Hideous Love: The Story of the Girl Who Wrote Frankenstein (9 page)

She looks to stomp out

of the room, but I grasp her arm.

“No one has said that,

dear sister. I just worry for you.

Byron and Shelley

are not necessarily the same.”

“I have pledged my love

to Byron and promised

that you and Shelley and I

will visit him in Geneva.

He gave me his address.”

I shake my head.

I know not what plot

Claire has afoot, but I fear

it will not work as she expects.

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TRAVEL ABROAD

May 1816

Claire determines

our next adventure.

And Shelley is eager to embark

on another journey.

He excites at the prospect

like a child crawling toward

his favorite rattle.

We will go to Geneva

so that Shelley

might be acquainted with

the great Lord Byron.

I weary to take William,

only five months old,

on such an excursion,

but I also believe

there might be something

of my destiny wrapped

up in Geneva, that

perhaps travel

and another meeting

with Lord Byron

may unlock some yet

untapped secret inside of me.

Shelley and I both know

that I must live up

to the standards of my birth,

after all. And I have not

been writing as much lately

with a new baby.

And because

Shelley sets his heart

upon this journey

and I cannot bear

to be without him

for a year, I must go.

After ten days of travel

through France,

by carriage not foot,

as we learned our lesson

the last voyage, we arrive

in Switzerland.

I awe once again

over the majesty of this landscape,

by its beauty and terror

like a creature other worldly.

We arrive before Lord Byron,

but Claire pleases to note

that letters have been left

for him at the post,

so he must be on his way.

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GENEVA

May 1816

We take a suite of rooms

at the Hôtel d’Angleterre

on the outskirts of Geneva.

Claire cannot be contented

as she visits the post office

daily only to find that Byron

has not yet arrived.

Shelley and I feel as happy

as fledgling birds,

without a care as to what twig

we fly. I have found new wings

here. The Alps entrance

and energize me. We rent

a small sailboat and do not

return until ten in the evening,

reading and writing all day.

We translate my father’s

“Political Justice” into French,

and I am writing a children’s

book for Father to publish.

This is the land

where Milton, Voltaire,

and Rousseau have lived.

One breathes literature here.

And I am in love with it.

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THE ARRIVAL OF THE GREAT POET

May 25, 1816

Byron travels in a huge carriage

modeled after one Napoleon designed,

complete with a bed,

pulled by ten horses.

He attracts crowds along his route.

And he is rumored to have taken

a liking to a few chambermaids

during his passage. He travels

with his longtime valet, Fletcher,

and his personal physician,

John Polidori, who also has

literary aspirations and writes

an account of his travels with the great poet.

As soon as Byron arrives at the hotel,

where he signs in as being

one hundred years old, I imagine

weary from travel,

Claire besieges Byron with letters.

She follows his every move

for two days and then

accosts him as he returns

from a boat trip,

Shelley and I as unknowing

accomplices.

The great poet

and my Shelley get on splendidly

at first meeting

as if they had been childhood friends.

Byron and Shelley

look very opposite,

Shelley fair and Byron dark.

The younger Shelley frail,

while Byron at twenty-eight

stands more robust and athletic.

Shelley’s voice pitches high

as a schoolboy’s

while Byron’s is bass and dramatic

as the scenery.

One might imagine them

to be too different to get along

and yet they seem to fit

as light and shadow.

Byron invites Shelley to dinner.

Claire and I are not to be

in attendance.

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OUR GROUP OF FIVE

June 1816

Well it seems

that our community

shall be a group of five

this summer—

Shelley, Byron, Claire, Polidori,

and me.

Shelley and Byron boat

around the lake

and my Shelley tells me

how they have discussed

all manner of art, literature,

science, politics, and philosophy.

I try not to feel envy

that I spend my day

listening to Claire despair

that she has not shared

enough company with Lord Byron.

She asks me what to do

to make him desire her more,

and I scratch my head.

Her persistent cawing

does little to improve

her position I think,

but I am proven wrong

and Byron invites her

to his side one evening.

I stick firmly to my regimen

of reading and writing

to keep me sane.

My little baby

William thrives in this climate.

I feel something begin

to stir inside me here

amidst the mountains,

and it is not a child.

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A STIRRING

June 1816

Like the quiet before

a storm, something

brews within me.

It is as if I awaken

from a dream

without language

into a landscape

of words.

The people

and topography,

both grand and inspiring,

envelop me.

I hear a voice

and know it to be

my own.

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STORMS IN GENEVA

June 1816

We transfer from the hotel

to a waterside cottage

called Maison Chapuis

on the southern shore

where Shelley and Byron

can keep a boat.

The storms here illuminate

the sky like gods pointing

fingers of light above the earth.

The lake reflects the mountains

as the moon reflects the sun,

so brilliant in flashes of night.

The clouds cast an overall

eerie atmosphere

that excites the senses.

You smell the rain coming,

feel the thunder tremble

through you as though

you were the drum of the sky.

I have never witnessed such storms.

When the two poets

drift out on the lake

and a storm begins to blow in,

Byron sings to calm his nerves.

You can hear his voice

just above the lap of the water.

We are forced inside

most nights because

of the turbulent weather this summer.

I delight in the company

of everyone, except perhaps

Claire, although she behaves better

now that she shares Byron’s bed

from time to time.

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VILLA DIODATI AND THE MAN-MONSTER

June 10, 1816

Byron rents the much larger

Villa Diodati, the prettiest place

on all the lake, and just

a ten-minute walk from our house.

John Milton’s schoolmate had been

Charles Diodati, so Byron loves

the villa for its literary history.

Because of Byron’s reputation

he is not allowed much privacy.

English tourists rent telescopes

from the hotel to spy on him

from across the lake.

They view tablecloths on the line

as petticoats and assume

that we ladies remove our petticoats

when we accompany Byron.

He is accused of corrupting

all the ladies of the rue Basse.

Thank goodness the rain keeps

Byron and his visitors mainly indoors.

Still the rumors abound

that he sleeps with both

of the Godwin girls,