lord-byrons-ghost

[lord-byrons-ghost]

What if I piss on your grave :3

I would really rather you didn't, dear anonyme! How very deuced inconsiderate, to suggest such to a man whose politics is an utter detestation of all governments - unlike Castlereagh, the poisonous blighter.

However - if you really must be so impolite - be aware you shall also be pissing on my daughter Ada, my mother, and my Great-Uncle - for we are packed into the family vault like sardines - the one balanced precariously atop the other in a charade of death not unlike the game of "Jenga".

[lord-byrons-ghost]

My dear fellow, I thought you would comprehend the intensity of suffering that plagues my soul as well as any other soul can - the torture of a bright, new world, when your own consciousness is cut off - and the sense of garish pleasure that all other creatures feel whilst you suffer - is near unbearable.

I grieve for your own death as greatly as I grieve mine - to lose a fellow of such mettle - in both poetics and in politics - was a detriment indeed to this world. I recall vividly the accounts written in the English papers - vile and uncaring as they were - and cut out parts of them to keep under a floorboard, as they so touched my soul that I found myself weeping in sympathy. Such a sudden loss of life is indeed the greatest source of heart-sickness - aside from love - and it shows courage to continue in the face of it.

A desire for oblivion has touched my soul far too often - in the winter of 1815, when faced with the horrors of marriage and looming scandal, life seemed barely worth continuing - and yet my spirits longed for some great event, some avalanche, to wake me into the giddy heights of poetic wonder again.

*Byron smiles slightly at Fabre pinching his cheek, and raises a hand to momentarily trap Fabre's fingers in place, that more comfort might be drawn from the touch.*

Your toasts to dying flowers and the decayed grandeur of Venezia are ones I enjoy immensely - I will gladly raise a glass to Death, and trade poetics on this - or any other - subject until rosy-fingered dawn steals across the sky, and Dionysius steals away consciousness on wings of intoxicating pleasure. May the seas of emotion cover our souls and minds until all sense of shore or sky is lost.

Citoyen d'Eglantine - or may I roll your Christian name around my mouth like a bead of honey, Fabre? - have you any inclination to aid an irritable and desolate man in the draining of every article in his wine cellar?

For - in spite of the spring skies - in spite of the new leaves - in spite of the season of love blossoming in every heart - I cannot shake this damned sense of mourning. There is no pleasure to be found in my scribblings, in the sweet mouths of my lovers - although they intoxicate me quite in other seasons - nor in the meanderings through the watery decaying grandeur of Venezia. My soul seems clapt to a long forgotten coffin, and lacks the energy to rise from the endless grave.

*Byron smiles very slightly, and puts a hand on Fabre's shoulder - whether to appear more earnest or to steady himself is hard to tell.*

I can think of few people I would rather take solace with than with another poetical fellow - I am certain you understand how the mind is weighed with unquenchable grief, or flies to intoxicating heights of love - and it seems a damned sight easier to ask a Revolutionist for company than the composers - that idolise my Byronisms and moods for a poetic truth, rather than a man's suffering.

In brief: I desire your company for drinking vast quantities of wine, and for distracting myself - a task I am patently useless at - from the tempests of the mind. - given I had the idiotic idea to die in April, and that ruins the month quite - I have been entirely comatose for the past week.

What say you?

- @lord-byrons-ghost

Ah, Byron! You needn’t ask twice. You had me at "desolate man"—for what am I, if not the patron saint of desolate men and half-finished verses? Yes, yes, yes—by all the torn pages of every ill-fated poem I ever scrawled and the ink I wasted trying to make meaning out of empty stages—I understand.

[ Gently—without fanfare—Fabre reaches out and rubs a slow circle into Byron’s shoulder, his palm warm and idly affectionate, ]

But your grief, ah! It speaks with such refinement. Such melodious torment. I was nearly moved to tears until I remembered how expensive good handkerchiefs have become. April! Cursed month! The skies deceive with their blue, the blossoms dare to bloom as if we’ve not buried ourselves beneath them. This damned season where everything insists on living—when the trees won’t stop budding and everyone else looks unbearably alive—I, too, died in April—April 5th, to be precise. That was the day I dropped like a marionette with snapped strings! I remember it now as one remembers a play performed under duress: the lines screamed, the curtain falling too fast. The crowd cheered too soon. I was still breathing. I imagine you understand how a little detail like that can claw at the ribs for centuries.

Nobody will ever understand men like us. That is the bottom line. Too many nights I've found myself wishing to lay my head on the cold earth, to find a final rest beneath it. It is a peculiar thing, is it not? To wish for oblivion when you are not truly finished with life—waiting for something to awaken you. Perhaps it is the poet’s curse. To feel too deeply, to live too fully, and yet, to suffer the consequences of such passion with every passing day.

[ Fabre’s hand slips up from Byron’s shoulder and pinches his cheek, lightly and fondly, as if grounding the younger man in something foolishly mortal. ]

And now here you are, inviting me to drain your cellar dry, to join you in a righteous and eloquent descent into grief-drenched stupor—and how could I, in good conscience, refuse? I will drink to the rot behind the tulips. I will drink to Venice, that lovely corpse of a city—so like both of us, don’t you think? Too elegant to be alive, too stubborn to be buried properly.

You want distraction? I’ll bring you distraction enough to make Orpheus forget Eurydice! We'll trade verses like old war wounds. I’ll recite my the worst of my work until you scream for mercy. You’ll quote your best until I sigh like a widow. We’ll wade into grief like it’s the Adriatic, unbothered by drowning! And if your moods must shift from tempest to sunbeam ten times a night, I promise to follow with a wineglass in each hand. Let the composers idolise your moods—I shall honour your mourning with good wine and better company.

Let us drink until April forgets our names. If you have any absinthe remaining in that cellar of yours, guard it well. And If you insist on mourning yourself through April again next year, at least let me compose the elegy. It would be a damn shame if you left it to amateurs.

[lord-byrons-ghost]

What year is it where you are?

My dear anonyme, if I knew, I would inform you with all speed - but - as I am a trifle exanimis - that is to say, dead - it could be the Lord's Year of 1237 - or perhaps 1989 - or even simply 1824. There seem a great many fellows of all ages about - the Revolutionists and their bickering - the Marshals and their galloping - the Composers and their sighing - and the general crowd of citizens that write amusing articles about us all, or create beautiful artwork.

However - and this I can be sure of - although wine does muddle the senses - is that I and my household lodge in some shade of the Palazzo Mocenigo, and therefore appear - thankfully - at the ages we were between 1816-1819 - the delights of Venezia soothe the aches of a soul torn from life, and the shimmering canals entrance the poetic mind beyond the mundane and over-used.

So - my dear - I think it best to say that whilst the year is uncertain, my age most certainly is not.

[lord-byrons-ghost]

That name plagues me daily - how can a fellow correctly make love, if all endearments inevitably lead back to such a name? - and reminds me also of bog-covered Albion. - I wish I could change the damned thing - signing letters N.B is all well and good, but I cannot uphold the use of my surnames forever! - too deuced formal to be whispered by soft lips.

Are you ever struck with the realization that Lord Byron's name is George.

[lord-byrons-ghost]

CASTLEREAH

Dear God, anonyme, why??? - why would you remind me of the horror that is such a prudish and tepid specimen of the English gentleman? - I feel quite nauseous at the thought of him... I need a hock and soda to recover.

I am certain you are aware of my thoughts on the fellow - especially his death - but my ditty can be reproduced below! It is the most fitting memorial for such a bore of a man - and a coward to boot - who did naught of use for drear Albion in her worthy fight against the tyranny of Buonaparte.

Posterity will ne'er survey

a Nobler grave than this:

Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:

Stop, traveller, and p----- !

[lord-byrons-ghost]

how many wellingtons would you find to be too many wellingtons

My dear anonyme! One of the Little Corporal is far too many! - the man is as frigid and uninspiring as the land from which he originates - and his politics are nothing save stultification & oppression. If Lady Fortune were less of a whore, she'd have had the blighter shot at Wet Waterloo.

I hope @the1ronduke understands what a heartless & disgraceful specimen of an Englishman he is. Poor Caro Lamb only threw herself at him to distract herself from my waning affections.

[lord-byrons-ghost]

Dear Lord Byron,

It had recently come to my attention that one Robert Southey may have sullied your name by spreading word that you are having an incestuous affair with your half sister. Have you been made aware of his allegations?

Furthermore, some rumors say that Southey has accused of you, Polidori and Shelley of forming an “incest league”. I fail to see why your friends would be dragged into this accusations, other than their association with you. Would you like to provide any comments regarding your friend's situation?

~ a concerned journalist

Dear God, the papers have uncovered my whereabouts - which British rag do you work for again? - It is of no matter, you seem to act in good faith, informing a fellow of terrible allegations.

Southey has very little brain - which is bad - and even less talent - which is worse. Poetics should be utilised for the sublime and the misrepresented - not whatever twaddle he pours out, as part of the bastion of English society. He sides with all that is turgid about Britain - her wealth, her god-forsaken government, her armies, her cloddy climate, her chilly women - and gilds them with an unnecessary grandeur. What is worst of all - the man used to be a Revolutionist, with all the passion that liberty inspires! I have no doubt he is gladly saying the most vile things behind my back.

I thank you for informing me of the allegations concerning Augusta and I - Southey seems clearly unaware that love and fraternal affection is possible amongst estranged siblings, without some strange perversion! Dear God - does the man have no heart too, to see two creatures - bound by ties of blood - and assume every touch of a hand is tantamount to a wealth of unsavoury activities in the bedroom? I can assure you, sir/ma'am/other, my relations with my own sister are as pure as any other man's - we have a deep affection bourn from having few relatives living, and find little to argue over. That is all.

As for this supposed league of incest - a damn fine name, I must say! - whilst I am known for my corruption of innocents - in part due to the vicious harpy, my wife, and her equally unlikeable cousin, the Lamb - I am damned if Polly Dolly ever lay with any woman, let alone one he was related to - the man has as much libido as a barrel of wet powder has the ability to explode - viz, none - and so one can safely assume he has no incest to present.

Dear Shelley is similarly innocent - although I conceive readily of how Southey has arrived at the concept of incest. Shelley believes in the soundest of doctrines - and I speak as a raddled old sinner of the Calvinist sort - that of free and untainted love. He cannot be blamed for the unfortunate relations with his first wife - wives are a terrifying thing - nor for his attraction to Mary - one of the finest girls I've had the pleasure to acquaint myself with. This conception of incest clearly springs from Shelley and Mary being accompanied to Geneva by Mary's own half-sister, Claire. If Shelley did take her to bed, it is hardly incest - he's not related to her, thank God - simply the free love he practices. Claire was one of my amours - again, nothing impure in that - and happened to be the one dragging the Shelleys to Geneva in the first place. The only possible method of incest amongst my friends at the Villa Diodati would have been if the young Misses Claire and Mary began consorting - which they most certainly did not.

My final word to Southey would be that I'm damned sure half the aristocracy of his dear England have lain with their sisters or mothers - the cloddy climate induces such vices, and brandy cements them - and perhaps he would do better to turn his hypocritical little mind towards them, rather than a wandering exile and his companions in misery.

[lord-byrons-ghost]

I really do not understand why any fellow would wish to be wakeful in the hours of daylight! - That is when the common fellow with his small mind walks abroad!

The night contains all sweetness - poetising, women's love, wine, madness and moonlight!

It's always "it's a problem you sleep till the evening and don't fall asleep till morning" and "Why are you so pale and sickly looking?"

and never "yass go off Lord Byron" and "Percy Shelly core"

[lord-byrons-ghost]

(OOC: Yes! The entire reason I love doing RP is the mix of historical interest and the opportunity to play with story. It's the combination of two passions - I enjoy being irritatingly pedantic in my RPing too, as that is what I enjoy, but I love the silliness, the off the rails plots, the weird character arcs and the interactions between people who would historically not have got on.

RPing is a group storytelling project, and historical RP allows for storytelling with interesting plot-lines and characters already waiting to be used. If I want to send Byron to the Feywild for some reason, he should go! It's for the sake of seeing how he'd react, as a character.

I really enjoy the silliness and chaos here. There are so many wonderful and talented people engaging in the world we are creating together.)

(( OOC note: just a little reminder that rp is something people do for fun and is not meant to be an accurate recreation of history 🙂 ))

[lord-byrons-ghost]

Darling Shiloh... pray do not take your inspirations from a sinner like myself - you are too rare a creature to be sullied with such Romantic considerations of the whisperings of the devil!

I am firmly damned - such was clear from birth - but you have a wondrous innocence and curiosity about you that leads you - rather than to heights of glory - down to share my endless pit of suffering. Desist, I pray!

(That said, I regret nothing - Augusta is a dear companion to me, and I have no better way to express my gratitude than by making love to her. A damned shame my harpy of a wife started censoring our letters!!)

"Incest is, like many other incorrect things, a very poetical circumstance. It may be the excess of love or hate. It may be the defiance of everything for the sake of another, which clothes itself in the glory of the highest heroism."

Letters Of Percy Bysshe Shelley, Percy Shelley

[lord-byrons-ghost]

Well then, we should arrange this duel poet-haste, my dear! Have you asked the Eaglet if he is willing to be your second? - as soon as that is arranged, we can begin our deadly quarrel.

*Byron smiles, and gets to his feet, but the smile rings a little hollow, and doesn't quite reach his eyes.*

How am I? Oh, as well as a fellow can be - when he is afflicted with the ailment of poetry, that is - and enjoying the warmth of spring after the cloddy days of dreary cloud that constitute a winter.

*Emilka sneaked up behind George and covered his eyes with her hands. It seems she has recovered and is in the mood to fool around again*

Guess who it is!

*She exclaimed happily. Well, the Rosé wine seems to be a good medicine...*

@the-little-miss-poet

*Byron puts down his pen as his eyes are covered, and taps his fingers thoughtfully on the desk.*

Hmmm - these be very slender hands, and soft too - none of the wear of grief - and so I think my assailant to be a girl. Is it - perchance - my dear little Allegrina? Or perhaps it is Miss Emilia!

[lord-byrons-ghost]

You have forgotten the elongated jaunts about Europe with a dear friend becoming extraordinarily drunk! - and indeed making said dear friend tear his hair out over your excellent fashion sense - Hobby loathed a top hat of mine - and then consoling him.

And the poetry to dead creatures - dogs, Venice, yourself, English decency, a debauched monk who's skull is your wine cup...

There are many lighter elements to the Byronic, aside from when my devilish humours are out of balance, and make a fellow melancholic! - Pray someone emulate my party at Newstead where myself, Scrope, Hobby and Matthews dressed as monks - blew out all the candles - drank claret - and frightened each other senseless!

@no-where-new-hero u get it

[lord-byrons-ghost]

Why, thank you! I return your affectionate kisses tenfold - a thousand and a thousand times, as Catullus stated!

Liszt, dear fellow, just passing by to drop off champagne and wish you the compliments of St Valentine! - I imagine ye have been busy engaging in answering the veritable heaps of enamoured young ladies writing to you today, and need alcohol to see you through.

- @lord-byrons-ghost

Smooch. Mwah. Kissikiss. Bussi!

[lord-byrons-ghost]

*Emilka sneaked up behind George and covered his eyes with her hands. It seems she has recovered and is in the mood to fool around again*

Guess who it is!

*She exclaimed happily. Well, the Rosé wine seems to be a good medicine...*

@the-little-miss-poet

*Byron puts down his pen as his eyes are covered, and taps his fingers thoughtfully on the desk.*

Hmmm - these be very slender hands, and soft too - none of the wear of grief - and so I think my assailant to be a girl. Is it - perchance - my dear little Allegrina? Or perhaps it is Miss Emilia!

[lord-byrons-ghost]

Pasha this and Pasha that... will you spare a thought for Ali Pasha of Ioannina?

Now, that is a name that brings back sweet memories indeed! - Ali Pasha was one of the most charming despots I have ever laid eyes upon; flashing blue eyes and a great white beard, clad in silks. My visitation to him in Albania was an honour and a joy - they call him the Mahometan Buonaparte for his excellence at war - Buonaparte himself sent a snuff box, and courts him eternally - as do our own rotten breed of diplomat - and he refuses the both of them.

Now, if I can retrieve that deuced letter to my mother, I shall find you my first meeting with the fellow, dear anonymous!

“The next day I was introduced to Ali Pacha. I was dressed in a full suit of staff uniform, with a very magnificent sabre, &c. The vizier received me in a large room paved, with marble; a fountain was playing in the centre; the apartment was surrounded by scarlet ottomans. He received me standing, a wonderful compliment from a Mussulman, and made me sit down on his right hard. I have a Greek interpreter for general use, but a physician of Ali’s, named Femlario, who understands Latin, acted for me on this occasion. His first question was, why, at so early an age, I left my country?—(the Turks have no idea of travelling for amusement). He then said, the English minister, Captain Leake, had told him I was of a great family, and desired his respects to my mother; which I now, in the name of All Pacha, present to you. He said he was certain I was a man of birth, because I had small ears, curling hair, and little white hands, and expressed himself pleased with my appearance and garb. He told me to consider him as a father whilst I was in Turkey, and said he looked on me as his son. Indeed, he treated me like a child, sending me almonds and sugared sherbet, fruit and sweetmeats, twenty times a day. He begged me to visit him often, and at night, when he was at leisure. I then, after coffee and pipes, retired for the first time. I saw him thrice afterwards. It is singular, that the Turks, who have no hereditary dignities, and few great families, except the Sultans, pay so much respect to birth; for I found my pedigree more regarded them my title."

Make of the gifts - especially the sherbet - and the nightly visits what you will. I deny and confirm nothing, saving Ali Pasha's civility to a wand'ring poetiser. If I could have returned to that country of noble savages with flashing eyes, I should have been glad to reacquaint myself with such a fellow as he.

[lord-byrons-ghost]

There is an overwhelming sense of melancholia in Spring - aye, flowers are erupting from soft wet earth - the birds begin tittering like society dames - sticky buds coat the trees - but the old year's death is too swift forgotten - left to crumble like ruined castles balanced atop icy pinnacles.

There is so little achieved by man in the short time he stumbles across the earth; all - saving my dear Pasha and some handful of others - leave behind naught but dust - frail dreams of glory rotting on the shores of death - and spring reminds one that mortal life has no renewal as the flowers do - simply unprofitable labour to the grave.

Greece - damn the time I spent in such intoxicating climes! - deluded me, suggested that I could achieve some lasting glory - It left me with naught but a raging fever, incompetent doctors, and ultimately death.

Damn April, vile month of poisoned serpents lying under flowers, to snatch away life when a fellow is seeking beauty.

[lord-byrons-ghost]

A threesome it is! - Gentlemen @franzliszt-official, @beethoes, when shall we engage upon a night of delectable debauchery? - I am at your services - as is my stock of liquor/wine.

You can’t tell me that this lithograph isn’t Byron coded.

Even when Liszt is au piano, he loves the guy.