1816: the Grandest Tour

Switzerland: Chapter 3

Aside from a few attempts in rowing at Cambridge, George and his companions had relatively little experience on small watercraft. Shelley and Byron assured them all it was quite safe, and owing to the large size of the party Byron ordered two spacious rowboats brought out to his private pier. Dick and Isaac took the oars of one boat, while two of Byron's footmen got in the other. Byron and Shelley each climbed in first of the passengers and set themselves at the prow to navigate their respective vessels. George and Robert got into Shelley's boat with their valets, where they were joined by Mary. Byron captained a slightly fuller boat of Claire, Hugh, Tobias, Polidori, and the two footmen.

They pushed off into the calm waters of Lake Geneva. At first no one spoke, content to simply drift over the glassy surface under the coruscating magenta of the skies. Shelley crouched in his vessel's nose, letting the breeze embrace his form like spirits called from the glacial deep. Byron, meanwhile, stood tall and imposing at the prow, in a pose worthy of Jason or Odysseus.

From his seat in Shelley's boat, George skimmed his fingers over the clear, cold water and marveled at the Jura mountains, the gorgeous sunset, and the distant towers of the old city. It felt like a scene out of a poem, or a fantasy landscape. The absurdity of it all suddenly hit him: here they were, in the middle of a Swiss lake, with none other than 'Mad, Bad' Lord Byron, his ill-famed Atheist friend, and the couple of unfortunate girls they had lured into sharing their scandalous company. At least, that was how the world would see it. But as he studied the features of these two brilliant, charismatic young men, and the faces of the whole party shining with warmth, love, and inspiration, George found he couldn't quite agree with the world.

"You know, in this light," said Byron, "these mountains could almost be Albania."

The two rowboats had kept pace with each other, so the poet's words were clear as the evening air.

"I've found no land as wild as the highlands of Illyria," he went on, "the country or the people." Byron's listeners were spellbound, and he knew it. "Blood feuds between clans can last for centuries, but the hospitality of their chiefs is legendary, second to none. Society, in short, is a pristine survival of the Middle Ages, both in beauty and terror."

George saw Claire make a slight movement in the other boat as if she wanted to say something, but stopped herself.

"The shepherds in the hills often sing to their flocks – strange melodies. I had the good fortune to hear a few songs during my stay. Shall I sing one for you?"

Byron's audience blinked and looked at each other as if coming out of a trance. Before anyone could answer, the poet threw back his head:

"HoLAAAAAAAaaaaaYEEEEEEEEOOOOOoooUUUIIIIIIILLLYYYYMaaaaaAAAAAUUUUuuuuWAAAAAAA!!!"

It was a howl for which written transcription can do scant justice. No pair of ears in either boat had heard its like. Ranging in tone from wolf, to gull, to half-crazed goat, Lord Byron used his entire larynx, which was substantial. He soon ran out of breath and stopped, panting. He slowly turned to face the others with a look of triumph. In the few seconds after the 'song' everyone could hear its fiendish echoes flitting up and down the lake. Perhaps also a muffled shout of "Tais-toi!" from a lakeside house or two.

Byron laughed at their shocked faces. "I sang that for my wife once – in the carriage on our wedding night," he said. "She hasn't spoken to me since."

No one knew what to make of this joke, but Robert gave a chortle despite himself.

"Oh it was superb!" said Claire, marking the first time George and the others had heard her speak. "It seemed to contain such love, and regret, and – tortured sadness."