Polidori’s Evening of Renewal – 053

Ah, Molly — you must thank your Percy, for he has rescued me from the fog of my own pessimism. His words, so steeped in the moonlit charm of this place, have reminded me that we are not only creatures of worry and debate, but of beauty, wit, and conviviality.

The Villa Diodati tonight is a stage set by nature herself. The lake lies in quiet conspiracy with the stars, and the air is scented with roses and the faint smoke of Byron’s perpetual cigar. I can hear Claire laughing in the garden — what Mary, you say it is more of a giggle than a laugh? Perhaps, but it is the kind that stirs a man’s curiosity.

Percy leans on the balcony rail, speaking of clouds as though they were verses waiting to be written. Mary watches him, and I cannot tell whether she is judging the poetry or simply enjoying the view. As for Byron — he reclines like a sultan, one booted foot hooked over the arm of his chair, listening to us all with that half-smile that dares you to say something worth his attention.

It is a place where one forgets the weight of the world. Even the Alps, looming in their snowbound grandeur, seem less like barriers and more like silent sentinels keeping watch over our talk. We speak of poetry and voyages, of Greek heroes and Gothic ruins, and for a few hours the darker subjects — yes, even climate and catastrophe — retreat beyond the lamplight.

I write this not as a physician diagnosing the malady of our age, but as a man caught in a moment of rare contentment. Perhaps that is what Percy intended — to remind me, and now you, that there is life yet to be savored between the shadows.

—Polidori