If everyone will kindly sit down, we will begin today's lecture. I must ask in advance that you forgive me: I inadvertently left the windows open last night and — Ah-choo! — seem to have given myself a rather nasty cold. All right, today we will be considering one of England's most famous ménage à trois: Sir William Hamilton, the British ambassador to Nepal, his wife Lady Emma Hamilton, and her lover, Viscount Horatio Nelson, the — Ah-choo! — noted British vice-admiral whose brilliant tactics cemented the Kingdom's naval superiority. Lady Emma, of course, was no stranger to controversy and how best to lever it into attention. Her first romantic entanglement, as mistress to Sir Charles Grenville, resulted in her sitting for a portrait painted by George Romney, who afterwards had what can only be described as a lifelong obsession with her. Through him, she met several prominent artists in England, for whom she seemed more than happy to spread her — Ah-choo! — time so as to accommodate their requests for posings and sittings. However, Grenville realized that she should not do as a proper wife, so he arranged for his uncle, Sir William, to take her as mistress. Shockingly, Sir William, despite his age, discovered he could stand erect — Ah-choo! — and tall in the face of Society's misgivings when he proposed to her in marriage. Their life together was a pleasant one… although of course we may assume that Sir William was not happy with his wife's plans involving the proposed visit by Lord Nelson. Reportedly, after finding she had invited him to their home in Italy, he roughly threw her down — Ah-choo! — blanket to one side of the room and loudly declared that nothing but well-spun English wool would be good enough for his guest. For his part, Lord Nelson was known across the Kingdom by both adoring women and men for his incredible ability to shoot his load — Ah-choo! — of cannonfire with great efficiently against both the Spanish and the French. He was devoted to his crew and, according to history, personally taught them how to carefully handle their balls — Ah-choo! — so as not to blemish the sometimes delicate iron surface: even a minor scratch could cause them to misfire and subsequently miss their intended target. His return to England and as a more or less permanent fixture in the Hamilton household seems not to have bothered Sir William, who was delighted have a man around who, like himself, enjoyed the occasional bit of Greek — Ah-choo! — art, in particular vases and mosaics. For his part, Lord Nelson appreciated the value of position and looked upon his relationship with Lord and Lady Hamilton as an opportunity to put himself square in the middle — Ah-choo! — of any rollicking discussion of British naval history over cigars and bourbon. Never a sailor himself, Sir William still knew a great deal about life aboard ship, which provided many an opportunity for him to pull out his surprisingly lengthy — Ah-choo! — collection of anecdotes involving the great seafaring explorers of the day. Talks like this, while enjoyable for the men, often consigned Emma to the parlor in solitude. You young ladies in the classroom must remember that 18th century England — indeed in almost any country — was a less than advantageous time for one to be a woman, especially one who considered herself at the pinnacle of what society had to offer at the time. As head of the working side of the household, she was required to give head — Ah-choo! — strong servants appropriate punishment and stern lectures, a job we understand she loathed, as she loved them all, almost as a mother loves her children. Nevertheless, it was her role in the household. Sir William died in 1803, which left Emma and Nelson free to finally entertain the thought of marriage. There were difficulties ahead: Emma still craved societal attention while Nelson wanted to return to sea. Nothing, it seems, made him happier than to choose a handful of sailors under his command and then mount — Ah-choo! — a campaign that invariably insured victory. Sadly, before he and Emma could marry, he died in 1805 at the Battle of Trafalgar. She turned to a life of dissolution and passed away, a pauper, in 1815. Ah, our time is up for today. Tomorrow, you will read chapters 6 and 7, which deal extensively with Carl Jung, his wife, also named Emma, and a local pig — Ah-choo! — farmer's daughter, Toni Wolff. Class — Ah-choo! — is dismissed.