clasping his hands,
‘I shall die, and what
I feel will no longer be felt;
soon these thoughts—these
burning miseries will be extinct.’
… [The monster] sprung
from the cabin window … ,
and I soon lost sight of him
in the darkness and distance.”
Shelley grasps my hand
as he reads my final words.
“The ending is the hardest part.
To leave behind a book
can feel as though
you separate a portion
of your heart
from your chest.
But my love,
what you have written
is majestic.
You have served
your name well.”
SUMMER
Summer 1817
Now that I have finished a draft
of Frankenstein
and must send it to publishers,
I endeavor to go through
the journal Shelley and I kept
describing our elopement together
in 1814. I keep my mind
engaged in writing so I do not
worry about whether or not
Frankenstein sees print.
I call this new work
History of a Six Weeks’ Tour.
It should be easier to publish
as travel books are very popular.
Shelley becomes known
as the town eccentric this summer,
not because he gives blankets
and food and money to the poor,
but because he tutors a village girl, Polly Rose.
His quirky ways of oratory
where he flails his arms around
caught up in the rapture of his ideas
frighten some of the locals.
I adore when he gets
that fire in his eyes
and his emotions
bubble over the surface.
Claire still pines after Lord Byron
like the starving eye chocolate
and only her child seems to quench
her despair over him.
My pregnancy causes
me no troubles, thank goodness.
I grow excited for the new baby.
I nest as any proper mother would,
preparing space in our home
for its arrival, readying the nursery
like a bird gathering twigs,
and putting all of my literary tasks
in order.
A PUBLISHER
Late Summer 1817
At the end of the summer
I find a small publisher
who will bring out five hundred
copies of Frankenstein
in the late winter.
The book will be published
anonymously,
with Shelley writing the preface
and referring to his friend
as having written the book.
As I have no stature
it would only damage the book
to attach my somewhat
notorious name to it.
Because of his contribution,
even uncredited, it may
be assumed that Shelley
wrote the book.
Still I elate; the book
that Shelley nurtured with me—
my first literary endeavor—
will be published.
This book will be born.
ANOTHER BIRTH
Autumn 1817
On the second of September
I give birth to a baby girl
we name Clara Everina,
after Claire and my mother’s sister.
I am exhausted after this birthing
and can’t seem to produce
enough milk for the baby.
I refuse to have a wet nurse though.
My mother thought
that sort of child rearing
a bad idea, so I struggle
like a mother bird
in the depth of winter
to feed my child.
William seems very susceptible
to the cold here this autumn,
and yet I will not ask Stepmother
to send the flannel I require for him
as she has once again been difficult,
angered like a jealous suitor
by my father’s visits
to see me.
Claire and Shelley live in London
part of the time, and I am alone
with the children like a nanny.
Shelley complains of bad health
as he did after the births
of each of our children.
I can’t fathom why
he must go through
such antics after I give birth.
Perhaps he feels
sorry that he did not
have to go through
the pain of labor
and so contracts
his own feelings of distress.
I thought maybe my dear
childhood friend Isabella
might once again contact me,
but her husband, Mr. Booth,
ends that possibility
and spreads rumors that
Claire and Shelley
are having an affair,
and further that Allegra
is Shelley’s child.
We mire ourselves
in debt again.
Shelley is arrested
because we cannot pay
all of our bills.
What shall I do if he
and I truly part?
He urges me to come
to London, but I fear
that like in Bishopsgate
if I leave the house abandoned
all of our property will be seized.
And we have so much more to lose now.
November brightens my spirit
as I let go my fears
and agree to travel
to London to be with my Shelley.
I visit Skinner Street
and the Hunts.
Also History of a Six Weeks’ Tour,
my first book, appears this month,
again with an anonymous author.
ANONYMITY
Autumn 1817
Notoriety a distant dream
as scandal brands us
notorious,
I think that when
I can name myself
I shall use
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
in memory of my mother.
If I were a man
I might not wear the cloak
of anonymity.
The temperamental child
inside me
pounds her fists
in anger about this,
but the wiser, patient Mary
just keeps writing
without a name.
BYRON’S REQUEST
Autumn 1817
Byron demands that we send
him his daughter.
He does not quite grasp
that shuttling a nine-month-old
off to Italy with strangers
might not be the greatest plan.
Still I will be glad to be done
with the scandal that has been caused
by having little Allegra around.
Claire will no doubt
act more sullen and complaint heavy
than she already behaves
without her little one.
But she should have known
when she became involved
with Byron
that there would be
a Faustian cost,
that she would barter away
part of her soul.
THE RELEASE OF FRANKENSTEIN
January 1818
Even though only five hundred copies
are published, some note
is taken of my book.
My friends shower me with praise
for my imagination and bold ideas.
The outside world
of course does not know
who authored Frankenstein,
only that the preface
seems masculine
and that the book is dedicated
to William Godwin,
my father.
If I receive no admiration
beyond that of my father
it would be more than enough.
He wrote that Frankenstein
is “the most wonderful work
to have been written
at twenty years of age
that [he] has ever heard of.”
The reviews I am told
are happily mixed.
I do not read them
as we are preparing
to leave for Italy
to transport Allegra to Byron.
And honestly I can weather
no negativity at the moment.
We find someone
to take on the twenty-one-year lease
we made for Albion House.
I feel torn about leaving.
The weather chills the bones
and Shelley has been very sick here,
now with an eye infection
that makes it impossible
for him to read. However,
we took up residency here
and it was refreshing
to have a permanent address
in the country. I finished
my book in this house.
My daughter was born here.
It feels bittersweet to leave.
RUMORS AND TRUTH
February–March 1818
I board up Albion House
and join Claire, Shelley,
and the children in London.
I detest our current lodgings
but we could find nothing else.
We cannot stay at Skinner Street
as there is once again
turmoil over finances
like angry bulls huffing in a pen.
Shelley took out another
post obit loan, promising
forty-five hundred pounds
on his father’s death
for the receipt of two thousand now.
My father expected to receive
a good portion of that money.
I try not to enmesh myself
in money issues as I find it
a cemetery for creativity,
but I am not sure
how Father will get along
without Shelley’s help.
We can always just borrow more.
We delve into culture
and entertainment,
spend many nights with the Hunts.
We see the Elgin Marbles,
an exhibition of Salvador Rosa,
and the Appollonicon, an organ that sounds
like an orchestra. A large scenic view of Rome
makes us hunger for our trip abroad.
But rumors cast a pall
over our last days
in England. Word reaches
Stepmother and Father
that Allegra is Claire’s child,
and that Shelley is the father.
We explain that Lord Byron
is in fact the father of Allegra
and that we are taking
Allegra to him.
Stepmother yells,
“Claire’s downfall is all
the result of her following
you into hell, Mary,”
as if I had anything
to do with Claire courting Byron.
But Stepmother
must point blaming fingers
at me as she did when
I was a child in her house.
HEAVEN OR HELL
March 1818
If there were but one
way to construct a life
perhaps the road
would be easier
for having no choice
of left or right,
but as freethinking
individuals we make
decisions.
I never chained Claire
to my leg.
She rides in the carriage
designating her own seat.
No road without gravel
and dust, no course
without twists,
the way is not always
smooth.
But the path has been
Claire’s choice,
and I respect her for it.
A LETTER FROM CLAIRE TO BYRON
March 1818
Claire writes to Byron
of Frankenstein and me,
“Mary has just published
her first work … a wonderful
performance full of genius
… as no one would imagine
could have been written
by so young a person.
I am delighted and whatever
private feelings of envy
I may have at not being
able to do so well myself yet
all yields when I consider
that she is a woman
and will prove in time
an ornament to us
and an argument in our favor.
How I delight in a lovely woman
of strong and cultivated intellect.
How I delight to hear
all the intricacies of mind
and argument hanging on her lips.”
I blush and thank her
for her kindness
and we share a true
moment of conviviality
as though the years
of swatting at each other’s hats
have been but child’s play.
TRAVELING TO ITALY
March–April 1818
Much of the scenery
reminds me of Geneva
as we approach Italy
traveling through France.
Once again Shelley and I
pen a joint journal of our travels.
We arrive at lovely Milan,
everything here superior
to that in France, even the oxen
that pull the peasants’ carts
are as beautiful
as wild stallions.
We attend the opera
and ballet at La Scala,
the boxes so elegant
a queen would feel at home.
We spend three weeks
in Milan expecting Lord Byron
will soon accompany us
and collect little Allegra,
who is now fifteen months old
and showing the personality
of a blooming rose.
Shelley and I take a trip
to Lake Como by ourselves,
and search out a house
that might tempt Byron
to stay on with us for a while.
Unfortunately no houses
are available. I love the escape
with my Shelley, and the sweet-scented
myrtle and tall cypresses
enchant me as though we are
part of a fairy story.
House or no house,
Shelley nevertheless writes
and invites Byron to come
and spend the summer
on the lake with us.
Byron responds rather coldly
that he has no intention of leaving Venice
and that a messenger will be sent
to collect Allegra, as if Allegra
were some package. Further,
Claire is told that all contact
with Allegra will cease
from this point forward.
Claire cannot be consoled at first,
and Shelley and I perplex over
how to handle
her.
When the messenger arrives on April 22,
we tell Mr. Merriweather
that Allegra is sick and cannot be moved.
Rumors abound
that Byron leads a scandalous
life in Venice, and Shelley
troubles over what to do
with Allegra. He offers to keep
the child as part of our family.
I do not find this to be a good solution.
I instead propose that Elise,
our wonderful nursemaid,
be sent to stay with Allegra
as she herself is a mother
and can report to us
about Allegra’s welfare.
Claire agrees to this.
On April 28 Allegra,
Elise, and Mr. Merriweather
set out for Venice.
MEETING MARIA GISBORNE
May–June 1818
Because no house can be
found for us on Lake Como,
we travel to Pisa. I climb
the 224 steps
to the top of the leaning tower
only to witness just how
fully the city declines.
The cobblestone streets
sprout with weeds and grass
like a patchy beard.
Chained prisoners
street-clean, watched over
by armed guards. It reminds
one of slave labor.
Elise writes that she and Allegra
safely arrive in Venice,
and that all the Byronic rumors exaggerate.
Claire exhales a bit.
We decide to move
on to the port town of Livorno,
where my father wrote us
an introduction to Maria Gisborne.
We have acquired no new friends
on our journey thus far,
and I hunger for conversation
like one in solitary confinement.
I am especially eager to make
the acquaintance of Mrs. Gisborne
as she cared for me and Fanny
after my mother’s death
when I was a baby.
Henry Reveley, Maria’s grown-up son,
develops a fondness for Claire,
and we are invited to stay
on with them for a month.
Claire has yet to return
the gracious kindness
that men show her
as though any man but Byron
is but a lowly cow
and Byron a godly bull.
A pattern of communal daily
activities emerges, and I feel
at home here. In the morning
Claire and I practice our Italian.
In the evenings we walk with
the Gisbornes and Shelley,
discussing the day’s reading.
I believe I have found
a true friend and motherly mentor
in Maria Gisborne.
I feel fortunate,
as though I have come
into an inheritance of my own.
BAGNI DI LUCCA
Summer 1818
Shelley finds us a house
in a spa town sixty miles
north of Livorno, Bagni di Lucca.
Casa Bertini is a small colorful building,
freshly painted, newly furnished,
and encircled by woods, mountains, and walks.
A small garden
and an arbor of laurel trees
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