit, no doubt on your own particular voyage of discovery, as happy to connect with me... as I am to connect with you. It is my pleasure to receive  you amongst the thousands who come to see the dream made real. 

A boy from the windswept Midwestern prairies, the unlikely beginning of it all. 

We all wonder, if we have not stifled the urge to wonder, how we came to be what we are today, what influences made us what we are, what events shaped our lifelong realities. Know thyself. We know we should, but  somehow we never have time enough no matter how much time we have. 

And so we live our lives with hardly a scintilla of knowledge about the principal person who thus remains terra incognita until the only terra we have left is six feet under. This, to my way of thinking, has always been the worst possible way to spend one's severely limited time on our very little and deeply challenged corner of the eternal Cosmos. 

I wanted to know where I came from, where I was going; why me, why here, why now? These have been the guiding questions of my life, worthy, adamant, some now (partly) answered, many yet, for all my 68 scrutinizing years, unknown,  perhaps unknowable, tantalizing, baffling, infuriating, always relevant, always  intriguing, sometimes soothing even if quite different than expected or predicted. 

It is your personal and unending course in Self 101, the most important course of your life. Certain key aspects of this crucial course are what you see here, for what  you see is not just so many artifacts and objets d'art but pieces which made their way here, to Cambridge, delivered by my brain, heart, soul and a profound belief in  their importance and relevance to the world worth having, the more so as this world is more at risk, its future more and more threatened and far from secure. 

Wherever we are going, in whatever condition and way we make this journey we need the visions and handiwork of artists howsoever they manifest themselves. 

What you see here is a declaration of their importance and my cohesion to their cause... for without art, the worst of Earth's plausible, possible, pitiable outcomes must already have occurred, and we will need wonder no more at our dismal, dismaying, disastrous destiny. For it will be apparent to all, too late... 

...but it is not too late... yet... and so at 11:57 p.m. Eastern time on this night of seductive springtime I sit down to become, yet again, the narrator of all which has come to reside with me. 

Chez moi. 

I am in the Blue Room, the working center of my vision. The Art Deco chandelier  throws out over 10,000 facets of dazzling light sharply revealing aspects of a thousand  years of civilization, making their amiable, alluring presence known to me, for I am  their careful amanuensis, the keeper of their flame, a necessary link in their history and future, but only a single link amongst the many which have already done their work and those who will do the necessary work in the numberless ages still to come. 

This is what is meant by John Keats' immortal words, A thing of beauty is a joy  forever. There is such beauty here... and I have work to do to ensure that it abides forever and a day. 

This work is painstaking, continuous, meticulous, (largely) unheralded, a true labor of love, but never done alone for the presence of its many inhabitants is palpable, particularly of an evening strikingly apparent when I become the host of a soiree' which draws participants from anywhere and any epoch of human affairs. 

That is when this richly appointed room, inspired by the Emperor Napoleon's chic,  tailored office at Malmaison in suburban Paris, comes alive, crackling with wit and  the cosmopolitan conversation that takes a lifetime to perfect, each word apt, diamond sharp in its use, where the inevitable, inimitable crack is an art form in its own right, a construction of brilliant language that makes you smile and burst out with hearty laughter, even on those frequent occasions when Your Excellency is the target, a fact you may not even discern for hours... or ever. 

Having enjoyed this linguistic apogee, every syllable apposite, you long for the rest of your life to have it again for this salt never loses its savor and the craving never abates. That is why you will return here... often... and why I shall be in the happy position of  greeting you as an old and honored friend, someone I wish to know better. 

Rain, Vivaldi, happiness. 

It is 4:59 a.m. (I am quite precise about such matters). The rain is beating against  the shutters... and one feels the joy that so often comes with falling water, exuberant, determined, impossible to deny. It refreshes... and we need this refreshment so, though I am better at urging it upon you than doing it for myself. 

The landscape is bathing, the air purer and purer still as all things renew themselves for the arduous birthing that is spring in New England. I throw up the sash in my salle de repos, determined to embrace the miracle that gives us life, nurture... and healing. 

What is happening outside my window? Is it alluvion, downpour, outpouring,  cataclysm, torrent, gush, spate, deluge, inundation? To find the precise word and definition I need to embrace the event... and so, in a state of acute dishabille, I merge with the water and assign it a descriptive name... freshet... and turn on the elegance that is Vivaldi. It is his Spring Concerto of 1725 and with every cultured note my heart leaps... for it is always a pleasure, an honor to be touched and improved by genius.  Find this tune in any search engine and see for yourself. So long as Vivaldi soars and uplifts life is good indeed, especially when we perform our ablutions in the bounty of early morning rain. 

The Vista. 

I am looking out over the glistening terrain, but my responsibility towards you is to describe what is within and so the very serious business of selecting representative items begins. Make no mistake. This is a task demanding exquisite judgement and care, for you can be sure whatever is selected will be wrong. The careless, clueless guest asks Why didn't you do that one?, pointing to a masterpiece that once graced  a baronial hall, and not so long ago. Why, to invoke stringent, unthinking criticism of  course (I think but do not say)... for human dissatisfaction is life's greatest certainty, whilst voicing it is our greatest pleasure. The little hyena barks; the great caravan passes by. 

Scenes of allure and heart-stirring perfection. 

I have made it a point of my life and its extensive travels to see as many of the great vistas as possible, places like the Champs Elysee in Paris where la grandeur de la belle France is on perpetual, awesome display... the Mall in England beloved of Her Britannic Majesty where her loyal subjects cannot resist the urge to mingle, venerate, cheer and revere the often bumptious Royals. 

Our American version of this phenomenon is on view in the capital where we see with  a lump in our throat the stirring monuments to freedom, running from the Washington Monument to a great nation's stone cut paean to its greatest man and our greatest ideals.  This is the Lincoln Memorial built to showcase the better angels of our turbulent nature, so often besmirched and tarnished but always our laudable goal, worth the quest and our full commitment. 

I have seen the Eternal City from the top of St. Peter's... the Parthenon by morning's first light, the air more exhilarating than the most smooth and celebrated champagne...  marveled at the tell tale remains of Gott Mit Uns Unter den Linden... and those at Pasargadae where Alexander, newly Great and bloated with victory, cast a torch into the greatest palace of his new imperium, preferring the wild gyrations and  destruction of divine fire to the more pedestrian joys and dull responsibilities of ownership. I confess I have felt that way myself from time to time for the burdens of property can overawe... and make one yearn for the simple joys of back pack and Gatorade. Fortunately such silliness passes, cast away by the merest glimpse of a splendor that never pales. 

And I have stood—as I am standing now—with my back to the expansive windows of the Red Drawing Room astonished again by what I see before me... and it is good. Thus the time has come for me to share. 

I have chosen from amidst so many possibilities a tenacious rhythm, a fanfare  suitable for a prince with a connoisseur's refined taste, suitable that is for you, Monseigneur. 

It's Vivaldi (redux). Violin Concerto in C Major RV 187: Allegro (of course). I am glad  to see you here... glad to give you the full panoply of joyful greeting beginning at the wide-opened front door... the most gracious of practiced bows... two fingers in greeting (not just the one reserved for lesser folk)... a smile that cannot be counterfeit and  signifies the possibility of everything one person of the world can give another such.  Welcome... and behold! 

Here are my caveats, rules, and conditions. Treat them as the very gospel... for they most assuredly are. 

1) (Because to say Look but don't touch generates an immediate touch). 

Don't touch. It means precisely that. (People will touch anyway...) 

2) Don't ask me if they're real. If you do, I shall most surely respond, No, indeed they are from the Martha Stewart Collection at K Mart and priced accordingly. Isn't it amazing what they can do with plastics nowadays? 

3) No, you may neither drink your brewskies in this ostentatious space... nor  throw a Boy Scout pancake breakfast in it either.Things stay pristine longer if they  stay clear of the pernicious body oils of well lubricated humanity... including yours. 

(I have on divers occasions given this adamant advice to the long-suffering staff at the John and John Quincy Adams Presidential site in Quincy, Massachusetts. The exquisite items these men of erudition and taste collected whilst on diplomatic missions of consequence, most ranging from Louis XVI through the various stages of  the French Revolution, are today at risk of final oblivion, worn away by numberless caresses, brought low, to grime and heartbreak by the unabating popularity of the place 

A Connoisseur’s Journey Copyright 2015 Dr. Jeffrey Lant. All Rights Reserved | Page of 396

itself and guards unwilling to do the necessary to preserve, maintain, conserve. If they have not learned their urgent trade... I most assuredly have.) 

4)  Don't ask me, insinuatingly, What are you going to do with all this stuff? The correct answer is Man proposes. God disposes. That is all you need to know. 

5)  Tell me what length of The Tour you desire... you can select from amongst such alternatives as Never-Ending, Interminable  to Fit For the NitPicking Expert, from Quick and Superficial (attention given to pertinent recherche' words and correct pronunciation)... to I just wanted to brag to my friends that I was here... can I take photos? I want to text them to my Uncle Ernie in Dubuque. (One wonders, Philistine, how YOU ever got in?) I SAID DON'T TOUCH! 

Or I simply say, "Point to any artifact you like and I like some wind up toy shall begin... However first you must see the vista in all its exuberant splendor.  I can assure you there is no scene like this in Cambridge, graced though it is by Harvard... or in pretentious Boston (quick to praise its treasures... slow to maintain them)... or any nook and cranny of The Great Republic... or anywhere else on God's green slowly sickening Earth. This is no place for cynics who know the price of  everything, the value of nothing. But surely this is not you. 

Achter lieber, it is 5 a.m. and like the Disney-ized White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland  (published 1865). I am late, I am late for a very important date... with you. I awake in a tumble of clothes having intended to cat nap just until 4. Damn. I hear myself saying,  as if from another person, another brain I must write. I have something important to say...  and so I rush through rooms where Old Masters slumber in meticulous presentation, shouting my mantra as I rush I must write... I must write... I must write! 

The pieces of this important message begin to arrive to be assembled by my not-at allready-for-the-rigors-of-this-day slow awakening brain. The catalog from Dorotheum is where I left it at the midnight hour whilst congratulating myself on this latest acquisition just hours before... and wondered again how I would arrange matters with Peter to conciliate Paul, a collector's never-ending, never-solved conundrum, needing solution but not for hours... and who knows what may be possible or happen by then? In the meantime they are mine and I can exult... 

Paar vierflammige Leipziger Girandolen Silber, rund... um 1810! 

They are the essence of the Neo-Classical ideal, cool, restrained, sleek, cerebral, anchored by the wreath of victory that the confident residents of that time knew was theirs to grasp, to hold, to own, to bequeath as their great gift. As things turned out they were wrong, terribly wrong but didn't know it for a century of brilliant years. Then all their self-congratulatory platitudes of ineluctable progress and unstoppable  civilization died en route to the unimaginable realities of Buchenwald where the most  civilized of people committed the most barbaric of deeds. 

To present them to you I need Beethoven (1770-1827) and his Seventh Symphony written between 1811-1812, at the resort town of Terplice. Here he sought elusive health and hearing and the time he needed to release his genius. One may imagine his benefactor Count Moritz von Fries presenting them, grateful for the chance to provide light for the Maestro who had light enough for the whole world and beyond, whatever his infirmities.  (Go find the Seventh Symphony and its Allegretto movement and hear God for He is at hand in every note.) 

Vite! Vite! M. de La Vrilliere is nigh, the man who had the best of everything once upon a time... and now, in Cambridge, in the Red Drawing Room has it all again. 

The day, this perfect day of rococo clouds and soft breezes, is ending, its allure waning. But I am not ruminating about that daily misfortune, the certain fate of all. No, indeed, for the dying day is begetting the brilliant evening to come, graced by the grandest courtier at the Court of His Most Christian Majesty, Louis XV, Dieu Donne'. 

That is Monseigneur Louis Phe'lypeaux, once comte de Saint-Florentin (1705-1777),  then marquis... then Duc de La Vrilliere... and always (and this is his secret) ami du roi,  for a man who was a boyhood playmate of royalty must rise high indeed... as M. de la Vrilliere most assuredly did. Unassailable, longest-serving member of the Conseil du Roi... his success at Court and the conspiratorial ways he used to achieve it ensure him the unmitigated hatred of a great nation which means to inflict its tangible brutalities upon him, the very essence of the Old Regime, as soon and as often as possible. 

Louis should care...but Louis likes familiar faces at Court and his Excellency is surely that, the most familiar face of all, his cypher omnipresent...  sometime Foreign Secretary...  accorded not merely the highest order of chivalry, the Order of the Holy Spirit... but the signal honor of a precious ship-of-the line named for him... and of course a Parisian palace (now part of the U.S. Embassy at what was then the Place Louis XV, now the Place de la Concorde), suitably grand, comme il faux, the dernier cri of faultless taste for the man who knew everything and everyone and used both (always with care and profound discretion) to get even more. 

Mordant, sardonic, condescending, alive. 

The early morning call was from Paris, from Tajan, the auction house. And it was a matter of life and death. They had a picture... or, at least, what had once been a picture but was now just a box of canvass strips, rolled into tight balls. The picture was in extremis, about to move from a problem to be solved to a problem beyond  solution, perhaps already there. It was Jean Louis Tocque's grand life sized portrait of M. de La Vrilliere, La Vrilliere as he wished to be regarded then and how he insisted upon confronting eternity. 

Look at his picture. Look at this man. Look at his eyes.... These are the eyes of a realist, a pragmatist, a man who knows too much about mankind to have any ideals left at all. He is practical, ironic, a touch of cruelty at the mouth. He is not happy. Who is? But he lives better than anyone... and that must suffice. 

But this picture wasn't living well... it, like so many aristocrats, had been hacked to ribbons by a legion of the unwashed, armed and very dangerous. Had it really hung at Versailles as Tajan's representative whispered, his optimism about a possible sale rising as my interest piqued and ascended, for I was considering not just the matter of the picture but the glory that must result from its restoration? 

If not there, then surely chez le duc where the common people, provoked beyond endurance, destroyed every vestige of the douceur de la vie they had witnessed with sullen rage and murderous determination, people who paid for but were not invited  to the fete. But tonight we celebrate M. de La Vrilliere, Louis Toque' (1696-1772) who  painted him, Simon Gillespie who restored what Toque' had wrought... and me, the man whose deep pockets were effectively emptied by the two years and more it  took to revive the subject, who may (when I was not looking)  have smiled, for surely it was his wiles that saved him, or so he professes to believe. 

Whatever the reason, the result is astonishing, pristine, powerful. I may thus imagine even supercilious, dismissive M. de La Vrilliere condescending (if only for a moment) to say so. He weaves intricate plots so that others do his bidding. This is his metier and his success is very apparent here, but then Tocque' was himself a master who understood and could superbly render every artful nuance of every courtier in Europe...  though like all of them he always preferred to reside at Versailles, ce pais-ci where  the best music on Earth, music fit for Europe's premier monarch (who cared for music only to the extent that it helped magnify his glory) was a given. 

And so for M. de La Vrilliere (who, to my pleased astonishment gave me three fingers in greeting, the greeting reserved for family, the rarely acknowledged social equals and long-time friends who waft incense with graceful humility) you must play the Concerto Grosso Opus 6 Number 4 of Arcangelo Corelli (1653-1713). I  am playing it now; you should follow my lead in such matters, au fait as I am ... 

I recommend Jordi Savall's rendition. To say it is suitable for the entrance of M. de La Vrilliere is to give it high praise indeed. You should play it now and come to know why those who lived through the last days of pre-Revolutionary France always regretted the loss of such a life and its manifold pleasures of every kind. M. de La Vrilliere laments, but only alone in dead of night, or when I am not looking. He must be careful, you see, because he is now encased in glass. 

The day this picture was to be shipped to me, Simon Gillespie, my expert conservator of so many years and over three dozen of my cherished paintings called to say that due to the extreme fragility of this piece, it would have to be glassed, increasing its weight dramatically but also its chances of long-term survival (which after all is the objective). 

And so the splendid gentleman came to live in a glass house... and we all know the  perils therein, none more so than M. de La Vrilliere, who in life did his business in secret, lettres de cachet which consigned anyone to prison without cause his speciality and the proximate cause of his ultimate downfall (for he used too many too flagrantly) . He can no longer do so and that, I say, is progress. 

But sir... 

It is 6:30 a.m. and I am at my post, alert, on the qui vivre, for today, like so many days before is an auction day; a day when I take my slender acquisitions fund and go forth to battle the rich and famous (and if fortunate) to victory... which means to add a must have artifact... and to do so without breaking the bank. This involves experience,  judgement, self control, constant learning and research, knowing when to bid and when  to pass... oh, yes, and iron nerves, for you will have but 60 seconds (rarely more) to make  your irrevocable decision, for good or ill, before the auctioneer's resounding gavel, the ultimate authority, bangs down. Next! 

When the catalog for the December Harewood House, sale arrived I dropped everything to immerse myself in its restrained richness. I will not say I was beguiled by everything I saw. I was not. For the Royal Windsors often astonish and amuse us by the unmistakable presence of kitsch amongst the breathtaking masters of light, form, line and color. Her Majesty and her brood may have Sheffield tastes but these are easily cloaked by their resplendent sterling silver habitat. And so I slowly, carefully perused the catalog, packed with Royal photographs featuring the inevitable dogs and horses, such important  features in the family's much considered iconography. Thus my acquaintance with Her  Royal Highness The Princess Mary, The Princess Royal, The Countess of Harewood (1897-1965) was renewed...  for her path and mine had crossed before. Here is what connects us. 

Beautiful isn't is? Magnificent, coming with a tale I have not told before. One day  years ago my mother, Shirley de Lauing Phelps, Baroness de Barlais y de Kezoun (in her own right) and I met in New York for one of those encounters so honest, so true, so revealing, so intimate that even its most fleeting memory can trigger an avalanche of concentrated sentiment, painful to recall because so perfect of its kind,  now existing only in fading photographs and my imperfect memory... and the masterpiece by Paul Storr (1771-1844) who turned silver into fluent splendor. 

POM (Poor Old Mother) and I dropped into Sotheby's to peruse what came to be my first significant silver purchase. I was doing well in my many endeavors. It was party time in the Great Republic and no one knew better how to get down. I had life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness at hand. Some grandiose memento was required... and this was it. It was crafted by Storr as a present King George III gave to his Prime Minister George Canning (1770-1827) who died young only months in his high office. So from Master to Sovereign to First Lord of the Treasury... and so on to The Princess Royal... and to me. 

I see it now as I write in the darkness of early morning. It sparkles, a thing beyond  the merely precious, a brazen thing that says, "Look closely at me, you who purport to own me. You merely follow so many in the great chain of ownership whereas I abide... 

and you do not. Look at me, then, for in me is eternity." 

Doctor Lant a perdu une bataille mais Doctor Lant n'as pas perdu la guerre. 

In the darkest days of World War II, at the nadir of its immemorial national saga, General Charles De Gaulle appointed himself savior not merely of France but, more importantly, of French Honneur. This meant tenacity!  Commitment! And resolute determination not merely to try but to try and try again until at last the shame of defeat was transformed into hard won victory and ineradicable self respect! For that is the essence of La Gloire which is the true reward of victory. 

Why am I telling you this? Because, after the last two frustrating days in the London auction market, days when I came up empty-handed, I am spending a Friday evening licking my wounds. I am disappointed, of course, that none of the important artifacts of splendid provenance—from His Grace the (first and famous) Duke of Wellington... to his loyal side kick the first Lord Raglan of Crimean War fame.... to items from the Marquesses of Londonderry—will be coming to Cambridge to gild my lily. I had at least 9 items marked... and got nothing, well and truly skunked. 

I even broke my own most adamant rule: never to bid more than the low estimate. All to no avail... Prices in this most aristocratic of sales, with over flow crowd, soared into the absurd stratosphere, thereby proving yet again (some) people have money to burn and no sense whatsoever when the merest whiff of ancient and glamorous aristocracy is present. 

No bargains today. 

And so I do two things to put me in convalescent mode. 

First, I find the famous quotation of June 18, 1940 by le General Charles De Gaulle...  La France a perdu la baitaille mais la France n'as pas perdu la guerre, altering it as you see above. 

Then, I turn on and turn up La Marseillaise, one of the most stirring pieces of music ever written (1792).  Marchons, marchons... le jour de gloire est arrive'. And not only did I feel better... I truly knew the joy I should feel when that day of triumph would be mine again, surely and forever obliterating the memory of today's exasperation. 

.... which brings me back to Her Royal Highness The Princess Mary and her home at Harewood House... and a moment of unalloyed happiness. I should warn you. I have locked all the doors and windows and hidden all your cunning electronic toys, smart or otherwise. You see, you are going to listen to this perfect moment of my total glee so make yourself comfortable. You may be here a while since I aim to indulge myself... to my complete satisfaction and, I trust, to yours; but at least to mine. 

Insulting low ball offer. 

I was waiting for my lot to be called. It was a beautiful mahogany inkstand by renowned master Matthew Boulton (1728-1809), and I craved it for my burgeoning, perhaps unique desk set collection; called encrier in France, inkstand in England, desk set by me; the ornate place where one stores one's ink, sand, quill pens, candles and everything else one needs to produce a psychologically revealing letter in the days before typewriters and  computers obliterated the personal aspect delivered only in handwriting. I am mad keen on these sets whose eye-popping opulence increases with their owner's rank in society. 

Here, too, princely prices derailed my plan. But as we all know, God opens a window when He closes a door... and so it proved here, for you must surely know He is an auction goer, though He has no known purchase limit. 

My Matthew Boulton went elsewhere but whilst that situation was playing itself out  I became aware that a striking pair of three-light figural Directory candelabra (c.1795)  had gone unsold. Price was the reason. They were aggressively over estimated at about $50,000 ... the kind of estimate that causes even the most experienced auction goer  audibly to gasp and gasp again. A thing of beauty should be a joy forever not the cause of a stroke. 

But now these items of princely provenance were forlorn and miserable, all dressed up, no place to go. Under the circumstances what could I do but call my representative at the auction house and make one of my famous insulting low ball after sale offers? And so I did... thereby producing an audible gasp at (for once) the other end of the phone line.  Delicious. The game was now afoot... and I had absolutely nothing to lose. 

Are they yours? 

Where do the pink-cheeked English gels with their perfect peaches and cream  complexions come from, their bell like voices trilling every word, distinct and  unmistakable... charming and irresistible? If I were in the market for a wife, I should surely look for mine amongst their ilk for an English rose would smell as sweet by any other name; my joint-creaking and gray haired Romeo to her lithe and lovely Juliet. 

Thus begins the drill. 

I make a bid. She says But, sir...  and reminds me often and emphatically that the objects are from one of England's greatest country houses... that they were owned by a royal princess, in fact The Princess Royal... and that any normal person would cough up—and at once—enough coin of the realm to ensure the sale. 

I say, I have bid what I am going to bid. And then by pointed questioning get  her , aristocracy's factotum, to confirm that she is not the owner, not the decision maker, and that she should get on about the business of presenting my offer to the powers that be without recommending I pony up another penny, no not even a single penny more. 

Thus we dance this dance for several tiresome days during which this perfect English miss tries every while and stratagem on this boisterous prairie lad who was not born yesterday... without making a dent. I reiterate my after sale bid; she reiterates her punch line, But, sir. It seems to be a stalemate until... 

And here we need music for the continual, unending clash between ambitious people  struggling for their opulent place in the sun... and the petted aristocrats whose fine lives were ensured by their preferred zygotes. 

First up Aaron Copland's Fanfare for the Common Man (composed 1942). There is nothing of Europe in these strident and arresting chords... nothing of kings and lavish  palaces. There is no minuet, no saraband, no polonaise. There is instead the resonant new sound of a great new people, an ardent people with primal determination and tenacious, unyielding spirit, enough to change the world if only they remain true to themselves and their highest purposes. 

They demand freedom... to be, to go, to dream and aspire, to love, to worship,  to labor in their own vineyard, and always to rise above... They go where they must...  to do what must be done. They look out at nothing and perceive the future that is everything, taking hands and hearts to the good Earth to get it. 

They walk with God. They are His people, and they bow their heads in reverence to Him alone and to no one and nothing else. They fear nothing and dread nought. Play this fanfare now... for it is your sound, played for you in recognition of all you have done...  all that has been done for you, and all you have yet to do for yourself and others. 

Sink me. This place is a mausoleum. Noblesse oblige. 

It is 5:53 a.m. It is Memorial Day, and I am, as usual, at my post. This time the matter under discussion is finding the suitable film version of the doggerel written by Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet in Baroness Orczy's 1905 classic novel The Scarlet Pimpernel; twice memorably rendered, first by Leslie Howard (1934), thereafter by Anthony Andrews (1982), both memorable fops indeed. 

"They seek him here. They seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. 

Is he in heaven or is he in hell? That demmed elusive Pimpernel." 

It is amusing to deride the nobility, de rigueur if you are sans-culottes, nothing better or more satisfying. After all, When Adam delved and Eve spanned, who was then the gentleman? This ultimate put-down of the very concept of nobility came from John Ball, a leader of the English Peasant Rebellion of 1381. Of course, when the members of that  nobility finally caught their man, they flayed him, but whether because he was right or wrong in his characterization of his betters no one, high or low, dared say...  not  least for fear 

they should suffer the exquisite pain of also being skinned alive before a numerous public  avid

to see you fail the ordeal each feared for himself, if not here, then hereafter. 

The beau ideal of nobility. Fanfare required. Sans peur et sans reproche. 

To set the mood for this subject you sadly know so little about, I have selected Sir 

William Walton's galloping music, so apt for the unexpected, total victory of Agincourt 

(1415) where the outnumbered host of King Henry V slew the flower of the supercilious French noblesse, the signal victory which spurred great Shakespeare to some of his greatest and most impacting rhetoric... not least the merest handful of brilliant words that  never fails to provoke the wanton tears: 

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers. 

For nobility is not merely about moated castles, courtly manners and gorgeous raiment, the richest costumes worn with superior attitude and cool panache... Rather It is first and  foremost about service... service against great odds, the greatest odds; service that is  perilous, dangerous, selflessly done, never for personal gain but out of a pure heart set  to work for the lowest, the most needy, desperate, pitiable and forgotten... never seeking crass advantage nor vainglorious notoriety nor the baubles of vanity... disdaining all, all but honor. But if it be a sin to covet honour/I am the most offending soul alive. (King Henry V, Act IV, scene 3.) 

A notable anniversary. 

It is 2:53 a.m. I am up later (or earlier as you'll have it) than usual today. But then this particular day is not usual... no indeed. For it is the 44th anniversary of my first Harvard Commencement in 1970. I remember this day as if it were yesterday... as close as yesterday yet, as I peruse the fading photographs of this event, as distant as the moon. 

I stare out at the world with optimism, determination, a willingness, indeed an eagerness to take my new sheepskin and astonish the known universe and beyond with every talent  I had employed to get it. I was very young looking, causing comment even from strangers that I must be awfully bright to be at such a place and launching pad when so very, very wet behind the ears. I said nothing, giving the distinct appearance of a modesty I had no claim to; every Harvard graduate, especially on Commencement Day, knows this feeling for we all know that we are now invincible, and nothing less. 

I searched my looking glass this morning. I was glad to see something of that ardent young man still remains and that my face did not (yet) resemble the wedding cake left out in the rain which is what the English poet W.H. Auden (1907-1973) memorably found when he looked incautiously in his glass. 

I am not too proud to tell you that when a new friend of mine, just 27, yesterday complimented what the ravages of time had left me, with what amounted to a wow and a whistle, I blushed; if not outwardly, then surely within, my gratitude real, my relief  abundant and profound. 

I am thus reinforced in my persistent belief that I have many adventures still to come, people to see, places to go, the chimera of love in all its many splendors very much alive and well chez moi, the place I now reside, just three blocks or so from where that youthful lad commenced the trek that has lead, amongst so many things, to the particular page you have in hand. 

I feel what Jane Austen (1775-1817) must have often felt, she who never saw anything beyond 50 country miles of verdant Hampshire... yet saw with crystal clarity, rendered into perfect wording, everything that was valuable and true about her fellow travelers. I am happy to be able to make this comparison, for like beloved Austen I have always believed that the greatest of truths and human observations can be found in the least notable of places and in people wrongly regarded as dull and pedestrian. It took just one woman of observant genius and precise observation to put paid to a  great and dismissive error, replacing it with the greatest insight and truth. 

7:41 a.m. I have just returned from my tour d'horizon on this Thursday of Harvard Commencement, May 29, 2014. The air is chill at this early hour, when all the necessary elements of this annual tableau come together and scream for the talents of any of the great seventeenth century artists of the Age of Rembrandt, including my latest Dutch master Johannes Vollevens (1649-1728). 

A master would have seen—and painted for eternity—the striking contrasts, between the wisdom and accomplishments of the aged and the unmitigated energy and enthusiasm  of the young scholars, the first filled with years and honors, the other on the threshold of life and achievement. Between them, the vibrant colors of every great university on Earth are on proud display today and the pride of those who wear them and will savor this day for life is palpable, for they are all aware that in each lies the one single word that constitutes their quest forever—Veritas, Truth. It is the ultimate challenge and I for one never forget it though it is the most difficult standard to seek, to know, to embrace, and to live by. 

And so I stepped lively and with renewed purpose through the grass glistening under my feet, the sun turning the droplets into radiant diamonds and I felt joy that I had spent so much of my life here... Then as I passed the statue of John Bridge (1578-1665), the consummate Puritan, always right, never wrong and rendered fully so in this his eternal monument, a work which had always seemed austere and disapproving, I saw him anew; no longer distant and unapproachable but a man who had worked and worked hard to squeeze prosperity from the impoverished and daunting soil of inhospitable Massachusetts. 

Thus I saw Bridge as a man like me, who made of his constant labors a bridge to  God and Salvation... So he stands before the world, his place in it unassailable, certain,  recognized by any who take the trouble to look at the stylish gentleman in finest broadcloth, a man of worth, esteemed by all the right people, no doubt including the Father who made and compelled him. 

Half a millennium from now I hope I may be remembered so well and face the rest of time with such confidence, poise and perfect equanimity. If I adhere to Veritas it may transpire... 

Note: Before I leave this subject, I urge you to go to any search engine and find the song and lyrics to Fair Harvard, the alma mater of Harvard University.  Composed by the Reverend Samuel Gilman of the class of 1811 for the University's  200th anniversary in 1836, it is of course a period piece, maudlin, heavy, slow-moving,  portentous, decidedly uncomfortable for modern singers, not a single syncopated  rhythm; certain, however to cause even the most cynical to drop a tear or two on Commencement Day when we all pretend to know the lyrics we never read before. 

Lyrics like this ensure it: As the world on truth's current glides by/ Be the herald of light, and the bearer of love/ Till the stock of the Puritans die... That day has not dawned...  Praise God it never will. 

By the way you will wonder what kinds of Harvardiana my collection stores. The correct answer is many and varied, including ancient crockery (each piece emblazoned with the unmistakable crimson H  to my over 600-page doctoral dissertation on the creation and development of modern British monarchical pomp and circumstance; the dissertation that lead directly to my first book, Insubstantial Pageant: Ceremony and Confusion at Queen Victoria's Court (1979, Hamish Hamilton, London). There are, too, my copious journals (for I aimed to record everyone and everything I ever saw, did, traveled to,  objected to, believed in, argued about), the letters from and to classmates, family, and friends, letters which not least chronicle the love affaires in which contemporary readers delight. 

Given that I was a lad sufficiently favored by nature for the task of attraction, blessed with preternatural levels of energy, the inheritor in abundant measure of my charming parents' plu-perfect manners, always open to love in its many features, its dizzy heights and immeasurable depths which shake us to the very foundation, these letters alone are certain to titillate, captivate, reveal and enthrall. Under these circumstances, I may well impose an embargo on them... for at least a century, or two, the better to protect the unwary who put fervid pen to paper... not wisely but too well. 

There are three more items from the Harvard files which must be mentioned with more than just a few words. These are the three stalwart wooden chairs featuring Harvard's heraldic device encircling the stark, unyielding, resonant word that has ensured the University's worth, influence, and value. That word, of course, is Veritas, and it quite literally supports my own work and worldwide endeavors every single day. For, you see, I have written all my many books whilst seated in one of these great and sturdy chairs,  supplied by Hitchcock of Connecticut, their design reminiscent of the armchairs favored  by the consuls of ancient Rome. 

Given to acknowledge the award of my Harvard M.A. and Ph.D. degrees, they are no longer in pristine condition, giving instead graphic evidence that I went about my lifetime  endeavors with determination, zeal, and what we called in my day sitz flesch, the absolute sine qua non that turns continual plodding and even minute daily progress into  wealth, renown, influence, and a role model for the many slothful and torpid who will do anything other than exert themselves. I trust that someday science will discover how to transform random human cells into a personal second coming. My trustees have been authorized to offer my chairs where scraping will provide the necessary  ingredients for mine. Thus, my hope and inspiration... after all, all things are possible in God... especially permanent life, no matter how you get it. 

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Let Nothing You Dismay (1760). 

It is now time to conclude my tale of But, sir and international intrigue and gamesmanship. For the jaunty music to accompany this narrative of victory sweet and total, I give you one of the best known of Christmas Carols with lyrics that cheer and uplift, not to mention engender those tidings of comfort and joy, those tidings of comfort and joy". I found many versions I liked in the search engines, but  my favorite, sleek, sophisticated, svelt and sexy was recorded by Acoustic Electro Swing Hiphop. I prefer to get my tidings so, slinky and seductive... 

You will recall the royal sale at Harewood House was December 5th and that the matter at issue was whether the owners of the eye-catching candelabra of princely provenance would succeed in squeezing more money from yours truly or whether my insultingly low bid would prevail, against all odds and expectations. You'll want to know the details, I know, because one fine day you'll find yourself in a similar situation and want to keep the pennies extracted from you to the very minimum. 

"Dr. Lant,  if only you'd increase your