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.
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
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.