Shelley is a bit mad; I knew this from the outset, when he threatened to kill himself. Even so I must forgive him for his anger. I know that he is not truly angry with me but with the man who rejects his creation.
12 April 1816
As I feared, Claire did not use a prophylactic. She is pregnant with Lord Byron’s child. She wrote to him, but his only response is that he is leaving for Switzerland. The child is her responsibility, not his. He’s not even sure that the child is his. Claire is livid. When she read his missive, she grabbed “Childe Harold” and threw the book at the mirror in the parlor; shards of glass littered the side table and fell on the floor. Then, she ran to Shelley and wept in his arms.
Claire wanted fame and fortune, but I fear that her only fame is that she will be viewed as one of Byron’s rejected tarts. She’ll be another Caroline Lamb, Lord Melbourne’s wife, although, unlike Caroline Lamb, Claire is not a Lady. Claire should have listened to Caroline though when she announced that Byron is mad, bad, and dangerous to know. And, I would add, amoral and immoral. He is a licentious libertine with a hollow heart who lusts after all that is forbidden.
Unfortunately, Claire has learned this the hard way. Somehow, perhaps through her mother, who is ashamed about Claire’s pregnancy, she has heard about the rumors swirling around concerning Byron and his half-sister Augusta. Claire is disgusted. Plus, he is deeply in debt. He is now known as a Don Juan, but an incestuous, distasteful one.
1 May 1816
As I expected, Claire has quickly gotten over her disgust with the good Lord. And now that she knows that his wife has left him, Claire believes and hopes that she can replace her. So when we received an invitation to stay with Lord Byron in Geneva this summer, Claire beseeched Shelley to accept the invitation and to allow her to accompany us. Once more, Shelley gave into her demands and now she is ecstatic and holds out hope that she and Byron will marry and thus give their child a reputable name. I, for one, am not at all certain that this is Byron’s hope or motivation to invite us to sojourn with him. His object of fascination is Shelley, for he and Shelley have been corresponding, sharing drafts of poems, and discussing politics and philosophy. I glanced at some of these letters that Shelley had on his desk and they make no mention of Claire’s condition. Byron may not even know that she clings to us like a parasite. We cannot rid ourselves of her and, when we travel to Geneva, she will continue to attach herself to us, barnacle that she is.
It disappoints me that Shelley has not asked me whether I care to spend the summer with Byron. Of course, I wish to spend time in Geneva, and I believe that it will do Shelley good as he continues his projects, especially his sequel to Aeschylus’s Prometheus Bound, but I do hope that we secure a private home. I do not wish to share lodgings with Byron. I believe that he is madder than my own Shelley, if that is possible. His madness could very well be a result of latent syphilis. And I don’t wish Willmouse to be prey to Lord Byron’s influence; Will is so very young and we are a new family. However, I have not shared these thoughts with Shelley who is as thrilled as Claire is about the prospect for a brilliant summer in Switzerland, where he can use Byron as a reader and critic of his work and thus continue his growth as a poet. I do not wish to dampen his enthusiasm, but I fear that Byron and I will not get on.
14 May 1816
After another arduous journey over sea and land, we finally arrived in Geneva. Traveling by sea was just as grueling for me as last time, even though this time I wasn’t pregnant. As my father attested when I was young, I easily succumb to sea-sickness. Clearly, I lack the sea legs that Shelley possesses. Perhaps he was born of the sea, is composed of water, and I was born of the earth and am made of clay? Claire also took the brunt of the sea voyage well despite her pregnancy and the fact that the weather was consistently rough, more like a blustery fall than the calm summer solstice. The boat bandied about like a toy ship. But only Shelley was able to sit on the deck and enjoy the voyage. He is a natural sea-farer and relishes the strong currents and rollicking waves. Surely, his mythical father is Neptune.
Our excursion through the Alps was also harrowing. I had never seen such desolation even though it is summer. Winter never seems to depart the landscape and the cold, damp weather makes everything feel foreboding. I felt quite relieved to finally arrive in Geneva. Even though it continues to rain, I have taken pleasure in watching the sailboats with their billowing white masts on the lake. I hope that the weather abates and that we can spend time sailing with Willmouse. Perhaps Willmouse will become a mariner like his father, but hopefully not akin to the Ancient Mariner.
1 June 1816
Lord Byron has finally arrived at the hotel, showing up in a grand Napoleonic carriage at midnight after visiting Waterloo to contemplate the battlefield. His private physician and close friend, John Polidori, accompanies him. Byron proudly announced that he has secured lodgings at Villa Diodati; he takes great pleasure in knowing that John Milton once briefly lived in this villa. I suppose he thinks that he is the reincarnation of Milton. But, I reckon that he is closer to Milton’s Satan than to Milton himself. I wonder if, like Milton’s Satan, he can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. I doubt that he’s that talented. But, like Milton’s Satan, he does create Pandemonium.
The villa certainly is magnificent. It sits high on a hill overlooking Lake Geneva and is surrounded by bountiful gardens filled with roses, lilies, cuckoo flowers, and edelweiss. The villa itself is enormous and contains ballrooms, sitting rooms, open verandas; it presides like a palace over the lake.
I am grateful that Byron helped secure a private cottage for us. Once he heard that Claire was accompanying us, I think that he found lodgings for us to keep Claire out of his bed. She pouts continuously because he did not seem at all interested in seeing or speaking with her when he arrived at the hotel. He did not inquire about her health. Currently, she sulks in her room and plots new schemes to try to win his heart, assuming he has one to win. She is particularly offended because Byron invited Shelley and me to dine with him but the invitation excluded her. I fear that at some point she will confront him and make a scene. It’s a good thing that they are both actors; in any case, no matter the outcome, I am certain that their theatrics will provide us with entertainment, after all, they’ve already rehearsed their roles at Hamlet and Ophelia.
12 June 1816
Shelley and Byron spend considerable time together on the lake. You would think that they are lovers. Perhaps they are. After all, Byron has been known for sexual dalliances with men. There are rumors about him and Polidari.
I sometimes feel a little jealous of the time that Shelley is away from me and the time that he is allotted for his creativity, but I have Willmouse and I have my own thoughts and writing and I deeply enjoy the magnificence and serenity of the lake when the weather is calm, as it has been for a few days; its many sailboats populate its azure waters. I find myself drifting along with the boats in absolute, pure peace. At such time, I sense that Shelley will not be the only one who will benefit from our sojourn here.
13 June 1816
The weather has turned calamitous again. It is so dark during mid-day that we must light candles. Byron and Shelley contribute to each other’s black moods and Claire remains sulky and despondent. Last night, she and George got into a tremendous row about her pregnancy with her calling him a blackguard and him denouncing her as a strumpet. They battled for what seemed like hours, until they finally exhausted themselves and retreated to their fighting corners.
And, unfortunately, I have felt unwelcome because Byron has some very conventional and provincial opinions about woman’s place in the world. I have argued with him, which is really against my nature, but I feel that I must stand up for my sex and let him know that we are full human beings and are capable of greatness, just as he is. He contends that “We get no Christ or Confucius from you; therefore, we get no poets, philosophers, or leaders from you.” I am certain that others
share his view but Shelley and I do not. As democratic as Byron claims to be, he is completely ignorant about sexual equality and the ways in which the long history of women’s oppression, forced servility, and lack of equal education have kept us from realizing and enjoying our full humanity.
Perhaps he will change his mind, but being around Claire does not help the situation, because she plays the femme fatale or occasionally the sexual innocent, the weak and helpless girl. It’s all a ploy to get him to go to bed with her once again.
I can’t help but wonder why Byron is so anti-female. He seems a wounded creature. Perhaps he never received a mother’s love. Perhaps because of his deformity his mother rejected him. I shall try to be more charitable to this wounded man, but he continually angers me because of his misogyny. I do not keep private company with him because of his loathing of women.
14 June 1816
Polidori reports that he read in the Times that the weather is miserable because of a volcanic eruption last year and that the entire summer will be cold, wet, and blustery. All of my hopes for spending the summer on the lake have vanished. The time between tempests is brief and Byron and Shelley never seek any company when they are able to sail.
Their time together has been fruitful. Because of it, Shelley writes like a madman, penning “Mont Blanc” and his “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty.” I am grateful that Byron’s skepticism has not rubbed off on Shelley.
15 June 1816
Due to the perpetually wet and tempestuous weather, Byron has come up with an indoor activity that he thinks will keep us amused. He suggests that each of us write a ghost story. To prepare and much to Claire’s liking, we have been reading ghost stories, which seems entirely fitting, considering the somewhat Gothic nature of this house and the stormy environment. Lightning struck near the villa and an enormous alpine tree caught on fire. The winds howl continuously and darkness prevails. Thunder booms and rattles the windows.
Tonight, Byron read us Coleridge’s “Christabel,” which I have always found captivating, but Shelley became quite distraught when he began to envision a woman with nipples that were eyes. He suddenly cried out and raced from the room. I had to seek him out in the garden and calm his hysterics. He was acting like Claire usually does when she hears a frightful tale. I often fear that Shelley has lost his faculties, and tonight was one of those moments. But then he grows calm and appears perfectly sane. Madness and brilliance do sometimes seem interchangeable. It is the English malady and Shelley seems infected by it.
In addition to our reading of ghostly tales and poems, we also spend considerable time talking about human perfectibility and evolution. Shelley deeply believes that the new science, not just natural philosophy, and a type of philosophical alchemy, can effect human perfectibility. I am reminded of my mother’s views that as humans grow in their knowledge of the intricacies of the universe and as we apply scientific principles to our lives, all human life will improve. Shelley and my mother hold the same beliefs in this regard. Byron is a skeptic, as am I, although I would like to see humanity become perfected by becoming more humane, compassionate, and just.
Shelley talked at length to the group about the galvanic experiments that we observed and I testified to the experiments that I witnessed. Afterwards, Byron suggested that we try to replicate the frog experiment. He hobbled out to the garden to catch a frog but only returned soaked. He seemed rather reptilian after his jaunt into the drenched garden and had to sit at length by the fire to dry out. I tried not to laugh at his folly.
16 June 1816
After our lengthy and disquieting discussions about human perfectibility, we went to bed in the wee hours and I tossed and turned. Sleep evaded me. I spoke with my mother who reminded me of her writing in her travel book about the humans that she met who seemed to have been only “half alive, made by Prometheus, when the fire he stole was so exhausted, that he could only spare a spark to give life.” I ruminated on this and finally fell into a restless asleep. I suddenly awoke from a lurid night terror. I saw a creature stitched together by a human God, a Prometheus who had stolen, not fire, but bodies from their graves, like our Resurrectionists, and carved the bodies into pieces and then made a composite creature. The unhallowed creator, who eerily resembled my Shelley, knelt next to his creation, nearly worshipping the creature. He touched the creature’s chest and then applied electrical current to the creature’s lifeless and flaccid heart. The creature looked fair and beautiful before the electrical probe was applied to him. Miraculously, when the current was applied, like the frog, he jerked alive. He was awake and aware. But then a terrible transformation occurred. Once enlivened, his visage and unholy body became terrorizing and hideous, so hideous that the human creator fled from the room, fearful for his own life. He left the creature, whom he had deemed a monstrosity, utterly abandoned.
My dream disturbed me so much that I lay awake until dawn, worrying that the creature would emerge from the shadows. But I now knew what to write as my tale. As soon as the sun peeked over the mountain, I began to record my nightmare.
21 June 1816
Even though I was horrified, I sketched what I saw in my dream and then let it rest for a few hours as I thought about the philosophical aspects of the story. My Geneva-born hero will have a Faustian desire to transgress human limitations and engender life and a new species; to that end, he abandons all other pursuits. He no longer reads or writes poetry; he does not paint, sing, or dance. He does not visit nature’s cathedrals, the forests and meadows. He is utterly obsessed with his aim to overcome death, all because his beloved mother has died and no one was able to save or resurrect her. Perhaps because he was overly protected, like the Buddha, he never witnessed death, not even the death of a beloved hound, until his mother was fetched in the night.
This young doctor, the new Prometheus, whom I shall call Victor, is vastly interested in occult philosophy via Cornelius Agrippa and dabbles in alchemy, even searching for the philosopher’s stone. He is a bit like my Shelley in this regard. His professors believe that he is horribly misguided because he favors ancient and discredited occult practices over modern science. Nevertheless, he disregards their advice and pursues his dream to create a superhuman species that can overcome human limitations. His obsession is chronic, causing him to work tirelessly; for over two years, he rarely eats or sleeps. He abandons all friendships. He neglects his health. He neglects his soul. He does not realize that he cannot be a true philosophical alchemist because he has not purified himself as is necessary to transform base metal to gold or to perform any sort of true metamorphosis.
Victor believes that his action is warranted and aims toward the good of humanity; he believes that his creation will result in human perfection yet he cannot discern the consequences or implications of his act.
As I shape the trajectory of my story, I ponder certain essential questions. To what extent has Victor Frankenstein transgressed and angered the gods? What is his obligation to his creation? Is he, in his actions toward his creation, like a Deistic God who has created us and then abandoned us to survive on our own? Will the creature suffer because he has no mother, only a distant, disavowing father?
24 June 1816
The dismal weather continues unabated, which engendered the perfect setting for the reading of our stories. First, Byron narrated his story about a dying aristocrat. I wondered if perhaps he was referring to himself. What could he be hiding? Had his licentiousness finally caught up with him for good? I didn’t have long to ponder my speculation, because as soon as Byron finished his tale and poured himself a tumbler of wine, Shelley started to read his short tale about “ghost chasing” and stealing bodies in Highgate Cemetery. I was the only one who knew that his story was autobiographical and I wondered if anyone would try to connect Shelley’s tale to mine, which I was eager to read. I started to speak when Shelley laid down his manuscript but then Byron turned to Polidori and said, “John, please scare us silly
. Shelley’s story did not make me quiver. I found it rather comedic with all of the gravediggers stealing corpses and then heading straight to the pub.”
Polidori looked smug, believing that for once he might best Shelley, whom he considered his rival for Byron’s affection. He rose from the couch on which he was lounging and read his tale of Lord Ruthven who got drunk on blood. I began to wonder if all three of these stories were autobiographical and looked closely at Polidori to see if he cast a shadow. The candles barely illuminated the room so it was difficult to see. I felt a bit uneasy, but I tried not to think about it further. Surely vampyres were fiction but he wrote so convincingly that I feared that he had at least some experience with the Undead. When Polidori said “Fini,” Byron, who acted as judge, said, “Marvelous. Now that sent chills through me. You scared me so that I may need to take Claire into my bed for comfort.”
He looked at Claire, who was grinning as if she had won the contest. Shelley turned to Byron and said, “Stop jesting, George. Which story did you deem the best?”
“Why Mr. Polidori’s, of course! I believe we have a winner.”
Polidori smirked at Shelley and then reached out to Byron to grasp his hand.
“No, wait,” I piped up, “I have a tale too.”
Shelley seemed surprised and Byron looked at me oddly and smiled sardonically as if to say, Little girl, how could you write a grisly tale equal to or better than what we have just heard? I ignored his dismissive look and moved closer to the candlelight. The light flickered on the page, but then grew stronger, illuminating it.
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