Walton is anxious not just because his way is barred but because the icefield, in
expanding, could easily crush the hull of his ship. That process, called "nipping,"
was a major danger to wooden-hulled boats in arctic regions.

Although as a novel Frankenstein is highly ingenious in its interweaving of omens,
it also casts those who believe in them in a sharply reflexive light. In particular,
Victor's account of his life as buffeted by a continual sway of destiny tends to exculpate
him from responsibility for his choices and his actions.

Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner" (1798), lines 451-56—with "who" substituted for "that"
in line 451. (In the 1817 revision, the passage occupies lines 445-450.) The second
direct allusion to this poem in the novel: the first occurs in Walton's second letter
to Mrs. Saville (I:L2:6).

"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner," is frequently also the subject of subtle allusion
(see, for instance, I.2.7 and note, or III.1.8 and note) casts a long shadow over
its conceptions.

There is nothing odd about this, for Coleridge bore an unusual weight in the house
in which Mary Godwin was raised. William Godwin, although separated from Coleridge
on key matters of philosophy and theology, was deeply attached to him, calling him
one of his four "oral instructors." Accordingly, Coleridge was a frequent guest in
the Godwin household. Mary Shelley never forgot the experience of hearing Coleridge
recite his "Rime" as she hid behind the sofa. Given Coleridge's brilliance in conversation,
she may have imbibed more from her youthful encounters with him than a later time
can ever know. Certainly, the implicit tribute accompanying her frequent allusions
to him in the course of Frankenstein suggests a deep and personalized admiration.

Mary Shelley's emendations of 1831 once again link early statements in Victor's narrative
with his condition when he is rescued by Walton's crew, a frantic and paranoid specter
whose otherworldly mystifications, as expressed in the late chapters of Volume 3,
are a driving force in his obsessive pursuit of the Creature. It is interesting to
note that even this late in her work on the novel Mary Shelley is recalling the machinery
with which Percy Bysshe Shelley invested his poem centering on the uncompromising
pursuit of a love object, "Alastor; or, the Spirit of Solitiude," published in March
of 1816, shortly before the two left for Switzerland.

Frankenstein is a novel that centers on a transgressive birth; it is replete with
orphans and both women and men who, cut off in their youth, die without creating children
of their own. In contrast to the actual terms of the work, Victor begins his narrative
by emphasizing normative and extended family structures.

The University of Ingolstadt medical faculty and particularly the anatomy theater
would have offered Victor unparalleled resources for pursuit of this new phase of
his studies.

The medical school, which today houses the German Museum of the History of Medicine,
was known as the Anatomie upon its completion in 1736. That designation is still recalled
in the street name on which the edifice stands.

Mary Shelley's journal notes indicate that she was sporadically reading in Robert
Southey's translation of Amadis of Gaul, a Spanish chivalric romance by Garcia de
Montalvo, during the early months of 1817. At this time she was also actively working
on Frankenstein.

This word, which as a noun entered the novel with Walton rhapsodizing over his passion
for discovery (I:L4:20), is now picked up by Victor as if deliberately to echo and
admonish the mariner. It will toll repetitively—and resonantly—through the remainder
of this chapter. It seems clear that Mary Shelley, capitalizing on her strategy in
1818, is here emphasizing the word in all its ambiguity. The complex of associations
in its definition can be tracked here.

Victor's bitterness over the law may reflect Godwin's teachings about its arbitrary
nature and conformist tendencies, as well as Percy Bysshe Shelley's own legal problems
with his father during Mary's first years living with him. We see similar sentiments
in Elizabeth's aversion to the law as a profession for Ernest, which is expressed
in a passage in the first edition (I:5:2 and note).

The doltishness with which Ernest speaks cannot obscure the moral question implicit
here. The reliance on simplistic moral absolutes will extend outward from Ernest to
involve his father (I:6:37), who has been established from the beginnings of Victor's
narrative as a citizen of consequence, and he will then in the next chapter be joined
by other men of consequence in Geneva, from the Church to the magistracy, in a miscarriage
of justice. Victor's intuition of the murderer, as well as his own intellectual research
beyond conventional limitations, isolates him from the other male upholders of establishment
values. This does give Victor a certain moral authority not apparent before, but it
is heavily shadowed by his silence as the travesty of Justine's trial unfolds. Only
Elizabeth, like Justine a woman and without effectual power, is able through sheer
human sympathy to "judge" aright in this case.