 Earnings from the works of Osbert Sitwell couldn't fix the cracks in Magro's ceiling – and don't I know it. I'm fortunate enough to own and control the literary estate of Edith Sitwell and her younger brother, my grandfather, Sacheverell. The latter wrote more than 130 books on travel, music, art, furniture and design. Occasionally, my literary agent calls with exciting news of the translation of a book in a new territory. His book, Romanian Journey, written in the late 1930s, a lyrical description of a near-vanished world, was recently translated into Romanian. Hurrah, we all shouted. Apart from my bank manager. The royalties from that venture, received by me, were about £18.10, before tax. There are a few more pounds to be gained from Edith Sitwell. A mighty figure of 20th-century literature, known almost more for her sense of dress and outspoken nature, he){kind=link}
Despite recent reports, the creative efforts of my ancestors won’t exactly pay the bills – but they might just buy me a pub lunch
A waspish journalist at The Daily Mail stirred my soul this week. He scurrilously reported that my family’s finances could be rescued, resuscitated, soar even into the stars, if only the earnings from a libretto written by a great uncle could pass back into our hands.
The work in question was written by Sir Osbert Sitwell (younger brother of my great aunt Dame Edith Sitwell), who died the same year that I was born: 1969. The words accompany a work of music by composer William Walton, Belshazzar’s Feast. It’s a favourite of the Proms and has been played numerous times over the years to the delight of Walton fans, such as myself.
The rights to the words were left to Osbert’s former assistant, Frank Magro, whose death 10 years ago, intestate, saw the ownership of those rights disappear into a murky grey area of impenetrable Italian law and filing cabinets in some office off a dusty, hot street of Montespertoli, in Florence. If only we could get our hands on some old piece of paper and wrest control of that literary legacy, the Mail observed, then this time next year, we could be millionaires.
Except… Except for a few things. Firstly, what Magro’s family or executors wish to do with his affairs is none of our business. Secondly, myself or my siblings would be wise to refrain from putting a deposit down for a new gin palace for a moment. Most PRS (Performing Rights Society) payments wouldn’t get you many beans – certainly not a whole row.