However consonant with heroic endeavor or with an achievement beyond ordinary standards,
glory is still a word with masculinist connotations. It is a major component of the
complex that, we are told in the first sentence of the novel, Margaret Saville views
with such "evil foreboding." Within two sentences the word will become associated
with the actual fountain of evil in western myth. Later, we will discover that Victor
Frankenstein is exactly similar to Walton in representing himself as pursuing knowledge
not for wealth but for glory (I:1:18).

This collection, ascribed to Jean-Baptiste-Benoît Eyries, was published in Paris in
1812 as a 2-volume set called Fantasmagoriana, ou Recueil d'Histoires d'Apparitions
de Specres, Revenans, Fantômes. . . . Although it seems clear that the French version
was what the party amused themselves with, it was translated into English by Sarah
Utterson under the title, Tales of the Dead, in 1813.

Dragon slayer and patron saint of England. This reference would appear to be a gesture
on Mary Shelley's part to her presumptively British readership.

Although the novel was published anonymously, descriptions like this might have alerted
the astute reader to the fact that the author was a woman. Not that a man could not
have thought of such phrasing, but it is simply true that we might look far and wide
around contemporary novels before finding a man who actually would employ such a term
in like circumstances. The fact that Walton prizes "dauntless courage" (I:L2:1) may
look like a stereotyped masculinist attitude, but combining it with an emphasis on
gentleness of disposition shifts the accent considerably.

If we can take this tribute at face value, as an honest assessment of the rehabilitation
presided over by Henry Clerval, we must then read a tragic irony into Victor's expression
here. He has opened himself up once more to the generous humanity he had experienced
in his domestic circle, a humanity that might have enveloped his Creature in far different
circumstances from those attending his instant rejection at Victor's hands. As with
other sentiments in these last paragraphs of the chapter, sentiments predicated on
stable norms and humane values, we are given a last opportunity to pretend, or to
hope, that these are universal truths before the ensuing catastrophe brings us to
our senses.

A city of about thirty thousand at the time of the novel, Geneva had long held an
importance in central Europe incommensurate with its relatively modest size. John
Calvin, arriving in this quiet city in 1536, transformed it into a center of the Reformation.
In 1559, Calvin and Théodore de Bèze founded the University of Geneva to function
as a center of Protestant intellectual inquiry. This orientation made a natural linkage
between the University of Geneva and Oxford and Cambridge Universities in England
that thrived throughout the later Renaissance.

That early sense of kinship the English felt for the Swiss was reinforced during Mary
Shelley's age by two factors. One was the invasion of this neutral, unoffending country
by the French in 1798, which became a major focus of government propaganda in England
and effectively ended all sympathy for the course of the French Revolution by its
intellectual elite. The second, and for Mary Shelley a more immediate factor, was
the inveterate hostility to Napoleon practiced by the leading citizen of Geneva's
small suburb of Coppet, Germaine de Staël, who there surrounded herself with a significant
circle of independent and generally democratic thinkers like A. W. Schlegel and J.
C. L. Simonde de Sismondi. The daughter of one of the few untouchable supporters of
the early revolution, Jacques Necker, who kept France financially afloat during its
turbulent transition from monarchy to jacobin directory, Germaine de Staël was banned
from France by Napoleon and through her travels enjoyed a pan-European renown. Byron
met her in London in 1813, a year before his publisher John Murray brought out her
important work On Germany.

The circle surrounding Madame de Staël could be construed as an extension of the earlier
source of independent intellectual energy provided by Geneva's most famous citizen
in the eightenth century, Jean-Jacques Rousseau. During the 1816 summer, Byron and
Shelley undertook a boat tour of the northern shore of Lake Geneva with the particular
aim of visiting locations associated with Rousseau and his writings. Although Mary
remained behind, she would have shared their enthusiasm for this last great figure
of the French Enlightenment. It could not have been absent from her mind that to begin
a first-person narrative account, "I am by birth a Genevese" (I:1:1) would automatically
remind readers of Rousseau's Confessions, the fourth paragraph of which begins in
a similar manner. Rousseau's spirit, indeed, might be said to hover over the entire
novel, from its emphasis on a new "noble savage" to its concern with education, particularly
in the formation of the Creature, to its antiestablishment political undertones.

With such pronounced associations of relevance in both its past and recent history,
Geneva stands as a perfect match for the other great center of the Enlightenment,
St. Petersburg. As Chapter 1 issues, so to speak, from the voice of Victor Frankenstein
identifying himself with the Swiss city, Letter 1 (I:L1:1) is dated by Robert Walton
from the Russian capital. Together these figures and these cities represent the values
of the Enlightenment that will be interrogated over and over in the subsequent pages
of Mary Shelley's novel.

Trials were a form of spectator sport in the later eighteenth century, with criminals
commonly being assaulted and otherwise abused in being transferred from a prison or
jail to the courts of law. Mary Shelley endeavors here to intensify the isolation
of Justine Moritz, whom public opinion has convicted of child murder before her trial
commences.

This is a characteristic of the city of which Mary Shelley was well aware, commenting
on it in a letter she included in A History of a Six Weeks' Tour and dated 1 June
1816.

Galvanism is named after the inventor of the electric cell, Luigi Galvani, professor
of medicine at the University of Bologna. It specifically refers to the application
of an electrical charge to dead tissue, which was usually demonstrated by making the
legs of dead frogs move as if with life. Galvani's nephew, Giovanni Aldini (1762-1834),
conducted experiments in London recounted in John Aldini, An Account of the Late Improvements
in Galvanism, with a series of curious and interesting experiments . . . [and an]
Appendix, containing the author's Experiments on the body of a Malefactor executed
at Newgate (London: Cuthell & Martin and John Murray, 1803). In the first canto of
Don Juan, written later in the year in which Frankenstein was published (1818), Byron
remarks that "This is the age of oddities let loose" (line 1021), and comments on
various scientific advances:

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes;
  And galvanism has set some corpses grinning. . . .
(I.1033-4)

For a more serious contemporary estimate, written by a major figure engaged in research
on this phenomenon who possesses an acute sense of its implications for radical developments
in chemistry and physics, consult William Nicholson's account in The British Encyclopedia
(1809).

In this context Victor means a long passage-way, which was a feature of many older
European residences. Such a gallery allowed the inhabitants a place in inclement weather
to exercise themselves by walking: in major houses the gallery would often contain
the family picture collection. In this instance, its purposes are directly contrary
and antisocial, providing Victor a protective distance for his furtive experiments.