"Mad, bad, and dangerous to know."
-Lady Caroline Lamb, on Lord Byron after meeting him for the first time
16 To Thomas Moore
Geneva, June 2nd, 1816
Dearest Moore,
Polidori and I arrived in Lake Geneva yesterday, plensent little place, though we were greeted by a heavy downpour at the docs that caused a good two hour delay because the boat could not approach the quay. The lake is quite vast, quiet, deep, and very blue and circles a pleasant little city as can be seen from the port. Switzerland shall be such a good change from miserable France. After visiting Waterloo, one must want for scenery such as Switzerland. I think I should plan to pass the summer here. The women here are all very sophisticated in dress and manner, very refined, very educated way of speaking. Lest to say I think I could be satisfied in the company of plenty of Genevan whores sometime this evening. I’m curious as to the state of their brothels.
I think a change of people shall be good for me. Here, I am unknown. I am safe from the ridicule of a scornful English public. The Swiss know nothing of my divorce from Lady Milbanke or Augusta and I and I plan to keep it that way. Here, there is no one who knows me, no lovesick heart to chase me, which I am glad for. There really is no greater perpetrator of shame in this world than being reacquainted with a lady, whom you know little of, yet know the color and material of her garters.
I spoke with the Captain's wife on the ship ride over and she told me of the salons and things where I may meet other people of my class, but I do not think I shall do any of the sort, I feel inclined instead to make my own fun with the whores and pickpockets. Away from high society which you know I despise and only go out in to remind myself why I chose to stay home in the first place.
I have settled upon Diodati Villa for our stay here on Lake Leman. ‘Tis close enough in proximity to the city for access to the essentials, but not so close that we may be watched. And Moore, you will not believe this, but as I learned yesterday, I am in fact neighbor to none other than Percy Shelley. Late last afternoon, we received a call from Mr. Shelley himself, who I found happens to be renting the Villa next door and had come to introduce himself. Shelley and I opened a bottle of wine, and soon enough we’d gotten into a full-bodied discussion. He invited Polidori and I to dinner that night, which we obliged.
As it happens, he’d arrived just a few days before us with his mistress, Mary Godwin. He claims that they’d been traversing the continent for sometime after having recently eloped with her, though I know not the validity of their union, they arrived with their bastard son. She joined us for dinner as well, lovely woman, and very well spoken. She is very young, and is the very daughter of William Godwin, the anarchist, who of course Mr. Shelley is a follower.
The Shelleys, I think, will make amiable neighbors. I was already an admirer to Mr. Shelley’s poems, and I find him a pleasurable enough companion to pass some number of hours with. He is a good sort of man who is widely read like I and has passionate opinions. Ms. Godwin is fine enough company as well, and Polidori finds her pretty, I think. You may address your post to me from now and until Summer’s end at Diodati Villa on Lake Leman. Please give my regards to your wife and my dear sister Augusta next time you are in town.
Ever yours, ect, ect,
Lord B
17 To Thomas Moore
Diodati Villa, July 15th, 1816
My Dear Moore,
How have you passed this month? I have heard very little from you here and am beginning to get anxious to hear from you more. And Morre, we both know what terrible effect anxiety has on my countenance! Perhaps you have written to me and it has not arrived yet? I blame the post and dreadful weather for the delay, as I am certain that you should never manifest any neglect toward me.
How are things at home? Is everything still as grey as when I left it? Here there is another day of terrible rain. Just like it has been every other bloody day. ‘Twas almost as if I never left England! I’ve been tragically stuck inside. We’ve been unable to go anywhere or do anything for three days and I am being forced into the company of Polidori who always has nothing of intelligence to say.
The roads are up to the horse’s bellies with muck which makes riding anywhere impractical and strolling along the lake, let alone taking the boat out, miserable. Seems I’ve gone out only twice this whole summer!! By evening the rain got so terrible and shook the house something so horrid it could be heard by all, the breezes violently moved the trees, rocks and wind and rain flying about, lightning, a great thunder, ect, ect, all very poetical.
I suggested to the group that we should all attempt to write a ghost story, purely for the amusement of horrifying each other. We were all in agreement that it was a capital idea, and promised to share out when we had constructed our tale.
Shelley and I were conversing on recent discoveries of Dr. Darwin who has developed a way of reanimating frog legs by means of electrifying them into movement. Ms. Godwin, as ever, was mainly an observer to I and Shelley’s discourse until we got on the idea of whether a man brought back from the dead could ever be considered truly alive after having died or whether one would even want to be brought back from death.
To this, Ms. Godwin gave to I and Shelley and the most interesting little quiry, I quoth faithfully, “The real question gentlemen is not if one would choose to live again, but why one would choose to live again. What is it that makes a human life worth living?” a question that I myself have found a tedious one and have spent many an hour brooding upon.
It really is such a shame that Ms. Godwin is so very quiet for when she does speak out she says the most intelligent and clever things. She is so quiet, I scarcely grasp that this is the very same Godwin whose father wrote so loudly and passionately against the systems of Christianity!
As I said, I have been interminably bored here in my weather induced quarantine. I am currently in the works of a new poem. It is about a man, as mortality troubled as I, who falls into despair after the death of his beautiful love. It has no name yet, but I know it should be good. Though often obscured by rain, the lake and mountains here are quite divine and a great muse to my creativity.
Write hastily,
L. Byron
18 To Thomas Moore
Diodati Villa, August 2, 1816
Dearest Moore,
I have recently reread your “The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing” again and once more found myself in great admiration of it’s finery. How is your new poem coming along? You have only sent me the first verse, and I think it is something of poetic beauty as always. I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the proper price for your poems. At least 12 guineas! Not that piss poor price you tried to sell them for last time. I have read many a fine piece of literature across all platforms of life and this, I promise, is something of worth.
The weather finally cleared up enough to go riding, but only for an hour. Got only as far as the lawn before we were forced to turn back to the house again! All of us, Polidori, Shelley, and Godwin sat around the fireside, bored out of our wits and without a clue of what to do.
Mary suggested that perhaps we should share out our stories, since all of us had attested to being done. I began with my poem, my audience was quite captivated, and left Shelley quivering in his chair! Everyone was completely in agreeance in its effectiveness. Quite fond of the last line as well, don’t know where to put it yet, but it’ll come to me.
Polidori went second, told some god awful story about some lady with the skull head, or she was a skeleton herself? Locked away in some tower for some spying on a man?? I can’t remember I was so damn bored. Not a single person was frightened even a wink!! Polidori seemed rather pleased with himself afterwards and told us he endeavored to make a novel of it. I told him it was a terrible idea, but Polidori seemed fixed on the notion.
Shelley went next, he told a beautifully written and richly imagined, but altogether not at all frightening tale about some boyhood experience he had as it is his disposition to write such stories. Ms. Godwin went last, and I have to say, it appears that the great Godwin talent for writing still runs hot in their bloodline!
She, without a doubt in a single mind, told the best tale out of the lot of us. Hers was a short narrative about a college student who had, by the powers of electricity, reanimated a corpse back into life. She recalled afterwards that her tale had been inspired by an earlier conversation Shelley and I had on the experiments of Mr. Darwin. She had had a dreadful night terror that night and thought it the perfect muse for her tale.
The Shelleys depart back to England a fortnight from tomorrow and both I and Shelley were in agreeance that she should turn her tale into a novel, for that could be the only proper format for the beginnings of so great a story.
I am glad that you like Manfred so far. It’s been a great relief to me while writing it, for I have turned it into something marvelous and Shelley was most complimentary about it. In a postscript I shall enclose the next canto, which I am particularly fond of and I should think pregnant with immortality. How has your writings been? Please, send me the next part of your poem and I shall give you my opinion faithfully as I have always done.
Ever, Dear M., yours, ect
Lord B
-Lady Caroline Lamb, on Lord Byron after meeting him for the first time
16 To Thomas Moore
Geneva, June 2nd, 1816
Dearest Moore,
Polidori and I arrived in Lake Geneva yesterday, plensent little place, though we were greeted by a heavy downpour at the docs that caused a good two hour delay because the boat could not approach the quay. The lake is quite vast, quiet, deep, and very blue and circles a pleasant little city as can be seen from the port. Switzerland shall be such a good change from miserable France. After visiting Waterloo, one must want for scenery such as Switzerland. I think I should plan to pass the summer here. The women here are all very sophisticated in dress and manner, very refined, very educated way of speaking. Lest to say I think I could be satisfied in the company of plenty of Genevan whores sometime this evening. I’m curious as to the state of their brothels.
I think a change of people shall be good for me. Here, I am unknown. I am safe from the ridicule of a scornful English public. The Swiss know nothing of my divorce from Lady Milbanke or Augusta and I and I plan to keep it that way. Here, there is no one who knows me, no lovesick heart to chase me, which I am glad for. There really is no greater perpetrator of shame in this world than being reacquainted with a lady, whom you know little of, yet know the color and material of her garters.
I spoke with the Captain's wife on the ship ride over and she told me of the salons and things where I may meet other people of my class, but I do not think I shall do any of the sort, I feel inclined instead to make my own fun with the whores and pickpockets. Away from high society which you know I despise and only go out in to remind myself why I chose to stay home in the first place.
I have settled upon Diodati Villa for our stay here on Lake Leman. ‘Tis close enough in proximity to the city for access to the essentials, but not so close that we may be watched. And Moore, you will not believe this, but as I learned yesterday, I am in fact neighbor to none other than Percy Shelley. Late last afternoon, we received a call from Mr. Shelley himself, who I found happens to be renting the Villa next door and had come to introduce himself. Shelley and I opened a bottle of wine, and soon enough we’d gotten into a full-bodied discussion. He invited Polidori and I to dinner that night, which we obliged.
As it happens, he’d arrived just a few days before us with his mistress, Mary Godwin. He claims that they’d been traversing the continent for sometime after having recently eloped with her, though I know not the validity of their union, they arrived with their bastard son. She joined us for dinner as well, lovely woman, and very well spoken. She is very young, and is the very daughter of William Godwin, the anarchist, who of course Mr. Shelley is a follower.
The Shelleys, I think, will make amiable neighbors. I was already an admirer to Mr. Shelley’s poems, and I find him a pleasurable enough companion to pass some number of hours with. He is a good sort of man who is widely read like I and has passionate opinions. Ms. Godwin is fine enough company as well, and Polidori finds her pretty, I think. You may address your post to me from now and until Summer’s end at Diodati Villa on Lake Leman. Please give my regards to your wife and my dear sister Augusta next time you are in town.
Ever yours, ect, ect,
Lord B
17 To Thomas Moore
Diodati Villa, July 15th, 1816
My Dear Moore,
How have you passed this month? I have heard very little from you here and am beginning to get anxious to hear from you more. And Morre, we both know what terrible effect anxiety has on my countenance! Perhaps you have written to me and it has not arrived yet? I blame the post and dreadful weather for the delay, as I am certain that you should never manifest any neglect toward me.
How are things at home? Is everything still as grey as when I left it? Here there is another day of terrible rain. Just like it has been every other bloody day. ‘Twas almost as if I never left England! I’ve been tragically stuck inside. We’ve been unable to go anywhere or do anything for three days and I am being forced into the company of Polidori who always has nothing of intelligence to say.
The roads are up to the horse’s bellies with muck which makes riding anywhere impractical and strolling along the lake, let alone taking the boat out, miserable. Seems I’ve gone out only twice this whole summer!! By evening the rain got so terrible and shook the house something so horrid it could be heard by all, the breezes violently moved the trees, rocks and wind and rain flying about, lightning, a great thunder, ect, ect, all very poetical.
I suggested to the group that we should all attempt to write a ghost story, purely for the amusement of horrifying each other. We were all in agreement that it was a capital idea, and promised to share out when we had constructed our tale.
Shelley and I were conversing on recent discoveries of Dr. Darwin who has developed a way of reanimating frog legs by means of electrifying them into movement. Ms. Godwin, as ever, was mainly an observer to I and Shelley’s discourse until we got on the idea of whether a man brought back from the dead could ever be considered truly alive after having died or whether one would even want to be brought back from death.
To this, Ms. Godwin gave to I and Shelley and the most interesting little quiry, I quoth faithfully, “The real question gentlemen is not if one would choose to live again, but why one would choose to live again. What is it that makes a human life worth living?” a question that I myself have found a tedious one and have spent many an hour brooding upon.
It really is such a shame that Ms. Godwin is so very quiet for when she does speak out she says the most intelligent and clever things. She is so quiet, I scarcely grasp that this is the very same Godwin whose father wrote so loudly and passionately against the systems of Christianity!
As I said, I have been interminably bored here in my weather induced quarantine. I am currently in the works of a new poem. It is about a man, as mortality troubled as I, who falls into despair after the death of his beautiful love. It has no name yet, but I know it should be good. Though often obscured by rain, the lake and mountains here are quite divine and a great muse to my creativity.
Write hastily,
L. Byron
18 To Thomas Moore
Diodati Villa, August 2, 1816
Dearest Moore,
I have recently reread your “The Time I’ve Lost in Wooing” again and once more found myself in great admiration of it’s finery. How is your new poem coming along? You have only sent me the first verse, and I think it is something of poetic beauty as always. I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the proper price for your poems. At least 12 guineas! Not that piss poor price you tried to sell them for last time. I have read many a fine piece of literature across all platforms of life and this, I promise, is something of worth.
The weather finally cleared up enough to go riding, but only for an hour. Got only as far as the lawn before we were forced to turn back to the house again! All of us, Polidori, Shelley, and Godwin sat around the fireside, bored out of our wits and without a clue of what to do.
Mary suggested that perhaps we should share out our stories, since all of us had attested to being done. I began with my poem, my audience was quite captivated, and left Shelley quivering in his chair! Everyone was completely in agreeance in its effectiveness. Quite fond of the last line as well, don’t know where to put it yet, but it’ll come to me.
Polidori went second, told some god awful story about some lady with the skull head, or she was a skeleton herself? Locked away in some tower for some spying on a man?? I can’t remember I was so damn bored. Not a single person was frightened even a wink!! Polidori seemed rather pleased with himself afterwards and told us he endeavored to make a novel of it. I told him it was a terrible idea, but Polidori seemed fixed on the notion.
Shelley went next, he told a beautifully written and richly imagined, but altogether not at all frightening tale about some boyhood experience he had as it is his disposition to write such stories. Ms. Godwin went last, and I have to say, it appears that the great Godwin talent for writing still runs hot in their bloodline!
She, without a doubt in a single mind, told the best tale out of the lot of us. Hers was a short narrative about a college student who had, by the powers of electricity, reanimated a corpse back into life. She recalled afterwards that her tale had been inspired by an earlier conversation Shelley and I had on the experiments of Mr. Darwin. She had had a dreadful night terror that night and thought it the perfect muse for her tale.
The Shelleys depart back to England a fortnight from tomorrow and both I and Shelley were in agreeance that she should turn her tale into a novel, for that could be the only proper format for the beginnings of so great a story.
I am glad that you like Manfred so far. It’s been a great relief to me while writing it, for I have turned it into something marvelous and Shelley was most complimentary about it. In a postscript I shall enclose the next canto, which I am particularly fond of and I should think pregnant with immortality. How has your writings been? Please, send me the next part of your poem and I shall give you my opinion faithfully as I have always done.
Ever, Dear M., yours, ect
Lord B
Comments
Log in or register to post comments.