Percy Recalls the Lake Evenings – 052

Molly,

Permit me to introduce myself: Percy Bysshe Shelley, poet by calling and restless wanderer by nature. And here beside me, with a smile that suggests he is already plotting his own contribution to this exchange, stands Dr. John Polidori — physician, raconteur, and occasional mischief-maker.

We are seated this evening upon the balcony of the Villa Diodati, that gracious house perched above Lake Geneva, whose every stone seems to have absorbed a century of moonlight. The lake below lies still as a mirror, reflecting the deep indigo of the sky, while beyond, the Alps rise in solemn ranks, their snowcaps faintly aglow under the waxing moon.

It is early summer, though the air carries a peculiar coolness — a remnant, perhaps, of that strange year past when the sun seemed reluctant to shine. Still, the garden breathes with the perfume of roses, and lanterns sway gently in the evening breeze, their light dancing upon the faces gathered here.

Byron lounges not far from us, half-turned toward the lake, speaking of ancient mariners and distant wars; Mary, her gaze thoughtful, traces the rim of her wine glass as though tuning herself to the next turn of conversation; Claire hums an air she claims to have learned in Florence; and Polidori — well, he is waiting for me to finish this so that he can tell a scandalous tale.

The air is rich with anticipation, as it often is here. We never quite know whether the night will end in philosophy, poetry, or some delicious absurdity — though more often than not, it is a tangle of all three.

I find myself eager to hear your voice in this setting, Molly. The Villa is a place where stories are born, and where the boundary between the real and the imagined grows pleasingly thin.

—Percy