FRANKENSTEIN recap: Chapter 5
in which Victor Frankenstein runs away twice, faints once, and appears to escape the consequences of his actions
Previously on: Victor Frankenstein, about whom everything always has to be, has spent some unknowable amount of time (multiple years, by some reckonings) sewing together bits of dead people without considering whether this is in any way an activity that should be recommended.
At long, long last, he Conquers Death and Instills Life into the Lifeless Being, in what is one of the more anticlimactic bits you’ve seen in a while:
It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.
At no point is he forthcoming about exactly how he infuses said spark, or what his instruments of life might be, and the charitable interpretation here is that he does not wish his audience to get a wild hair and attempt the process themselves, but for my money it’s Victor sucking at telling stories in a compelling sort of way.
What kills me about this is how he immediately sees the horror of what he has done, when he has been looking at this same goddamn corpse patchwork quilt for HOW LONG NOW and apparently has never noticed that his creation is not a stunning example of unearthly pulchritude.
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.
At what point did you not notice the complexion or the lips? Did that come about as part of your infusing-life-via-instruments procedure?
The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature.
No, that’s you changing your mutable inconstant little mind again, like you keep doing.
I had worked hard for nearly two years,
ah, nearly two, not nearly three, check
for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.
You made him, Victor. You are the author of this being. You designed him, you built him, you brought him to life, and now instead of taking the slightest shaking pants-shittingly-scared hint of responsibility, brave Sir Victor runs away:
Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep.
He literally goes to hide in his room. Leaving his creation on the slab without any hint of care, concern, or basic information about what and who and where he is (“hi, this is the world, it kinda sucks, you should maybe put on some clothes bc as far as I know you can’t thermoregulate all that well, sorry I created you, bye” would have been an improvement). Flings himself dramatically upon his bed of pain, manages to fall asleep, has bad dreams about his notsister and mother all dead and wormisome which are highly deserved. Then, to nobody’s surprise, he wakes up to find himself no longer alone.
(I will interject here that my wife, upon reading that, vouchsafed the following statement on Victor Frankenstein, Chaotic Undergraduate: “a) not genre-savvy, and b) TWIT.” I think we can all get behind that.)
I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me.
idk dude you were the one who went and nicked them off some random dead person, you can probably tell us whether they were eyes (as opposed to, say, thymus glands)
tbh I’m a little impressed that you, with your level of surgical accuracy, were able to plumb in the monster’s optic nerves and visual cortex at all, but I’ll put that aside for now
His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs.
Run away RUN AWAY
I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.
“Me me me me meeeeeeee.”
He seriously first runs away and hides in his room, and then he runs away again and, what, hangs out in the courtyard all night? What is he expecting to happen to the monster? That it’ll just – die, or fall to bits, or shamble off into the night never to be seen again? How does he imagine it will do this? A sensible man, which I believe we have established that Frankenstein is not, would have had access to some fairly hard drugs; had I been the one conducting this experiment it would have been with the ever-present backup of a horse syringe full of morphine to subdue the creature if it decided to get stroppy, rather than just sort of going “????” and leaving the universe to swallow up the evidence of my dumbass experimental protocol.
Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.
What is with this guy and his vicious hatred of people he doesn’t think are hot? What do YOU look like, Victor, sweetheart? Are you a romantic sort with swept-back hair and a rosebud mouth and huge dark eyes that someone could swoon into, or are you a spotty little herbert with poor impulse control who nonetheless thinks he deserves to be surrounded by sublime beauty?
I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness.
POTS is a bitch, no lie
Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!
All of which could have been avoided if you just for one second stopped to think about what you were doing, you utter walnut.
Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky.
~ In the rain, the pavement gleams like silver ~
I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:
Like one who, on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
We’ve read Coleridge too, Victor. But then! Lo, through the dark and freaky rain, amid the ruin of all his hopes and dreams, in the guttering burnt-out light of a new and hopeless morning, who does he espy but Henry Clerval, just arrived on the Swiss stagecoach:
“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!”
Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy.
~ and all I see is him and me forever and forever ~
I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college.
Because you haven’t just done an unspeakable thing and then run away from it twice and spent the whole goddamn night pacing around the rain-drenched courtyard and then the rain-drenched streets, lost in a fugue of horror and misery, and if we’re going by standard gothic-novel epidemiology you are due to collapse in either brain fever or an unspecified vaguely-respiratory condition any second.
Clerval does not immediately notice how fucked-up his friend is:
Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield: ‘I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’ But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge.”
“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”
“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short and gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights.”
Add a couple zeros on the end there, Clerval. Victor brushes it off as “yeah, I’ve been working hard, but I hope that’s over now” BRIGHT SMILE.
I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused, and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty, and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me, but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.
YAY, THERE ARE NO CONSEQUENCES FOR MY ACTIONS! AS USUAL!
What does he think happened to the monster? He does not care. All he cares about is that it’s no longer right here being a problem, so presumably it is someone else’s problem and he can rejoice and go somewhat manic:
It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.
“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?”
here we go
“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; “he can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.
Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.
There, right there, that’s some good classic dramatic-collapse followed by – let’s see, yes, “nervous fever.” God, I love gothic novel epidemiology.
Because everything is about him, Victor editorializes a bit:
This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father’s advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them.
But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life.
me me me me me me
The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.
Yeah, I’d be a little concerned about that part too, if I was him.
By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.
So that’s all right then, best beloved. He thanks Clerval for his devoted friendship, which is of course only what he deserves:
“Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion, but you will forgive me.”
Because everything is, etc. Clerval will forgive him because he has been desperately, hopelessly, sidekickily in love with Victor since they met, and this is very clear indeed. I feel bad for him; he’s the closest (other than the monster) we get to the Only Sane Person. Observe the sanity:
“You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?”
Immediately Victor’s like OH SHIT I WAS HOPING YOU WEREN’T GOING TO MENTION THAT PART
I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?
“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, “I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy at your long silence.”
Victor’s like oh thank fuck we can keep pretending I didn’t rave for months in my delirious fugue about the dead thing I cobbled together from stolen body parts and brought to life in a horrible and unthinkable moment, yay
“Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love and who are so deserving of my love?”
“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from your cousin, I believe.”
Dun dun DUNNNNN. Victor thinks he’s off the hook, but you and I and everyone else knows perfectly well his troubles are far from over. He has (for now) successfully slipped the bonds of responsibility for his actions, but they will come back shortly to haunt him further so he can complain about how he is cursed by [his own shitty decisions] and will never be free of [completely deserved consequence].
Next time: we are returned into the epistolary bosom of the Frankensteins, where all appears idyllic and content, so obviously shit is about to go down.