Review of Frankenstein; or the
Modern Prometheus (1818)
This is another
anomalous story of the same race and family as Mandeville; and, if we are not
misinformed, it is intimately connected with that strange performance, by more ties than one. In the present instance, it is true, we are
presented with the mysteries of equivocal generation, instead of the
metaphysics of a bedlamite; but he who runs as he reads, might pronounce both
novels to be similis farinæ.
We are in doubt to what class we shall refer writings of this extravagant
character; that they bear marks of considerable power, it is impossible to
deny; but this power is so abused and perverted, that we should almost prefer
imbecility; however much, of late years, we have been wearied and ennuied by the languid whispers of gentle sentimentality,
they at least had the comfortable property of provoking no uneasy slumber; but
we must protest against the waking dreams of horror excited by the unnatural
stimulants of this later school; and we feel ourselves as much harassed, after
rising from the perusal of these three spirit-wearing volumes, as if we had
been over-dosed with laudanum, or hag-ridden by the night-mare.
No one can love a
real good ghost story more heartily than we do; and we will toil through many a
tedious duodecimo to get half a dozen pages of rational terror, provided
always, that we keep company with spectres and
skeletons, no longer than they maintain the just dignity of their spiritual
character. Now and then too, we can tolerate a goule,
so it be not at his dinner-time; and altogether, we profess
to entertain a very due respect for the whole anierarchy
of the dæmoniacal establishment. Our prejudices in favour of legitimacy, of course, are proportionably
shocked by the pretensions of any pseudo-diabolism; and all our best feelings
of ghostly loyalty are excited by the usurpation of an unauthorized hobgoblin,
or a non-descript fe-fa-fum.
It will be better,
however, to say what little we mean to add on this point, by and by, when our
readers are fairly put in possession of the subject, and enabled to form their
own estimate of our opinions. In a sort of introduction, which precedes the
main story of the novel, and has nothing else to do with it, we are introduced
to a Mr. Walton, the Christopher Sly of the piece, with whose credulity the
hero of the tale is afterwards to amuse himself. This gentleman, it seems, has
had his imagination fired by an anticipation of the last number of the
Quarterly Review, and is gone out to the North Pole, in quest of lost
Greenland, magnetism, and the parliamentary reward. In justice to our author,
we must admit that this part is well done, and we doubt whether Mr. Barrow, in
plain prose, or Miss Pordon herself, in more
ambitious rhyme, can exceed our novelist in the description of frozen desarts and colliding ice-bergs. While employed in this
pursuit, and advancing into a very high latitude, one day,
"About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and
we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice,
which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began
to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted
our attention, and diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived
a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs,
pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile: a being which had
the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge, and
guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller
with our telescopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the
ice.
"This
appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many
hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was
not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut
in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had
observed with the greatest attention.
"About two
hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and before night the ice
broke and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to
encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float about after the
breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.
In the morning,
however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and found all the sailors
busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone in the sea. It
was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards
us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but
there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the
vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to
be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I
appeared on deck the master said, Here is our captain,
and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.
On perceiving me,
the stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. 'Before I
come on board your vessel,' said he, 'will you have the kindness to inform me
whither you are bound?'
"You may
conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man
on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel
would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most
precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a
voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.
"Upon hearing
this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board." Vol. I.p.22.
After proper applications, the stranger is recovered, and of course a
strong attachment, takes place between him and his preserver; and, in due
season, after much struggling with melancholy and sullenness, he prevails upon
himself to tell his own story.
Frankenstein was a
Genevese by birth, of honorable parentage, and
betrothed, from his earliest years, to an orphan cousin, with whom he had been
brought up, Elizabeth Lavenza. In his youth, he
manifested a strong bent for natural philosophy, at first, indeed, a little
perverted by an accidental acquaintance with the early masters of this science,
and an initiation into the mystical fancies of Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus; a short residence at the
University of Ingolstadt, however corrected this bias, and he soon
distinguished himself among the students, by his extraordinary proficiency in
the various branches of chemical knowledge. One of the phænomena
which particularly engrossed his attention, was no less than "the
principle of life;" to examine this, he had recourse to death, he studied
anatomy, and watched the progress of decay and corruption in the human body, in
dissecting rooms and charnel-houses; at length, "after days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in
discovering the cause of generation of life: nay, more, I became myself capable
of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter."
When once in
possession of this power, it is not to be supposed that he could long leave it
unemployed; and, as the minuteness of parts formed a great hindrance to the
speedy execution of his design, he determined to make the being which he was to
endow with life, of a gigantic stature, "that is to say, about eight feet
in height, and proportionably large." We pass
over the months which he employed in this horrible process, and hasten to the
grand period of consummation.
"It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment
of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, collected the
instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a
spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. 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.
"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 shrivelled
complexion and straight black lips.
"The
different accidents of life are not so changeable as
the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the
sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived
myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour
that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the
dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to
endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room,
continued a long time traversing my bed chamber, unable to compose my mind to
sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured; and I
threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring
to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain: I slept, indeed,
but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the
bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised,
I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became
livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought
that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her
form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started
from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my
forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed: when, by the dim
and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters,
I beheld the wretch- the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the
curtain of the bed and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me.
His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin
wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was
stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down stairs. I
took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited; where I
remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest
agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were
to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably
given life." Vol.I.P.97.
While in this state of horror, he is agreeably surprized
by the arrival of the friend of his youth, Henry Clerval,
who had been dispatched by his family, under some alarm at the long silence
which his genethliacal studies had occasioned. We
shall not pretend to trace this story through the remainder of its course,
suffice it to say, that the being whom he has created,
pursues his steps, and operates, like his evil genius, upon every subsequent
event of his life. His infant brother is murdered by the hands of this
anonymous androdæmon; the servant girl, who attended
the child, is executed upon circumstantial evidence; and Frankenstein himself,
suspecting the real author of this foul deed, and stung with remorse, that he
should have been its primary cause, commences a life of wandering, to throw
off, if possible, the agony which haunts him. In the glacier of Montauvert, he has an interview with his persecutor, who
succeeds, by threats, promises, and intreaties, in
obtaining a hearing. The narrative which he relates, has some ingenuity in it;
it is the account of a being springing at one bound into the full maturity of
physical power, but whose understanding is yet to be awakened by degrees; this
manhood of body, and infancy of mind, is occasionally well contrasted. Some of
the steps in his intellectual progress, we confess, made us smile. He learns to
read by accidentally finding Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives, the Sorrows of Werter, and Volney's
Ruins; and his code of ethics is formed on this extraordinary stock of
poetical theology, pagan biography, adulterous sentimentality, and atheistical jacobinism: yet, in
spite of all his enormities, we think the monster, a very pitiable and ill-used
monster, and are much inclined to join in his request, and ask Frankenstein to
make him a wife; it is on the promise of this alone, that he consents to quit
Europe for ever, and relieve his undutiful father from the horrors of an
interminable pursuit.
In order to
perform this promise, our hero is under the necessity of making a journey to
England, for he "has heard of some discoveries made by an English
philosopher," (and we wish he had revealed his name,) "the knowledge
of which was material;" accordingly, in company with Harry Clerval, he sets of for London. By the way, they saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish Armada," (how
came they to forget Whiskerandos?) "Gravesend,
Woolwich, and Greenwich, places which they had heard of, even in their own
country." After collecting such information as could be obtained at
Surgeon's Hall, the Royal Institution, and the new drop, on the subject of his
enquiry, he determines to fix his workshop of vivification in the Orkneys,
picking up all the medical skill that was to be learnt at Edinburgh, en
passant. Here he labours many months, not very
agreeably it seems, on what he tells us is but, at best, a "filthy
work;" the woman is almost completed, and wants only the last Promethean
spark to enliven her, when, one evening, as he is moulding
the body to its final shape, he is suddenly struck by the thought, that he may
be assisting in the propagation of a race of dæmons;
and, shuddering at his own fiendish work, he destroys the creature upon which
he is employed. The monster is at hand, and, fired by this unexpected breach of
promise of marriage, "wrinkles his lip with a ghastly grin," and
"howls devilish despair and revenge," bidding him remember that he
will be with him on his wedding-night.
Henry Clerval is found dead on the coast of Ireland, to which we
are next conveyed, with marks of violence. Frankenstein is thrown into prison
on suspicion of the murder, and his knowledge of the perpetrator, joined to the
inability of clearing himself, produces a paroxysm of lunacy. His father succeeds
in proving his innocence; and they return in peace to Geneva, with no farther
mishap by the way, than a fit of the night-mare at Holyhead.
He is married to Elizabeth Lavenza; the monster is
true to his promise, and murders her on their wedding-night; in his despair,
Frankenstein devotes himself to revenge, and resolves to track the steps of the
destroyer of his peace, for the remainder of his days; he pursues him
successively though, Germany, the Mediterranean, the Black Sea, Tartary, and
Russia, and appears to have been gaining upon his flight, at the time the
ground sea split the island of ice upon which both were travelling, and
separated them for ever.
In a few days
after he has finished his tale, Frankenstein dies, and Mr. Walton is surprized by a visit from the monster, who most
unceremoniously climbs in at his cabin window. We fear it is too late to give
our arctic explorers the benefit of his description; mais
le volia.
"I entered
the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him
hung a form which I cannot find words to describe; gigantic in stature, yet
uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin his face
was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he
heard the sound of my approach he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and
horror and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome yet appalling
hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily and endeavoured
to recollect what were my duties with regard to this
destroyer. I called on him to stay." P.179
After a short conversation, which Mr. Walton was not very anxious to
protract, he takes his leave, with the very laudable resolution of seeking the
northern extremity of the globe, where he means to collect his funeral pile,
and consume his frame to ashes, that its remains may afford no light to any
curious and unhallowed wretch who would create such another. We cannot help
wishing, that our ships of discovery had carried out the whole impression of
his history, for a similar purpose.
We need scarcely
say, that these volumes have neither principle, object, nor moral; the horror
which abounds in them is too grotesque and bizarre ever to approach near
the sublime, and when we did not hurry over the pages in disgust, we sometimes
paused to laugh outright; and yet we suspect, that the diseased and wandering
imagination, which has stepped out of all legitimate bounds, to frame these disjointed
combinations and unnatural adventures, might be disciplined into something
better. We heartily wish it were so, for there are occasional symptoms of no
common powers of mind, struggling through a mass of absurdity, which well nigh
overwhelms them; but it is a sort of absurdity that approaches so often the
confines of what is wicked and immoral, that we dare hardly trust ourselves to
bestow even this qualified praise. The writer of it is, we understand, a
female; this is an aggravation of that which is the prevailing fault of the
novel; but if our authoress can forget the gentleness of her sex, it is no
reason why we should; and we shall therefore dismiss the novel without further
comment.
© The British
Critic n.s., 9 (April 1818) 432-438.
Art. XII. Frankenstein: or the Modern Prometheus.
3 vols 12mo. 16s. 6d. Lackington and Co. 1818.
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