A Monstrous Reflection: Frankenstein as a Mirror of Mary Shelley’s Life
Sophia Vanderwaal, Spring 2025
Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is deeply intertwined with the personal struggles and passions that defined her life. Her complex relationships and social defiance played a pivotal role in shaping her greatest literary achievement. The novel’s exploration of isolation, creation, and the consequences of unchecked ambition reflects Mary’s own experiences with loss, rejection, and the struggle to find her place within a society that often sought to suppress her. In this way, Frankenstein serves as a personal reflection of Mary’s inner world.
Born Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, she was, in her own words, born into “distinguished literary celebrity” (Shelley 1831, 5). Her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, feminist writer and philosopher best known for her authorship of A Vindication of the Rights of Women, and her father, William Godwin, political journalist, novelist, and social philosopher were two romantic radicals who rejected social convention for individualist ideals. It’s no surprise that Mary Shelley would grow up to live a defiant life of her own.
Attached are photos of the portraits of Mary and her parents, taken at the National Portrait Gallery in London. Ironically, her mother’s portrait is in a separate exhibit hall—one dedicated to “Radicals, Resistance, and Reform”—while Mary and her father hang on adjacent walls in the gallery for “The Romantics.” Their separation is preserved, even in exhibition.
Mary experienced profound loss early on. Her mother died just ten days after giving birth, leaving Mary with only a shadow of maternal love - an absence that would shape every corner of her childhood.
Growing up in the hous of William Godwin meant she was constantly surrounded by ideas. There was a never-ending flow of books, philosophers, poets, and radicals that developed her intellect. (Her favorite poem for her whole life was “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whom she met often during her childhood). Even though she was chronically isolated, she was incredibly well read for a girl her age.
But the situation in her home grew more tense. She found herself in constant competition with her stepfamily for her father’s attention - and she was losing. So, a few years later, she escaped the chaos of London for an extended stay in the quiet countryside of Scotland, living with family friends.
Marshall writes that Mary left London a “clever, unformed child” and returned over a year later a “maiden in her bloom, pretty and attractive, with ardour, ability and ambition…” whose “heart was sound and true as her intellect” (Marshall 40). Upon her return, she saw Percy Bysshe Shelley for the first time in two years. Shelley was a young poet and intellectual who had long admired her father, and was now both his acquaintance and protégé. Mary, of course, had heard of Shelley, but now she could observe him for herself. She found his demeanor compelling, and was enamored with his literary, philosophical, and political mind. Shelley, in turn, saw those same striking qualities in her. They recognized each other as equals and often sought each other’s company.
At home, Mary still felt scorned and out of place. She found peace instead at her mother’s grave, where she would spend hours reading and sitting quietly. As she and Shelley grew closer, and he learned of her hidden retreat, he began to join her there. In those quiet, shared moments, they confided in each other. Shelley visited their home almost daily, staying for dinner—anything for a chance to see her. Before long, they both understood the weight of their love and consummated their relationship on her mother’s grave (Gordon).
But they could not fully be together—Shelley was still married, though he no longer loved his wife the way he loved Mary. In the blank pages of Shelley’s gifted copy of Queen Mab, Mary later wrote: “although I may not be yours, I can never be another’s…” (Marshall 55).
Months passed, and their love continued to flourish - along with growing frustration in their other relationships (Shelley with his wife, Harriet, and Mary with her family). So, in the early hours of July 28th, 1814, Mary and Shelley eloped, accompanied by her stepsister, Claire Clairmont. They set off for Dover, bound for France, hoping to find freedom and reprieve across the Channel. The journey was frightful, marked by near fatal incidents at sea. In a journal entry, Shelley described the bleak conditions aboard their ship, but how, despite everything they were enduring, he felt at peace because for the first time, he and Mary were together completely.
In his journal entry for July 28th, William Godwin writes simply: “Five in the morning. M.J. for Dover.” Mary Jane Godwin, Mary’s stepmother, had left in pursuit of the runaway party. However, she was only concerned for her daughter, Claire. Her effords were in vain, as Claire refused to come home and Mary Jane returned to London alone (Marshall). Notably, William Godwin did not pursue the group himself. Claire may have been Mary Jane’s daughter, but Mary was his. Godwin’s inaction does not come across as reasonable. Instead, it reads as the action of a man estranged from fatherhood, ready to cut ties with his own daughter over an act he might once have supported. (William Godwin had famously opposed the institution of marriage and only married Mary Wollstonecraft out of necessity, after she became pregnant with Mary. Their marriage protected the rights of mother and daughter, and prevented either of them becoming scandalized from an illegitamite birth). The photo on the right shows William Godwin's diary entry from that day. "Five in the morning" is boldly underlined, signifying the significance of their run away.
The group returned to London a short time later, having run out of money in France. Their return was an act of desperation. They knew what waited for them in London: severe social ostracization for their scandalous runaway. Mary, especially, was utterly alone in this time. Pregnant, severely ill, and abandoned by the few people who might have offered her support. Shelley was often away from home, avoiding debt collectors. To make matters worse, Shelley and Claire grew much closer in his absence, something that made Mary incredibly jealous. Repeated attempts to visit her family were refused. William Godwin stood firm in his estrangement, abandoning her in one of her greatest times of need. Mary’s journal entries from this time frequently begin with the simple phrase, “Not very well,” an understatement for the profound physical and emotional suffering she must have been enduring (Marshall). This suffering eerily foreshadows that of a character she had not yet even imagined. The creature in her great novel Frankenstein, written years later, would experience the same loneliness, rejection, and despair. Her own miserable existence as an outcast of London echoes his (Gordon).
Luckily, Claire soon became infatuated with the famous Lord Byron, and her affection for Shelley faded. Mary and Shelley grew closer again, and for the first time in a while, Mary was less alone in the world. She had her loving confidant back to dote on her, except he was still dodging debt collectors and was gone most days (they could only unite on Sundays, when it was illegal to make civil arrests). During this time, Mary wrote Shelley a letter, almost frantic in tone, pleading for his swift return home. She was desperate for them to be together again, completely and without interruption (Marshall). An audio recording of this letter is immediately below.
In 1816, Mary, Shelley, and Claire joined Lord Byron and his doctor and fellow romantic John Polidori, on a summer holiday at Lake Geneva, Switzerland. (Funnily enough, 1816 is commonly called “the year without a summer” due to the extremely unusual climatic conditions caused by the 1815 eruption of Mount Tambora in Indonesia). Mary and Shelley kept a joint journal documenting their summer, which they published a year later titled History of a Six Weeks’ Tour. In its early entries from Geneva, the pair describe “an almost perpetual rain” that “confine[d them] principally to the house” (Shelley 1817). Mary referenced this rain in her introduction to Frankenstein, explaining that during their confinement, they would exchange volumes of ghost stories until Lord Byron suggested everyone write their own as a sort of friendly competition. Mary, unlike the other poets present, was determined to produce a quality story but spent days with little to no inspiration.
In this same introduction, she credits extensive conversation between Lord Byron and Shelley on topics such as human nature, the principles of life, and Galvani’s experiments in reanimating the dead. The latter especially possessed her imagination, spurring grotesque visions of a scientist and his monstrous creation - visions that would eventually take shape as Dr. Frankenstein and his creature. The former topics inspired many of the novel’s themes: scientific ambition, creation and responsibility, human agency, and the fundamental nature of life itself.
The crux of the novel, the confrontation between Frankenstein and the monster, takes place in the peaks of the Swiss alps. In Volume II, Chapter II of the novel, Frankenstein’s grief is “subdued and tranqiullised” by the icy landscape surrounding him. He describes “icy wall[s]” of glaciers and “shattering pines”, framed by the “unstained snowy mountain-top” ahead (Shelley 1831, 99). Shelley and Mary had visited these same sites, as described in History, and Shelley took note of “innumerable” glaciers, “forests inexpressibly beautiful”, and Mont Blanc itself - the highest peak in the Alps, which Mary’s narrator also visits in his desperation and grief. Just as Frankenstein wanders into the mountains in search of peace and clarity, Mary herself had walked those same paths with a different kind of lingering grief and wonder. The emotional landscape of the novel that Frankenstein is placed in is literally shaped by the real terrain that Mary explored in the summer of 1816.
Shelley, in his grandeur, said “The immensity of these aerial summits excited, when they suddenly burst upon the sight, a sentiment of extatic wonder, not unallied to madness” (Shelley 1817). He too, was inspired by the sublime beauty of the Alps, and composed his famous ode Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni that same summer.
But, as with all beautiful things, they can not last forever. Their return to England after summer holiday was marked by hardships and tragedy. William Godwin still did not approve of Mary and Shelley’s relationship, especially since it was still considered illegitimate and Shelley was married to another woman. He didn’t attempt to connect with Mary, but instead persistently asked Shelley for money, having accumulated a significant debt. Fanny Imlay, Mary Wollstonecraft’s first daughter from a previous relationship, was Godwin’s biggest advocate, and wrote to Mary and Shelley herself on behalf of Godwin, expressing concern over his situation and urging them to provide more support (Marshall).
Poor Fanny, only 22, was friendless, husbandless, and constantly burdened by Godwin’s financial troubles and manipulative guilt. She suffered from depression, much like her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft. In October 1816, Fanny ran away from home and tragically ended her life by overdose. Her suicide note reads:
“I have long determined that the best thing I could do was to put an end to the existence of a being whose birth was unfortunate, and whose life has only been a series of pain to those persons who have hurt their health in endeavouring to promote her welfare. Perhaps to hear of my death will give you pain, but you will soon have the blessing of forgetting that such a creature ever existed as…” At the time, suicide was scandalous, so the note was partially destroyed likely by Shelley and Godwin. Her body was not claimed.
Fanny, born out of wedlock from an affair between Mary Wollstonecraft and an American merchant, had been an outcast from the moment she was born. Wollstonecraft’s own scandalous position in society made Fanny’s existence even more isolating. With no true place in society and no strong family bond beyond her stepfather remaining, Fanny was left almost entirely alone. Mary grieved the loss of her half-sister, recognizing the depth of her loneliness, but aware that she had been unable to help her in time (Gordon).
The next grave heartbreak came only two months later: the suicide of Harriet Shelley, Percy’s first wife. Harriet, only 21, drowned herself in the Serpentine in December of 1816. Though Mary did not write about Harriet’s death, she was eager to take Percy and Harriets children as her own, shower them with love and affection, and to be a happy family. With Harriet’s death, there was no longer any legal obstacle to Mary and Percy’s marriage, and they wed shortly after. However, Mary likely felt deep remorse, because if she and Percy had married earlier, she could have offered sanctuary to Fanny and perhaps she wouldn’t have been so alone (Marshall).
This period for Mary was once again marked by isolation and despair. She felt the loneliness of her half-sister and even Harriet on a profound level, having lived through her own version of their suffering. Mary suffered from depression just like Fanny and her mother, and so her urgency to marry Percy soon after Harriet’s death stemmed from her intense fear of being left alone. She desperately wanted to be fully united with him, afraid that she might fall into the same fate as Fanny and Harriet - isolated, rejected, and consumed by despair (Gordon).
Following their marriage, William Godwin reengaged with Mary and Percy. He began writing to them frequently, seemingly trying to repair the fractured relationship with his beloved daughter and her now-legitimate husband. But, his motives weren’t entirely pure. Alongside his efforts at reconnection, he made frequent demands for money to settle his debts. Playing on Mary’s emotions, he wrote things like “my mind will never be free for intellectual occupations” so long as he owed money, and begged “shall I ever be my own man again?” He didn’t stop at asking Percy directly, he often entreated Mary to urge Percy on his behalf.
During this time, Mary was nearing the completion of Frankenstein, finishing the novel in the spring of 1817. Though she had some trouble getting it published, a smaller publishing house finally agreed to print it anonymously. Despite William Godwin’s manipulations, emotional neglect, and previous disapprovals, Mary still chose to dedicate her novel to him. It’s a testament to her unconditional love for him and her persistent yearning for his approval, proof of the complexity of their relationship.
All of this, the instability, heartbreak, abandonment, and adventure, shaped the novel. But Frankenstein is not a static document. The version of the story that most of us read today is the 1831 revised version, published thirteen years after the original text. In those thirteen years, she endured immeasurable loss. Over the course of their relationship, Mary and Percy had four children, but only one survived to adulthood.
And in 1822, she lost Percy himself. He drowned in a tragic and sudden boating accident off the coast of Italy, returning from business in Pisa. His last letter to her, sent while in Pisa, survives to this day. In it, he is gentle and affectionate, even full of hope despite the “despair” and “confusion” of his business dealings.
Losing Percy was perhaps the greatest tragedy of Mary’s long life. After his death, she began what she called her Journal of Sorrow, a private diary documenting her mourning.
Percy was cremated, as was customary in Italy. At the cremation, one of their mutual friends reached into the fire and grabbed Percy’s heart from the flames. Mary kept it with her for the rest of her life, carefully wrapped in the pages of one of his manuscripts. This was one of the last remaining pieces of him, a thread tying them together even in death. Years later, his heart was buried alongside her in Bournemouth, the same tomb where she had arranged for the remains of her parents to be moved.
It’s no wonder that the grief she carried into the 1831 revision left its mark. In the Author's Introduction to this edition, she reflects:
“And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart. Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one who, in this world, I shall never see more.” (Shelley 1831, 10).
The changes she made in this edition were subtle but significant. In her words, she left “the core and substance of [the story] untouched” (Shelley 1831, 10). Her revisions reshape Frankenstein himself. In the 1818 text, Victor pursues his scientific ambition purely through his own free will. In the 1831 edition, his tone shifts. He is helpless in his obsession: “I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination” (Shelley 1831, 56). His actions are fated. The horror in the novel is not in his actions alone, but in the fact that he was alway meant to carry them out. It was his self proclaimed fate.
The shift in the text reflects Mary’s own growing sense of fatalism. Consciously or not, her repeated experiences with loss - of children, love, and security, may have led Mary to feel that she, too, was doomed. That just like Victor and his creature, she was also meant to suffer from the start of her own narrative.
Ultimately, we can read Frankenstein as more than just a novel. It’s a personal testament of Mary’s love, her loneliness, and her suffering. Through its countless publications and revisions, the story preserves Mary's lived experiences. Two hundred years later, her monstrous creation lives on, not just within the narrative, but as a nightmarish reflection of Mary’s own life.