Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” is published

On January 1, 1818, 500 copies of Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus were released in London. The novel quickly became controversial because Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley's name appeared openly at a time when publishing was seen as “unfeminine.” In the first weeks, most copies were sold through booksellers, circulating libraries, and review publications that shaped public opinion. Reviewers and editors acted fast, as periodicals competed to judge new books. Early public comments used familiar terms like “improper,” “indelicate,” “bold,” “dangerous,” and “unfit,” judging Mary’s character as much as her work. One conservative review even called her womanhood an “aggravation,” warning, “if our authoress can forget the gentleness of her sex, it is no reason why we should.” From the beginning, the book was criticized as much for its author’s gender as for its content, and Mary’s public authorship was seen as a sign of questionable taste.

Booksellers and their regular customers treated the book as a risk-and-reward item. For conservative patrons, the purchase felt like an endorsement, so some households simply declined to buy it. At the same time, this created demand among curious readers drawn to controversy. Booksellers responded in practical ways: they kept copies in stock because it moved, but they were cautious in how they recommended it, often framing it as a “conversation piece” rather than a novel to be admired openly. Circulating libraries (which helped “stretch” a small print run across many readers) became a key pressure point. Libraries had to manage reputational concerns: subscribers could complain that lending such a book, especially by a named woman, crossed a line. The predictable outcome was a split in handling: some libraries restricted access informally (only lending to known subscribers), others stocked it because demand was real, and a few avoided it to prevent conflict with their most conservative clientele. This made the book simultaneously available and socially policed, which increased talk even among people who did not read it.

As people discussed the book, a common theme emerged: many tried to credit Percy Shelley with writing or shaping it, even if they hadn’t read it. This wasn’t just idle gossip—it helped keep men at the top. If the novel was impressive, some preferred to believe a man wrote it; if it was offensive, it was used as proof that women shouldn’t publish. Percy never spoke directly about the rumors, but he wrote to friends like Sir Walter Scott and his publisher, Charles Ollier, who then addressed the issue in periodicals. Scott wrote, “Mrs Shelley’s name stands upon the title page; and Mr Shelley, so far as we are informed, limits his concern to the superintendence of the press. The work, therefore, must be received as hers, whatever idle report may have circulated to the contrary.” Charles Ollier recalled, “Some have been pleased to attribute this performance to Mr Shelley; but the volume is published under Mrs Shelley’s name, and Mr Shelley’s part has been confined to seeing it through the press. We request, therefore, that it be entered and spoken of as Mrs Shelley’s work.” These statements weakened the rumor in print, though it lingered in conversation. The Shelleys did not issue public statements or try to fight the rumors directly. Instead, they let the novel and its title page speak for themselves.

As the conversation around Mary Shelley’s authorship continued, most had accepted that Percy had not written the book. In an attempt to still secure a moral explanation, most turned to Mary’s parentage. First was William Godwin, her father, since the dedication named him. Reviewers started to classify the work as an outgrowth of what they called “his school,” in reference to the Godwin circle or “Godwinian manner,” associated with fiction and philosophy that asked readers to scrutinize institutions, moral systems, and authority rather than treat them as natural or sacred. In this way, Mary’s authorship did not make the novel more admirable but instead more reproachable. It was not an admonishment of her sex, rather that such a book had come from the Godwin household. To conservative readers, the work could be dismissed as the predictable output of radical principles dressed in Gothic clothing. 

Alongside the father was the mother. Mary Wollstonecraft was treated as a cautionary emblem of female independence. Her arguments for women’s education and autonomy were controversial enough on their own, but her reputation had been sullied by scandal after Godwin published Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Women (her book on her “radical” feminist ideas). It was unusually candid for the period (1789 - 29 years before Frankenstein’s publication). It discussed the child she had out of wedlock and her suicide attempts. However, the scandal wasn’t that Godwin “ruined” her in some villainous sense; the public condemned Mary Wollstonecraft for her “secrets.” By the 1810s, in many conservative settings, her name didn’t just mean “writer.” It meant a bundle of anxieties: female independence, sexual nonconformity, irreligion (fairly or not), and the fear that women’s education would unravel the home.