Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein (3 page)

I am happier now

than ever I have been,

more joyous

than when I am reading

my favorite book.

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IS THERE ONLY ME?

June 1814

My feelings overtake me

more swiftly than quicksand

and I tend to forget

that I alone do not grace

Mr. Shelley’s life.

His wife Harriet came before me

when she was but my age

and Shelley unburdened

her from her life of confines

as he promises to do for me.

I may be many things,

but I wish never to be a fool.

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AT MY MOTHER’S GRAVE

June 26, 1814

The stone reads

Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin.

I learned my alphabet

under the shade of this willow

spelling out letter by letter

the name Mother.

Jane finally retreats

like a sad pup

and leaves Shelley and me alone.

Shelley grasps my hand.

“I have been on a long quest

for love. You are a dear friend

to me, but dearer more than that.”

He pauses, his piercing blue eyes ignite.

“I was an unhappy boy at Eton,

bullied and misunderstood.

I have a father who thinks

me mad for my principles

and at times would have liked

to commit me to an asylum.

I have been tempted and obsessed

with magic, with chemical experiments,

and with death,

and shall likely always be.

But all of this has made me

the man that I am—

one now devoted to you.”

I feel light-headed

as though I

hang upside down.

I almost don’t want to ask,

but I must know.

“What of your wife, Harriet?”

He tucks the hair

behind my ear and whispers,

“I am not sure that she

is so devoted to me anymore.

I can’t even be certain

that the baby she carries is mine.”

He sits up straight

and adjusts his collar.

“We are no longer married

in mind nor spirit,

nor love.

We never were a true match.”

As these words

trickle from his lips

he looks deflated,

like someone draws

blood from his face.

My mother wrote

about the constraints

of marriage and warned

against its conventions

and restrictions, for women especially.

This love I feel

for Shelley may come

but once,

and I wonder, Mother,

what to do?

I wrap my arms

around his wiry frame

and confess,

“I am completely yours.”

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JANE

Summer 1814

My stepsister plays a role

she seems to well like,

the conduit for the love

that Shelley and I have found.

She is a river

that brings Shelley and me together

by chaperoning our time.

Her generosity

might be perplexing

except that she

loves a good romance novel,

and in this affair

she is like the paper

upon which we

write our story.

She is necessary

to us right now,

and it seems

Jane loves little more

than to be needed.

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FATHER FIGURE

July 6, 1814

Father is outraged.

The house quakes

with anger

as though we have

upset a hive

of frightened wasps.

Shelley asks my father today

to be with me

and a resounding “No!”

echoes through all chambers.

Father must have

forgotten his own

principles of free love

and his proclamations

about the absurdity of marriage.

He banishes Shelley

from ever seeing me

as Shelley is married to Harriet.

Always more God

than man

today Mr. Godwin decides

to act as any ordinary

father.

I am perplexed.

Stepmother must be at root.

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LAUDANUM

July 1814

Letters pass

as I am trapped in the tower

of our home and Shelley

is forbidden to see me.

Jane secures our secret notes,

our wily messenger pigeon,

while Fanny frets

that we will be found out.

My brothers, as usual, pay no mind

to anything not concerning them.

I miss the smell of Shelley,

the earthy, mad look in his eye.

He sends me his book-length poem,

Queen Mab
, inscribes the book to me,

renouncing Harriet again.

“Love is free,

to promise forever to love

the same woman is not less absurd

than to promise to believe

the same creed: such a vow,

in both cases, excludes us

from all enquiry.”

Shelley finally cannot be held back.

He dashes into the schoolroom

of our Skinner Street home

with a wild look.

He holds out a bottle of laudanum

and brandishes a small pistol.

“Swallow this bottle,” he pleads,

“and we shall be united in death.”

The color drains from my face

as though my love shoots

a bullet into my heart,

tears plunge down my cheeks.

“Please don’t harm yourself.

Go home,” I beg.

“I am eternally yours already.

I pledge you fidelity forever

if you will only see reason.”

Shelley looks mystified

as though he may have ingested

the poison before arriving here.

Still he tucks the pistol

in his belt and, deflated,

ambles to the door.

He leaves the bottle of laudanum behind.

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WITHOUT ME

July 1814

I hear that my love

takes an overdose

of laudanum,

and the doctor has been called.

I hold tight the bottle

Shelley left for me

and wonder if I should,

in some Shakespearean manner,

swallow its contents as well.

I learn Shelley will survive,

but Jane and I

are trapped,

not allowed

to breathe fresh air

as though we are

petty criminals.

Fanny tries to cheer me

with news of Shelley,

and the porter of our

little bookshop

exchanges letters for us,

but this will not suffice.

I must see his fragile face,

know for certain

that he will thrive.

Sleep is beyond me.

Food holds no luster.

One could drink my daily tears

by the teacup.

Father and Stepmother

know nothing of love,

know nothing of the pain

it feels to have one’s limb

separated from one’s body.

This will not do.

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ESCAPE

July 24, 1814

Black bonnets strapped

to our chins,

silk traveling gowns

corseting our ribs,

Jane and I cat out

into the dark morning.

The air at four a.m.

is wet with heat.

Our nerves charged

and excited as a murder

of crows after shotgun fire.

Shelley’s velvet arm

dangles over the carriage door.

His left boot taps

impatient, impatient, impatient,

as a child

awaiting our arrival,

eager for our departure.

He settles Jane

like a delicate vase

carefully into her chaise.

I think I hear

boots on the cobblestone,

think I distinguish

the faraway echo

of my father’s voice,

but it is only horse hooves.

With one hoist into that carriage,

my lover orphans me.

He cloaks me in the cushion

of his arms and we race

away from Spinner Street

on the bumpy road to Dover.

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A BOAT TO CALAIS

July 1814

Weak from carriage travel,

I collapse, limp as wilted greens.

Shelley was certain

we would be pursued