Vindicated

by Kathleen Williams Renk

  1 March 1818

  Last evening we toasted the publication of my Frankenstein. Although I rarely imbibe, I allowed myself one glass of champagne to celebrate the birth of my novel.

  12 March 1818

  We have set sail to Calais with Claire and the three children. The Ides of March are impending and once again the crossing is rough. I keep my children close so that they do not get buffeted about. Shelley must have a cast-iron stomach because he once again sits on the deck and gazes at the tortuous waves. I think that he is part merman. He loves the sea and always says that he feels part of it. Its sublimity enlarges his soul, just as the grand mountains do.

  26 March 1818

  We have arrived once more at the most beautiful lake in Europe, Lago di Como, Lake Como, a splendid place, at the foot of the Alps. We spent a brief sojourn here in 1816 and it inspired me to set Victor and Elizabeth’s wedding there in Frankenstein. I expect that no tragedy will befall us as it did them in their fictional world. We hope to locate a home in this earthly paradise.

  The weather is perfect; the sky is azure blue and delicate white clouds dot the sky. The sun is our daily companion and Shelley recuperates well; his cough has subsided and he spends most of his time on the lake. The children and I have joined him in some of his sailing. We rented a small craft. Shelley is such an expert sailor. He promises me that he will teach Willmouse and Clara to sail. Will is acquiring sea-legs and, like his father, dons a seafarer’s cap.

  Claire has traveled to Milan and I am glad to be alone with my family. Fortunately, she is occupied with communicating with Lord Byron who insists that Alba’s name be changed to Allegra. God only knows why. I suppose that he thinks Allegra more romantic, just as Jane prefers to call herself Claire. Perhaps by bestowing a new name on the child, he will truly take an interest in her. I doubt his sincerity.

  30 March 1818

  While Shelley sailed alone today, the children and I visited Villa Melzi d’Eril with its stupendous Japanese garden filled with colossal and exquisite pink and purple rhododendrons. Afterwards, we took a carriage ride to a local farm and we ate olives, cheese, and salami. I am teaching Willmouse Italian and he says “Più formaggio per favore” with gusto. We are becoming vero italiano!

  We continue to search for a home to rent, but so far, have found nothing suitable. Lake Como has perennially been the playground for the rich and famous ever since Roman times. We are neither and will probably have to move along to less exquisite surroundings. For now, Shelley and I and the children relish our time here and feel quite renewed. I continue to dream of medieval Italy and the romance and adventure associated with it. Shelley and I read Petrarch to each other and fantasize about being amanti italiani, Italian lovers!

  10 April 1818

  We have traveled to Milan to find an incessantly miserable Claire. She has finally discerned that Byron desires nothing from her other than taking Allegra from her. She rants about this absurd request. At first he wanted nothing to do with the child but, now, after a brief visit with her, he insists that Allegra is his and would be better off with him and would, in his care, become an aristocrat. Claire has responded to Byron’s request with a resolute “No” and yet he persists. I believe that she still holds out hope that Byron will make her his Lady; she is delusional. He has never desired her and he cannot be faithful to one woman. He has many Italian lovers, which has made Claire livid.

  I do not understand his motivation to take the child from Claire. Isn’t it enough that he laid claim to her by changing her name? To which Claire acquiesces, even though she finds it difficult to adapt to. What can he gain by taking her other than a dependent? Besides, in her own way, she does love Allegra. Maternity ought to take precedence over paternity, but we do not live in equal times, despite the revolutions that spread all over Europe. The sexual revolution has not transpired along with the political one that sought liberty. Genuine liberty would entail true equal rights for women. But equal rights depend upon equal education and access to occupations and professions. Unfortunately, my mother’s advocacy for equal sexual rights has not taken hold. I do credit my father with making my mother’s writings available, even including her fiction, which are narratives that apply her ideas in Vindication.

  10 May 1818

  Shelley has interceded on behalf of Claire and has written to Byron, trying to persuade him to give up his demand that Allegra join his household. Shelley maintains that the child is better off with us because she is familiar with us and all of us love her. Byron does not know the child nor does he care for her. As Byron’s friend, Shelley thinks that he can convince Byron to give up his quest.

  20 May 1818

  After much consternation and many tears, and despite our arguments to the contrary, Claire has agreed to Byron’s demand. She thinks that Allegra will be better off in the long run because she will be raised as an aristocrat and will have all of the advantages that go with her title. Shelley is at odds with Byron over this. Shelley was raised to be the next baronet but found no real advantage other than the financial allowance that permitted him to travel. It surprises him that Byron maintains his title as a lord; he wants to believe that Byron is a republican but this indicates that in his heart, assuming he has one, he is not.

  2 June 1818

  I have been playing around with an opening scene in my new work, after having completed a considerable amount of historical research, including perusing archival material, about Castruccio. Castruccio, who will become lord of Lucca, will be exiled with his family as a child because of their strong aristocratic beliefs in a time that favors liberty for all. He will, on his own, visit an exhibition that parodies hell and then will witness a literal hell when a bridge collapses and hundreds of onlookers perish. Dante’s Inferno will become reality for him and all who witness this horror.

  11 June 1818

  Shelley and I have secured lodgings in Bagni di Lucca, a resort village with a thermal spring, which ought to greatly benefit Shelley’s health. It was the summer residence of Napoleon, which certainly doesn’t positively influence our choice. It resembles Bath with its mineral springs but far exceeds Bath in terms of its beauty. We hope to stay for the entire summer season and will settle in to write and read. Shelley will partake of its waters and will also be able to boat on the Serchio River and perhaps the children and I will be welcome on his skiff.

  22 June 1818

  I find this place tranquil as does Shelley. His health has improved as has his mood. He boats daily on the river and works on translating the Symposium. I continue to plan my new work, Valperga, imagining its fortress. The devil’s bridge, Ponte del Diavolo, which was renovated by Castracani in 1300 A.D., near Bagni di Lucca, is a perfect model for my scene where the bridge collapses and plunges everyone into hell. I try to imagine a medieval worldview, one in which all hierarchies are in place from God to seraphim, to cherubim, to man, to woman. When I imagine it, I realize that this world is still very much intact in many places, despite the French and American Revolutions.

  30 June 1818

  The reviews of Frankenstein arrived today and my hands shook as I opened the envelope. I was eager for good news but, as we know, one bad review colors all of the positive ones. I saw this often enough with my father. So, I looked with trepidation at the various reviews from the Edinburgh Review to The Gentleman’s Magazine to The Quarterly Review. Some reviewers herald it as a new form of the novel, as I had hoped; they call it “bold fiction,” “original” and “excellent in language.” I was so pleased to learn that Sir Walter Scott views the novel favorably. Of course, he is friends with my father but he doesn’t know that I am the author, only that I dedicated it to Godwin. He wrote that the “work impresses us with a high idea of the author’s original genius and happy power of expression.” Another reviewer says that the novel is “the production of no ordinary writer.” However, some condemn it, calling the novel a “horrible and disgusting absurdity” a
nd asks if the author is as “mad as his hero.” This reviewer also says that “it is written in the spirit of Mr. Godwin’s school,” and thus worthy of condemnation because it is similar to his writing. Perhaps they attribute the novel to Shelley as I feared. However, Shelley himself wrote a review, even though I asked him not to, since he surely has no objective lens with which to evaluate the book. I suppose though that it is helpful that he has written a review, which will prove that he is not the author. He need not boast about his own work; others can do that for him.

  I find the mixed reviews a bit disheartening. It is always hard to hear criticism of something that you have labored over at length and about which you deeply care. The fictional world becomes a reality to the author. It is most troubling to me that one reviewer worries that readers will not necessarily walk away with a condemnatory message about human transgression. I do not believe that I could have been clearer in my intention. Frankenstein warns Walton repeatedly about exceeding human limitations. Victor has failed to produce anything resembling a real human being, although he has also failed by not caring for his creation. I give readers far more credit than does this reviewer.

  Regardless, whether they extol or condemn the novel, all of the reviewers find it powerful enough to produce a lasting effect on the reader. I am pleased overall with this outcome and am encouraged to continue to exercise my imagination in ways that will bring about a more just world. I sense that Frankenstein will have a long life and that my writing will have an impact. My mother assures me that she knows that my work will succeed and that many generations will be both terrified and moved by it.

  20 July 1818

  Claire’s drama is relentless. This time I do feel her plight. Now that Byron has seized Allegra he has placed her in Venice with a stranger, the wife of the British consul. He doesn’t even visit the child and he refuses to allow Claire to see Allegra.

  Byron’s cruelty is beyond belief. Why would he enact such heartlessness? Does he wish to punish the child? Does he wish to punish Claire in some way? Does he believe her to be a bad mother; does he truly believe she is a pernicious influence on the child? He says that if the child is around Claire, Allegra will become a vegetarian and an atheist. Claire is not really like us and Byron should not make such sweeping generalizations.

  I know that I find fault with Claire continually, but she does love the child and a mother’s love is crucial to a child’s well-being. I suffered from having no mother and although he tried, Godwin could not provide a mother’s care and affection. I believe, as I’ve said before, that Byron himself is a wounded creature. His deformity may have turned his own mother against him and thus his heart was eternally injured and disfigured.

  17 August 1818

  Shelley and Claire are journeying to Venice to attempt to see Allegra and they are quite determined to plead with Byron in person. I hope to be able to join them but have felt ill of late and poor little Clara has come down with a fever. We had hoped that the mountain air and the refreshing springs would ensure continued good health, but this is not necessarily true. Clara and I have snuggled together under the eiderdown, even though it is summer. We have both had the chills and keeping Clara close to me makes me feel more secure; I know that she is warm and I hold her next to my heart.

  31 August 1818

  Shelley urges me to make haste to join him and Claire. Byron has relented and has agreed to allow Claire to stay for a week to visit Allegra. Of course, she is thrilled and is determined to see more of her daughter.

  It appears that Shelley is having a grand time. He informs me that he and Byron have taken Byron’s gondola to San Giorgio Maggiore, a nearby island, and then on to another isle, Lazzaretto Nuovo, spending two days riding through the forest and discussing their ideas for future works. Shelley feels inspired.

  I am not inspired; I am tired. I do not feel that I can travel yet; our illness only recently subsided. I took Clara to a physician and he said that she was not ill but was merely teething. He reprimanded me for being a silly woman, an anxious mother, too worried about the child. I found his remarks quite belittling and patronizing and told him so. He did not apologize but merely assured me that she will be fine and that the journey will not prove too arduous for her.

  10 September 1818

  Byron has generously accommodated us at his villa in Este. I was quite relieved to arrive there because, despite the doctor’s assurances that Clara was not ill, she had a fretful trip. She was flushed, feverish, listless, and would not eat. She occasionally shook with the ague. The carriage ride took four days and the heat was unbearable. Whenever I could, at various waystations on the journey, I applied cold compresses to her and tried to get her to take a little brandy, mostly to soothe her relentless crying. I hope that once we are settled here, she will recover from the journey and the illness.

  Byron has sent for his personal physician who will likely bleed the child. I do not agree with these antiquated medical methods, straight out of Aristotle. I don’t know what else to do though, if she does not recover soon.

  20 September 1818

  The physician, Mr. Caldona, applied leeches and took to cupping baby Clara. I hated to see him lance the hematomas that he created with the cups. The poor child cried until exhaustion and even though I held her close, her body shook as if she had palsy. I grow increasingly fretful and am angry with Shelley for insisting that we travel. He and I had a terrible row, but then we stopped our bickering when our Willmouse came in the room and told us that he was scared, could we please be quiet, he asked. I felt ashamed that we engendered fear in our sweet boy.

  I haven’t seen any change in my baby girl but Mr. Caldona says that we ought to see a change for the better within 24 hours. I remain by her bedside and refuse to sleep. Shelley tells me that I must but I can’t. My baby remains feverish and she is difficult to arouse. I gently rub her limbs and her head and sing lullabies to her. I wish that I believed that God would intercede but I don’t; I feel helpless and hopeless.

  24 September 1818

  The worst has happened and I fear that I will not recover. The candle has burned down and is out. Baby Clara is no more and has joined her sister Sophia in the grave. I held Clara as she took her last breaths and I wished her Godspeed. My worst fears about holding loved ones as they die have been realized. Now, I know how my mother felt when her beloved Fanny died in her arms. It is worse for me though because these babies are my own blood.

  I deeply regret making this journey. Perhaps if we had stayed in Bagni di Lucca Clara could have completely recovered. I feel responsible for making a poor and selfish decision. And I blame Shelley for insisting that we travel when Clara was not fully recovered. Once more, I shouted at him, calling him inhumane, cruel, and selfish. I don’t know that I can ever forgive him. After our row, he stormed out and stayed away for the night. I don’t know where he went and I don’t care. He returned in the morning as if nothing had happened. I made the burial arrangements by myself.

  At times, I feel repulsed by him and I grow increasingly angry because he does not seem to feel as despondent as I do. He carries on and continues to write. I can think of nothing but the fact that Clara’s beautiful spirit has vanished.

  I keep wondering what we have done to deserve such fate. Are we doomed to a relentless cycle of death? Has our passion been detrimental to us and to our offspring?

  30 September 1818

  After notifying Godwin about Clara’s death, I received a cold letter from him, warning me not to carry on with my grief. He acknowledged that my grief is real and is the first of its kind in my adult life. (This is not true. I despaired equally when Sophia passed.) He insisted that only “persons of an ordinary sort” persist in their grief and depression and that I should apply myself to new endeavors and new thoughts if I wish to recover from this unfortunate event. His heartlessness astounds me and I grow weary of it.

  I wonder about the differences betw
een men and women in regard to coping with personal tragedy. Perhaps, since they never carried a child under their hearts, they do not feel the pain that we feel when that child is snuffed out by the gods.

  I take a considerable amount of laudanum to dull the pain, but even that does not help. The emptiness inside of my chest, where my heart used to reside, is deep. I feel hollowed out from the core and have nothing to give. The reviewers of my novel labeled me mad. Like Shelley, I am mad now. But with grief.

  I never was able to show my darling girl England’s daffodils as I had promised. My dreams are filled with my daughters roaming through the English countryside and sitting in fields of lavender and daffodils. In the spring, I shall endeavor to locate daffodils here in Venice and place them on her grave.

  15 October 1818

  The beauty of Venice does not assuage my abiding grief. If anything, it exacerbates it. The canals seem fetid to me and the buildings seem ruined and crumbling. Nothing arouses hope in me.