My voice trembled as I began. “It was on a dreary night. . .” I had to stop. I had never read the tale aloud nor to anyone and reading it in near darkness with shadows surrounding us made me tremble even more. I tried to quiet my racing heart. I then looked at Shelley. His encouraging smile gave me confidence and I felt bathed in light. I began again. “It was on a dreary night in November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open . . .”
I heard gasps and I paused. Claire was grasping Shelley’s arm and I saw that Byron had closed his eyes and folded his hands like a steeple in front of his chest. Shelley wore an anxious look; he nodded to me, indicating that I should proceed.
“How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful!—Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes . . .”
I glanced up to see Polidori, Byron, Shelley, and Claire staring at me. Their eyes grew wide as they imagined the scene in the dismal room and young Victor’s act of creation, a moment that belied and mocked the image of the act of creation as rendered by Michelangelo, when the creator imparts life by touching Adam’s extended finger. Unlike Adam’s creator, my creator touched his creature with profane hands, and thus his creature was a loathsome, vile replica of a man. His creature “became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.”
I continued and revealed Victor’s tortured dream, after he fled his creation, whereby he thought that his beloved cousin Elizabeth, whom he held in his arms, had been transformed into his dead mother, her shroud crawling with grave-worms. Claire shrieked and suddenly cried out, “No! It can’t be!” I ignored her and proceeded as the candle momentarily sputtered as a gust of wind blew in from the veranda.
As I completed my tale, I felt an eerie presence. Like Victor, who fretted that the miserable monster remained in his apartment, I looked around to see if my creature had arrived in our midst. I saw shadows play against the wall but fortunately no creature emerged.
When I finished, I was shaking as indeed all in the room seemed to be. Claire looked horrified as did the rest of the audience who remained completely silent. Byron opened his eyes and for a brief second they looked like the dull eyes of Victor’s creature.
“Mary, where did that tale come from?” Byron asked. “Did Shelley write that for you?”
“Of course not. It’s solely a product of my imagination. My own dreams. I dreamt it,” I replied. “As we know, we are such stuff as dreams are made on.”
Byron laughed and then Shelley added, “And our little lives are rounded with a sleep.”
Then Byron began to clap slowly and all joined in. “Well done!” he exclaimed. “I believe we have our winner.”
I saw respect in his eyes for the first time. Although I wanted to, I refrained from saying, “You thought that a young girl could not write a grisly tale, didn’t you? And you think that women are incapable of imagination. What’s your opinion now of the female sex and our ability to exercise imagination? Are we not worthy writers?”
15 July 1816
I continue to write my story and now envision it as a novel, again, not one in the usual sense, with romantic figures and adventures, although there may be some to attract the reader, but one embedded in philosophical and theological ideas. I feel Milton’s presence in this place, not that I imagine myself Milton rewriting Paradise Lost, but I do think about and consider Adam’s queries of his creator, when he boldly asks,
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?
My creature, who will be much maligned by his creator, also did not ask to be created. Like Adam, and all of us humans, he wonders why he was “moulded from the clay.” What is the purpose of this creation and why has the creator abandoned him, left him on his own to learn, to attempt human connection, to try to become human?
12 August 1816
I’ve been a bit distracted from my work because we have heard from my sister Fanny about my father’s financial distress. He has many debts. His publishing business is failing and Fanny asks that we continue to support him so that he can do the work that he was meant to do, to write his philosophical treatises and his novels. She relates that he is currently working on another novel, Mandeville, after traveling to Scotland to meet his friend Sir Walter Scott. I won’t complain about it to Shelley but I wonder about his travel when he can ill afford to spend the money. I did mention this to Claire but she reminded me that the three of us did the same not long ago so that we cannot begrudge him what he needs. For once, she seemed more reasonable than I.
Fanny also tells us that she has made plans to visit with our mother’s sisters Eliza and Everina in Ireland. I do hope that she is well received and that her distress about father abates. I have asked her to come to stay with us but she has declined because she says that she does not feel that she could be part of our group; even though she continues to express love for me, she labels all of us libertines. She doesn’t understand us and has no desire to spend her days among us. She has heard about our reputation as advocates of free love, even though we do not necessarily exercise our philosophy. At least I don’t. Perhaps she is right. She doesn’t fit in with Shelley, Claire, and me, but I still love her. She is my mother’s daughter and forever a part of me.
20 August 1816
We are returning to England. Shelley has secured a house for us in Bath. As I expected, things did not work out as Claire had hoped with Byron. Without a marriage proposal or at least an engagement, we must hide her pregnancy and thus go where no one knows us. Much to her dislike, she will be sequestered until the child is born. She will be cloistered like the “nun” that her mother wished her to be.
We receive more ill news from Fanny who relates that our aunts refused her visit, all because of my sullied reputation. They think that I am a slattern and extend this condemnation to poor Fanny. I suppose that they condemn our mother too, even though Mother saved her sister Eliza, but this is completely unfair to Fanny. I may have unintentionally maligned my reputation, but my choices and actions should not reflect negatively on my sister. She is a pure soul, untouched by any male or female. Perhaps this contributes to her melancholy and loneliness. She has written that she loves me more than ever, because of my great worth, but also because the world has deserted me. The world meaning Father, I suppose. Once we arrive in Bath, I will reach out to her and bring her into our fold regardless of whether she wishes to be part of our circle. She is my sister and I must care for her. Like all creatures, she needs human affection and loving kindness.
30 August 1816
All of these family troubles bleed into my tale which unfolds rapidly. Although I have not completed my creation story, I can envision the other parts, particularly those scenes where Victor loses his mother and then other family members who are very dear to him. He will be punished for his transgressions but also for not caring for his creation, for not following Coleridge’s edict to love the hideous and the unlovable. There is certainly a profound lesson in this narrative and now I am grateful that I heard and heeded Coleridge’s frightful tale when I was a mere child, even though I sought my nursemaid, Miss Adela, for comfort at the time. Now, my tale and the act of creation provide some solace and make
me feel whole.
8 September 1816
We are now in Bath and we have received more distressing news from Fanny. She appears personally distraught and keeps imploring us to do more for our father. We have sent him a substantial amount of money, several hundred pounds, and I’ve told her that this is all that we can do. She asks nothing for herself but I will soon journey to Bristol and fetch her to come live with us. Willmouse should know his auntie and the more that I write my novel, the more empathy I feel for those who feel unloved or neglected by those who are kin and who are under an obligation to care for one another.
25 September 1816
Willmouse has been sick with the sniffles and a cough so that I have not been able to retrieve my sister. I told her that I was coming but then had to postpone. She sends me alarming letters. She tells me that she has led a worthless, useless life. She seems quite despondent. I will send Shelley in my stead.
1 October 1816
Shelley has also been unable to travel because he has also been ill after catching Willmouse’s malady. I instructed Fanny to please get on the train herself; I sent her the fare, but she has not responded. I am quite alarmed and as soon as Shelley has fully recovered, he promises that he will seek my sister and secure her well-being.
8 October 1816
Shelley traveled on to Swansea today because the last letter that we received from Fanny indicated that she had moved farther from us into to Wales. The content of the letter suggested acute despair. When Shelley read it, he crumpled it up and said, “I must go now!” She claimed that she belongs nowhere and that her life has only caused pain to all who have known her. She is of no use to anyone and is redundant. She should never have been born. She is cursed. I told Shelley to make haste!
9 October 1816
Shelley reports that he found my sister unconscious in her hotel room. She had imbibed a full bottle of laudanum. Shelley shook her and called for help. She was not merely unconscious. She was dead. The proprietors fetched a physician who tried to revive her by emptying the contents of her stomach, but it was too late.
She left a note that said that her birth was unfortunate and that she hopes that she will soon be forgotten. My darling Fanny! You were our mother’s love child and you thought that no one loved you.
When my mother heard of Fanny’s demise, she wept bitterly and I endeavored to console her. I was unsuccessful.
How awful it must be to feel unloved. She did not know my deep affection for her; this is my fault; I should have told her and insisted that she join us. We would gladly have made her part of our circle, even if she thought us eccentrics and libertines.
I can’t sleep due to a guilty heart. I wish that I had paid more attention to my sister’s needs and that Shelley could have arrived in time to rescue her. Perhaps she thought that she was fulfilling what our mother failed to do when she was in great distress because of feeling unloved and abandoned by the world. Perhaps, like our mother, she had a great need to love, but had no outlet for her affection.
15 October 1816
Because of Fanny’s suicide, my father insisted that we not recover Fanny’s body and therefore she was buried as a suicide in a pauper’s grave!
Godwin and his wife have also insisted that no one learn about Fanny’s self-destruction. Their rationale is that Fanny wished to live and die in obscurity and that we should abide by her wishes. They will publish a false account in the Times claiming that Fanny died of typhoid fever in Ireland. They are willing to lie in order to ensure their own unsullied reputations. I suppose that my father has forgotten that he and my mother were once considered scandalous.
My father has utterly failed as a revolutionary. He never used to care about what others thought of him. He wants to hide the truth that Fanny was an unhappy person who felt neglected by her family and the world. He wants to deny any role in her misery. She felt herself redundant and a burden. If only our mother had been here to advise her and to help her gain the education and confidence that could have ensured self-sufficiency. I wonder if Fanny ever tried to conjure our mother as I have. Perhaps if she had, she would have lived.
I vow that I will not be dependent on anyone, especially on a man. I will not be redundant or a burden. I am a writer; like my mother, I can survive by my pen if necessary.
14 November 1816
I have found it difficult to work on my novel, but Shelley writes prolifically and plans further projects. He continues to plan an epic drama, Prometheus Unbound, which will rail against Christianity, monogamy, and hypocrisy. It will be his most controversial work yet and is certain to create scandal and condemnation. Sometimes, scandal and condemnation seem his ultimate aims. We continue to discuss the Promethean myth and the ways in which knowledge is forbidden. Sometimes, like William Blake, I wish I had not acquired knowledge of evil. Life would surely be easier, if we were less aware of evil, but that is not possible. With consciousness, comes an awareness of evil and death. It is the human condition.
Surely, Fanny’s suicide was an evil act, even though I don’t think that a devil inspired it. The other evils in the world: war, famine, poverty, injustice, violence against women, and human ignorance must be overcome. I shall do my part to overcome ignorance through my writing and will wish for and try to effect a more perfect world where evil dare not show its face.
1 December 1816
I find that work helps me cope with my grief and guilt. I have completed Chapter Four, my creation story in my novel, and Shelley is delighted with it. For once, he has read my work! It turns on the notion that the creature, who has become hideous and will potentially resort to evil, may be an aspect of young Victor Frankenstein’s soul. There is no denying that all of us, no matter how good, contain or have the propensity for evil. In denying evil within and in trying to create perfection, Victor has failed. Fortunately for him and unlike his creature, whom he has abandoned, Victor’s friend, Henry Clerval the poet, finds Victor in his agitated mental state and nurses him to health. He feeds him, reads to him, and soothes his spirit. Clerval attempts to mother Victor, but the poor, pitiful creature lacks a real mother. Perhaps this is his greatest loss and the reason that he will not thrive.
My story will dwell on the necessity of human connection and one’s obligation to one’s fellow creatures, even if they seem unworthy or less than human or unlovable.
11 December 1816
I am not certain how we can withstand the news that Shelley received today. We were already emotionally wounded because of Fanny’s self-destruction, but now we have learned of another consequential death. Shelley received a letter this morning from his friend Thomas Hookham. Harriet Shelley was found drowned on 10 December in the Serpentine Pond. A man walking his retriever through Hyde Park found her body, which had been in the pond for days. She was disfigured and mottled from the water. Her body was partially eaten. Apparently, she, like my sister, took her own life! I know at one time I thought that she should step aside but taking her own life was not the answer. It is awful to realize that she once threatened to commit suicide but Shelley and I believed that just a bit of theatrics. And I never got to know her as I had one day hoped. Perhaps we could have been friends, because of our mutual love of Shelley.
It also appears that she was eight months pregnant. So, not only did she forfeit her own life but she took the life of her child. How very sad and tragic. Thank God she did not become Medea and kill her other children as she once claimed she might do.
In a moment of selfishness, I questioned Shelley and asked if the unborn child was his but he retorted, “No. Do you think me a cad? I would never betray you.” He claims not to have seen Harriet of late, except when he visited the children. But he had not seen the children since early November and it seems that Harriet had left them with her parents and had gone into hiding, using an assumed name of Harriet Smith. We believe that her parents, the Westbrooks, may have thrown her out of their home, telling
her that she was an unfit mother, all because she was pregnant by a man other than Shelley.
Shelley is quite shaken. Still, he claims that he is not responsible for her death or unhappiness. I, on the other hand, do feel responsible. I know that I am Shelley’s natural mate, but our union made Harriet extremely unhappy and this may have led to her self-destruction. I know how I would feel if Shelley abandoned me. I would be shattered, as was Harriet. I only see that now in the aftermath of her death.
I sometimes wish that I was a believer and if a believer, then a Roman Catholic. At least they have the ability to confess and seek forgiveness for the way they have injured others. I now wish that I would have told Harriet that I am sorry that we caused her such pain. Shelley tells me to forget about Harriet; Harriet chose to end her life; we did not force her to relinquish it. His only aim now is to secure custody of his children, Ianthe and Charles. He is adamant that they belong to us, not to the Westbrooks, who abhor Shelley and will likely forbid Shelley from seeing his own children.
I am beginning to wonder about the black cloud that seems to hang over our union. First Sophia, then Fanny, and now Harriet. To what extent are we liable for these premature deaths? Are the gods punishing us? Why does our love result in pain and death?
23 December 1816
Shelley’s lawyers advise us that we should marry as quickly as possible, if we wish to obtain custody. Although we both believe that marriage is a flawed institution that results in legal bondage for women, we have agreed to proceed with the vows and I have notified my father. We shall see what his reaction is.
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