thought I had a good idea of where at least one copy of the novel would certainly be.
When I saw the next Gasthof coming up, I drew in to the side of the road, put on my raincoat, and walked along to it. I should mention that I had bought a few items of clothing that morning, before the trial began. I no longer looked quite such a time-traveler. (For most of the time, I had forgotten, was unable to remember, my previous existence!)
I was ravenously hungry. At the Gasthof, they set before me a beautiful soup with dumplings in it, followed by a huge white sausage on a small alp of potato and onion-rings. This I washed down with lager from a great stein as monumentally carved as the Parthenon.
As I picked my teeth and smiled to myself, I glanced at the newspaper which had been placed, furled on its stick, beside my plate. My smile sank under the horizon. The paper was dated Monday, August 26, 1816!
But this was May... At first, my mind could not adjust to the missing three months, so that I sat stupidly with the paper in my hands, staring at it. Then I commenced a tremulous search through its pages, almost as if I expected to find details of a timeslip between Geneva and where I now was.
The name of Frankenstein caught my eye. And there next to it stood Justine’s name. I read a short news item in which it was announced that Justine had been hanged the previous Saturday, the twenty-fourth, after several postponements of the event. She had been granted absolution of her sins, but had died protesting her innocence to the last. But—in my yesterday, Justine had still been alive. Where had June and July gone? How did August get there?
Losing three months is a far nastier experience than being jolted back two centuries. Centuries are cold impersonal things. Months are things you live with. And three of them had just been whipped from under me. I paid my bill in very thoughtful fashion, and with a trembling hand.
When I stood at the doorway, hesitating to dash into the pouring rain, I could see that the landscape had moved with the date. Two men who had come in to quaff down great glasses of Apfelsaft were now returning to their scythes in a field opposite, to join a line of sodden reapers there. The grapes that hung over mine host’s door were turning a dusky shade as the juice ripened in their skins. August was here.
The Gasthof owner joined me at the door and stared with contempt at the sky. “I take it you’re a foreigner, sir? This is the worst summer we’ve had in these parts for a century, they do say.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, indeed it is. The worst summer in living memory. No doubt but the discharging of all the cannon and musketry at the field of Waterloo caused an injury to the normal temperament of the sky.”
“Rain or no rain, I must get on my way. Can you tell me of an English poet staying in these parts?”
He grinned broadly at me. “Bless you, sir, I can tell you of two English poets! England must have as many poets as soldiers, so liberally does she scatter them hereabouts. They’re staying not two leagues from this village.”
“Two of them! Do you know their names?”
“Why, sir, one’s the great Lord Byron, probably the most famous poet in the world, after Johann Schlitzberger—and a smarter dresser than Johann Schlitzberger he is, as well.”
“The other English poet?”
“He’s not famous.”
“Shelley, is it?”
“Yes, I believe that’s the name. He’s got a couple of women with him. They’re down along the road by the lake’s edge. You can’t miss them. Ask for the Villa Diodati.”
I thanked him and hurried into the rain. What excitement was leaping inside me!
VII
----
The rain had stopped. Cloud lay thick across the lake, hiding the mountain peaks beyond. I stood under trees, surveying the stone walls and vines of the Villa Diodati. My superior self was working out a way to approach and make myself known.
Suppose I introduced myself to Shelley and Byron as a
When I saw the next Gasthof coming up, I drew in to the side of the road, put on my raincoat, and walked along to it. I should mention that I had bought a few items of clothing that morning, before the trial began. I no longer looked quite such a time-traveler. (For most of the time, I had forgotten, was unable to remember, my previous existence!)
I was ravenously hungry. At the Gasthof, they set before me a beautiful soup with dumplings in it, followed by a huge white sausage on a small alp of potato and onion-rings. This I washed down with lager from a great stein as monumentally carved as the Parthenon.
As I picked my teeth and smiled to myself, I glanced at the newspaper which had been placed, furled on its stick, beside my plate. My smile sank under the horizon. The paper was dated Monday, August 26, 1816!
But this was May... At first, my mind could not adjust to the missing three months, so that I sat stupidly with the paper in my hands, staring at it. Then I commenced a tremulous search through its pages, almost as if I expected to find details of a timeslip between Geneva and where I now was.
The name of Frankenstein caught my eye. And there next to it stood Justine’s name. I read a short news item in which it was announced that Justine had been hanged the previous Saturday, the twenty-fourth, after several postponements of the event. She had been granted absolution of her sins, but had died protesting her innocence to the last. But—in my yesterday, Justine had still been alive. Where had June and July gone? How did August get there?
Losing three months is a far nastier experience than being jolted back two centuries. Centuries are cold impersonal things. Months are things you live with. And three of them had just been whipped from under me. I paid my bill in very thoughtful fashion, and with a trembling hand.
When I stood at the doorway, hesitating to dash into the pouring rain, I could see that the landscape had moved with the date. Two men who had come in to quaff down great glasses of Apfelsaft were now returning to their scythes in a field opposite, to join a line of sodden reapers there. The grapes that hung over mine host’s door were turning a dusky shade as the juice ripened in their skins. August was here.
The Gasthof owner joined me at the door and stared with contempt at the sky. “I take it you’re a foreigner, sir? This is the worst summer we’ve had in these parts for a century, they do say.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, indeed it is. The worst summer in living memory. No doubt but the discharging of all the cannon and musketry at the field of Waterloo caused an injury to the normal temperament of the sky.”
“Rain or no rain, I must get on my way. Can you tell me of an English poet staying in these parts?”
He grinned broadly at me. “Bless you, sir, I can tell you of two English poets! England must have as many poets as soldiers, so liberally does she scatter them hereabouts. They’re staying not two leagues from this village.”
“Two of them! Do you know their names?”
“Why, sir, one’s the great Lord Byron, probably the most famous poet in the world, after Johann Schlitzberger—and a smarter dresser than Johann Schlitzberger he is, as well.”
“The other English poet?”
“He’s not famous.”
“Shelley, is it?”
“Yes, I believe that’s the name. He’s got a couple of women with him. They’re down along the road by the lake’s edge. You can’t miss them. Ask for the Villa Diodati.”
I thanked him and hurried into the rain. What excitement was leaping inside me!
VII
----
The rain had stopped. Cloud lay thick across the lake, hiding the mountain peaks beyond. I stood under trees, surveying the stone walls and vines of the Villa Diodati. My superior self was working out a way to approach and make myself known.
Suppose I introduced myself to Shelley and Byron as a
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