Mary Shelley: Frankenstein

Nicholas Marsh

• Publisher: Bloomsbury Academic
• Year: 2009
• Print ISBN:
  9781137608314
• Edition: 1
• eBook ISBN:
  9781350309418
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Modern Literary Criticism
• Index: Literature

This study focuses on how Frankenstein works: how the story is told and why it is so rich and gripping. Part I uses carefully selected short extracts for close textual analysis, while Part II examines Shelley's life, the historical and literary contexts of the novel, and offers a sample of key criticism.

PART I

ANALYSING FRANKENSTEIN

1

The Narrative Frame

Frankenstein is in the form of a series of letters from St. Petersburgh, Archangel, and the Arctic Ocean, written by an arctic explorer called Robert Walton to his married sister Mrs Margaret Saville, in England. Mrs Saville only receives these letters – there is nothing from her in reply. So, the story of Frankenstein is told by Walton to his sister; he reports, apparently verbatim, the story Victor Frankenstein tells to him aboard his ship in the Arctic Ocean; and Victor Frankenstein purportedly reports verbatim the story the daemon tells to him when they meet on the ‘mer de glace’ in the Alps. In other words, Frankenstein is a story that comes to us via an elaborate series of frames. Such narrative framing devices are usually adopted to provide opportunities for the author to manipulate certain effects.

First, the story arrives to us mediated through the character of the narrator, and we are aware of him even when he is reporting another’s speech verbatim. This means that the story is subjected to two points of view before it even reaches us, which should enable the author to exploit irony. Secondly, each ‘frame’ inserts a distance between story and reader, and this distance can have a variety of effects. Thirdly, the narrators of Frankenstein all use first-person narrative. Consequently, we expect self-revelation, but we are never in the company of an omniscient narrator.

In the case of Frankenstein, the framed structure of the narrative raises a further issue for modern readers, because most of us believe that we know the story before we start reading: after all, we are familiar with the mad scientist and his monster. We are therefore likely to be surprised when we begin to read about an explorer’s arctic voyage. I have seen students glance back at the cover, to make sure that they have not picked up the wrong book by mistake.

We will start our study of Frankenstein, then, by looking at the three main narrators, in the order in which they appear: Walton, Victor, and the daemon. We take a passage for close analysis and comparison, from the beginning of each of their narratives.

Analysis: Walton’s Narrative, pp. 15–17

Here are the opening paragraphs of Walton’s first letter:

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London; and as I walk the streets of Peters-burgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has traveled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There – for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators – there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose – a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good uncle Thomas’s library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions, entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventure might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and intreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing. (F 15–17)

This extract contains a considerable amount of information about Walton. We have remarked how confused modern readers may be, but it is just as important that the original readers of Frankenstein were equally misdirected: contemporary readers expected a tale of marine exploration, just as modern readers worry that they have picked up the wrong book. Before we consider the overall effect of the Walton ‘frame’, however, let us study the passage.

First, we should look at the way this narrative is structured. Our extract consists of six paragraphs. We can summarize the subject-matter of these units as follows:

1. I have arrived in St. Petersburgh, and I am well.

2. I am driven by dreaming of wonderful and beautiful discoveries and by the hope of bringing benefits to humanity.

3. I am filled with enthusiasm, and I have dreamed of this undertaking since I was a child.

4. When I first read the poets, dreams of poetic fame displaced my dreams of exploration for a year, but as a poet, I failed.

5. Then I inherited money, and returned to this enthusiasm. I trained hard for this expedition for six years.

6. I therefore deserve to succeed; but my feelings are changeable, I am sometimes depressed. I wish someone would encourage me.

It is always helpful to make a brief summary like this. Not only does it reveal how clearly the paragraphs are organized into separate statements, but also it helps to bring out the bare bones of the narrator’s utterance, by removing much complicating detail. Three points may strike us. First, notice that each paragraph has a purpose, to express one clear part of Walton’s narrative: paragraph 1 is an announcement and greeting; paragraphs 2 and 6 are reflection; paragraphs 3, 4, and 5 give a narrative of Walton’s upbringing. The transition from reflection to narrative is smoothed by the start of paragraph 3, from ‘These reflections’ to ‘This expedition has been the favourite dream . . .’. The transition back from narrative to reflection, between paragraphs 5 and 6, however, is bald and sudden: ‘And now, dear Margaret . . .’, not graced by any stylish link. So, our summary reveals that this opening is organized into paragraphs which develop the narrator’s character in stages of reflection and narrative.

Secondly, the summary shows that Walton is constructing an argument. Each paragraph supports his opinion that he is right to undertake his voyage (i.e. to bring delight to himself and benefits to humanity; because it has been a ‘steady purpose’ throughout his life; because he has trained hard; because he has turned his back on a life of luxury). We will say more about the quality of Walton’s argument later; for now, we need only remark that it is natural for him to justify himself: we know, from her regarding the enterprise with ‘evil forebodings’, that Margaret disagrees with her brother.

Thirdly, re-read our summary, and you are struck by Walton’s self-absorption. He predicts his sister’s feelings (‘You will rejoice’) and bosses her opinion (‘you cannot contest . . .’), but does not ask after her: all his interest is in his own concerns, and the summary reads as ‘I’ feel this; ‘I’ seek glory; and ‘I’ deserve, with an admixture of ‘poor me’. Keeping in mind the points that have arisen so far, we can now turn our attention to sentences.

There are many kinds of sentences, and our extract from Walton’s letter shows a variety. The one beginning ‘Inspirited by this wind of promise . . .’ in the second paragraph is a periodic sentence because the main clause (‘my day dreams . . . vivid.’) comes at the end; whereas the one beginning ‘There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible’ is a loose sentence, its main clause coming at the start. There are several double sentences, such as ‘My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading’ from paragraph 3. We also find three questions: the first a plea for understanding; the other two plainly rhetorical; and an exclamation (‘Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative!’); while some sentences are short to the point of abruptness, such as the eight-word ‘I commenced by inuring my body to hardship’ in paragraph 5, and others are very long (see, e.g., ‘I accompanied the whale-fishers . . . practical advantage’ in paragraph 5–63 words; or ‘But, supposing . . . an undertaking such as mine’ in paragraph 2–68 words). We can tell from this analysis that Walton’s style is varied, with quick changes from statement to elaboration to questions and exclamations and back again suited to his argumentative purpose.

Our impression of Walton’s self-absorption is confirmed by the number of phrases in which he is the main actor: ‘I arrived’, ‘I am already’, ‘I feel’, ‘I am advancing’ start an avalanche of ‘I’ phrases running throughout the extract to ‘do I not deserve’, ‘I preferred glory’, ‘I am about to’ and ‘I am required’ in the sixth paragraph. This insistent assertion of self also gives an impression of energy: ‘I also became a poet’, ‘I dedicated myself’, ‘I commenced’, ‘I accompanied’, ‘I voluntarily endured’, ‘I often worked harder’, ‘I actually hired myself’. Many of these statements are boasts, including the false modesty of ‘I must own I felt a little proud’. Our impression of a self-absorbed, self-justifying man arguing his point is enhanced.

However, there is something in this extract that irritates us: something about the way Walton connects his ideas is suspect. Notice the opening sentence, which begins ‘You will rejoice’ and ends with ‘evil forebodings’. Does this happen again? It can be enlightening to compare the beginnings and the ends of sentences, to see how Walton’s thoughts lead him from topic to topic or from mood to mood. For example, the second paragraph begins ‘I am already far north of London’, and the sentence ends with the word ‘delight’. It is as if Walton means to give a prosaic account, but ‘delight’ bursts in on his narrative. Is this movement from negative emotion, to ecstasy, found again? Yes: Walton tries to think of the pole as ‘the seat of frost and desolation’, but ends this sentence also with ‘delight’. The next paragraph begins by referring to ‘the agitation with which I began my letter’, but leads to ‘a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye’. So, just as doubts yield to ‘delight’, ‘agitation’ yields to fixed permanence. This seems to be a recurrent motif, and shows how Walton shores up his spirits, irrespective of where his reflections begin. There is one startling example of the opposite movement, however; in paragraph 6 Walton appears close to outright contradiction, so suddenly does he fall from confidence into doubt: ‘My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed.’

From the moment that the word ‘delight’ bursts into the text, Walton’s diction is enthusiastic, and his emotion is grandiose. His daydreams are ‘fervent and vivid’ and he seeks a ‘region of beauty and delight’, the ‘country of eternal light’ lit by ‘perpetual splendour’. His curiosity is ‘ardent’ and he will start his voyage with ‘joy’; his ‘enthusiasm . . . elevates [him] to heaven’, he read with ‘ardour’ and ‘passionately’; poetry ‘entranced’ his soul and ‘lifted it to heaven’, then he ‘dedicated’ and ‘devoted’ himself to his undertaking. Clearly, Walton is a man of strong passions. Walton’s diction is also rich in absolutes, superlatives and intensifying adjectives, so that every element of his reflections is heightened. So, for example, at the pole the sun is ‘for ever’ visible and ‘perpetual’; and that region may surpass ‘every’ region hitherto discovered, its features ‘without example’ and its light ‘eternal’. Magnetic power is ‘wondrous’, and his discoveries will last ‘for ever’, bringing ‘inestimable’ benefits to ‘all’ mankind to ‘the last generation’ so that his enthusiasm conquers ‘all’ fears. These superlatives and intensifiers build Walton’s aims into that ‘steady purpose’ he admires, which he describes as ‘a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye’. The language of enthusiasm and absolutism is already so marked that the reader is provoked to question Walton’s wisdom, even on the second page. The mixed metaphors of a ‘point’ where the ‘intellectual eye’ of a ‘soul’ may ‘fix’ its regard strike a note of absurdity. Probably, such a ‘fixed’ and absolute ideal is a mistake, as it goes against nature. The near-comic mixing of metaphors adds to our doubts.

Another element of Walton’s vocabulary fosters the reader’s critical attitude. Notice that even the six paragraphs of our extract contain significant repetition. We have already remarked that the personal pronouns ‘I’, ‘me’, ‘myself’, ‘my’ and ‘mine’ occur frequently (e.g., 20 times in paragraph 5 alone), and that there are many superlatives such as ‘ever’, ‘never’, ‘all’ and ‘only’. Walton also appears to have a repetitive vocabulary for describing his emotions: ‘delight’ appears twice, and he is both ‘ardent’ and feels ‘ardour’. However, the two most revealing repetitions occur where the contexts differ. The first of these is the word ‘heaven’: Walton feels that his heart ‘glows with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven’, when talking of his voyage to the pole; then, he says that poetry ‘lifted [his soul] . . . to heaven’ and continues the idea by remarking that poetry enabled him to live in a ‘Paradise of my own creation’. The conjunction of ‘elevated . . . to heaven’ and ‘lifted . . . to heaven’, the one for an ideal he asserts is right, and the other for an ideal he admits was a mistake, suggests that he has learned nothing from his poetic failure; the further idea of a ‘Paradise of my own creat...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title page
• Copyright
• Contents
• General Editor’s Preface
• A Note on Editions
• Introduction
• Part I: Analysing Frankenstein
• Part II: The Context and the Critics
• Notes
• Further Reading
• Index