1052

  • the county-town A trip of these dimensions could get Victor and Mr. Kirwin to some half dozen county-towns
    in the north of Ireland where, presumably, Victor landed his boat. The present size
    of Ulster, Northern Ireland, is in the range of 100 square miles.
  • 1051

  • a criminal judge Although time easily becomes blurred in this novel, the reader should remember that
    it is actually less than two-and-a-half years since the miscarriage of justice that
    resulted in Justine Moritz's execution. That Victor, who on that occasion condemned
    the entire criminal magistracy of Geneva (I:7:14), should now repair to one of them
    to justify his own murderous pursuit of his Creature underscores the intellectual
    distance he has traversed in the intervening months, as well as the extremity of his
    current mental state.
  • 1050

  • creator In this phrase one hears an undertone, faint if ironic, of which Victor is wholly
    unconscious. There is another "existence" in the novel who is just as wholly dependent
    "on the life of its creator," though Victor, as here, ignores the imperative posed
    by his Creature and his own obligations to his creation.
  • 1049

  • their courage would return When they were hired on, the crew was specifically described as being "certainly
    possessed of dauntless courage" (I:L2:1). It is, of course, possible that Walton was
    wrong in his original estimation, or that the ordeal through which they have passed
    has sapped the men of their bravery. But it is also possible that Walton, driven by
    an obsession with a purpose to which he has devoted years and a small fortune, has
    misinterpreted the caution with which these seamen view the continuance of their mission.
    Twice in his early letters to his sister (I:L2:5, I:L3:3), Walton assured her that
    he would "do nothing rashly." His crew may simply be holding him to that promise.
  • 1048

  • I could not collect the courage

    When one examines the chronology of this novel, Victor's inaction or procrastination
    or incapacity, however one denominates it, almost seems more its impetus than his
    earlier obsessiveness. After a six months' illness at Ingolstadt, Victor spends an
    entire year doing almost nothing there (I:5:15). Urgently recalled to Geneva by William's
    death, he is stopped for two days when he reaches Lausanne by a sense of undefined
    dread (I:6:14). Although he is certain of Justine's innocence, he is incapable of
    doing anything to support it and watches her trial and execution in helpless frustration.
    There ensues, as the first sentence of the second volume indicates, a "dead calmness
    of inaction and certainty" (II:1:1) from which Victor is roused by the expedition
    to Mont Blanc. In all, this trip takes just four days, and he returns from it to his
    family "passive to all their arrangements" (II:9:22). The way in which a sort of psychotic
    trauma wholly blocks the ability to act is likewise a major theme of Byron's Manfred
    (1817), which also grew out of the Geneva summer of 1816.

  • 1047

  • his countenance . . . treachery A reader cannot miss how without basis is this "reading" of the Creature's facial
    expression. Victor has neither seen nor spoken to him for an entire year since their
    encounter on the Sea of Ice. Moreover, throughout the progress of the second volume,
    in the humanization attendant upon the Creature's autobiographical account, we had
    gradually lost sight of his objective physical deformity. Here, we are thrust back
    into an "objectification" that is so extreme that it allows Victor to relinguish all
    sense of humane obligation or fellow feeling. The self-righteousness that accompanies
    this distancing is perhaps to be expected.
  • 1046

  • corrected and augmented The question of narrative truth is here given a sudden new twist. As readers over
    the course of nearly three volumes containing Victor's narrative, we have come to
    assume that it is a straight-forward account, unmediated by another voice. Now we
    are forced to recognize that what we have read in this simple understanding has been
    twice edited, first by Victor, and then by Walton acting at Victor's behest. What
    Walton first wrote has in its second draft not only been "corrected," but "augmented,"
    added to, leaving us with the uncomfortable feeling that mistakes could still survive
    in the text, or that they could have been accidentally or—much more worrisome—deliberately
    introduced in the process of editing, or that further areas for augmentation might
    still exist that, if properly elaborated, might materially change the focus of our
    perspective. In other words, Mary Shelley, having just merged two distinct narrative
    voices and their respective audiences, now further destabilizes her text as an embodiment
    of a fixed, immutably true account of its personalities and events. Our knowledge
    is indeterminate and relative, wholly dependent on those voices that filter it.
  • 1045

  • in continuation At this moment of Victor's desparate exhaustion and extreme isolation, Mary Shelley
    tellingly reasserts the centrality of human continuity and connectedness. Her sudden
    reassignment of the role of narrator, from Victor to Walton, also alters its assumed
    audience. A ship's captain listening to the solitary voice of a dying refugee in the
    Arctic wilderness shares in that sense of impacted solitude. In contrast, the vicarious
    experience of Walton's sister, who is addressed directly in the next sentence and
    who presumably will read this transmitted account in London, takes place at the heart
    of human civilization. This inserted tag may have a second function as well, that
    of reinforcing the question posed in the last paragraph of Victor's narrative, whether
    Walton will honor his plea and continue Victor's obsessive pursuit of the Creature.
  • 1044

  • the voice of conscience Walton reveals just how much he has learned from listening to Victor's narration,
    which is to say, how much we have likewise learned from reading the novel. Confronting
    the Creature with a stern morality but also with compassion, Walton attributes fundamental
    human characteristics to him, insisting on his humanity and thus on his obligations
    as a human being. The Creature responds in kind, enumerating even more complexly shaded
    human attributes as fundamental to his constitution. This process of dynamic self-examination
    through human interchange may also be seen as a new element in his experience, eliciting
    a sense of self not as an alienated, and therefore unique and unaccountable, being,
    but as a sharer in emotions and social duties common to the human race.
  • 1043

  • I concealed . . . father Increasingly, in this volume, Alphonse Frankenstein seems incapable of living with
    the actual state of the world beyond his enclosed family circle—and in this case,
    he seems even unable to discern what is going on within it.