Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein (10 page)

meaning Claire and me,

and that Shelley and he

have formed “A League of Incest.”

This is wrong and ill

on many levels,

as none of us are related

and Byron is having an affair

with Claire alone.

Still Lord Byron

will not acknowledge her

as his mistress.

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POLLY DOLLY

June 15, 1816

John Polidori appears

to have developed

feelings for me.

I view him as a younger

brother.

Today as I stroll

up the hill toward the villa,

the rain has made

the ground slick

and Byron urges Polidori

to be gallant and jump down

from the balcony and offer

me his arm. At once Polidori

swings himself over the rail,

but he slips badly as he hits

the ground and sprains his ankle

much to the delight of Lord Byron.

Byron and I aid him inside

to elevate his foot.

John blushes from embarrassment.

And it seems that Polidori

will be limping now for some time.

Perhaps Byron

should hold back his laughter

and enjoy having the company

of another who limps about

as Byron himself has one leg

shorter than the other

and always walks with a slight limp

he tries to obscure.

Of course none of us

would dare to mention it

out of courtesy and fear

that the wrath of the great Lord

would avalanche upon us.

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ROUTINE

June 1816

Byron works best late into the dawn,

falling asleep as the sun seeps

into his room. He does not

awake until the afternoon,

so Shelley and I spend

mornings studying, reading,

and sailing together. We hire

someone to care for little William.

Claire is as entangled

as a fly caught in a spider’s web

in her pursuit of Lord Byron.

She finds little interest

in spending time with just us.

I discover a new

rival for my lover’s attention.

The men enjoy boating and speaking, alone.

Byron does not admire

the words and thoughts of a woman

as does Shelley.

He sees women more

as playthings to be used

and tossed aside

than as useful, educated minds

to be probed.

Byron directs our conversations

at night when the five

of us are driven inside

by rain and darkness.

He usually asks his questions

specifically to Shelley

as if neither Claire nor Polidori nor I

add anything

to his enrichment of the topic.

I, the ever faithful Dormouse,

listen attentively, as they speak

of science and mysticism

storing away

morsels of information

for later use.

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A WATCH FOR FANNY

June 1816

Shelley and I venture

into Geneva

to find a pocket watch

for Fanny,

one that winds

and will stand

on its own

as she so often does.

She is a keeper

of the times to us

and sends us

letters of home

since our arrival here.

Sometimes a hint

of her desire to be

with us scents

the letters, but I think

she cannot imagine

being ostracized by Father.

Steady as a clock

that ticks with precision

and delicacy,

she is as golden

as the one

we select for her.

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FLUTTER STORIES

June 16, 1816

Storms thrash the trees

and rain beats upon the roof

as though stones may penetrate

the ceiling. Tonight Byron

selects a volume of German ghost stories

translated into French to read to us,

stories designed to flutter the heartbeat,

so that our insides will tremble

in rhythm with the torrent outside.

The candlelight flickers

as he intones tales of twin sisters,

one of whom dies and is reanimated

and takes the place of her sister

with her new bridegroom.

Another recounts a tale

of a girl who disobeys

her father to marry a man

and then ends up losing

her baby and being abandoned

by her husband.

I delight to jump

as the thunder claps above us,

and I feel the spirit of imitation

arrive among us.

Byron suggests we each

write a ghost story,

Shelley, Polidori, Claire, he, and I.

He tells me we shall publish

ours together because I seem

particularly motivated by this contest.

I feel that he may be correct;

something besides the storm

alights my nerves this evening.

Byron says we shall see

who among us writes the best story.

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CREATIVE ENDEAVORS

June 1816

I busy myself

to think of a story,

but sadly the muse does not

arrive. I want to speak

to the mysterious fears

of our nature and to awaken

thrilling horror.

Nothing comes to me.

Shelley begins a story

about the experiences

of his early life, but

abandons it because he

is more adept at embodying

the emotions and ideas

of brilliant imagery

and in writing musical verse

than in the mechanics of story

these days.

Byron sets right to work

on a story about an aristocrat

traveling in Turkey who is possessed

by a mysterious secret. But Byron

grows bored with his pages

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.

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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.