Shards of rain had splintered the blackening window panes, torrents had poured from the heights of the mountains, and a river was flowing past the villa, violently spurting down the garden, blood pumping from a fresh wound. The icy depths of Lake Geneva lay charcoal and brooding while the sky split into multitudinous spasms of light, piercing the crystalline night with glares of lightning.
This was the way to create - an edict sculpted by Rousseau and Wordsworth - walking in omnipotent nature.
A lull in the storm, and I seized the opportunity to escape the confines of Villa Diodati, a far grander settlement than the humble Montalégre, where Percy and I had resided for a fortnight before being joined by Byron. In fact, Milton, who had once occupied our stately villa, had been at the heart of many of our discussions over the last few weeks, particularly regarding the revolutionary heroism he bestows on Satan - whether consciously or not.
Someone from inside cried, “Mary, your coat!”, but I ran on, unheeding. I heard footsteps and wheeled around - John stood by the door, droplets from the porch beading on his hat. Exasperated, I dashed down to the lake, knowing he wouldn’t venture out without his greatcoat. The dense dusk obscured my view of the house, and I knew I would appear a hazy figure on the shores of the water to any inhabitants.
It was 6 o’clock of the evening and the lake’s mirror simmered, a black blanket at the base of the towering mountains. The setting that had once looked so vibrant and beautiful was now looming and threatening. Thunderous clouds were punctuated by crags of mountain peaks, and the heady greens of alpine meadows had been replaced with chilling blues and dismal greys. Indeed, the weather was rather a metaphor for the holiday, this unfolding quest; I had not been expecting to see Byron, but Percy, out of his current state of depression, had encouraged him to come. That was all the motivation needed for Claire, who was the next to enlist. And as for Byron’s doctor, John! - We were all truly tired and touchy - one could not get any air or space due to the infernal weather, and the chafing of the occupant’s personalities and separate needs had become the cause of infinite irritation, annoyance and depression. I dearly hoped for the storm to pass as I felt suffocated and ill at ease, and wished not to lose my friends; yet if I stayed much longer in this state, I would fear for all future relations.
A triangle of ice spat on my neck and slithered down my spine. Several more fell and soon the lake’s surface was teeming with ripples, causing the water’s sheen to spume like parasites on a dead crow. I turned to return to the villa, but had to stop and stare at the silhouette of peaks against the vast backdrop of the sky. Ideas for poetry were surging through my head, and I made a note to recount the vivid view to Percy later.
Amber light glowed from the drawing room. I sincerely hoped that they weren’t reading Coleridge’s Christabel again, as Percy had run out screaming and hallucinating last time, which didn’t help to placate his demons or quell his current phase of morbidity and desolation. I stepped closer, the candlelight flickering on my face, and my shadow lurching around on the opposite wall, gargantuan claws and a hooked nose swimming in and out of the shadows. The heavy door creaked open, and George was reading from a heavy clasped book: ‘Fantasmagoriana’. My eyes roved around the room, and I saw Claire gazing straight into his madly glittering eyes. Her mouth hung open and I wondered what she saw through the blind mist of her agony of desire - a Saint, perhaps, or a God? John Pollidori sat, still resting his sprained ankle, scribbling in his notebook, and weary Percy lay limp, pale and haunted. I caught my breath as an image from a recent nightmare flashed before my eyes; as pale as Percy, I saw a student of the sublime arts kneeling before the being he had put together, a hideous phantom convulsing with the first movements of existence…
Frightened, yet intrigued, I took a seat in an armchair by the rain- buffeted window. Little had changed, but I felt a stirring in the atmosphere, and my past annoyance felt futile. I thought back to our long speculations over anatomy and the spark of life that we had discussed for hours beyond count, trapped here in the villa, and I felt the inkling of an idea begin to take hold. I did worry sometimes that these preternatural and macabre conversations had adverse effects on Percy’s state; he continually feared being followed by spies and frequently underwent devastating bouts of despondency. I had hoped this holiday would cheer his temperament; but this summer of no sun, in conjunction with his anguish over the terrible suffering of the Irish peasantry - a topic that scoured his energy, of which a mention alone would cast him in gloom for days - left him in melancholic tenor.
Byron, having placed down the book, looked around the room with a dangerous glint in his eye; “Now we will each write our own!”. I was surprised when no one interjected or argued, and felt that perhaps I wasn’t alone in feeling a shift of dynamic tonight. Claire extinguished the gas lamp, and our cast was left in near- darkness, faces barely perceptible, save by the light of several merrily dancing candles.
Polidori began; he was, he claimed, to write a terrible account of a “skull headed lady” who was punished for peering through keyholes. Then Byron stood up and enticed us with the tale of a vicious nobleman, the immoral and sinister Lord Ruthevan - a deadly blood drinking creature of high societal degree. Determined to create equal terror through my ghost story, my mind raced to convene unnerving and chilling imagery. Outside it was pitch black, and in our turret room, the muted drumming of rain sliced through the silence of baited breath. Still shaking from the gore and fright of Byron’s vampyre, I stood and unleashed my imagination to these pale eyed acolytes.
On our retreat for bed, far past the close of the witching hour, I heard John excitably praising George for his story, and scribbling down notes. I smiled to myself; a fully fledged idea had formed in my mind, its new wings grappling to receive attention. I was slightly conflicted though; keen to tell the story of over- arching ambition and occult science, I was also interested to explore the plight of a sea- faring adventurer - an indefatigable, resilient and intrepid character - though one possibly plagued by a morbid and poetic sensibility. Percy would think it to be him! - Although I believe not. Yet I could see no immediate way to combine the two plots and was glad to have resigned myself to a more specific genre. Tomorrow I would wake, and pluck my charged emotions from tonight to spiral from pen to paper, in forming a narrative.
A watery light filtered through the curtains and I stepped out of the bed, reaching over for ink and paper. Rubbing my dawn- heavy eyes I drew the chair to the desk and began to write: “Chapter One. It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.”
COPYRIGHT @Bea Wood.
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