The list of great men and geniuses was more difficult to compile. A few of them like Puccini and Joseph Conrad and Richard Strauss were obvious. So were Renoir and Monet, two rather ancient candidates who must clearly be visited pretty soon. But there was more to it than that. We had to decide which of the present-day (1919) great and famous men would still be great and famous ten, twenty, and even fifty years thence. There was also a more difficult group, the younger ones who were at present only moderately famous but who looked as though they might well become great and famous later on. This part of it was a bit of a gamble. It was also a matter of flair and judgement. Would the young James Joyce, for example, who was only thirty-seven years old, come to be regarded as a genius by later generations? I voted yes. So did A. R. Woresley. Yasmin had never heard of him. By a vote of two to one we put him on the list.

In the end, we decided to make two separate lists. The first would have top priority. The second would contain the possibles. We would get round to the possibles only after we had polished off the top priority boys. We would also pay attention to age. The older ones should, whenever possible, be attended to first in case they expired before we got to them.

We agreed that lists should be updated each year to include any new possibles who might suddenly have shot into prominence.

Our priority list, compiled in June 1919, was as follows, in alphabetical order:

And here was our second list, comprising some fairly speculative younger men as well as a few borderline cases:

Of course there were errors and omissions in these lists. There is no more difficult game than to try spotting an authentic and enduring genius during his lifetime. Fifty years after he’s dead it becomes easier. But dead men were no use to us. One more point. Rudolph Valentino was included not because we thought he was a genius. It was a commercial decision. We were guessing that the semen of a man who had such an immense and fanatical band of followers might well be a good seller in days to come. Nor did we think Woodrow Wilson was a genius, or Caruso. But they were world-famous figures, and we had to take that into consideration.

Europe, of course, must be covered first. The long trip to America would have to wait. So onto one wall of the living-room we fixed an enormous map of Europe and covered it with little flags. Each flag pinpointed the precise whereabouts of a candidate—red flags for the priorities, yellow for the second group, with a name and address on each flag. Thus, Yasmin and I would be able to plan our visits geographically, area by area, instead of rushing from one end of the continent to the other and back again. France had the most flags of all, and the Paris region was literally cluttered with them.

“What a pity both Degas and Rodin died two years ago,” I said.

“I want to do the kings first,” Yasmin said. The three of us were sitting in the living-room of Dunroamin discussing the next move.

“Why the kings?”

“Because I have a terrific urge to be ravished by royalty,” she said.

“You are being flippant,” A. R. Woresley said.

“Why shouldn’t I choose,” she said. “I’m the one at the receiving end, not you. I’d like to do the King of Spain first. Then we can nip over to Italy and do old Vittorio Emanuele, then Serbia, then Greece, and so on. We’ll polish off the whole lot of them in a couple of weeks.”

“May I ask how you intend to gain access to all these royal palaces?” A. R. Woresley said to me. “Yasmin can’t just go knocking on the front door and expect to be received in private by the king. And don’t forget it’s got to be in private or it’s no good.”

“That part shouldn’t be too difficult,” I said.

“It’s going to be impossible,” Woresley said. “We shall probably have to forget about the kings.”

I had been working on this problem for several weeks and I had my answer ready. “Easy as pie,” I said. “We shall use King George the Fifth as a decoy. He’ll get her in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cornelius.”

I went to a drawer and took out some sheets of notepaper. “Let’s assume you want to do the King of Spain first,” I said, riffling through the sheets. “Ah yes, here we are. ‘My dear Alfonso . . .’” I handed the notepaper to Woresley. Yasmin got up from her chair to look at it over his shoulder.

“What in God’s name is this?” he cried.

“It’s an extremely personal letter from King George the Fifth to King Alfonso,” I said. And indeed it was.

The notepaper had a heavily embossed royal coat of arms in red at the top centre, and on the top right, also embossed in red, it said simply BUCKINGHAM PALACE, LONDON. Below, in a reasonable imitation of the King’s flowing handwriting, I had written the following: