admired everything he saw, and never succeeded in working out my relationship to either Shelley or Claire. He immediately conceived an infatuation with me, a situation which George found hilarious and did his best to encourage.
The two men, surrounded by luxury and pampered by George’s huge staff, seemed bent on spending as much money as possible in the shortest time possible during their stay. In my heart I disapproved, but the beauty of our surroundings seduced us all.
By day or night, the sky, the lake and the mountains presented an array of changing colours and textures. The air was sweet, the prospect delightful, the company congenial. We went to the Villa Diodati every day, formally dressed at first, then gradually less and less so, bearing picnic baskets and fishing-rods and the box containing William’s clothes and toys. It was pleasant to idle away the time on or off shore, playing and sleeping, drinking from George’s inexhaustible wine cellar, and talking, always talking.
George’s mental facility was extraordinary. I could see why Shelley admired him so. It was his ability to dash from one complex subject to another, without apparently needing time to breathe, which gave the impression of sprite-like powers. His listeners’ ears were bombarded with wit, while their eyes devoured a countenance not quite angelic – that description must always be reserved for Shelley – but certainly heavenly in some more mysterious way.
He and Shelley shared many things. They were both publicly recognized poets, though George’s fame was the greater. Both had incurred the disapproval of their noble families and retreated to Europe to escape scandal. George’s passion for wild mountain scenery was as great as Shelley’s. And it had been clear from their first meeting that boating would become their favourite occupation.
Shelley had often professed to crave the wildness of the sea, but in landlocked Switzerland he seemed willing to forgo it in favour of rowing or sailing up and down Lake Geneva in all weathers. Neither he nor George ever having received much instruction in the art of sailing, they spent many hours adrift, the sails furled, the oars idle, writing, laughing, talking, and talking more.
And during that summer, as we walked and talked and ate and drank together, we discovered another, perhaps less worthy, mutual passion. When Shelley and I told George of our encounter with the story of the mad alchemist, he stopped in the act of trying to get William to swallow a tumbler of wine and stared at us with saucer eyes and an open mouth.
“Madness! Bloody murder! Lonely castles!” he cried. “In my opinion, all novels should contain nothing else!”
“Oh, George, how right you are!” replied Claire, hanging on his arm. “And how I long for a new horror story! I have read
The Castle of Otranto
five times.” She turned to the company. “Do you think writers are truly aware of the public’s demand for murder and revenge? And abduction? Abduction is my favourite!”
“Of course they are, but they cannot supply such novels quickly enough to satisfy the readers’ bloodlust,” observed Shelley “My dear Claire, why not write one yourself?”
A gleam came into her eyes. She was seeing herself at her writing-desk, a light shawl draped around her shoulders, frowning daintily in concentration over her masterpiece. “I may well do that, Shelley, so do not jest!” she said.
George, whose absorbent brain and tireless enthusiasm were well suited to such ideas, offered his own accounts of experiments he had read of. Shelley, tormented as ever by the question of God’s monopoly on life-creation, sat up late, scribbling remnants of their conversations down so that he could use them in future defence of his atheism.
“George calls the creation of life ‘the place where science meets the supernatural’,” he told me, impressed. “I wish I had thought of such an apt phrase.”
For my part, I was not so
The two men, surrounded by luxury and pampered by George’s huge staff, seemed bent on spending as much money as possible in the shortest time possible during their stay. In my heart I disapproved, but the beauty of our surroundings seduced us all.
By day or night, the sky, the lake and the mountains presented an array of changing colours and textures. The air was sweet, the prospect delightful, the company congenial. We went to the Villa Diodati every day, formally dressed at first, then gradually less and less so, bearing picnic baskets and fishing-rods and the box containing William’s clothes and toys. It was pleasant to idle away the time on or off shore, playing and sleeping, drinking from George’s inexhaustible wine cellar, and talking, always talking.
George’s mental facility was extraordinary. I could see why Shelley admired him so. It was his ability to dash from one complex subject to another, without apparently needing time to breathe, which gave the impression of sprite-like powers. His listeners’ ears were bombarded with wit, while their eyes devoured a countenance not quite angelic – that description must always be reserved for Shelley – but certainly heavenly in some more mysterious way.
He and Shelley shared many things. They were both publicly recognized poets, though George’s fame was the greater. Both had incurred the disapproval of their noble families and retreated to Europe to escape scandal. George’s passion for wild mountain scenery was as great as Shelley’s. And it had been clear from their first meeting that boating would become their favourite occupation.
Shelley had often professed to crave the wildness of the sea, but in landlocked Switzerland he seemed willing to forgo it in favour of rowing or sailing up and down Lake Geneva in all weathers. Neither he nor George ever having received much instruction in the art of sailing, they spent many hours adrift, the sails furled, the oars idle, writing, laughing, talking, and talking more.
And during that summer, as we walked and talked and ate and drank together, we discovered another, perhaps less worthy, mutual passion. When Shelley and I told George of our encounter with the story of the mad alchemist, he stopped in the act of trying to get William to swallow a tumbler of wine and stared at us with saucer eyes and an open mouth.
“Madness! Bloody murder! Lonely castles!” he cried. “In my opinion, all novels should contain nothing else!”
“Oh, George, how right you are!” replied Claire, hanging on his arm. “And how I long for a new horror story! I have read
The Castle of Otranto
five times.” She turned to the company. “Do you think writers are truly aware of the public’s demand for murder and revenge? And abduction? Abduction is my favourite!”
“Of course they are, but they cannot supply such novels quickly enough to satisfy the readers’ bloodlust,” observed Shelley “My dear Claire, why not write one yourself?”
A gleam came into her eyes. She was seeing herself at her writing-desk, a light shawl draped around her shoulders, frowning daintily in concentration over her masterpiece. “I may well do that, Shelley, so do not jest!” she said.
George, whose absorbent brain and tireless enthusiasm were well suited to such ideas, offered his own accounts of experiments he had read of. Shelley, tormented as ever by the question of God’s monopoly on life-creation, sat up late, scribbling remnants of their conversations down so that he could use them in future defence of his atheism.
“George calls the creation of life ‘the place where science meets the supernatural’,” he told me, impressed. “I wish I had thought of such an apt phrase.”
For my part, I was not so
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