fellow traveler. How much better if I could have introduced myself as a fellow poet! But in 1816 there were no American poets whose names I could recall. Memory suggested that both Byron and Shelley had a taste for the morbid; no doubt they would enjoy meeting Edgar Allan Poe—yet Poe would be only a child still, somewhere across a very wide Atlantic.
Social niceties were difficult to conduct across two hundred years. The fact that Lord Byron was probably the most famous poet in Europe at this time, even including Johann Schlitzberger, was not going to make things easier.
As I prowled about outside the garden wall, it came on me with a start that a young man was regarding me over the barrel of a pistol. I stopped still in my tracks.
He was a handsome young guy with a head of well-oiled reddish hair. He wore a green jacket, gray trousers, and high calf boots, and had a bold air about him.
“I’d be obliged if you would cease to point that antique at me!” I said.
“Why so? The tourist-shooting season opened today. I’ve bagged three already. You have only to come close enough to my hide and I let fly. I’m one of the best marksmen in Europe, and you are possibly the biggest grouse in Europe.” But he lowered his pistol and came forward two paces.
“Thank you. It would be embarrassing to be shot before we were introduced.”
He was still not looking particularly friendly. “Then be off into the undergrowth, my feathered friend. It makes me feel more than somewhat persecuted to have items of the British public lurking about my property—particularly when most of them haven’t read two lines of my verse together.”
I noted that he pronounced it in eighteenth-century fashion: “m’ verse.”
Taking the binoculars from round my neck, I proffered them, saying, “You observe how amateur my lurking was—not only did I not conceal myself, but I did not use my chief lurking weapon. Have you ever seen the like of these, sir?”
He tucked the gun into the top of his trousers. That was a good sign. Then he took the binoculars and peered at me through them.
Clicking his tongue in approval, he swerved to take in the lake.
“Let’s see if Dr. Polly is up to anything he shouldn’t be with our young Mistress Mary!”
I saw him focus on a boat which lay almost stationary beneath its single sail, fairly close to shore. But I wanted to take him in while his eyes were off me. Being so close to Lord Byron was somewhat like being close to big game—a lion encountered at the foot of Kilimanjaro. Although not a tall man, he had considerable stature. His shoulders were broad, his face handsome; you could see his genius in his eyes and lips. Only his skin, as I inspected him from fairly close quarters, was pallid and blotchy. I saw that there were gray hairs among his auburn locks.
He studied the sailing boat for a while, smiling to himself.
Then he chuckled. “Tasso keeps them apart, though their fingers meet on the pillows of his pastoral. The triumph of learning over concupiscence! Polly itches for her, but they continue to construe. Red blood is nothing before a bluestocking!”
I could make out two figures in the boat, one male, one female.
I heard my own voice from a remote distance ask, “Do you refer to Mary Shelley, sir?”
Byron looked quizzically at me, holding the glasses out but just beyond my grasp. “Mary Shelley? No, sir, I refer to Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. She is Shelley’s mistress, not his wife. I thought that much was common knowledge. What d’you take ’em for, a pair of Christians? Though neither Shelley nor she are pagans, that’s certain! Even now, Mary improves her mind at the expense of my doctor’s body.”
This news, combined with his presence, caused me some confusion. I could only say stupidly, “I believed Shelley and Mary were married.”
He withdrew the glasses again from my reach. “Mrs. Shelley is left behind in London—the only proper treatment for wives, apart from
Social niceties were difficult to conduct across two hundred years. The fact that Lord Byron was probably the most famous poet in Europe at this time, even including Johann Schlitzberger, was not going to make things easier.
As I prowled about outside the garden wall, it came on me with a start that a young man was regarding me over the barrel of a pistol. I stopped still in my tracks.
He was a handsome young guy with a head of well-oiled reddish hair. He wore a green jacket, gray trousers, and high calf boots, and had a bold air about him.
“I’d be obliged if you would cease to point that antique at me!” I said.
“Why so? The tourist-shooting season opened today. I’ve bagged three already. You have only to come close enough to my hide and I let fly. I’m one of the best marksmen in Europe, and you are possibly the biggest grouse in Europe.” But he lowered his pistol and came forward two paces.
“Thank you. It would be embarrassing to be shot before we were introduced.”
He was still not looking particularly friendly. “Then be off into the undergrowth, my feathered friend. It makes me feel more than somewhat persecuted to have items of the British public lurking about my property—particularly when most of them haven’t read two lines of my verse together.”
I noted that he pronounced it in eighteenth-century fashion: “m’ verse.”
Taking the binoculars from round my neck, I proffered them, saying, “You observe how amateur my lurking was—not only did I not conceal myself, but I did not use my chief lurking weapon. Have you ever seen the like of these, sir?”
He tucked the gun into the top of his trousers. That was a good sign. Then he took the binoculars and peered at me through them.
Clicking his tongue in approval, he swerved to take in the lake.
“Let’s see if Dr. Polly is up to anything he shouldn’t be with our young Mistress Mary!”
I saw him focus on a boat which lay almost stationary beneath its single sail, fairly close to shore. But I wanted to take him in while his eyes were off me. Being so close to Lord Byron was somewhat like being close to big game—a lion encountered at the foot of Kilimanjaro. Although not a tall man, he had considerable stature. His shoulders were broad, his face handsome; you could see his genius in his eyes and lips. Only his skin, as I inspected him from fairly close quarters, was pallid and blotchy. I saw that there were gray hairs among his auburn locks.
He studied the sailing boat for a while, smiling to himself.
Then he chuckled. “Tasso keeps them apart, though their fingers meet on the pillows of his pastoral. The triumph of learning over concupiscence! Polly itches for her, but they continue to construe. Red blood is nothing before a bluestocking!”
I could make out two figures in the boat, one male, one female.
I heard my own voice from a remote distance ask, “Do you refer to Mary Shelley, sir?”
Byron looked quizzically at me, holding the glasses out but just beyond my grasp. “Mary Shelley? No, sir, I refer to Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. She is Shelley’s mistress, not his wife. I thought that much was common knowledge. What d’you take ’em for, a pair of Christians? Though neither Shelley nor she are pagans, that’s certain! Even now, Mary improves her mind at the expense of my doctor’s body.”
This news, combined with his presence, caused me some confusion. I could only say stupidly, “I believed Shelley and Mary were married.”
He withdrew the glasses again from my reach. “Mrs. Shelley is left behind in London—the only proper treatment for wives, apart from
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