20 April 1817
My narrative is drawing to a close. I was not surprised when the creature lashed out at Frankenstein when he furiously destroyed the half-formed new Eve. Victor’s violence verged on rape. He seemed to be striking out at his abhorred creature. Frankenstein allowed his worries about the female’s potential fearsomeness to overtake him and he envisioned that this new Adam and Eve could populate the earth with their deadly offspring.
In the wake of the destruction of his mate, the creature vowed ultimate revenge and set out to destroy everyone that Frankenstein loves. Lack of acceptance and love only engenders horrific violence. Even before his mate was destroyed, the creature strangled Victor’s little brother, William, but then after witnessing the savaging of his mate by Frankenstein, he murdered the good, innocent Clerval. Finally, he vowed that he would be with Frankenstein on his wedding night and Frankenstein, being as obtuse as he is, did not understand that his beloved bride, his cousin Elizabeth, was in grave danger. Before Frankenstein could consummate his love with his bride, the creature strangled her, leaving her dead on her wedding bed. Now, Victor too is bereft and alone, just like his creature. Perhaps that will make him understand the creature’s loneliness and grief.
The creature does understand right from wrong; he is not amoral. And he acknowledges that this “passion is detrimental” to him but his fury knows no bounds. Sadly, Victor’s passion is also awakened. From the moment of the creature’s “birth,” Victor has always wanted to destroy his creature, but he now chases him through the northern wilds, with the creature egging him on, taunting him. I fear that no good will come from this and that both the creature and the creator will never be satisfied with the outcome. I sense that the creature still desperately longs for his creator’s love but Frankenstein will surely never give it now that the creature has fulfilled Frankenstein’s assumptions and prophecy about him. He abides in evil and Frankenstein cannot rise above his human condition. He has identified with Milton’s Satan, but unfortunately, the creature has too. Unlike Satan, neither of them can make a “heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”
14 May 1817
My novel is complete. Tragically, the creature who was never loved or understood climbed upon his funeral pyre and took his own life, after he had hounded and destroyed his creator. As Frankenstein died, the creature wept.
I ponder the outcome and only conclude that the creator missed teaching and perhaps learning from his half-formed creation. Assuming god-like activities requires god-like beneficence. But once again, I always wonder about the Christian God’s supposed benevolence. If he is omniscient and omnipotent, why does evil exist? Why does he allow it? Why are we born to die? What is the purpose in all of this human tragedy? I hope that my readers will understand and learn from the mistakes that Victor made. Although I dislike admitting it, some knowledge should be forbidden. Shelley does not agree, but he does admire my book, which he read quickly and endorsed. I have finally written something that Shelley has read in its entirety.
I now seek a publisher.
21 May 1817
Willmouse and I have been staying with Godwin and Mrs. Clairmont in London as I visit various publishers to show them my manuscript. Living with Father and Mrs. Clairmont has been more pleasant than I imagined. My father seemingly no longer harbors ill will toward Shelley and me and he delights in his grandson. My stepmother leaves me alone, which I prefer. Godwin and I will likely never be as close as we once were, but there are occasional conversational moments that feel like the intellectual haven that we once shared, especially when Mrs. Clairmont is away making calls on her friends.
Willmouse’s vocabulary has grown considerably and his grandfather spends hours reading to him and spinning tales for the child. I have never seen my father so whimsical and playful. Perhaps his publication of children’s literature has had a positive effect on the cranky, old Prospero. His heart has surely grown several sizes as he has assumed the role of the wise man grandfather.
10 June 1817
I have been re-reading “Childe Harold.” It makes me melancholy. It is perhaps not suitable for reading when one is nearing one’s confinement. Even though Harold relishes the natural world, he is far too much of a misanthrope for my liking.
30 June 1817
I have obtained a publisher—Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor and Jones. Because I am a woman and due to the nature of my novel, they have insisted that I publish my novel anonymously. I told them that Eliza Haywood, Frances Burney, and my mother did not publish anonymously or use pennames. I find the publisher’s demand offensive and do not see why I cannot attach my name to the manuscript. The manuscript is mine. I do not want the authorship to be falsely attributed to another, especially a man. I argued with my publishers about the authorship issue but they did not relent. How will we women ever be taken seriously and be able to prove our creative genius, if we cannot attach our own names to our work?
Shelley tells me to me patient. He believes that the book will go into a second printing and that at that time I can reveal my authorship. In the meantime, I worry that its authorship will perhaps be falsely attributed to him just because he is a man and a published writer. I have dedicated the novel to my father so naturally it might be assumed that Shelley is the author because he is Godwin’s most famous or infamous disciple.
15 July 1817
More rumors swirl around us. The gossips claim that Alba is Shelley’s, not Byron’s, daughter. Claire hungered for Shelley but they both insist that they have never had relations, although Shelley is overly fond of my stepsister. He particularly loves her melodic voice, which she has developed through her singing lessons and which he likens to an Aeolian harp. She does sing beautifully, but he insists that this is not enough for him to take her to his bed. Her voice is not reflective of her entire being; it is at odds with it. However, he calls her Constantina because of her constant and consistently extraordinary voice. I think of her as constant also, but her constancy is the result of her continuing to hang on to us, leech that she is. I know that I should be more charitable and love Claire, but I find it nearly impossible.
I grow tired of her and sometimes tired of myself and worry that these ill feelings will affect the child that grows in my womb. I must think of pleasant rather than hateful thoughts so that the seeds of animosity don’t affect her well-being. Again, I feel certain that this child is a girl. I will have a second chance to raise a daughter as my mother would want, although my mother did worry about bearing girl children because, if properly and fully educated, they may be deemed unfit for the current world in which we live. I acknowledge this concern and often discuss it with my mother, but I will do my very best to educate my daughter while re-fashioning the world so that it accepts her knowledge and brilliance as natural.
10 August 1817
Shelley spends considerable time on his skiff floating on the lake and dreaming of other worlds. He writes like a fiend, composing a new poem, “The Revolt of Islam,” which is inspired by Spenser but dwells on the doctrines of liberty and justice. It reflects on a wrongly-executed French Revolution, a revolution that betrayed its promise and ideals. I have provided Shelley with a thorough critique of his work as I always do.
I am confined now, awaiting the arrival of the child. I too wish that I could float about on the boat or on wispy clouds and look down on the green world like Milton’s Eve. I feel in limbo as I await the grand entrance of this child. Why must women be confined when they are about to experience childbirth? Are we thought shameful? Society never wishes to acknowledge the fecund, gravid body. It finds this body repulsive, unnatural, and sinful. I find it exquisite.
1 September 1817
A baby girl is in my arms! She is a beautiful, wholesome child. She has all of her fingers and toes, and a wee nose. Her cheeks are ruddy and she has a robust cry. She seems quite sturdy. Thank God she doesn’t seem to have been harmed so far by my tortured thoughts tha
t occupied my mind towards the end of my pregnancy. I am not necessarily given to “old wives’ tales,” but the Irish in particular believe that what you think and observe can affect a pregnancy. They go so far as to think that, if you see a chicken at a certain point of the pregnancy, your baby will look like a chicken! These folk beliefs are amusing but also rather illustrative of the ways the old ways hang on in a scientific era. Perhaps I should collect these tales and publish them.
At any rate, although I am not completely taken with the idea, Shelley wishes to call her Clara after our Claire. Clara means bright and clear; she is akin to a bright new star; the sheen on her soft baby skin actually seems to glow, so I will not oppose naming her this. At least her name will not be Claire.
15 September 1817
Sweet Clara Everina never leaves my side, almost like her namesake! I found this effective with Willmouse; I have kept a watchful eye on him and he has had no illnesses aside from the short respiratory ones that all children acquire. Shelley thinks that I shield the children too much and that I’ll smother them with too much love. I contest that, since one can never experience too much motherly love. I never experienced it as a child so sometimes I wonder where the deep affection for my children comes from. Perhaps my mother showers all of us with her love and I extend it to my children. I meet her frequently in my dreams and in the broad light of day and am grateful for her love.
I promise my children daily that no harm will come to them. I nurse my own child, knowing that a mother’s milk is the best medicine that a mother can give her child.
3 October 1817
I can’t understand why trouble continues to plague us. Harriet’s creditors hound Shelley and they are threatening to imprison him! To prevent this, we have agreed once again that he should remain in hiding in London until all of this is sorted out.
In addition, although the children remain well, Shelley’s health is in jeopardy. He experiences night sweats, which could indicate consumption, the malady that plagues so many these days, including our beloved friend Keats. We think that it would be best to travel to Italy for Shelley’s health, but we can ill afford to do that currently. He must stay put and is unfortunately holed up in a dank, mildewed basement flat far from Marlowe near Russell Square in London. He reports that he occasionally sneaks out in disguise and studies in the British Library. I would love to see him sporting a false wig and mustache; perhaps he can be a secret agent like Christopher Marlowe! If so, let us hope that his end does not parallel Marlowe’s own tragic demise.
20 October 1817
I have sent Shelley news that the creditors have visited our home in Marlowe, inquiring about his whereabouts. I kept mum and pretended that Shelley had abandoned me. The creditors had no trouble believing that, since they are aware of his relationship with Harriet. It is disquieting, when I consider how he deserted her for me. Would he do the same, if he grew weary of me? Or found me lacking as he did Harriet? Will I always remain his child of light? I have said that I will never grovel to keep him and that I can be independent and make my way in the world, but I don’t necessarily wish to have to exercise that ability. I still love my Shelley, despite his faults, his occasional melancholy and mad choleric attacks. He is mine; I am his.
2 November 1817
We must quit Marlowe; the house is unhealthy. All of our books are molding; the air is fetid, which perhaps contributed to Shelley’s cough. Once Shelley and I are reunited in London we must think of a way to relocate to Italy for the sake of everyone’s health, not just Shelley’s.
15 November 1817
Clara is now two and one-half months old. Today, she smiled at me for the first time. I know that some say that babies this age don’t smile; they merely pass wind and that turns up the corners of their mouths. That is simply not true. She gazed right at my face this morning and smiled at her mama. Elise, the nursemaid, witnessed it so I wasn’t the only one to be graced by Clara’s affection.
Willmouse is an excellent big brother. Although a mere toddler, he takes responsibility for his wee sis and wants to hold her. I sit him on my lap and Elise hands Baby Clara to me and I help Willmouse cradle his sister. I sing her songs, such as “Where are you going, my pretty little maid?” which helps her fall asleep, and Willmouse tries to sing along.
I try not to think of Clara as the rebirth of Sophia. I possessed Sophia for such a short time. I still dream of her though and see her and Clara frolicking in a field of daffodils and bryony. They giggle and run about, chasing butterflies. My mother sits atop a hill and gazes at them, knowing that they are her blood and she beams at me, letting me know that she approves. Of course, it’s just a dream, but some speculate that dreams are just another alternate reality, where we live out what might have been or will be. In any case, I am always happy to see my mother and Sophia in my dream-world. I feel blessed when they appear.
4 December 1817
I have found a new flat in London and Shelley has been able to come out of hiding. His barrister has managed to satisfy the creditors and Shelley is no longer in danger of imprisonment. I worried very much that imprisonment would kill him both physically and spiritually. I am so pleased to have him back in our world and in my bed, where he belongs. He is also happy because while in disguise he found a publisher for his “The Revolt of Islam.” I am certain that when Shelley doffed his blonde wig the publishers had a hearty laugh to know who was hidden beneath the elegantly coiffed hair.
24 December 1817
Although we are certainly not Christians, we do celebrate the winter solstice and light the yule log. Some traditions are worth keeping and we think that it is healthy for the children to partake in the old ways that sustained our ancestors for centuries. At such times, we tell tales, just like the French do during the dark months of Toussaint. Tonight, Shelley told the children the story of the fairy queen, embellishing it with his version that harkens back to his Queen Mab who predicts a glorious future for humanity.
We are hoping that the impending year will be good for us and that our troubles will vanish completely, just as if fairy dust was blown on them. I know that this is whimsical but I must have hope.
27 December 1817
Sadly, the Christmas gifts that we sent to Charles and Ianthe have been returned to us with a note that asks us to please refrain from sending gifts or communicating any further with the children. Shelley didn’t say a word; he ripped up the note, threw it in the fire, and then stormed out of the flat.
1818
1 January 1818
My publishers have sent me copies of my Frankenstein, which appears in three volumes. The first has been released to the public. I feel proud of my creation and am elated that it found a home. The New Year begins well. Perhaps all of the pain of the last few years will dissipate and we will begin again.
17 January 1818
A new story percolates in my imagination. I spend considerable time thinking about and wishing to escape to Italy; both for Shelley’s health and for our emotional well-being. I intend to set my story there but in earlier times, perhaps the medieval period. I have little time to write because of my duties to my children and my husband, but I jot down ideas and will let these schemes simmer as they arise. I have heard recently of the exciting notion of what is called lucid dreaming where you imagine a scene so vividly that in your real dreams you are transported there. I shall try this and see if I can be conveyed in my dreams to medieval Italy. Perhaps the Medicis will enter my dreams or one of the lecherous popes! I find Catholicism and all of its flaws fascinating, but more importantly, I am interested in how the growing desire for liberty in the medieval period is similar to our own time’s longing.
11 February 1818
I continue to dream of Italy and have tried lucid dreaming. I see a medieval soldier of whom I have read; his name is Castruccio Castracani and he is the lord of Lucca. I see him with his lover Euthanasia. They cavort in her gardens at her fortress Va
lperga. They were once childhood playmates and sweethearts, but, like Romeo and Juliet, politics interferes with their love bond. But, in addition, the desire for personal power intercedes and affects their relationship.
My daydreams become more vivid as we make our plans to relocate and live in Italy. The very thought of the Tuscan sun piques my imagination and fuels my desire to dwell among the vineyards and hear the vinedressers sing their love songs. It also makes me happy because I know that Shelley and my children will thrive there away from the pestilence that is England, its eternal dampness and cold, its rigid social and political codes, as well as away from our unhappiness and ill fortune that have plagued us while we remain in England.
Once again, Claire is our constant companion. She will travel with us along with Alba. Claire wishes to see Byron and will endeavor one more time to make him grow enthralled with her or at least for him to care for or perhaps love his daughter. I don’t see how this will happen. Claire’s feminine wiles have failed in the past with George. She lacks sufficient charm and intellect. Perhaps she will try singing to him and he will fall deeply and everlastingly in love with her because of her angelic voice. It is doubtful, but this particular charm has worked on Shelley at least to the extent that her voice transports him to heavenly places.
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