Chapter LVII: Letter 328: To Mr. Murray

"Venice, May 15. 1819.

"I have got your extract, and the 'Vampire.' I need not say it is
_not mine_. There is a rule to go by: you are my publisher (till we
quarrel), and what is not published by you is not written by me.

"Next week I set out for Romagna--at least, in all probability. You
had better go on with the publications, without waiting to hear
farther, for I have other things in my head. 'Mazeppa' and the
'Ode' separate?--what think you? _Juan anonymous, without the
Dedication;_ for I won't be shabby, and attack Southey under cloud
of night.

"Yours," &c.

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In another letter on the subject of the Vampire, I find the following interesting particulars:--

"TO MR. ----.

"The story of Shelley's agitation is true.[31] I can't tell what
seized him, for he don't want courage. He was once with me in a
gale of wind, in a small boat, right under the rocks between
Meillerie and St. Gingo. We were five in the boat--a servant, two
boatmen, and ourselves. The sail was mismanaged, and the boat was
filling fast. He can't swim. I stripped off my coat, made him strip
off his, and take hold of an oar, telling him that I thought (being
myself an expert swimmer) I could save him, if he would not
struggle when I took hold of him--unless we got smashed against the
rocks, which were high and sharp, with an awkward surf on them at
that minute. We were then about a hundred yards from shore, and the
boat in peril. He answered me with the greatest coolness, 'that he
had no notion of being saved, and that I would have enough to do to
save myself, and begged not to trouble me.' Luckily, the boat
righted, and, bailing, we got round a point into St. Gingo, where
the inhabitants came down and embraced the boatmen on their escape,
the wind having been high enough to tear up some huge trees from
the Alps above us, as we saw next day.

"And yet the same Shelley, who was as cool as it was possible to be
in such circumstances, (of which I am no judge myself, as the
chance of swimming naturally gives self-possession when near
shore,) certainly had the fit of phantasy which Polidori describes,
though _not exactly_ as he describes it.

"The story of the agreement to write the ghost-books is true; but
the ladies are _not_ sisters. Mary Godwin (now Mrs. Shelley) wrote
Frankenstein, which you have reviewed, thinking it Shelley's.
Methinks it is a wonderful book for a girl of nineteen,--not
nineteen, indeed, at that time. I enclose you the beginning of
mine, by which you will see how far it resembles Mr. Colburn's
publication. If you choose to publish it, you may, _stating why_,
and with such explanatory proem as you please. I never went on with
it, as you will perceive by the date. I began it in an old
account-book of Miss Milbanke's, which I kept because it contains
the word 'Household,' written by her twice on the inside blank page
of the covers, being the only two scraps I have in the world in her
writing, except her name to the Deed of Separation. Her letters I
sent back except those of the quarrelling correspondence, and
those, being documents, are placed in the hands of a third person,
with copies of several of my own; so that I have no kind of
memorial whatever of her, but these two words,--and her actions. I
have torn the leaves containing the part of the Tale out of the
book, and enclose them with this sheet.

"What do you mean? First you seem hurt by my letter, and then, in
your next, you talk of its 'power,' and so forth. 'This is a
d----d blind story, Jack; but never mind, go on.' You may be sure I
said nothing _on purpose_ to plague you; but if you will put me 'in
a frenzy, I will never call you _Jack_ again.' I remember nothing
of the epistle at present.

"What do you mean by Polidori's _Diary_? Why, I defy him to say any
thing about me, but he is welcome. I have nothing to reproach me
with on his score, and I am much mistaken if that is not his _own_
opinion. But why publish the names of the two girls? and in such a
manner?--what a blundering piece of exculpation! _He_ asked Pictet,
&c. to dinner, and of course was left to entertain them. I went
into society _solely_ to present _him_ (as I told him), that he
might return into good company if he chose; it was the best thing
for his youth and circumstances: for myself, I had done with
society, and, having presented him, withdrew to my own 'way of
life.' It is true that I returned without entering Lady Dalrymple
Hamilton's, because I saw it full. It is true that Mrs. Hervey (she
writes novels) fainted at my entrance into Coppet, and then came
back again. On her fainting, the Duchess de Broglie exclaimed,
'This is _too much_--at _sixty-five_ years of age!'--I never gave
'the English' an opportunity of avoiding me; but I trust that, if
ever I do, they will seize it. With regard to Mazeppa and the Ode,
you may join or separate them, as you please, from the two Cantos.

"Don't suppose I want to put you out of humour. I have a great
respect for your good and gentlemanly qualities, and return your
personal friendship towards me; and although I think you a little
spoilt by 'villanous company,'--wits, persons of honour about town,
authors, and fashionables, together with your 'I am just going to
call at Carlton House, are you walking that way?'--I say,
notwithstanding 'pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the musical
glasses,' you deserve and possess the esteem of those whose esteem
is worth having, and of none more (however useless it may be) than
yours very truly, &c.

"P.S. Make my respects to Mr. Gifford. I am perfectly aware that
'Don Juan' must set us all by the ears, but that is my concern, and
my beginning. There will be the 'Edinburgh,' and all, too, against
it, so that, like 'Rob Roy,' I shall have my hands full."

[Footnote 31: This story, as given in the Preface to the "Vampire," is as follows:--

"It appears that one evening Lord B., Mr. P.B. Shelley, two ladies, and the gentleman before alluded to, after having perused a German work called Phantasmagoria, began relating ghost stories, when his Lordship having recited the beginning of Christabel, then unpublished, the whole took so strong a hold of Mr. Shelley's mind, that he suddenly started up, and ran out of the room. The physician and Lord Byron followed, and discovered him leaning against a mantel-piece, with cold drops of perspiration trickling down his face. After having given him something to refresh him, upon enquiring into the cause of his alarm, they found that his wild imagination having pictured to him the bosom of one of the ladies with eyes (which was reported of a lady in the neighbourhood where he lived), he was obliged to leave the room in order to destroy the impression."]

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