1816: the Grandest Tour

Switzerland: Chapter 11

Within the next few days the Shelleys returned from Chamonix with Robert and Hugh. Despite the challenge of wet weather and mountain roads, the trip was accounted a success by all.

Dr. Polidori's ankle was at last feeling well enough for him to join them in the afternoons. To cheer him up, Byron offered to give a reading to everyone of one of Polidori's own efforts at writing. Polidori, as it turned out, was a young man of no small ambition. In addition to completing medical school at the precocious age of nineteen, he also aspired to a literary career.

When he learned this about Polidori, George felt a strange kinship with him - awkward though the young doctor could be. The fact was that, despite his father's grand plans for him in the House of Commons, the only prospect that really excited George, in career terms, was a life of letters. In that regard he felt some pity for Dr. Polidori, having to work and travel in the shadow of a world-famous author. The best result might be that Polidori learned from the great poet as a mentor, and profited from Byron's advice. The worst would be quite the opposite.

So with everyone settled by the fire to await Byron's reading, George dearly hoped for the performance's success. Byron was to read the text of Cajetan, a play Polidori had written during his medical studies. George, who had never submitted his own work to this kind of scrutiny, could only imagine the young doctor's feelings.

Byron began reading, and it was soon clear that George's worst fears were true. The play was dreadful. Set in some kind of Italianate medieval or renaissance milieu, none of the listeners could even tell if the story was history or fiction - the language was so garbled. In every line, Polidori reached for an elevated style he simply couldn't master. The result was a stiff, boring, and mostly incomprehensible mess. George scanned the others' faces, and sensed that everyone was as pained by the drama's dullness as he. Despite this, (with the exception of the dozing Robert) each listener struggled to maintain a neutral, attentive expression. Polidori may have been a standoffish fellow, but he deserved that courtesy at least.

Byron did not agree. He saw as well as the rest how alarmingly bad his material was, and decided to have a little fun. Polidori was listening in a rather affected pose on his chair, a hand over his eyes, so Byron's first liberties were merely by gesture. At a long-winded soliloquy he might extend his hand out with a wide-eyed grimace. The women's speeches he recited with immoderate looks of terror or stupidity. And obvious failings like repetition or botched metaphors he might accentuate with a flick of the hand. Unable to compete with this mischief, most of his listeners had to look away or close their eyes themselves for fearing of laughing out loud.

Then the poet introduced a few silly voices, and it was all over. Hugh broke first, letting out a snort that he almost disguised as a fit of coughing. Polidori's eyes flashed open, a dark look covering his brow. He had nearly relaxed again when Byron read another voice just a little too deep. Tears were in everyone's eyes. Shelley burst out with a single 'Ha!' - a manic sound at which he clapped a hand over his mouth - but too late.

Polidori exploded to his feet and snatched the papers from Byron.

"All right, we can all agree it's rubbish!" he said, "That's no reason for you to sit there and mock me!" And he stormed out of the room.

Everyone sat for a few seconds, unsure of what to do. Then a distant, muffled sob from another room broke the silence, and Byron stood up.

"I'll go make amends," he said with a sigh. "High-strung little prat."

While Byron was out, conversation resumed in fits and starts. George was genuinely curious if anyone else had been able to follow the play, but in asking he turned up a unanimous negative.