This was my first reading of Frankenstein, and was for a book group - which new Oxfordian Naomi (of Bloomsbury Bell) attended, by the by, and it was lovely to have her there. I was a bit worried, before I started the novel, that we wouldn't have much to say about it. How very wrong I was - it was one of the best and most animated discussions that we've had, as we fiercely and (in my case) almost hysterically took sides. But more on that later...
Obviously, like more or less everyone, I was familiar with the image of Frankenstein's Monster which has entered popular consciousness. I was even canny enough to know it was Frankenstein's Monster, rather than Frankenstein, who was the... er, monster. (I'm going to refer to him as Monster throughout, which raises all kinds of issues I'm sure... but I'm going to do it anyway). Probably everyone here knows that much, regardless of whether or not they've read the book. And so I thought I knew what to expect when I got it out of the library. To an extent I was right... but for the most part I was not.
Firstly, who's this Walton bloke? Like so many eighteenth century books - striving after 'authenticity' for their narrative, even when obviously fictitious? - there are layers surrounding the narrative, and to be honest I could have done without them. Walton is writing to his sister about his voyage to the Arctic, and in the third letter or so becomes embroiled with a mysterious man they've taken on board, one Frankenstein, who has a strange tale to relate... which Walton then writes out wholesale. I like to imagine Walton's sister getting this letter, utterly nonplussed: "Er, Wally, I just wanted to know how you were getting on... not the ramblings of a madman." I'd have been more than happy had all this been dispensed with, including the section documenting Frankenstein's childhood, and instead we'd have started at the words which Mary Shelley claims came to her in a dream at a houseparty held by Byron. That's how all my best anecdotes have started.
It was on a dreary night of NovemberThe creation of Frankenstein was much what I expected, and of course it came as no surprise when the Monster came to life - but, even with foreknowledge, I still found this quite chilling:
It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.As you see, Frankenstein himself was similarly disconcerted, and off he went in a fever for a while. It's extraordinary the number of times this man swoons or has a fever - spending quite alarming quantities of time in bed. (Yes, Dad, I know). Off the Monster runs, and Frankenstein tries to think about other things... until he founds out his brother has died. Which is very sad, although perhaps would have been sadder had Frankenstein been much in touch with said brother for the past few years.
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! - Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips.
Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.
But what of the Monster? He eventually re-encounters his creator, and has his own tale to tell. Luckily Frankenstein and Walton both have extraordinarily good memories, and are able to quote the Monster verbatim... we hear how, confused and infantile, the Monster had taken to watching a family who lived in a cottage, all bursting at the seams with virtue and valour despite their poverty (and, what luck!, they're actually exiled noblemen and noblewomen, so their poverty comes with none of that nasty taint of the lower classes.) The Monster learns French more or less by eavesdropping - he learns the words "son" and "daughter" and then, more or less instantaneously, the entire French language. In fact, this was what most surprised me about Frankenstein - how eloquent the Monster is. In my mind, he just bumbled around with his arms stretched out and knocked over shelves of potion bottles. Turns out, he's quite the rhetorician. And I do love to read early nineteenth century novels for that beautiful rhythm they always seem to have - a perfect balance to each sentence. Jane Austen, of course, is the past-mistress of this, but Mary does a great job too.
Much of our discussion centred around the sympathies (or otherwise) we had for the characters... and I had very few for the Monster. Lots of interesting parallels drawn in the novel with Paradise Lost - one of the texts the Monster reads. And all sorts of God/creation ideas... how much responsibility does the Creator have for his Creation, and so forth. Nobody would have Frankenstein as their role model, and certainly wouldn't choose him as their God, but I think the position he finds himself in is insurmountable, and thus I feel sorry for him... Naomi will doubtless come by and fight the other corner! Of course, I'd love to know anyone's thoughts if they've read Frankenstein...
One final point - despite being penned by a woman, the women in this novel are ghastly! There's only really two - Frankenstein's cousin/betrothed, and the woman in the cottage which the Monster spies on. Both are hideously virtuous, with nary another characteristic. Par for the course, I suppose, but one might have hoped for a little more from the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft...
Still - I'm very glad that I've finally read the novel, and haven't just got hearsay to go on. I recommend it to anyone who likes to see these things first hand, and if you can wade through the first thirty or forty pages, the rest brings up all sorts of fascinating questions and arguments. Not bad, considering it was dreamt up by a 19 year old...
Books to get Stuck into:
I think these have turned up on the Stuck into selection before, but I don't think you can do better for two 20th century novels about creating a human, and the intricate struggles between creator and created:
Miss Hargreaves - Frank Baker
The Love Child - Edith Olivier