Progress on Frankenstein, Part 5

[bunnyboo]

There’s a lot to unpack here. (Oh, how I hate the word “unpack.”)

Let’s dive in!

Victor’s creation—as I prefer to call him (definite male pronouns, now that I think about it)—has a wonderful narrative voice. He’s pitiful but is self-assured; he’s naïve but is well-educated (and self-educated too). Everything has already been justified in his mind; everything he had to do had a purpose. There’s also a lot of vulnerability there, especially when he talks about his voyeuristic connection to the peasant family.

Something that specifically stood out to me as I was reading was, when the creation fled into the woods after Victor abandoned him, he immediately found a cloak large enough for him. He’s big—at least seven feet tall, if not more. Who would need a cloak that size and, more to the point, who would leave it just lying around in the woods? To me, this reeks of divine intervention—something out there wants to keep the creation alive. Or, you know, it could be that Shelley wanted him to have a cloak for reasons, but I think the divine intervention idea fits in more with the narrative. It’s all about faith and the divine and man’s relationship with God. When Victor (the “God” or “father” in this situation) didn’t provide for his creation (“Man,” the “angel,” “Satan,” or “son”), someone or something stepped in with a little mercy—there’s a higher power than Victor, even if he can “create” life.

I put “create” in quotes there because, to me, there’s a difference between reanimation and creating a creature out of nothing. True, God supposedly created Man out of clay (and Woman out of Man’s rib—something I always thought was a little gross, but there’s a lot of weird stuff in Genesis), but He had to have created that clay too, right? Victor was just stealing bits and pieces of God’s creation—the leftovers and scraps left behind after their souls went to wherever souls go. The interesting thing is that he didn’t just bring back flesh, but he appears to have brought some kind of semblance of a soul—a new soul at that. It’s kind of ambiguous how much the creation remembers of its “past life,” but it’s pretty clear that this is a new person or consciousness. Not only that, but this creation is “innocent,” to start at least, like Man was in the Garden of Eden. He craves attention and connection, feels emotions, finds beauty in nature, recognizes others as separate and different from himself, and even forms attachments. The only thing missing is love, acceptance, and guidance from others but most importantly his creator. If God just tossed up his hands and said to Adam that he’d just have to deal—tough shit—he might’ve ended up the same. Well, if there had been other people around.

When the creation is watching the peasant family, Shelley brings up the theme of beauty again—they’re not particularly aesthetically pleasing, even to the creation, but their good souls shine through eventually. Could the same be true of the creation if he was given the chance? The family refers to the creation as a “good spirit” and “wonderful” because of the help he gives them, but that’ll most definitely change when they see him for the first time. Another interesting thing tying into this is that the old man is blind—kind of like justice. He can’t judge others based on their outward appearance and therefore must rely on their inner nature as he perceives it.

The creation is also very scientific and analytic in his views of the world, as seen in his processing of speech and language. He’s an observer by necessity, but he’s always thinking and trying to fit his observations into what he knows about the world. He’s a quick learner too—maybe a little too quick to understand religion (which could’ve been an interesting subject to dwell on) and politics—but it’s all in service of the narrative so what the heck. His comments on poverty, privilege, and—yes, again—prejudice are particularly interesting as an outsider’s commentary.

“…I heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty, of rank, descent, and noble blood.

“The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that possession most esteemed by your fellow creatures were high and unsullied descent united by riches. A man might be respected with only one of these advantages, but without either he was considered, except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the profits of a chosen few!”

Tying this back into earlier events, Justine was born into neither rank nor wealth—instead being a servant who only got that “privilege” through her outward beauty—and was immediately turned on by her peers in her trial despite all character evidence against it. She must’ve stolen the jewelry and killed William. That’s what those sorts of people do. So not only does outward appearance matter, but inherent privilege does too. The creation has none of this, as he realizes.

“And what was I? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was more agile than they and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?”

The creation is, from a physical standpoint, an improvement on humanity—hardier, tougher, stronger—and is capable of the same emotions and reasoning. From an evolutionary point of view (bringing this back to the author’s introduction and inspiration from Darwin’s Origin of the Species), he’s superior. But clearly, that can’t be all that matters. A creature without a species, without a community, is miserable and—to use Darwin’s terminology—“unfit.” He’ll die despite his advantages, and he’ll be an evolutionary dead-end.