His was the most beautiful corpse I
had ever seen. It seemed that the flush
had not left the cheeks, and that the mouth was curved in the semblance of a
smile. There was no expression of
sadness or of horror upon the face but, rather, one of sublime resignation. The body itself was muscular and firmly knit;
the phthisis had removed any trace of superfluous fat, and the chest, abdomen
and thighs were perfectly formed. The
legs were fine and muscular, the arms most elegantly proportioned. The hair was full and thick, curling at the
back and sides, and I noticed that there was a small scar above the left
eyebrow. That was the only defect I
could find.
Well,
there’s a dainty dish for Halloween
day, served up by novelist Peter Ackroyd
(born 1949). Ackroyd is one of our most
celebrated novelists and essayists. His
gathered criticism, The Collection:
Journalism, Reviews, Essays, Short Stories, Lectures (2001), reflects a
lively and opinionated intelligence; these little gems are among the finest
things he’s written.
Ackroyd’s
biographies are justly famous, and his monumental Dickens (1990) may be the last word on the subject. Written in the manner of a Victorian novel,
Dickens demonstrates the importance of form matched to content. He has also produced excellent biographies of
Turner (2005), Blake (1995) and Thomas More
(1998).
Most of
his novels are equally distinguished, especially to this reader The Last Testament of Oscar Wilde
(1983) and our subject today, The
Casebook of Victor Frankenstein (2008).
Readers expecting the usual hugger-mugger of less accomplished
supernatural novelists, turn elsewhere. But … if you are interested in a novel of
ideas that is equal parts chiller and historical novel, then this book is for
you.
The
Casebook of Victor Frankenstein is a wonderful mix of fact and fancy. Ackroyd’s conceit is that Victor Frankenstein
himself was a friend of Percy and Mary
Shelley, and was there for that storm-driven evening in Switzerland when
the Shelleys, Lord Byron and Dr. John Polidori sat around, telling
ghost stories. That evening led Mary,
then 18 years old, to later write the novel Frankenstein (1818).
The novel
includes a great deal of actual historical incident (Shelley sent down from
school, the drowning death of his first wife, Byron’s friendship with Polidori),
while skillfully inserting into it the story of Frankenstein and his
monster. But, more than anything, what
Ackroyd is playing with is the Romantic novel of ideas, and the notion that
Olympian notions of transcendence and heightened sensibility can be very
dangerous things. Frankenstein – himself
neither poet nor artist and, perhaps, an indifferent scientist – dreams of
lofty achievement and elevated sensations.
Does that drive him to commit horrible acts … or, worse yet, to create
life in a mad ambition to usurp the powers of God, and then refuse
responsibility for the life he has created?
More importantly,
does Frankenstein’s Monster truly exist, or is it an extension of his own
fears, evil ambitions, or, perhaps, a suppressed homosexual desire for Percy
Shelley?
Like Dracula, the “meaning” of the
Frankenstein Monster has altered with each decade since first created by Mary
Shelley – the book can be interpreted as everything from a female-free
reproductive paradigm to a socialist tract.
If succeeding generations have grappled with the overarching meaning of
the Monster, why should Victor Frankenstein himself be exempt?
Ackroy’ds
Monster – like that of Mary Shelley – is no mute, shambling zombie, but,
rather, an articulate and vengeful revenant.
He did not ask to be brought into this world and, cannot understand
human cruelty and apathy. Eventually, like
Milton’s Satan, he believes that it is perhaps better to do evil than to do
nothing at all. That, perhaps more than
anything else, is the true meaning of Halloween.
Here’s
another snippet, where the Monster confronts Frankenstein after murdering
Shelley’s first wife, Harriet:
“I wished you to notice me.”
“What?”
“I wished you to think of me. To consider my plight.”
“By killing Harriet?”
“I knew then that you would not be
able to throw me off. To disdain me.”
“Have you no conscience?”
“I have heard the word.” He smiled, or what I took to be a smile
passed across his face. “I have heard
many words for which I do not feel the sentiment here.” He tapped his breast. “But you understand that, do you not, sir?”
“I cannot understand anything so
devoid of principle, so utterly malicious.”
“Oh, surely you have some
inkling? I am hardly unknown to
you.” I realized then that that his was
the voice of youth – of the youth he had once been – and that a cause of horror
lay in the disparity between the mellifluous expression and the distorted
appearance of the creature. “You have
not lost your memory, I trust?”
“I wish to God I had.”
“God? That is another word I have heard. Are you my
God?”
I must have given an expression of
disdain, or disgust, because he gave out a howl of anguish in a manner very
different from the way he had conversed.
With one sudden movement he picked up the great oaken table, lying
damaged upon the floor, and set it upright.
“You will remember this. This was
my cradle, was it not? Here was I
rocked. Or will you pretend that the
river gave me birth?” He took a step
towards me. “You were the first thing
that I saw upon this earth. Is it any
wonder that your form is more real to me than that of any other living
creature?”
I turned away, in disgust at myself
for having created this being. But he
misunderstood my movement. He sprang in
front of me, with a celerity unparalleled.
“You cannot leave me. You cannot
shut out my words, however distasteful they may be to you. Were you covered by oceans, or buried in
mountains, you would still hear me.”
We hear
him still, nearly 200 years after his conception. Frankenstein’s Monster is that which in each
of us is both abject and terrible.
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