What do you take to be tokens of homosexuality? An old tweed coat and baggy trousers? I'm committed. A steady hand and an alcoholic eye? I plead guilty. Integrity? Brains? Muscle-power of positive thinking? your pervert.

To seriously accuse me of this is nonsense. I am a married man. My wife and I, though getting on, are still fond of each other. Because we have no children is no reason to believe . . . What is the use? I am accused. I must defend myself.

Tomorrow is Lincoln's birthday, and I may be leaving here for the last time. It depends upon my defense. Your ability to discern between good and evil.

When I was a student I confess I had relations with my teacher in Paris, a Monsieur D'Aubinot. Henly has been talking about them for some time. He studied there. He is my assistant. And although I will not pretend he wants my job, I will assert that he dislikes me. Why? Why is the moon the moon, and Jupiter, Jupiter? All he says of me is true. I will not give the old bull about being a scholarship student with a pervert for a master. All that is true, too. I did not enjoy myself, but I did learn how to paint. I studied long and hard with D'Aubinot. Four years and a half -. wasted in homosexual pleasure, or spent learning to draw.

Ask Henly, if you have a mind, how many can successfully imitate the oriental masters in pen drawing. I can. And I am the least of a few. Ask any of my students who know the difference between light and dark to examine my paintings up against those of Monet; I have mastered light and shade. My morals will stand examination against anyone save a priss or a prude; I had only one misdemeanor. Study any or all of my work in respect to the drawing of objects; scissors date back to Ensor, fruits and vegetables to Reubens, nudes to early Greek and Modigliani. The exhibit of six paintings I had last fall at the Galleries notably stemmed from Bonnard. I have spent thirty years mastering his technique, improving upon it where I can, and, where not, eliminating. I have spent all those years in bed with an art instructor? I have seduced young men instead of staying home to draw? I have trampled the brown earth of America searching for a weed when I might have stood up, seized a paint brush, and painted the skies instead? Night time does not fall as easily on enlightened minds as on improved ones. I date from a tide of artists, screeching havoc through forty centuries: molding clay, making idols, painting life, and death, when it could be seen. Death, life, mysteries of perspective, matters of morals, clean clothing, bad food. My colleague, Henly, often asserts that I am a hypocrite: to teach in a college, to live in a warm apartment, to paint in a well-lighted studio. He's a fool. Any artist will work anywhere he can under the best conditions. I enjoy my stay here. Am I one to go out and seduce a college boy? Risk my job? Lose my respect? No. Am I one to divorce my wife? No. She stands behind me. Am I the culprit? Yesterday a young girl in my beginning class came to me and said, "Mr. Rodgers, it simply is not true what they are saying about you. Michael Soren is a liar. And a cheat. And a .. A young girl, very impressionable, I suspect. Why wasn't she repelled by my homosexual charm? She seemed to think I was innocent. Damn!

I am not fooling you, gentlemen. I do not attest my innocence. I have confessed here a much-sported event that took place in my earlier life. I am a grown-up, gentlemen. I am not to be whipped or despised. Either fire me or allow me to resign.

Yours faithfully, J. Rodgers

If allowed to resign, I will do so with dignity. Either the boy should apologize or meet me outside in a fair fight. Henly, my assistant, may as well stay.

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