Mary Shelley

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Frontispieces

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Portrait of Mary Shelley

  Prologue

  Imagination

  Escape!

  Life’s Lessons

  Year Without a Summer

  Dreams

  “The Journal Book of Misfortunes”

  Sorrow’s Abode

  “And I Live!”

  Secrets

  Memory

  Happiness

  Epilogue

  Notes

  Bibliography

  The Works of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

  Picture Credits

  Index

  Sample Chapter from VICTORIA

  Buy the Book

  About the Author

  Connect with HMH on Social Media

  “MY DREAMS WERE ALL MY OWN; I ACCOUNTED FOR THEM TO NOBODY.”

  —from the Introduction to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein

  CLARION BOOKS

  3 Park Avenue, New York, New York 10016

  Copyright © 2018 by Catherine Reef

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  HMHCO.COM

  Cover art © 2018 by Jamie Clarke

  Image: Hulton Archive/Getty Images

  Cover design by Sharismar Rodriguez

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Names: Reef, Catherine, author.

  Title: Mary Shelley : the strange, true tale of Frankenstein’s creator / Catherine Reef.

  Description: New York : Clarion Books, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN2018006981 | ISBN 9781328740052 (hardback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797–1851—Juvenile literature. Authors, English—19th century—Biography—Juvenile literature.

  Classification: LCC PR5398 .R44 2018 | DDC 823/.7 [B]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018006981

  ISBN 978-1-328-74005-2

  eISBN 978-1-328-52687-8

  v1.0818

  For Kathy Henderson

  So now my summer-task is ended, Mary,

  And I return to thee, my heart’s own home;

  As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery,

  Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;

  Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become

  A star among the stars of mortal night,

  If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,

  Its doubtful promise thus I would unite

  With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light.

  ~Percy Bysshe Shelley

  How like a star you rose upon my life,

  Shedding fair radiance o’er my darkened hour!

  At your uprise swift fled the turbid strife

  Of grief and fear,—so mighty was your power!

  And I must weep that now you disappear,

  Casting eclipse upon my cheerless night—

  My heaven deserting for another sphere,

  Shedding elsewhere your aye-regretted light.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  And thought of you may linger in my dreams,

  And Memory pour balm upon my pain.

  ~Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

  Artist Richard Rothwell painted this portrait of Mary Shelley around 1840.

  Prologue

  If the world is a stage and I merely an actor on it my part has been strange, and, alas! tragical.

  Mary Shelley had been dead a year when her son unlocked her portable desk and found the remains of a human heart. The heart, he knew, had been his father’s. It had rested in the desk for thirty years, unseen and untouched, since the day in 1822 when Mary Shelley tenderly wrapped it in pages of poetry and put it away. Dust and bits of dried-up muscle were all that was left.

  The heart was a relic of past love. Like a powerful storm, this love had rolled through Mary Shelley’s life, forever altering its course. For love of the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, she turned her back on her family and gave up her place in the world. She sought bliss, and she found it, but she also found heartbreak that no one could have foreseen: suicides, drownings, and children born and lost. If a writer were to pack all this misfortune into one novel, readers would close the cover and complain that the book was too far-fetched.

  But real life is more incredible than anything a novelist can invent, even one like Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. In 1816, when she was eighteen years old, Shelley wrote Frankenstein. Her tale of dead flesh brought to life still frightens and fascinates readers today, two hundred years after it first appeared in print. Victor Frankenstein and the monster he built remain two of the best-known characters in literature and film.

  Stories, even hideous ones like Frankenstein, are never created from nothingness, Mary Shelley believed. The storyteller draws on memory, on chance occurrences, on things read and overheard. From this chaos, she weaves a tale. “Every thing must have a beginning,” Shelley wrote, “and that beginning must be linked to something that went before.”

  “I did not make myself the heroine of my tales,” she stated about her writing. “I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot.”

  This book tells the true story of Mary Shelley—from its beginning, and with something of what went before. Was she the hero of her life’s tale? That is for you, the reader, to decide.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Imagination

  The solitary thoughts of the young are glorious dreams.

  Dead hearts and bones can never be given new life. Still, Mary Godwin felt close to her mother in the St. Pancras churchyard. She often played alone among its neglected graves. A small child with a cloud of fine red-gold hair, she traced the letters on her mother’s tombstone with her finger. The first name was the same as her own: M-A-R-Y. The next name was a long one, Wollstonecraft. Four-year-old Mary had no memory of her mother, who had died on September 10, 1797, eleven days after Mary was born.

  From the portrait hanging in her father’s study, Mary knew her mother as a fair-skinned woman in white. She looked fearless, like the heroine of romantic adventures, which some might say she was. She had gone to Paris during the French Revolution, which began in 1789, to support freedom and equality. In France she began a love affair with a rich American investor, Gilbert Imlay. Her first daughter, Fanny Imlay, was born in 1794. Wollstonecraft followed Gilbert Imlay to England. Posing as his wife, she journeyed to Scandinavia to look after his business interests there. Then Imlay deserted her, and in despair, Wollstonecraft filled her pockets with stones and jumped from a wooden bridge into England’s river Thames. She hoped to drown, but she was saved.

  Mary Godwin stared often at this portrait of her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, which hung in her father’s study.

  Wollstonecraft had also been one of the most forceful writers of her time. Her best-known book, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, was published in 1792. An early feminist, Wollstonecraft cried out in this book against a society that limited women’s education, kept them dependent on men, and granted them few rights. The women held in highest esteem—the wives and daughters of the upper classes—were “the most oppressed,” Wollstonecraft wrote. “How much more respectable is the woman who earns her own bread by fulfilling any duty, than the most accomplished beauty!”


  Hardly anyone visited decaying old St. Pancras Church. The only voice Mary Godwin heard there belonged to the river Fleet, which flowed beyond the graveyard fence. The river did a dirty job, carrying filth and dead animals away from unfashionable Somers Town, on the northern edge of London. The Fleet poured its dark offerings into the Thames, whose water was said to make the best malt liquor.

  A sandy path led Mary past smoking brickworks and fields of hay toward home. She trotted by workmen’s cottages, watchmakers’ shops, and the limping muffin seller making his rounds. As she neared the sixteen-sided housing cluster known as the Polygon, she heard snatches of French. Many of her neighbors had fled the revolution in France. They had come to England with little money and few connections, looking to start life anew. Mary lived at Number 29, the Polygon, with her father, William Godwin, and her half sister, Fanny.

  As a child, Mary Godwin found comfort at her mother’s gravesite in the St. Pancras churchyard.

  The dirty river Fleet flowed through shabby Somers Town.

  Mary resembled her father, who was a small man with a high forehead and a long, narrow nose. William Godwin was devoted to words and ideas and had written novels, plays, biographies, and histories. In 1793, he had published a controversial book, An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice. In it, he attacked institutions that he believed stopped people from thinking in new ways or doing as they wished: marriage, schools, churches, and especially governments. “Whenever government assumes to deliver us from the trouble of thinking for ourselves, the only consequences it produces are those of torpor and imbecility,” he wrote. He imagined an ideal form of anarchy, one that did away with crime and let people share wealth equally. He was also an atheist.

  Dust heaps, such as this one in Somers Town, were a common sight in nineteenth-century England. Poor people sift through the piles of trash to find bits of discarded food, rags, lost jewelry, and anything else that might be sold.

  The Godwins lived in the Polygon, the many-sided structure to the left, bordered by the curved sidewalk.

  Godwin was a longtime bachelor in January 1796, when he encountered Wollstonecraft at the home of a friend. He was leery at first, having heard that the feminist writer had a quick tongue. But she looked so sad that his heart went out to her. “Be happy. Resolve to be happy,” Godwin coaxed. They began a friendship that grew into love. When Wollstonecraft became pregnant, she prepared to raise the child on her own, but Godwin would hear of no such thing. The man who had spoken out against marriage and religion joined with Mary Wollstonecraft in holy wedlock at St. Pancras Church on March 29, 1797.

  When Wollstonecraft died, William Godwin grieved, but he held himself together. He had two little girls to raise and had to think about what to do. “I am the most unfit person for this office,” he confessed. Nevertheless, he feared that the girls’ Wollstonecraft aunts—his late wife’s two unmarried sisters—might try to take one or both of them away. He had no legal claim to Fanny Imlay, after all. So he did his very best. He hired a wet nurse to feed the baby and a sunny nursemaid called Cooper to provide the children with daily care. He welcomed friends to come in and help. Among them was Maria Reveley, whose two children were playmates of Fanny’s. She had studied painting in Rome and had married an architect, Willey Reveley, but they now lived apart. Godwin’s sister, Hannah, who was a London dressmaker, also popped in regularly. His mother never left the farm where she lived, but she knitted socks and mittens for the girls and sent cloth for their frocks. In anxious letters she asked what baby Mary was eating and whether she was getting enough fresh air. Godwin decided, however, that what he really needed was another wife.

  Mary Godwin’s father, author William Godwin.

  One day in 1801, a woman approached him and asked, “Is it possible that I behold the immortal Godwin?” (Or so the family story went.) She was a new neighbor, “Mrs.” Mary Jane Clairmont. She had two children, but whether there had ever been a Mr. Clairmont was an open question. Mary Jane Clairmont spoke French and had read many books, including William Godwin’s. She kept a tidy house and had an affectionate nature. William Godwin liked her, and in December 1801, he married her.

  Charles Lamb was among the writers who gathered in the Godwin home for conversation.

  His male friends saw the new Mrs. Godwin differently. To them, she lacked refinement and fell into foul moods. In other words, Mary Jane Godwin could never replace Mary Wollstonecraft, whom the friends remembered fondly. The men were in the habit of gathering in the Godwin home. They filled its rooms with rousing talk of science and world affairs. England was at war with Napoleon’s France—which nation would prevail? Explorers were searching the Arctic—would they find a passage from Britain to India? An Italian scientist experimenting with electricity had made a dead frog’s legs twitch—what else might be possible in the new century? Stimulating conversation formed the background noise of Mary Godwin’s childhood.

  Her father’s friends were quirky but learned. Pale, high-strung Charles Lamb wrote essays on all kinds of topics, from gallantry in his own “modern” day to the glories of roast pig. Kindly James Marshall worked as Godwin’s secretary and was willing to mind the children in a pinch. Marshall and William Godwin had once been students together. The statesman John Philpot Curran had thick brown hair that fell onto his forehead. He was a “great genius,” Godwin said, with a “rich and inexhaustible imagination.” Curran loved to plan trips overseas, but he grew homesick as soon as he left England. His unmarried daughter, Amelia, often sat beside him at Godwin’s table.

  Keen-witted Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who had strange red lips, could recite verses for hours on end. One night, Mary and her new stepsister, Jane Clairmont, sneaked out of bed and squeezed under a sofa to listen while Coleridge read his long poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Mary thrilled to this eerie saga of an old sailing man. She shivered once as the mariner’s ship sailed into a frigid region where “ice, mast high, came floating by.” She quivered again as it sat in becalmed, stag nant waters, and “slimy things did crawl with legs / Upon the slimy sea.” The girls’ secret story time ended when Mary Jane Godwin yanked them from their hiding place.

  Jane Clairmont was nearly Mary’s age. She had dark eyes, springy black curls, and a smile for the world. Jane’s brother, Charles, three years older, was an observant child. He had noticed that quiet Fanny often seemed unhappy. In 1803, Mary Jane Godwin gave birth to another boy, named William. He was a half brother to Mary, Charles, and Jane.

  One of the five children was quick to talk back and determined to have her own way. Mary was “singularly bold” and “somewhat imperious,” Mr. Godwin declared. Mary disagreed. Her father was too strict and scolded her sharply for every small mistake, she thought. He was “too grave and severe.” Perhaps Mary was right. If a father had “other objects and avocations to fill up the greater part of his time,” as William Godwin said that he did, it seemed only natural for him to bark loudly at childish outbursts that might make another man smile.

  William Godwin had to admit, though, that Mary was a good student. The harder the lesson, the more she liked it. Charles Clairmont went to school, but the girls received instruction from William Godwin himself. Masters came to the home to teach them Italian and French, and Jane, who showed musical talent, had piano and singing lessons. William Godwin took the children on outings. They went with him to Westminster Abbey, the great London church where the nation’s monarchs were crowned. He brought them to artists’ studios and to the top floor of a commercial building, the Exeter Exchange, where lions, tigers, and monkeys were kept in cages. “Seeds of intellect and knowledge, seeds of moral judgment and conduct, I have sown,” a self-satisfied William Godwin said.

  Godwin believed the children should read—as long as they had books that made them think and imagine. He had seen too many children’s books that drilled dry facts and proverbs into young heads. With those books, “we may learn by rote a catalogue of rules, and repeat our lesson with the exactness of
a parrot,” he pointed out, but we fail to dream. “Without imagination we may have a certain cold and arid circle of principles, but we cannot have sentiments.”

  At the start of the nineteenth century, Godwin could feel encouraged. New industries were creating a middle class with money to spend on its children. Some authors were creating books that engaged children’s hearts and minds. They were writing poems about animals and fantasy stories with titles like The Mermaid at Home. Godwin began publishing his own books for young readers. He retold myths and fables. He put Bible stories into simpler language, wanting children to read them as historical tales from long ago. He also wrote biographies and histories of England, Greece, and Rome, all planned with children in mind. The young people in his own home were his first enthusiastic readers.

  One day in 1805, Mary Jane Godwin suggested to her husband that they open a shop and sell children’s books. To William Godwin, this sounded like a good idea. Children’s books were becoming popular, and a shop would generate income. Somehow the household at Number 29, the Polygon, was always short of money. The couple started out small, with a kiosk at a busy street corner, selling books and stationery.

  In 1807, William Godwin took out a loan and moved his brood into a bigger, costlier house, at 41 Skinner Street. The bookshop, to be called M. J. Godwin and Company, would occupy the first floor, and the family would live above it. An upper-story chamber would serve as a schoolroom. Ten-year-old Mary was sure her parents had made a huge mistake. The house seemed dingy and shakily built. And the location, in London’s Holborn district, was far from prime. On Mondays, crowds gathered to watch as prisoners were paraded through the streets in open carts, on their way to the gallows. And Mary continually heard the cries of helpless animals being led to their deaths at the slaughterhouse nearby.