Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein (8 page)

I do not adore.

We establish a routine

of reading, writing, and talking.

My hands plunged

into the earth,

cradling a book,

or even better moving

a pen across paper,

I am at home.

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A MUSE

August 1815

Without Claire

I hear thoughts

as music.

My mind frees

to once again

delve into learning.

I read everything

within reach

knowing

that this prepares

me for later writing.

Shelley has picked

up his pen here

in Bishopsgate,

and he calls me

his lovely muse.

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VISITORS TO OUR HOME

August 1815

Hogg visits infrequently.

Claire gratefully does not call upon us.

But Thomas Love Peacock

takes up residence in Marlow

and will make the long walk

up the Thames to stay with us

from time to time.

He advises Shelley

on his writing and career

as he is seven years his senior

and then becomes his agent

and business advisor.

We argue into the night

about vegetarianism,

the return of the French monarchy,

the disrepair of the government,

and Thomas encourages

us to read classical texts again.

Peacock convinces

Shelley to change his diet

of bread, butter, and lemonade

and finally eat a pork chop.

Shelley loses his pallid complexion

and starts to feel markedly better.

My brother Charles Clairmont

also frequents our home

as he is now free to do so.

But, to my sorrow,

Father still will not

acknowledge me.

Charles concocts many ideas

for his future, but they

all require funding from Shelley.

Thomas provides us

some relief from Charles

by chaperoning him on long walks.

One night after reading Peacock’s poem,

“The Genius of the Thames,”

we four decide to embark

on a boating expedition

up the river. I enjoy

the old houses surrounded by

purple loosestrife and golden water-irises.

The slow row of the boat

through the locks soothes me.

I lounge back and smell

peace in the air.

We discuss history,

politics, and literature

with vigor and ambition.

We spend the day

wandering Oxford

and stand in Shelley’s

old room at University College.

Magic occurred here,

an alchemy of spirit

pushed at the boundaries

of human knowledge.

This is where my Shelley and Hogg

threatened the world

to open its eye,

and for such blasphemy

were expelled.

We travel ten days

but no more

even though we thought

to try and reach Wales

and the Lake District.

We haven’t adequate funds,

and the water lowers

so shallow, we must

carry the boat

above our heads.

We merrily trek home.

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BISHOPSGATE

Autumn 1815

Shelley finds great inspiration

and harmony here

in Bishopsgate.

He embarks on a new poem

even more ambitious

than “Queen Mab.”

Peacock suggests

he call it “Alastor”

or “The Spirit of Solitude.”

It tells the story of a poet who

leaves his home

to wander the world,

and ends with the poet’s solitary death

which is then mourned

by nature and the narrator.

I help him copy the poem out

and praise the work

as genius.

In “Alastor” Shelley raises the question

of whether a poet

needs companionship

or solitude to produce great work.

I am never certain

which best serves Shelley himself.

Inspired, I find that I must

study Latin again

as we have many classical

discussions, and I want

to be active in the conversation,

not just one taking notes.

I apply myself to daily exercises

and Shelley is impressed

by my quick progress.

This pregnancy feels

more stable, too,

like a boat on still water.

I begin to have faith

that the baby will be fine.

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WILLIAM SHELLEY

January 24, 1816

Born this day

a baby boy.

We name him William

after my father.

I cradle my baby

in my arms

and hope that Father

will wish to do the same.

William appears healthy

and strong as the sea.

As I nurse him for

the first time

I know for certain

I wish us to never part.

Claire come to helps me

with the birth and the baby,

but she is determined

not to stay with me and Shelley.

She seeks more independence.

This is good,

because I am determined

not to let her stay.

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THE INFAMOUS POET

Winter–Spring 1816

Where Claire has lived

these past few months

seems a bit of a mystery.

She stays out of touch

until she requires something of me.

Claire writes many letters

of late, and thankfully

not to my Shelley

as in the past.

She decides to correspond

with another more infamous

and yet celebrated poet,

Lord Byron.

Much gossip

surrounds Byron

and I cannot truly distill

what is truth,

but it appears he

recently legally separated

from his wife

as he had an affair

with his half-sister.

I care little for scandal

and those who spread it,

what matters to me

is that Byron’s poetry is triumphant,

faint-inducing.

I hold him in great esteem.

Still, Byron is renowned

as the most dangerous man

in Europe.

I cannot conjecture

what scheming Claire has done

to earn his favor,

but Byron asks to see

me.

I find Byron amiable, delightful even,

despite accusations to the contrary.

He is more intelligent

than are his characters

and more gentle than

his menagerie of exotic pets.

He praises Shelley’s “Queen Mab”

and speaks of how he admires

my father’s writings and philosophy.

It serves as a perfectly

convivial meeting,

and we pledge

to find another occasion

to share company.

But why Claire

insisted

that she arrange

this introduction now

I have yet to discover.

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WHAT OF BYRON

Spring 1816

I ask Claire to explain

what is happening,

why she bid me see Byron,

the famous man,

the Napoleon of literature.

What is her connection

to him?

She hesitates

and then insists that she sought

his literary advice

about the play she is writing

and her idea to become an actress,

but I know that is not all.

Finally she says,

“You have your Shelley

and I have my Byron.

I have found a poet

to love too and he

is celebrated throughout

Europe, dear Sister.”

Her eyes twinkle

as she awaits my response.

“Oh Claire,

what have you done?

The man’s reputation

precedes him.

He is like summer rain,

he comes and goes

as he pleases

and needs no one.

They say he loves

but one and that is his sister.

Dear Clary, what have you dug

yourself into?”

Claire fixes hard upon

my brow like she might

seer me in half.

“You and Shelley eloped

after only three months.

I have been writing

and spending time with Byron

for two. Why should you think

this would be any less

of a love affair than yours?”