The Road to Science Fiction

by James Gunn

  “Ay, ay,” said he, “this is just what I suspected.”

  Science and Literature: When Worlds Collide

  Although the Flemish anatomist Andreas Vesalius (1514–1564) had revolutionized the study of human anatomy with his De humani corporis fabrica in 1543 and William Harvey (1578–1657) published his discoveries on the circulation of the blood in 1628, the major concern of scientists seemed to be focused on astronomy, physics, and chemistry. In the late eighteenth century the excitement spread to biology and psychology: Mesmer’s theory of animal magnetism (called mesmerism and later associated with hypnotism, it would inspire a generation of early science-fiction writers), Luigi Galvani’s experiments with muscles and static electricity, Erasmus Darwin’s attempts to codify natural history in verse and his previsions of evolution that later would be spelled out by his grandson, Lamarck’s evolutionary theories, Malthus’s ideas about population and food supply published in his famous Essay on the Principle of Population, and William Smith’s work on stratigraphic dating and fossils.

  The Bible’s authority on creation and the age of earth was being overthrown, and it seemed only a matter of time until scientists could create life itself.

  Meanwhile a new form of popular literature had sprung out of the eighteenth-century revival of interest in the Gothic; it exhibited itself in a new popularity of Gothic architecture, in pseudo-Gothic poems and epics, and in an aesthetic pleasure in fancy and extravagance in literature and art. In the midst of the Enlightenment (and perhaps as a reaction to it), Horace Walpole (1717–1797) created a new kind of novel in his tiny, pseudo-Gothic castle, Strawberry Hill. In The Castle of Otranto (1764), the first Gothic novel, nightmare replaced probability; it contained all the elements that would distinguish the genre: a young woman facing danger in a medieval castle with trap doors, mysterious rooms, ancient secrets, ghostly apparitions, clanking armor, and a growing menace creating an atmosphere of terror. Otranto was followed by William Beckford’s Vathek (1786), Mrs. Ann Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794), and Matthew “Monk” Lewis’s The Monk (1796). The Gothic novel has retained its popularity down to contemporary times. Gloomy mansions and psychological explanations have replaced the castles and supernatural elements, but the same atmosphere of brooding terror is achieved in works such as Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw (1898) and Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca (1938). For a time the Gothic novel was a standard category on the newsstands, easily recognizable by the face of a terrified young woman on the cover while behind her looms a dark, ominous mansion.

  These elements—the new developments in biological science and the invention of the Gothic novel—combined with discoveries in electricity, particularly the creation of an electric current by Alessandro Volta, came together in the imagination of a twenty-year-old woman to produce what was if not the first science-fiction novel (as some scholars contend) at least the first novel that showed what a science-fiction novel might be. That novel was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1818).

  The Gothic and the scientific actually played a part in the creation of the novel. Mary Shelley (1797–1851) was the daughter of William Godwin (1756–1836), a liberal philosopher and novelist (he wrote a Gothic novel himself), and Mary Wollstonecraft (1759–1797), a writer and early feminist. They married late in life, and Mary Wollstonecraft survived the birth of her daughter by only ten days. In 1814 Mary Godwin eloped to Switzerland with her father’s friend, Percy Bysshe Shelley, already a promising poet, and was married to him in 1816, after the birth of two children, both of whom died in infancy, and the suicide of his first wife.

  Frankenstein’s birth pangs are recorded in Mary Shelley’s preface to the edition of 1831. Lord Byron, his friend Dr. Polidori, and the Shelleys were reading aloud some German ghost stories one evening; Byron decided that everyone should write a tale founded on some supernatural occurrence. Mary was the only one who persevered (Shelley urged her on) to produce a book, but only after a long search for a subject. Then, one evening, Byron and Shelley were discussing Erasmus Darwin’s experiments, “among others the nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability of its ever being discovered and communicated. . . . Perhaps a corpse would be reanimated; galvanism had given token of such things: perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought together, and endued with vital warmth.”

  That night, Mary recalled, she dreamed about “the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion.”

  The novel is written in the form of letters from Captain Robert Walton to his sister in England, a manuscript of the scientist Victor Frankenstein’s story prepared by Walton, and Walton’s letters again. Mary Shelley’s readers were accustomed to the epistolary style from the novels of Samuel Richardson, but modern readers may find it strange. Readers who are familiar only with the film version, or the exploitations that followed the definitive 1931 film starring Boris Karloff, will be surprised to discover that the monster is literate and born good, only to be soured by the universal horror with which he is greeted by everyone, including his creator.

  In his history of science fiction, Billion Year Spree (and its revision, Trillion Year Spree), Brian Aldiss stated his belief that science fiction begins with Frankenstein. Certainly Mary Shelley intended to write convincingly about the possibilities of the new science. The preface to the edition of 1818 (though written by Shelley) cites Darwin and some German physiological writers as offering an opinion that reanimation is “not of impossible occurrence,” and “however impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary relations of existing events can yield.” A current science-fiction writer could provide no better justification for his work.

  But there are non-science-fiction aspects to the novel as well. Aldiss believes that science fiction “is characteristically cast in the Gothic or post-Gothic mold.” Other critics believe science fiction to be cast in a more rational, skeptical mold in which the Gothic element is a foreign intrusion. The Gothic element in Frankenstein, the medieval elements of impiety and guilt, battle the scientific concerns . . . and win. The belief that “there are things man was not meant to know,” though common enough in the Gothic novel and in early science fiction, and still prevalent in the science-fiction film (John Baxter, in Science Fiction and the Cinema, says it has a different origin than printed science fiction), is not the philosophy that runs through science fiction’s hard core.

  Mary Shelley also wrote a novel of the future in which a worldwide plague wipes out all humanity except one man. The Last Man (1826) takes place in the twenty-first century and might be considered the first novel of the future, but like the anonymous Reign of King George VI: 1900–1925 (1763), it exhibits no awareness that the future will be any different from the present.

  From Frankenstein (or, The Modern Prometheus)

  BY MARY SHELLEY

  CHAPTER 5

  It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I 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 t
eeth 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, and continued a long time traversing my bedchamber, 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 graveworms 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.

  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.

  I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

  Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky.

  I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:—

  “Like one who, on a lonely road,

  Doth walk in fear and dread,

  And, having once turned round, walks on,

  And turns no more his head;

  Because he knows a frightful fiend

  Doth close behind him tread.”1

  Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just where I was standing, and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! how fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!”

  Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of bookkeeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield:—‘I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’ But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge.”

  “It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”

  “Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself.—But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights.”

  “You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that I am at length free.”

  I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about, I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval.

  We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he observed me more attentively he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him.

  “My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?”
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br />   “Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room, “he can tell.—Oh save me! save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in a fit.

  Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.

  This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father’s advanced age, and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them.

  But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject, persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.