‘‘YOUR BOOK IS A SERIES OF LIBERAL anachronistic clichés, loosely tied together with a modish feminist structure … you have absolutely no idea of what you’ve written about.” As Lord Byron (not the Lord Byron, but the present-day holder of the title) thunderously denounced me at the Byron Society’s 2016 Christmas lunch, I felt like the reckoning after the feast, surprised though I was to have been invited in the first place.
My book Byron’s Women was a revisionist account of the “mad, bad and dangerous to know” poet. I attempted to delve beneath the indulgent, even sycophantic accounts of Byron that have continued to flourish since his death in 1824 and concentrate on his appalling treatment of the women in his life. But as the current Lord’s splenetic response reminded me, amidst the approving nods from the Society, I had crossed a line: I had insulted their idol.
I faced other similarly disgusted reactions, too. One enterprising man, a self-proclaimed bishop who himself claimed to be descended from Byron, wasted no time in publicly rubbishing both me and my book. We engaged in a lively debate for a little while, but those who argue with bishops tend to become unstuck, especially when one’s opponent is armed with both certainty and the authority of a book. Alas, failed to
