Hideous Love Page 6

and gives up the story,

  much more at home with poetry.

  Polidori, as I am,

  is troubled to begin

  an idea at first,

  but then begins a dreadful tale

  about a skull-headed lady

  who is punished for peeping

  through a keyhole.

  I think he may have to let

  the story go as it is dull

  as an unsharpened knife.

  Claire, I do not believe,

  attempts to try to write

  a story at all. She seems

  content to copy out Byron’s poems

  for him, which I do as well,

  provided I am surrounded

  by lively conversation.

  I will surely arrive upon

  an idea for a story soon enough.

  I refuse to give up.

  INSPIRATION

  June 22, 1816

  At breakfast I am asked once again,

  “Have you thought of a story?”

  And I reply with an embarrassed “No.”

  Shelley and Byron

  are planning a long boat ride

  around the lake alone.

  But tonight we will all

  dine at the Villa Diodati.

  At dinner Shelley and Byron

  discuss the nature of life,

  and whether there

  is any probability of it ever being

  discovered and communicated.

  I sit quiet as a dormouse,

  as does Claire. The discussion

  turns to Erasmus Darwin

  and how his vermicelli

  in a glass began to move

  with voluntary motion.

  I start to wonder if a corpse

  might be reanimated.

  I speak none of this aloud.

  Perhaps, I think to myself,

  the component parts

  of a creature might be manufactured

  and made vital. Our conversation

  continues past the witching hour

  and when I retire to sleep,

  I find myself wide-awake.

  The room is dark as ebony,

  and I close my eyes

  only to have a vision

  of a pale student kneeling beside

  a thing he has put together—

  the hideous phantasm of a man

  stretched out upon a table.

  The creature seems inanimate

  then shows uneasy signs of vitality.

  Afraid of his creation

  the creator flees

  to find sleep, hoping

  that the hideous creature

  will cease to live.

  But instead the man awakes

  to find the monster looming

  over him with yellow, watery,

  speculative eyes.

  I open my eyes,

  terrified of this vision

  I just beheld. I try to find

  something in the room

  that is real so that I can

  break from my reverie.

  If only I can get that

  hideous phantasm

  to leave my mind.

  If only I could think

  of a story that would

  scare the others as much

  as this vision has scared me.

  And then I realize that perhaps

  I just did.

  WRITING

  The End of June 1816

  Shelley and Byron

  take flight on their boat ride

  around the lake

  for a week, but I

  am writing my story now

  and like a lioness upon

  her prey cannot be diverted.

  Polidori still lies up

  with his ankle

  and Claire acts very odd.

  She and Shelley

  shared a series of talks

  from which I was excluded

  before he left on his trip.

  I should care what is afoot

  but I concern myself now

  more with getting my idea

  down on paper.

  Claire continues to copy

  out the third canto

  of Byron’s Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,

  and it allows her entry

  into his house, but he

  has grown weary of her.

  You can see it in the way

  he disregards her presence

  as though his boot

  were of more interest.

  Shelley gladly does not

  treat me as such, but

  he does show great fondness

  for Lord Byron,

  and I am often barred

  from their meetings.

  If I had not my writing

  I might feel neglected,

  but my work beckons.

  A TRIP TO CHAMONIX

  July 1816

  Shelley, Claire, and I

  embark on an adventure

  to view the Alps and the glaciers.

  Byron elects not to join us.

  He says he must stay and write,

  but I believe he wishes

  to avoid Claire.

  We travel as a threesome

  once again like

  some tiresome, rickety wheelbarrow.

  The river Arve is swollen

  as a stuffed hog. It floods

  and many roads wash out.

  We must also be on the lookout

  for avalanches. Shelley excites

  with this sort of danger.

  Claire wearies, belabored as an old dog.

  Everything stands colossal here,

  the country savage and lovely.

  We begin our journey on horseback,

  but then switch to mules

  as we ascend higher

  into the mountains.

  The Glacier des Bossons,

  my first glacier,

  is so vast an ice sheet

  it casts darkness

  upon the water

  in shapes of wicked geometry.

  I hear distant thunder

  and feel my first rush

  of an avalanche

  down the ravine

  of rock beyond us.

  I feel as though

  I may tumble

  to my peril,

  but then my Shelley

  clutches me close

  and the snow against

  my cheeks enlivens me.

  Up the slopes of Montanvert

  the trees have been uprooted

  by avalanches. Nature rears

  her awful and magnificent

  head here. We reach the summit

  surrounded by a world of ice,

  so barren and beautiful.

  I begin to cry.

  Heavy rains deter us from further

  travel, and we head back to our villa.

  But this trip imprints upon

  my spirit

  and shall certainly translate

  into some fodder for my pen.

  I will somehow

  work this landscape

  into the gothic tale

  I have been writing.

  HAUNTING SCENERY

  Summer 1816

  I find that I am infusing

  my gothic story

  with the scenery around me

  and scenery that I recall

  from my reading.

  My main character, Victor, is the son

  of Alphonese Frankenstein,

  a government official in Geneva.

  Victor leaves home to attend

  university at Ingolstadt in Germany

  where he studies science and alchemy,

  overtaken by his pursuit

  of the forces that generate life.

  My father set his book St. Leon

  near Ingolstadt, renowned as

  the center of the Illuminati,

  a secret society

  that pu
rsued revolution

  and the improvement

  of the human race.

  In choosing these two locales

  I feel as if I am honoring

  two men in my life,

  my father and my Shelley.

  Ingolstadt represents

  the pursuit of knowledge

  and glory even beyond

  what may be sound,

  and Geneva embodies

  a home

  that can be destroyed

  by intense desire

  for power and esteem.

  SHELLEY’S BIRTHDAY

  August 4, 1816

  My love turns twenty-four today.

  I hand-stitch a balloon

  for him to release over the lake.

  And so that he might witness

  the beauty of his surroundings

  in closer proximity,

  we also purchased him

  a telescope as a birthday present.

  We boat out onto the lake,

  balloon and telescope in tow.

  I read Virgil’s fourth book

  of The Aeneid to him—

  the part about Dido

  and her tragic love for Aeneas.

  A high wind ruins

  the balloon launch

  and the hot air

  we use to inflate the balloon

  instead causes it to explode,

  like a mangled show of fireworks.

  I worry this may be

  some sort of bad omen.

  We learn that we must terminate

  our European tour for now

  as Sir Timothy, Shelley’s father,

  is making it difficult for him

  to receive the money

  he should inherit

  according to his grandfather’s will.

  Also something runs amiss

  with Byron and Shelley and Claire.

  They meet about some matter

  and purposefully do not include me.

  I feel like the girl

  without an invitation to the ball

  who must watch everyone else

  ascend their carriages

  in full party regalia.

  Claire returns in torrents of tears

  because Byron declares

  that their affair is over,

  but something else

  rumbles as well.

  CLAIRE’S SECRET

  August 1816

  Sometimes I should like to squeal

  like an old teakettle

  because I have been barred

  from discussions, but this time

  it seems more than absurd.

  It hurts.

  Apparently back in London

  Claire became pregnant

  with Byron’s child.

  She assures all of us

  that the child can be none

  but Byron’s and for this

  I suppose I am thankful.

  She informed Shelley

  of her pregnancy a month ago,

  but neither of them

  felt me worthy

  of inclusion in the conversation.

  They have been talking to Byron

  who is less than pleased

  about the whole matter.

  Lord Byron asserts

  his stature and authority

  and wants to have the child raised

  by his half-sister, Augusta,

  the one with whom he is rumored

  to be in love. But Claire wisely

  convinces him otherwise,

  and Byron concedes to raising

  the child himself, and as his own.

  Claire’s motherhood must,

  of course, be kept secret,

  especially from her own mother,

  as it would mar Claire’s reputation

  even further than her stature

  has already been damaged

  by living with us.

  So Shelley and I shall be forced

  to hide Claire away

  while she is pregnant

  and gives birth.

  Claire will then be “aunt”

  of her own child,

  merely permitted to see

  her son or daughter from time to time.

  I do pity her. It is not easy

  to have a baby out of wedlock,

  and sometimes I wish

  that Shelley were free to marry me,

  but Harriet and her children continue

  as background figures in our life.

  Yet it must be worse

  when you have a child

  with someone who does not

  even like you.

  FRANKENSTEIN

  Summer 1816

  Who can say with authority

  what is the balance, the alchemy,

  of knowledge and imagination

  that gives birth to a story?

  My protagonist, Victor Frankenstein,

  builds his creature of graveyard parts

  before he sets out to animate it

  through science. I construct

  my characters beginning with people

  I know and then add

  or rearrange other aspects of personality

  to fit my plot.

  Victor wants to bestow

  animation upon lifeless matter

  like a god, and he learns

  the limitations of such an endeavor

  when he finds his creation to be hideous

  and out of his control.

  Does not an author

  wish to do the same

  with her pen?

  We may think ourselves

  gods of creation

  from time to time,

  but are we not merely

  humble scholars

  of the word?

  TO WRITE IS TO REVISE

  Summer 1816

  “Writing is a calling

  ordained

  by the gods

  of literature,

  no less holy

  than the martyrdom

  of the saints

  no less sinful

  than the transgressions

  of the fallen.”

  Shelley examines

  my latest manuscript pages,

  offering small corrections

  in the margins,

  suggesting new words

  for my text.

  “I am learning that

  writing requires

  diligence and patience,

  as well as passion,

  my love.”

  I marvel at the improvements

  Shelley makes to my story

  and at how easily

  he edits my work.

  “How can you see

  so quickly where

  to improve my language?”

  “When the story shines

  in so many places,

  the few spots without glimmer

  require little genius

  to gloss,” he says.

  LEAVING GENEVA

  September 1816

  I have remained enchanted

  these last three months,

  lost in a landscape

  of mountains, thunder,

  ice, and wondrous writing.

  Now we voyage back to England

  to Bath, where Claire and I shall

  live so she might reside

  in fashionable seclusion,

  as Claire feels entitled

  to such an existence

  after her affair with Byron.

  But it must be a residence

  where we know not a soul

  for Claire shows her pregnancy

  like an inflating balloon.

  I take art lessons

  and attend scientific lectures,

  but I miss Shelley terribly

  as he attends to his financial matters

  in London. I contemplate

  turning my story of Frankenstein

  in
to a novel

  and read the epistolary works

  of Samuel Richardson

  for inspiration and direction.

  I also read Lady Caroline Lamb’s

  book about Byron for fun.

  It is rife with scandal.

  Finally Shelley entreats

  me to come to Marlow to see him

  and stay at Thomas Peacock’s family home.

  I might be reluctant to go

  as Thomas has always championed

  Harriet’s cause.

  I fear I may be stepping

  onto unstable footing

  like one on the ledge

  of a rocky incline.

  But I miss my Shelley so.

  Claire takes charge of baby William

  for a few days.

  I will be free of her whining,

  like a child who stubbed her toe,

  about Byron and his refusal

  to answer her letters.

  Marlow is rural and lovely,

  but Peacock acts a bit chilly

  to me until we discuss politics.

  England is in the midst

  of the Corn Laws

  and quiet revolution tints the sky.

  The price of bread soars

  and the poor cannot but eat cake.

  Thomas mocks the situation,

  but Shelley and I

  feel the possibility for real change.

  Shelley writes to Byron

  when we return to Bath together.

  He describes our life here as alluring

  and content. I think Shelley

  exaggerates a bit, but I am so glad

  to have him beside me,

  I will always applaud his notions.

  We tell my family

  that Claire and I live in Bath

  for Claire’s health,

  obviously omitting the pregnancy.

  Fanny, my eldest and half-sister,

  quiet and melancholy,

  writes to us asking for Shelley

  to give my father more money

  even though they know full well

  that we have not straightened out

  our own financial situation.

  She also informs us that her aunts

  have left for Dublin without her.

  She will have no employment with them.

  Further Fanny writes that Stepmother

  has never spread scandal about us,

  which I know to be false.

  I find this part of Fanny’s letter

  to be frivolous, and not

  expressive of her honest feelings,

  and it upsets me.

  Shelley and I resume

  our schedule of reading

  and writing

  with the fervor of evangelicals.

  FANNY’S LETTER OF OCTOBER 9

  October 1816

  A very alarming letter arrives

  from Fanny, and Shelley

  departs immediately for Bristol

  to look for her. Claire and I

  wait up until two in the morning

  pacing the rug anxious to hear news.

  At first Shelley

  cannot find Fanny and has no

  information. Then we learn

  that Fanny has died.

  I feel as though

  there must be a terrible mistake

  and refuse to accept it.

  Fanny registered at a seaside

  hotel at Swansea and took

  an overdose of laudanum.