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@ 27.225 MHz: WallStones; At The Villa Diodati, Geneva, Switzerland, July, 1816
1
Clubfoot---the competition you proposed (the
Fantasmagoriana exhausted and closed) is well
underway, and the boredom (if not the
dreary weather) has been staved off at least for
now. Claire has no imagination for it (no more
than she has in your bed). You have that tale
Nicolo told you, one night after love
(Nicolo, fourteen years old and so very eager to
satisfy his desire for male to male ecstasy;
Nicolo, the long-haired, slender and beautiful,
naked except for his fawn-gray socks;
Nicolo, who harvested your sweetness repeatedly;
Nicolo, happily adolescent, better, and now far more
inventive at erotic pleasure than Claire).
God only knows what Byshe has thought of---some
further expression of his republican, vegetarian, and
pacifist ideals for which he has been sneered at
since Oxford. Sometimes you can almost sympathize
with old Sir Timothy's discomfort---though he is only
petty nobility, and petty in spirit as well.
Polidori can barely write a prescription, certainly not a
tale of even the briefest length; but
skull faced ladies and Capulets' tombs obsess him now.
2
Look at her---Godwin's gorgeous daughter, Mary, so
(thankfully, you say) unlike her stepsister Claire;
seated now at that small writing desk you provided for
her, in front of that eastern window through which the
light of morning streams upon her, perhaps as drawn to
her beauty as you are. That pen she purchased in London
flies across the paper making scratches only she can read.
She thinks the rest of the group are still asleep;
she left Byshe, snoring and drooling, and brought her
pile of pages here. Her nubility is not petty---no, not at all---
she will be nineteen at the end of next month:
her adolescence is in full expression (as is Nicolo's; they are
not that different that way) and you would gladly taste the
nectars of love from the soft, pink petals of her blossoming
flower. That flimsy nightshirt she favors is provocatively
short and sheer; and when she turns a certain way (and
you cannot so turn, for that would reveal your surreptitious
observation, a breach of civil good manners for the
conscientious and accommodating host that you are taken to be)
you can see her small breasts---you love that in a woman.
Obviously the thrill of first literary creation flows
through her like a torrent. And look at those legs---
for such a petite stature, she is (to use the house servants'
term when they saw her arrive, properly outfitted for
travel), "all leg." And those socks she has put on---
sky-blue, thigh-high (but how they stay up there is not now
obvious), the soles are already grass-stained from her
lingering walk around the villa, clad as she is now, at the
first pinkening of the eastern horizon before the
next storm clouds roll across the lake. Notice how,
during the intensity of her concentration on the words
she is scrawling, her feet appear to play with each other, to
tease, caress, even embrace. Imagine, you pervert, what . . .
well, why torment yourself with the thought?
3
Now she gives herself a brief rest, and, pushing the
chair back a bit, props her feet (by the heels) on the
desk. Notice how that the fabric clings to the contour of
each foot; you can almost discern the presence of each toe.
They continue to flex, pointing this way, than that,
always a casual, but so attractive, posture. Earlier,
you watched her emerge from the bedroom, then move
outside to the trimmed lawn, the flower beds and the gentle
slope downward toward the lake. Godwin's daughter is an
ordinary girl with extraordinary appreciations of:
morning walks, and summer flowers; thigh-high socks that do not
ride down, and the sensual feeling of dewey grass on softly-sheathed
soles; a good discussion, but her own silence in order to listen the
more closely; a waking nightmare that, she believes, she can
describe in the form of a viable tale to rival the Fantasmagoriana.
She will become nineteen years old at the end of next month.
She will refuse every invitation to your bed, not even if
Byshe is allowed to watch. She will become Mary Shelley, and
old Sir Timothy will despise her for a whore and a seductress
for the remainder of his embittered and resentful life.
That pile of pages to which she adds, daily, so dilligently,
will become Frankenstein and never be out of print, the
great horror tale by Godwin's teenaged daugher,
casual with her long hair wild, clad in a cropped, translucent
sleepshirt, and sole-grimed, sky-blue, thigh-high socks.
"And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it . . ."
---Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, Introduction to the 1831 edition
Starward
Now that I've been formally,
Now that I've been formally, and intimately, introduced to the iconic queen of literature who blazed the trail many would follow, I can certainly understand your fascination. The character development leading up to her appearance at the tiny desk was exceptional—every description is a powerhouse of detail that brought the supporting cast members to vibrant life.
Then the words "Look at her" turned on the spotlight and the story shot right through the roof. A soft, demure sensuality emerged from the humble enchantress and stood in sharp contrast to the Mary Shelley most know only through her famous, game-changing novel. Could such a terrifying, ingenious nightmare of a story come from this diminutive "blossoming flower"?
As her pen "flies across the paper", I imagine generation after generation stunned and delighted by the words that are emblazoned there before her. This intriguing thought floats above the softly smoldering depiction of the genius at work.
Also impressive was her ability to maintain her dignity and remain endearingly aloof in the face of jealousy and unfair criticism.
I love the quote you wisely chose to close with. A savvy move because it highlights the talent and personality of an enigmatic legend whose beauty went far deeper than the surface and whose words will live on long after we're gone.
It's also notable to point out that many of today's horror and sci fi authors stand on the shoulders of this peerless writer.
Extraordinary work. I loved every moment.
Repreading this comment once
Repreading this comment once more, I am so very grateful for it. I wish I could have sent this to the two "scholars" who put enormous pressure on me to drop her from my sophomore project; but both of them are deceased. Still, it was an honor, after twenty-one years, to be asked at that reunion dinner, "Is Mary Shelley still your girl?"
Starward
I too wish that somehow you
I too wish that somehow you could share this poem and comment with the snickering snobs who couldn't appreciate the legend that shook the world in her own way. I'm thrilled that you were vindicated and encouraged by my review.
I re-read this comment just
I re-read this comment just now, and it has helped me realize that I have another poem in me on this same subject. I have long wanted to write one from the POV of her stepsister, Claire, whose nearly lifelong jealousy of Mary became an obsessive hatred in her---Claire's---last, late years. Mary's son, Percy, actually had to take legal action to restrain Claire's libels from being disseminated in England, although she continued to produce the most atrocious lies about Mary in the other countries that she visited from time to time. Her claim to have love letters from PB Shelley inspired Henry James' novela The Aspern Papers. She was never able to produce those letters, not when her nephew sued her, and not when several scholars pressed her for the evidence. At her death, no letters were found.
I think it deliciously ironic that, when one reads the Introduction to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein, only four people are named in her account of the summer of 1816: herself, the two Poets, and John Polidori, the physician. Claire is simply not mentioned at all as being a part of the group. She did not participate in the contest that her lover had proposed when they ran out of ghost stories to read.
So, if I can pull off the sequel, from Claire's POV, it will exist largely because of your comments on this earlier poem, and I will be sure to acknowledge that. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley is still, as my former faculty advisor pointed out in the summer of 2001, my girl, but your kind comments and understanding are my sustenances for so many of my poems.
Starward
That's a truly inspired idea,
That's a truly inspired idea, and if anyone can pull it off, you certainly can. The idea screams: "Starward, bring me to life!" Do it for your girl.
Your understanding of Mary
Your understanding of Mary Shelley, and of my fascination with her, brought tears to my eyes. The last time I wept over remarks about her was in December, 2019, and I was hospitalized then also, and the Sunday Morning news show on CBS interviewed the Nobel laureate in genetics, and he said that Frankenstein should be required reading for all freshman science majors (and an essay required to demonstrate their understanding) because, in his opinion, it is the finest presentation of the failure of scientific ethics in all of literature.
If I were introducing a student to her, I would begin with your comments. I hope my granddaughter will encounter the novel when she enters high school next September, and, if so, I will be sharing your comment with her.
Your question about the great nightmare coming out of such a diminutive figure brought a smile to my face: when I did my sophomore project, I read of a backstage meeting she had with the actor who first brought the Monster to the stage in a theatrical version that she did not write but had filly approved. At the premiere (for which, being so humble, she attempted to purchase tickets for her and her son; which the theater manager refused and gave her a private box with the rich folks), she was very delighted to hear real screams from the audience when he first appeared in makeup he had created. After the final curtain she asked permission to meet him, a man who stood well over six feet tall. When they brought her back to his dressing room, he broke into a sweat, and his hands were shaking. She asked him why he seemed so nervous, and he said she terrified him, because so much horror in words had come out of such a small stature.
I learned something today: her father in law, who despised her, actually had, when dying, knew that the estate would pass directly to her as the widow of his only son. I thought he had left it to his grandson directly; but the laws of primogeniture applied to him, because he held a baronetcy---the lowest and least of the British peerage. What a delicious irony that such a hateful man, who had forbidden her to ever enter his home; who had tried to take her son from her; and who paid her only the bare minimum of child support from the estate (until William IV, newly crowned, and a collector of her first editions, literally ordered him to loosen the checkbook) knew that the primogeniture did not care about his spiteful prejudices. It also goes to my resentment of the History department's prejudice against my study of her, as my faculty advisor was an acknowledged expert on the peerage and primogeniture, but refused to countenance my interest in her or my sophomore project.
Thanks again for your comments about her, and about the poem. Though my life has a lot of failures and bad decisions, my study of Mary Shelley, since 1968 and until I leave this world, has not been one of them.
Starward
This is all so amazing to me
This is all so amazing to me as my now vaguely dim recollection of Dr. Frankenstein's Monster is pretty pedestrian. Yes, we did a passing glance for high school literature and got moved on by the teachers to 'more important' items and I did feel a deep sense of loss where my only companions were Hollywood and comic books like the old Classics Illustrated. In my '84 English Literature class, Mary Shelley barely had a chapter to her name and work in the text. And she is not the only victim of such manhandling of literature. This is a tribute to her and her great contribution to literature And humanity. Thanks for sharing, Rik.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
I sincerely apologize for
I sincerely apologize for failing to acknowledge this comment. I was ill at that time, and probably missed the email notification. No offense intended, please forgive me.
Starward
None taken, Starward. The
None taken, Starward. The silences between conversations are equally filled with gestative nutritive thought that make picking up from where it was left off all the more richer and deeper. Almost like a game of chess returned to, undisturbed and ongoing.
here is poetry that doesn't always conform
galateus, arkayye, arqios,arquious, crypticbard, excalibard, wordweaver
A fascinating anecdote! Yes,
A fascinating anecdote! Yes, there's delicious satisfaction in that bit of justice. You should be very proud of this amazing culmination of your many years of research on a timeless and peerless author.
I failed to acknowledge this
I failed to acknowledge this comment, also, and for that I am very sorry. Please forgive me for this unintentional snub, I am very sorry for my failure.
Starward
No problem! I was aware of
No problem! I was aware of your suffering and everything that was going on at the time, and I always give you the benefit of the doubt in every situation. It was very gracious and considerate of you to follow up. Take care.