Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein (11 page)

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.

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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.

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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.

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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 pursued 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 husband.

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.

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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.

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CLAIRE’S SECRET

August 1816

Sometimes I should like to squeal

like an old tea kettle

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 complicit

in hiding 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.

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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