The New Annotated Frankenstein

by Mary Shelley

  The conflation of Victor’s mother and Elizabeth is paralleled, points out Veeder, by Percy Shelley’s courting of Mary Shelley (and perhaps consummation of their love) on the grave of her mother.

  Plato, in his Theaetetus, ca. 369 BCE, considered the fundamental differences between dreaming and waking and how one might determine whether one was dreaming. Although dreams had originally been thought to be messages from the gods, Aristotle (On Dreams, 350 BCE) treated them as a psychological phenomenon—that is, individualized, generated from within—reflecting the life of the soul. This idea, that dreams were messages specific to the dreamer’s soul, was widely adopted, and dreams were interpreted as symbolic, but the symbols were static—that is, they were common to all dreamers. The first important work recording the meaning of dreams was Oneirocritica, by Artemidorus, who lived in the second century CE. First published in English in 1644, it was reprinted many times. Artemidorus posited that dream symbols be interpreted based on the dreamer’s circumstances as well as the specific details of the dream. For example, if a slave dreamed of a snake, it was thought to mean something other than what it meant if a priest’s wife dreamed of a snake. A dream of sex with a partner—or with one’s mother—wherein the individual being dreamed about is in a dominant position was differentiated from a dream featuring that person in a submissive position. Not until the mid-nineteenth century, when French physician Louis Ferdinand Alfred Maury began to experiment with the influences of external stimuli on dreams, did the idea of dreams that arose out of the dreamer’s experiences gain wider standing. His results, published in 1865, influenced Freud’s monumental Interpretation of Dreams (1899), which mentioned Maury’s work.

  What did the dream of Elizabeth and his mother mean to Victor? Artemidorus interprets dreams of sex (and kissing must be seen as a polite substitute) with a dead mother as symbolic of the dreamer’s impending death, with the mother representing the earth to which the dreamer will soon return. Thus, the simple message of the dream would have been: If Victor were to embrace (marry) Elizabeth, he would die. When Victor is later threatened by the creature, he takes the latter’s intent to be to slay him on his wedding night. This interpretation would have been confirmed to Victor if he had remembered this dream (as he clearly did, for he recounts it to Walton long after the night of the dream).

  9. A very similar scene is shown as having occurred on Victor’s wedding night—see note 9, Volume III, Chapter VI, below.

  10. How is it possible that the creature, who later describes his struggles to understand the operation of his senses, managed to travel from the solitary chamber in which Victor did his work, located “at the top of the house, and separated from all of the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,” to Victor’s apartment—without mishap, and without running into any other tenants? The creature must also have rampaged around the building during the night, trapped in its confines, for Victor later reports that the gates of the courtyard through which he states the creature exited were not unlocked until 6 a.m.

  11. Although several species of monsters are described in Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy (1320), none have visages described as “ugly.” The Malebranche, demons who appear in canto 21 of the Inferno, come the closest, with faces described in Italian as “fero,” translated variously as “savage” or “ferocious.” Of course, Victor was not well read and may have simply assumed that in Dante’s hell, one would find hideously ugly creatures.

  12. Attributed in the 1831 edition to “Coleridge’s ‘Ancient Mariner.’ ” Clearly Victor could not have read the poem at the time he is talking about, for it was not published until 1798—this is an addition he makes when telling the story to Walton.

  13. We learn at last the family name of the narrator.

  14. The phrase ending with “book-keeping” is rewritten in the 1831 edition as “all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping.” Whether the art of bookkeeping is “noble” is open to debate, but it has a long history: Records of account for farms and estates were kept in ancient Greece and Rome, and bookkeeping probably traces back even earlier, to before the second millennium BCE, when barter and trade flourished. In Debt: The First 5,000 Years (New York: Mellville House, 2012), David Graeber writes about medieval “bookkeeping techniques for combining compound interest with partial repayments” (431, note 4). An Italian monk, Luca Pacioli, published a book in 1494 lauding the benefits of a double-entry system of bookkeeping, and his ideas laid the groundwork for modern accounting.

  15. In chapter 20 of Oliver Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield (1766), the principal of a school whom the narrator hopes to impress with his Greek-language ability responds, “ ‘You see me, young man; I never learned Greek, and I don’t find that I ever missed it. I have had a Doctor’s cap and gown without Greek: I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek; and I eat heartily without Greek. In short,’ continued he, ‘I don’t know Greek, and I do not believe there is any use in it.’ ”

  Goldsmith’s novel, supposedly a memoir written by the vicar himself, presents a comic view of life in the eighteenth century that descends into melodrama in the book’s second half. Although dismissed by some critics as overly sentimental, it is now usually seen as a mild parody of the sentimental novel. It was very popular, as its mention here and in other contemporary literature such as Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther attests. Nonetheless, it has only been filmed once, in a silent adaptation in 1916.

  16. Does Victor intend this to stand in contrast to the habits of his own overbearing father, who “directed” his studies and whom he blames for banishing him from home? See notes 2 and 8, Volume I, Chapter II, above.

  17. The word “he” appears in all capitals in the 1831 edition.

  CHAPTER V.1

  CLERVAL THEN PUT the following letter into my hands.

  “To V. FRANKENSTEIN.

  “MY DEAR COUSIN,

  “I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have seen your handwriting; and all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor, we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear, and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father’s health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him: he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active.

  “My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake. I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin, is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer’s is a very healthy happy life; and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any. My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through his interest2 he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant, and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a lawyer.3 I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, a
nd said, that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the conversation on that subject.

  “And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz?4 Probably you do not; I will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M.5 Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at her house.6 The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France and England.7 Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

  “After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my little tale: for Justine8 was a great favourite of your’s; and I recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica9—she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any professions, I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

  “When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her.

  “One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she was much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother’s house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.

  “I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little wives,10 but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.11

  “Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with everybody.

  “I have written myself into12 good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father and all of us happy; or—I cannot bear to think of the other side of the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin.”

  “ELIZABETH LAVENZA.

  “Geneva, March 18th, 17—.”13

  “Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed when I had read her letter, “I will write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel.” I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.14

  One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view.15 He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

  M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n the fellow!” cried he; “why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.—Aye, aye,” continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, “M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself when young: but that wears out in a very short time.”

  M. Krempe had now commenced an
eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

  Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study; and he sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew, gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of Greek and Latin. For my own part,16 idleness had ever been irksome to me; and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists.17 Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and garden of roses,—in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome.

  Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.

  The month of May had already commenced,18 and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.