bakerstreet | epistolary

March 23rd 1848

Dear Joseph,

Albeit I am aware that the less you hear of my family life the more pleased you shall be, and I do still care about pleasing you, I am afraid, I hope you will allow me to get us briefly sidetracked from the curt, critical tone we have otherwise nurtured the past few years.

It is late. I heard the longcase clock downstairs strike two just a few minutes ago, the rest of the household is fast asleep, thank God. I am currently sitting in the nursery, little Vivienne in her cradle, breathing too fast for comfort. She is a tiny little thing, my daughter of whom I suppose our mutual acquaintances must have told you by now, you are always so up to date on the gossip, she is the size of a chicken in my arms. Born weeks premature, we are still awaiting the final judgement on her. Will she live, will she die?

I have named her Vivienne, “the living”, in hopes that the Lord shall have mercy, if not on her, then on my poor soul.

My wife has grown weary of eating. My daughter’s lungs are weak and underdeveloped. You are in Paris, living your own life. In my mind, I have repeatedly transcribed your nocturne for the violin, to no avail. I haven’t played in ages, or so it seems, because music used to bind us together, surely you remember. Amidst all this tragedy, there are horses in need of tending and grape vines to water and a new plot of land to forest. Life happens, Joseph. With such heartbreaking force, it sweeps us along like a winter storm and we must follow or we must perish.

I do not wish for you to perish, simply because you are more stubborn than the storm. Stronger, too, I believe. Far stronger.

A few weeks ago, I read a commentary in our local newspaper on a concert you had given, written by a gentleman with whom I work closely in town politics and whose opinion on many affairs I value greatly. He assured his honoured reader, unaware, I must assume, that I would read his piece and unfamiliar, naturally, with our connection, that you were more than moderately overrated and I felt in that very moment my high regard of him sink a few notches. Ah, well, they need not understand music in the council, only price regulations and trade legislation. Which they, then, understand extremely well.

And when I ache to play your nocturne, I know I could never do it, as it belongs to your hands, yes, but also to my heart.

Tell me of the pieces on which you are working these days, please. Perhaps I too must come up to date.

Sincerely,
Arsène

March 25th 1848

My dearest,

Firstly, please, have faith - you will inspire the same fight in your precious little girl that you seem to always inspire in people around you. Of this, I have no doubt at all. You will both do your very, very best and dear Arséne, in the matters of health, this is all anyone can ask. I send you my thoughts and my love.

You see, I’m curt with you when you forget yourself. This is a different matter, as you must’ve surely known even before you set your pen to the paper. In Paris, the last vestiges of winter have started fading into spring and my fingers are no longer quite as frozen in the morning when I play. There’s a crack in the east-facing living room window, five days old now; Boche has been down with the grippe. He keeps insisting he doesn’t need his bed at all and I’m more than half-convinced he wants to use me and my freezing fingers as an excuse to escape it. His wife, a sweet-faced girl no older than twenty, has put her foot down, however, and he’ll leave only when she wills it. It’s a funny thing, their marriage. Like watching a very tiny mouse leading its cat around by the tail.

And when I say tail…

You ask me what I’m working on and the answer is - nothing! Not today, at least, and probably not tomorrow either. The concert to which you refer (by the way, I never saw that review but then again, you do live quite a ways off and I doubt your friend’s words even made it past the Paris city border) left me with three new invitations to perform. We’ll have to see, however - we’ll see. You know, of course, of the unrest growing in the streets but I’ll write no more of it here, as I’d undoubtedly embarrass myself with my political imprecision. There’d be something for you to see through and maybe that would give you a smile, at least, but on the wrong day or time, it might also frustrate you needlessly. I won’t risk it. Not today. Regardless, times are uncertain. As you say, life happens, storms descend upon us and even the strongest foundations, my dear, will crumble at least a little in their wakes. But we’re still here, the two of us, putting down words that’ll turn to dust with the passing years. It might be temporary but so is everything, Arséne, so is everything.

The nocturne, too, that you can’t transcribe. Don’t worry about it, please. It’s such an old thing.

I went out for visits and am now back to your letter. I hope it’ll reach you quickly - if I post it today, there’s hope. There’s been a tiny wait, however, owing to the fact that I had a small distraction whilst making my way through the park earlier. I saw something between the tree branches, I think, maybe a glimpse of the sky and something glittering upon it, star-like. It’s darkening now but it wasn’t, then. I thought about your Vivienne and then, inevitably, I thought of you, out there living the pastoral life with your family and your agriculture and your town politics, holding her new life between your strong hands. My selfish frustration aside, you endure this situation - everything pertaining to it - with such grace. It comes out through your letter, too, as it always has.

I miss it all, you know.

In conclusion, I’ve written you something and please, don’t share it with anyone except the one to whom it has been dedicated. It’s enclosed here and you may play it or discard it as you see fit.

I thought of you and I think of you still.

Love,
Joseph.

Edited 2021-11-20 12:22 (UTC)

April 1st 1848

Dear Joseph,

Around the château, the servants have hung old rusty keys that will unlock nothing of value, yet we do find amusement in watching the workers search the premises under loud exclamation, looking for the right lock, on the occasion of April Fools'. This letter, however, is no April Fools' joke and I inform you, quite overjoyed, that our good doctor has dared predict that Vivienne will live, unless the unspeakable should befall us. God works in mysterious ways, of course, nothing is ever certain. As you so cleverly say.

I have no doubt that it was the charm of your waltz, so strong, so steady, like a heartbeat, that has cured her of all her ills, matured her lungs and brought the first smile to her face. She is a sight to behold as my wife now carries her in her arms around the living room, stopping by the fireplace to feed her close to the warmth of the flames, in that respect the doctor foresees fast improvement as well. Clarisse eats soup and porridge at this point, gaining weight slowly. Spring is growing milder and friendlier, after a long, exhausting winter and here, we have not seen the worst of it. We follow the development in Paris closely.

What you may hear through the crack in your window, I cannot rightly imagine. Even if you may not be able to repeat them correctly, the whispers (as well as the shouts) reach you, no doubt. Around Montfolin, my cousins and cousins twice, thrice and four times removed lose their lands, titles all but abolished already, and yet Burgundy is far enough away from the Parisian strongholds that no one has come to me, demanding me dispossessed and removed. I dare hope that the figure I have become in the local community may secure my family its rightful place in this world, also as we go forward from here.

Still, I return to your waltz again. I play it now, to help Vivienne sleep and my wife looks at me, never asking the questions, Joseph, because I have been forthcoming with the answers already. You are like two strangers, my wife and my dearest friend, aware of each other's existence, but never crossing paths, as I stand in your way and refuse to move. She would have me go one way, you another, the revolutionaries undoubtedly a third, but I shan't budge.

I am no storm, you know this. I am a tree, my roots run deep. You must cut me down to remove me, I am afraid.

Wish Boche health and courage from me. Tell him to close the window tightly, there are precious fingers inside that apartment that mustn't freeze while we wait for summer and kinder weather. Every new summer, I think of a summer long past and even so, no new summer will ever play out exactly like it. An old thing, you called it. An heirloom, I would say, from where I stand, those are the things we guard most vehemently.

As such, I wear those days and those nights on my chest, fastened to my shirt close to my heart that also beats, strongly, steadily. I listen for the similarities and might even miss the dancing. Can you imagine?

Sincerely,
Arsène

April 20th 1848

To the wielder of heirlooms, old and past,

I can imagine you quite easily, obsessing over that which won’t be. It’s not all that you do these days but it certainly takes up a fair amount of your thinking and consequently, the words you write. I’m glad of them, regardless. Perhaps because of them, even. I refuse to carry these things around with me to the same degree but in a way, they do settle in my soul. When I read your thoughts, I think about my new sonata, finishing it in my head to no avail - as soon as I settle down to work, it builds itself into something very different, something that points me forward. My mind won’t let me settle, I think. It won’t let me linger for too long.

If I do, I get cranky and Paris has seen enough aggression. Will see more, even, I’m sure. It’s good to read that you’ve secured yourself in whichever clever ways you know; eventually, this storm will pass, and if you ask me - I think you would, though I can’t be too clever about it - there will be no true winners except for those who’ve already won, ages ago, who will keep winning, going onwards, because power is such a predictable contraception. Your cousins and cousins twice removed may have titles to lose but the workers on the streets have scarcely enough to eat - what, then, do they have, when the time comes? What can they afford to lose?

In any case, I play and I compose. If I poke my nose in this, I’ll come out nose-less.

I saw M. du Meaux the other evening. Her daughter takes piano lessons from me and though she doesn’t really have a talent for it, there’s a softness to her touch and a springiness to her wrists that make her higher notes, in particular, gleam. There were whispers going around of a marriage proposal from a high-ranking backer of the Second Republic - a full-born socialist, they say. The room was positively buzzing. I expect you might know who, if the story is even true. If so, I do feel for the mother - but I’m also quite excited to know whether or not the girl might actually accept! After all, I’ve seen sparks of rebellion in her when she tackles my etudes and when she accidentally talks about the political climate before she can stop herself. There’s another rumour that she might even be playing a small part - active or not - in a movement advocating for women’s suffrage.

And then, to your face, she’ll smile and nod and lower her lashes.

Do you think we were ever brave like that, either of us?

Honestly, I’m glad sweet Vivienne made it through, gladder than I can say. I’m glad that you can play the waltz, that it doesn’t reject you or make you feel like you have to flee or disappear. Similarly, I’m sorry that I can’t appreciate your wife and her admirable patience and that I can’t reminisce with you as if the bygone days can be retrieved or worse, put away in some sort of mausoleum wherein you can visit them like dead things that won’t talk back. I admit then, I’m a hypocrite. With regards to this, I am. You can make up your own mind as to what that might mean.

If nothing else, I plan to compose a ballade that will give you some answers. Wait.

With love - because it is, Arséne, it’s always that,
- Joseph.

Ps. Boche is in good health once more and he thanks you. My best wishes to Vivienne and the rest of your family, too.

Edited 2021-11-20 15:13 (UTC)

April 26th 1848

To my never argumentative but always vocal Joseph,

On the topic of your nose, I feel torn. Whereas I will always by principle support and, yes, even fight for your right to your own opinion, even when you speak of the workers as if I have not considered them and do not consider their rights daily, it is after all my job, I desperately hope you will continue to play and to compose with it stuck prettily in your papers, for your nose is a charming one and would not befit the dust on the ground as well as it does your face. I may have lost my title, but I wish for no one else to lose more than that - not my cousins their land, not the workers their bread and neither you your nose.

It is not a dead thing that I visit in a mausoleum, rest assured. And like your nose, breathing on your face, these memories are living things that fight for survival the same as any other. They evolve and expand quite of their own volition and I neither can nor feel any incentive to rein them in. There are still places I go, secret spots scattered around the château grounds, I expect you will not need reminding, that I visit during my rounds. On horseback, they are never as isolated as they felt when we visited them last, alone, but they are still far enough removed from the main buildings that neither my wife nor any nosy servants can catch even a glimpse of the freedoms I afford myself there.

If I cling to anything, it is only to bring it with me into the future.

The way, I suspect, Mlle. du Meaux is bringing herself and her whole sex into the future as well from the sounds of it. I believe no other man but Monsieur Beausoleil, incidentally a prominent writer from the Burgundy area, did you know, I have met him a few times, terrible fellow, could get a handle on that girl, going by hearsay. Or, one must hope, they can get a handle on each other, so the rest of us shan’t suffer their speeches.

If I am completely honest, and I try to be, as you know, trial and error, this is what I miss most about Paris. All these modern ideas! On every street corner some red-nosed drunk would announce the end of the world and herald a new order, meaning that in every announcement a hint of truth lay hidden. You would be confronted and educated wherever you went, the salons and the gentlemen’s parties, Parisians do not take it quietly, we both know this from experience, of course. Montfolin is a stalemate in comparison. Nothing much has changed here the past 200 years, nothing much shall change in the next 200 to come.

I am looking forward to your ballade, to what it may tell me. After all, the thing I truly miss most about Paris is not the voice of its people, but rather the voice of one person in particular. No need to guess. If it isn’t obvious, I have not made myself sufficiently clear.

In humility,
Arsène

August 3rd 1848

Dearest,

As is always the case between the two of us in this new reality where you live in Burgundy, married and settled, whilst I live in loud, boisterous, rebellious Paris, the stream of letters pause and resume at intervals, some long, some longer. I’m the weak link, I think, most of the time. It’s not that I thrive on keeping you waiting but sometimes… Sometimes…

I’m restless these days. There was to be a festival over the summer months and I had four concerts planned for June and July but alas, you’ve followed the news, there’s been little but unrest and disquiet. The masters have gone abroad - Chopin, I’ve heard, to England. The poor man looked half-way to the grave when he performed back in February in the Salle Pleyel. It’s really too soon for too many people.

For lack of anything better, I’ve sold my pieces off because a man must pay his rent and though my rooms are far from luxurious, they are owned by other hands than mine. I’ve managed to give twice the regular amount of lessons over the past month and a half, meaning I’m a little bored but no more homeless than I was when we last wrote. A small price to pay, really, and I do enjoy my students. They progress and they pay and then, when they leave, I fill the resultant quiet with my own thoughts. I wish you could hear the ballade - I’ve managed to arrange a few private concerts, just to give it some air, and it’s been favourably received so far by those who’ve listened. I would’ve invited you… but we’re out of grain in Paris or so they shout and loud or not, I’m aware that your own fields cry louder yet. After so many disregarded invitations, I’m used to your absence and expect it - I’ve even started telling myself, Arséne, that I prefer it like that.

But then, in the quiet, I see through my own lies and I - well. I find my way.

I meet up sometimes with a few fellow artists, as you know. Last time, one of them, a cellist called Antoine Monet, brought with him a copy of a recent Liszt transcription, thinking we could attempt it amongst ourselves where no one important would hear the ruckus. When I came back to my rooms, I played it for you, Arséne, and I cried because you weren’t there to know, because it would have made you dream and long and maybe even remember all that I don’t care to remember myself. One of us, at least, must carry this burden, my dear, and you’re the strongest and sturdiest of us. So I leave it to you to visit me before my time, too, is out and then, maybe, we’ll revisit those old ruins and it’ll mean something because we do it in the same rooms, breathing the same air.

This letter is very maudlin and unbecoming of me. I almost hope it won’t reach you and then, when next one of us breaks the silence, it’ll be with optimism, hope, revitalisation. You will be safe, won’t you, in these trying times? You’ll keep your head and steer those lucky few you call your own through it whilst I keep myself afloat, one day and one night at time?

Please.

And then, when it’s over, when something else is over too, I suppose we’ll finally have what we want.

With love,
Joseph.

Edited 2021-11-20 19:09 (UTC)

August 10th 1848

Joseph,

While I have waited, and waiting I have been, many things have come and gone here in Montfolin, progress has progressed as progress insists on doing, times have changed over this o so mild summer that in the end proved quite unforgiving. Things that have been lost to me, aside from you, or so I hear, count my mills, my fields, all my forest acres and sole ownership of the château which has otherwise survived being passed down through ten generations. It was officially handed over into council hands last month, the same hands to whom I must now pay rent. I, who have owned my own home since birth, living on installment payments. It is absurd. Are we paying, in the same manner, to keep our heads on our shoulders? I wonder.

Things that have not been lost to me: my good horses and my grape vines. So, as I go for a ride with a glass of our last excellent vintage, a few years old now, in one hand and the reins in the other, at least there I shan't pay for my pleasures. Or for my very existence.

I wonder.

Of course, all of these little battles have played out across desks and in the shape of paperwork, too many signatures, Joseph, but no toilet barricades or workers' uprisings as in Paris, where I understand you chose to stay, ever the patriot or ever the idiot. You are free to pick one or the other. Sometime during June, I entertained the thought of inviting you here, simply to keep you close, because they may take my grain and my old hunting grounds, but I am of a strong standing in these parts and with my mere presence, I would have ensured your safety. If nothing else, I would have hidden you away in our secret places. Nevertheless, I have been too honest with Clarisse, our secret places are not secret to her and she insisted you ask for the gesture yourself, as if you were some common beggar. Seeing as Vivienne is still a tiny, naked chicken at her breast, I could only obey.

It is not the fault of my wife that I did not invite you, do not misunderstand. As it is not the fault of my wife that I never attend any of your concerts. It is, plainly said, because I am a very big coward.

You, the hypocrite and I, the coward. We would have been a fine pair, surely you must agree.

How did Antoine receive your ballade? He is a man of music, he must be a better judge of these things than I.

I wonder.

If word should reach you, not that I believe it will, Burgundy is worlds away and Paris is in ruins, who cares, truly, of some politician who shall remain unnamed as he has fled to England now, perhaps on the same boat as Chopin, with whom I have been noted to associate, then let me be the courier of that word myself, for you shan't ever doubt that I would bring before you what should always rightly see the light of day, between us. As our secret places have been sold off and what remains, exposed... I will give you everything that remains. The truth.

It is life, Joseph, to wait upon Death. I do believe we can be together in waiting, long before it comes, that which we are waiting for.

Humility,
Arsène

August 12th 1848

Dearest,

I wish you had invited me, not in the summer but now, with your most recent letter. I would have booked a carriage straight away because I can tell you’re grievously unhappy and I heard… of course, I’ve heard. Gossip travels fast in these changeable times. It’s nothing to me, what you do to cure your own loneliness. I know you well enough, however, to realise that this sort of adventure wouldn’t do you any good whatsoever and for that, I’m sorry. If I knew you’d come away bouncing and prancing from your association, then I’d be outwardly devastated and inwardly grateful to him for taking your mind off everything that’s happening.

But of course, instead, you write to me and ask me about Antoine without even posing the true question because that’s your way, my heart, and I haven’t missed you so much in a long, long time. You tell me you’re a coward and you are. You truly are.

I miss you.

Take comfort in your tiny daughter, still a chicken you say, but I’m sure she’s growing beautiful, too, one month at a time. Does she look at you, does she recognise your eyes? Your voice? I feel as if she’s mine, too, maybe a little, though I haven’t any idea as to whether she looks the most like you or your wife. It feels a bit wrong to say so and I’m sorry if the thought offends you. But there it is, regardless. As so many other wrong things, you’ll shoulder this lille oddity of mine as well and stand as tall as ever.

The cold is returning to Paris and there’s a churning arche in the joints of my fingers that worries me a little. It must be a passing ailment, surely, but it hinders me when I play. My most recent work is another waltz, this one in E-minor and the middle section with its quick octaves feels cumbersome and strange, more so than when I put it together last week. I try not to let it frighten me but sometimes, at night, I wake up sweating, clenching my hands, terrified that my fingers won’t uncurl at my command. I can never remember what I’ve dreamt. I wish it was something very different, though, for when I’m asleep, at least I can’t judge myself or you or these circumstances that have made fools out of us both. I’ve been up at night the past week, doing very little of note, thinking about what nakedness would feel like now if I were to pose in front of you, bared and unmasked. Surely, it wouldn’t be like before, Arséne. Surely, we’re different people now.

The body, at least, changes whether we like it or not. Have you thought about growing out your facial hair? It’s not that I think you need improvement, only that I’ve always imagined it would suit you. There’s something about the coarseness that appeals to me, at least in fantasy - I wouldn’t know, as it were, in reality, for nothing truly lingers and no one makes anything but fleeting impressions on my mind. Antoine, you say, what about him? The truth is, I don’t know. Whether or not he likes the ballade is immaterial, really, though he’s a good friend with dependable tastes. You’re not asking about the music, after all, you’re asking about the story. The feelings, the invisible touches.

And there, the truth.

I don’t know.

I don’t care.

Give my best to your sweet little chicken and to your wife, too, if she won’t take offense.

With love
Joseph.

September 1st 1848

To my teller of truths, loud as any Parisian, yet unlike any Parisian,

She has my eyes, Vivienne. My eyes and my hands, long fingers, well-suited for an instrument, the violin or the piano. Let us see if she shan’t speak in octaves like the man whose waltzes I play to her before bedtime, to inspire her the same way that she has apparently inspired him. Perhaps an oddity that you feel entitled to any relation with her on such meagre grounds, I will still allow the notion, as our thoughts at least cost us nothing, yes? That, and I wish for her to one day know us both, Joseph, if only in name. If only connected by letters. It seems to be our sad fate, in it we shall commiserate - and therefore find whatever little joy we can.

What she does not have, however, is any facial hair, her skin is smoother even than mine, soft as silk decked in down. I may consider growing out a beard, not in response to your observation, of course, however welcome it is, but because I am turning 30 this month and might as well embrace old age as it descends upon me. A father of three, desperately chasing a fourth child as I need to produce an heir who can carry on my beheaded lineage and inherit the horses and the grape vines from me. Reluctant politician. Farmer in every aspect but the work. Did I dream of this ten years ago? I do not remember, perhaps I simply never stopped to ask. Yet, here are you, my heart, asking, such damning questions, too, because you have always been braver than I.

Trees tremble in their foliage, as we can all see. And so, I tremble now. Naked...? We would undoubtedly hardly recognise each other. My God, I am not certain I even recognise myself.

In the same way that we have changed, our country has changed with us. Or is it because France has put her demands on us, heavily, that we have become such different people from Arsène at twenty-one and Joseph at eighteen? Has she burdened us so heavily that we cannot give thought to anyone else anymore, friends or associates or spouses? The politician who fled to England may stay there for what I care. Antoine may go to Hell.

All I know is how I wish to hold your hands in mine again. It is such a simple request, yet horribly complex and perhaps even impossible to carry to fruition. Nevertheless, I have made plans, around Clarisse, around my duties and around the very call of the calendar. Come January, I am travelling to Marseille, the climate is warmer further south and they sell excellent grape seeds there, two observations which may not appear immediately connected, but they concern my fields and your fingers. Join me. I shall have lodgings secured, somewhere with a piano available, if only you will give me your January to make up for the December I took from you such a long, long time ago.

The December I took from the both of us.

Please,
Arsène

Edited 2021-11-21 09:15 (UTC)

September 20th 1848

Dearest,

They say, be careful what you wish for, and I suppose there are reasons enough, good, solid reasoning that makes sense to other people, people who aren’t me. Today and the last many weeks, I’ve been trembling too, not from cold or fatigue or fear, no. This is something else, this tightness in my chest. It’s as if someone strong and careless has locked a fist around my heart and at night when I’m awake, I can feel each beat, fighting against its hold. On the streets, the unrest has transformed into an implication, the sort of calm you associate with the grander outbreaks of sickness - to begin with, it’s just a murmur of disquiet, a notion of discontent. Then, as time progresses, the wolf closes in on us. Paris feels the danger, I’m convinced, but it’s too far off, too much of a distant suggestion, to make us react. People are returning from beyond the French borders. The music has started up again.

Since your last letter, I feel the underlying tension keenly, like it’s settled in my bones.

Firstly, Arséne, I must be frank and honest towards you: your request is deeply unfair, it’s selfish and underhanded, even. We’re both at our worst these days, I expect, and as such we are weak enough that settling with too little feels acceptable. More than acceptable. I know on my better days I’d be nowhere close to accepting your invitation - I’m tired of hiding my heart away, I’m tired of having to find sunshine in passing, in whispers and implications and what you’re offering is simply more of the same. It’s fantasy. It’s air.

But by God, I need to breathe, too, and so do you.

I’m working on a small series of etudes, six in total, not as ornamental as might be expected but far from simple, either. One of them has turned out quite strange with an oddly decrepit tonality or lack of same. I’m convinced there’s a structure to it but even so, there’s something almost unsettling about it. When I look at it now as I write, the paper laid out next to me on my desk, it seems to make the most perfect amount of sense, as if writing to you and thinking about Marseille, about grapes and fingers and your facial hair - the sheer absurdity of it, Arséne, is a point of order. At just this moment while I’m working on your letter, knowing full well the inevitable conclusion and answer to your question, the chaos settles within me like facts and figures, as steady and true as the seasons changing. It just is. It will break me and it will break you but paradoxically, if we aren’t broken then we’ll have no chances of being whole, either. If that’s not insanity, then nothing is.

I’ll meet you in Marseille come January. Until then, this almost overpowering feeling of dread will stay with me, just as I’ll long for you more acutely than I have in years and years. I’ll go with you wherever you want to take me, Arséne, that’s simultaneously the secret and the most obvious, most transparent truth. You see the contradictions, how they pop up in everything I write, everything I think? There’s no getting past them now; I both want and I don’t but at the end of the day, the thing that wins out is stronger yet, it’s deeply ingrained in me, as it is in you. What will animals do to survive? It’s like that, like forgetting everything but your very need to breathe and exist.

I’ll meet you.

Until then, be well.

Joseph.

Edited 2021-11-21 11:04 (UTC)

[ooc: castmates only for the time being thank you very much~ ]

( canonpoint flexible )

_{[ooc; ota for gen, permissions for shipping info.]}

[ Hell yeah, he loves writing letters. Formal invitations, taunting his enemies, taunting his allies, political missives, personal notes, love letters, rejection letters, you name it. Any excuse to show off his absurdly elegant handwriting. ]