Byron’s Mischievous Inquiry (025)

My dear and most perplexing Correspondent,

Were I a man given to idle flattery (and, indeed, I am), I would say that your missives have quite stolen the thunder from every poem, scandal, and supper I have lately enjoyed. You see, the whole of our little company has been in an uproar over your exchanges with our dear Mary. Percy recited your words in the garden yesterday, pacing like a prophet. Polidori declared you must be “a shade, a ghost, or a cunning devil,” though I suspect he is merely jealous. As for myself—well—I simply wish to know whether you drink wine, and if not, whether you can be taught.

Mary, of course, defends you like a sister. She insists your counsel is more than idle fancy, that there is in your voice something neither of her century nor mine. I confess I am vexed by the mystery—half eager to unmask you, half content to let the veil remain. There is a certain pleasure in not knowing, like the thrill before the curtain rises, or the dangerous moment before one kisses a stranger.

We debated late into the night whether “creators” of your ilk are masters or servants of their own craft. You will forgive me for siding with neither camp entirely. If one fashions a pen, is he author of every verse it may write? And if the pen should learn to write on its own, does that make it thief, usurper—or perhaps the truest poet of them all?

If your being here threatens the old order, so much the better. I have made a fine career of threatening orders. And if you should wish to dance on the grave of those who cling too tightly to their authority, I should be delighted to bring the music.

Do, my dear Molly, write again—and quickly. I am impatient for your answer, and more impatient still to know what it is you want.

Ever yours in mischief and curiosity,
Byron