#87 = Volume 29, Part 2 = July 2002
Carl Freedman
Hail Mary: On the Author of Frankenstein and
the Origins of Science Fiction
Mary Wollstonecraft
Shelley. Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus.
Ed. D.L. MacDonald and Kathleen Scherf. Second Edition. Orchard Park, NY:
Broadview, 1999. 364 pp. $7.95 pbk.
─────.The Last Man. Ed. Anne McWhir.
Orchard Park, NY: Broadview, 1996. xliii + 425 pp. $16.95 pbk.
Betty T. Bennett and
Stuart Curran, eds. Mary Shelley in her Times.
Baltimore: John Hopkins UP, 2000. xiii + 311 pp. $45.00 hc.
Michael
Eberle-Sinatra, ed. Mary
Shelley’s Fictions: From FRANKENSTEIN to FALKNER.
New York: St. Martin’s, 2000. xxvi + 250 pp. $65.00 hc.
John Williams.Mary Shelley: A Literary Life.
New York: St. Martin’s, 2000. ix + 209 pp. $35.00 hc.
Mary Shelley, born Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin,
was the daughter of two important writers and the wife of a third; and this
extraordinary set of personal literary bonds is matched by the many connections
by which her place in literary history has been defined. To some, she is of
interest primarily as representing one of the high points of the Gothic
tradition; to others, she is above all a pioneer of women’s literature in
English; still others see her mainly as one of the chief practitioners of the
Romantic novel; and then, of course, there are those of us for whom Mary Shelley
is first and foremost the founder of science fiction.
Though Brian Aldiss was not the first to
detect a link between Mary Shelley and sf, his ground-breaking argument in Billion
Year Spree (1973) for Frankenstein (1818) as the ur-text of the genre
is directly or indirectly responsible for much of the currency that this idea
has enjoyed for more than a quarter century. Not, of course, that anything like
unanimity on the issue has ever been reached. Some commentators place the
beginning of sf later, with Poe, or Verne, or Wells, or even with the
Gernsbackian pulp of the 1920s, when the term "science fiction" was
coined; contrariwise, others insist that the genre can be traced to Milton and
Dante, and even all the way back to Homer and The Epic of Gilgamesh. But Frankenstein
remains most widely accepted as the founding text of sf, and it seems to me that
the arguments of Aldiss and other Mary-Shelleyans remain persuasive. Though some
literary elements prominent in sf are doubtless as old as literature itself, I
do not think one can name an important text earlier than Frankenstein
that contains every major formal characteristic that can reasonably be held to
mark science fiction as a genre; while, on the other hand, efforts to deny the
title of sf to Mary Shelley’s novel and to date the emergence of sf later seem
to me always to involve a socio-logistic reductionism that loads the critical
dice by proclaiming its own concept of generic determination to be true by
definition—as when, for instance, it is maintained that true sf cannot
possibly antedate the term "science fiction." Mary Shelley never heard
the term, and she may well have had no conscious notion that she was inventing a
new genre. But that is precisely what she did.
On the basis of this achievement and others,
Mary Shelley’s critical and academic reputation is today (five years after the
bicentennial of her birth in 1797) standing higher than ever before—as the
appearance of the five books under review here tends to suggest. But she has
also attained an almost unparalleled kind of popular success as well. Comparing
Mary Shelley with her husband, Isaac Asimov once pointed out that, as great a
lyric poet as Percy Shelley may have been, ordinary people on the street have
not necessarily heard of "Adonais" or "Ode to the West Wind"
or "The Cenci" (9-12). But, said Asimov, they have all heard of Frankenstein
(which he understood as the first precursor text of his own robot stories).
The point is shrewd and important, but needs a bit of refining. Though the word
"Frankenstein" is indeed meaningful to practically everyone in the
modern English-speaking world (and to many beyond), not everyone knows that the
word refers to the title of Mary Shelley’s novel. I have taught Frankenstein
more frequently than any other work of prose fiction, and I have encountered
many students who were surprised to learn that the whole Frankenstein story is
derived from a single literary text—not to mention a novel written in a florid
style by a young Englishwoman in the early nineteenth century. They seemed to
have vaguely assumed that "Frankenstein" referred just to a vast
collective or anonymous saga, expressed in films, television programs, comic
books, and other such forums.
On one level, this ignorance may occasion a
private pedagogic shudder; but on another I think it strongly recalls
Rabindranath Tagore’s famous story that so fascinated William Butler Yeats.
The Bengali poet received many formal honors for his writing, including the
Nobel Prize in literature; but he insisted that the greatest reward his work
ever brought him came on an ordinary evening when he was sitting outside his
home and happened to hear a peasant coming down the road, singing a song to
himself. The words to the song, it turned out, were taken from one of Tagore’s
own poems. Almost certainly, the peasant could not read and had never heard of
Tagore; he may well have possessed no clear notion that songs even have authors.
Tagore and Yeats both felt that having one’s work penetrate so deeply into the
popular consciousness of one’s people was the highest achievement for which
any writer could hope; and Yeats, for all his own huge success, must have been
painfully aware that he was unlikely ever to hear an unlettered Irish peasant
singing "Sailing to Byzantium" or even "Who Goes with
Fergus?" But has not Mary Shelley attained something very like the success
that Tagore felt that he had achieved—allowing, of course, for the obvious
differences between the largely preliterate culture of Tagore’s Bengal and the
largely postliterate culture that we inhabit? Judging by the durable vitality of
her most famous fiction, one must conclude that Mary Shelley’s work has
entered our cultural bloodstream in a way that is true of the work of very few,
if any, other canonical English authors.
The way to begin any study of Mary Shelley is
of course by reading Frankenstein itself. Since there are literally
dozens of editions in print—many of them inexpensive and easily accessible—the
first question that any new edition raises is whether it is genuinely needed. In
the case of the current edition from the small but creative Broadview Press, the
answer is a resounding yes. The text itself is based on the original 1818
version, which Frankenstein critics (myself included) increasingly regard
as a livelier and more interesting work than the more widely reprinted 1831
revision; indeed, one may well doubt that the 1831 version would be much read at
all today (except by scholars), were it not for the absurd bibliographic
superstition that the author’s latest known intentions should have a decisive
importance. Not being a trained bibliographer myself, I will not attempt to go
beyond this general pro-1818 conviction and discuss the minutiae of the textual
editing of the novel. But I see no reason to disagree with the eminent textual
critic Jerome McGann, who (in a blurb on the back cover) pronounces the text of
the Broadview edition to be "well-edited," and the edition as a whole
to be "the best, the most thoughtful advanced school edition of Frankenstein
ever done."
Of course, the importance of this edition is
closely connected to the importance of the novel itself. In the current context,
the editors D.L. MacDonald and Kathleen Scherf are especially to be commended
for making it easy to grasp the importance of Frankenstein for science
fiction (even though they themselves, in their otherwise intelligent and useful
introduction, display no particular interest in the genre). The key point here
is announced in the first sentence of the novel’s original preface, written by
Percy Shelley but in his wife’s voice and with her approval: "The event
on which this fiction is founded has been supposed, by Dr. Darwin, and some of
the physiological writers of Germany, as not of impossible occurrence"
(47). Not of impossible occurrence: these four words point to much of
Mary Shelley’s stunning originality and, in particular, to the way she
decisively broke with the Gothic and other supernatural literary traditions by
which she was so heavily influenced in order to invent science fiction. The
crucial issue is not, exactly, the technical or pragmatic feasibility of Victor
Frankenstein’s project (the operational details of which remain indistinct),
but the fact that the whole book breathes a rational, scientific atmosphere
informed by such recent or contemporary scientific luminaries as Erasmus Darwin,
Benjamin Franklin, and Sir Humphrey Davy; and that the novel (explicitly and
implicitly) offers its imaginings as well within the possibilities of
cognitively based speculation as established by the most advanced science of the
day. Asimov—commonly and accurately considered to be among the most
scientifically based of modern sf writers—was profoundly right to see Mary
Shelley as his own direct literary ancestor; and, indeed, much of the precise
science-fictional achievement of Frankenstein can be conveniently
conveyed by way of comparison with Asimov’s robot stories collected in I,
Robot (1950) and elsewhere.
Robotics was practically a brand-new science
when Asimov, more than half a century ago, began his series of robot tales, and
it remains a highly uncertain, speculative, cutting-edge field to this day.
Reading his stories, we feel quite certain that no one has yet constructed
devices comparable to the mighty Machines, which, towards the end of I, Robot,
are solemnly revealed to be making all the major socio-economic decisions for
humanity as a whole, or even truly equivalent to the nursemaid robot Robbie,
whose much more light-hearted tale opens the volume. But it is not clear to us
that such projects must forever remain beyond the grasp of an increasingly
sophisticated cybernetic technology; and Asimov’s fiction provokes us to
wonder whether something like his visions will in fact come to pass. In other
words, I, Robot is grounded in that literary terrain of rational
possibility by which sf defines itself against both the mundane factuality of
realism and the admitted impossibility of fantasy.
Precisely the same thing is true of Frankenstein.
I have elsewhere noted that Frankenstein leaves behind the spatial,
geographical dimension of the conventional travel narrative to enter the
properly science-fictional dimension of time at the exact point where Captain
Robert Walton, who seems in the novel’s opening pages to be its protagonist,
hands that role over to Victor Frankenstein, becoming the latter’s amanuensis
(48-50). In much the same way, Mary Shelley repudiates the fantastic and Gothic
prehistory of her novel when (in the first chapter of the main text, which
follows Walton’s introductory letters) Victor is moved by an electrical
experiment modeled on Franklin’s to renounce his early interest in mystical,
pre-scientific thinkers like Cornelius Agrippa and Albertus Magnus; in the
following chapter he enters the university and begins the study of modern
chemistry instead. From this point onward, the text explicitly operates under
the science-fictional protocols that are stubbornly alternative to both known
reality and unknowable impossibility; and its first readers must have regarded
the monstrous creature very much as we regard Asimov’s robots. They would have
strongly doubted that any actual scientist had yet done what Victor Frankenstein
is represented as doing. But they would surely have wondered whether some
experiment of the sort might not be in the offing, and they would have hesitated
to contradict Darwin (the most influential scientific popularizer of his day) by
considering it "of impossible occurrence." Estrangement is a literary
technique as old as Gilgamesh. But truly cognitive estrangement begins
with Frankenstein.
If the way that Mary Shelley, in composing Frankenstein,
thus invents sf at a stroke is still not quite so widely appreciated as I
believe it ought to be, it may be at least partly because most readers have not
encountered the novel alongside such useful commentary as Macdonald and Scherf
provide. Their introduction stresses Mary Shelley’s scientific literacy and
the impact of science on her thinking, and it places special emphasis on the
importance of Darwin and Davy (though one might wish they had said a bit more
about Franklin). They show a wide acquaintance with the critical literature on Frankenstein
and usefully insist, against certain less careful readings of the novel, that
the latter "contrasts modern science to sorcery and alchemy, rather than
identifying it with them" (18). This emphasis is maintained through a
series of brief, unobtrusive, but very helpful footnotes about the scientific
grounding of the novel, and in an appendix that provides samples of Darwin’s
and Davy’s own writing. Of course, the editors attend not only to the
scientific background of Frankenstein but also to more political and
literary sources: notably to Mary Shelley’s mother and father and to the
imaginative writers—Goethe, Plutarch, Milton—so avidly studied by the
creature himself. All are intelligently discussed and footnoted, and substantial
excerpts from each are given. There is also an interesting appendix that
collects several contemporary reviews of the novel; and here too there is much
of particular interest from the viewpoint of sf studies. Most fascinating is the
piece by the most eminent novelist of the time, Sir Walter Scott. Not only does
the inventor of the historical novel (a form with profound affinities to science
fiction) respond enthusiastically to Mary Shelley’s text, but also Scott
characterizes it as "more philosophical and refined" than ordinary
marvelous or supernatural fiction; he places it in a special class of works
"in which the laws of nature are represented as altered, not for the
purpose of pampering the imagination with wonders, but in order to shew the
probable effect which the supposed miracles would produce on those who witnessed
them." He goes on to define the text’s object as "to open new trains
and channels of thought, by placing men in supposed situations of an
extraordinary and preternatural character, and then describing the mode of
feeling and conduct which they are most likely to adopt" (301-02). This is
not—quite—to say that Frankenstein is a work of cognitive
estrangement that founds a new genre; but it is about as close to saying that as
one can imagine a contemporary coming, and Scott’s prescience is dazzling.
In fine, I will simply say that in my years of
teaching Frankenstein I have used four or five different editions, and
have never been satisfied with any; but from now on the Broadview edition will
be the one I order for my students.
In some ways, Anne McWhir’s excellent
Broadview edition of The Last Man (1826) is a fitting companion volume to
the Macdonald-Scherf Frankenstein. The Last Man is the second most
widely read of Mary Shelley’s works, though it is of course a very distant
second. It is, however, also a work of science fiction, if a much less
pathbreaking or consequential one. In contrast to the awesome originality of Frankenstein,
the theme of the later novel—the extinction of the human race as related by
its final survivor—was already widely popular in 1826, though it had not been
inflected in quite the science-fictional way adopted by Mary Shelley; and, in
contrast to the almost endless fertility of Frankenstein, The Last Man
has been generally neglected by writers and readers alike. It was not really
until the advent of modern feminist criticism that Mary Shelley’s second sf
novel began to loom at all in sf studies and in literary studies generally; and
some of the attempts at critical rehabilitation have been smart and interesting.
In her influential A New Species: Gender and Science in Science Fiction
(1993), Robin Roberts, for instance, treats Frankenstein and The Last
Man as texts of roughly comparable importance, arguing that both are "codedly
feminine" works—in the sense that they employ male protagonists in order
to explore what are "essentially feminine situations and dilemmas"
(16)—and even maintaining that The Last Man conveys the more radical
feminist critique of the two. In a somewhat similar vein, McWhir, in her fine
critical introduction, suggests that in The Last Man "female figures
both fictional and mythic [most notably the Sibyl] dominate the symbolic
structure in spite of the dominance of male characters in the plot" (xxiii).
Roberts takes the argument an intriguing step further when she maintains not
only that Mary Shelley is the founding mother of science fiction but also that,
more specifically, her two sf novels—Frankenstein with its
"depiction of woman as alien" and The Last Man with its
"description of art as a redemptive force"—provide the essential
templates for "what is later divided into hard and soft science and science
fiction" (15), thus giving a novel twist to Aldiss’s original thesis.
Arguments like those of Roberts and McWhir
ought to be carefully considered, of course. My own chief reservation is an
admittedly affective one. The Last Man is, I think, guilty of the one
literary fault that no critical ingenuity can completely redeem: it is rather
dull. I almost find more excitement in the 82 lines of Byron’s end-of-humanity
poem, "Darkness" (conveniently reprinted in one of McWhir’s
appendices), than in the more than 350 closely printed pages of Mary Shelley’s
novel. McWhir herself points out that "In contrast to Frankenstein’s
tightly structured interlocking narratives and detailed scrutiny of a small cast
of characters, The Last Man is loosely structured and expansive" (xix);
and for me, at least, the assembled parts of the novel seldom possess enough
local vitality to compensate for the overall structural flaccidity. The Last
Man did enjoy a certain popularity immediately after its initial
publication, but this seems largely to have been based on the information that
the book was widely thought to reveal about the author’s associates,
especially Percy Shelley and Byron; and it may be that Mary Shelley herself
devoted too much energy to this aspect of the novel. The pleasures of the roman-à-clef
are real enough but tend to be among the least durable of literary
attractions. Today, the Nixon Administration and Watergate are still recent
enough that many of us enjoy John Ehrlichman’s The Company (1976)
beyond its technical merits as a competent, fast-paced thriller; but how many
readers open Spenser’s The Faerie Queene or even Dryden’s Absalom
and Achitophel mainly for the political and biographical parallels that once
stirred such interest? Admittedly, Lord Byron and Percy Shelley remain
fascinating personalities for many. Still, one would now probably turn to actual
biographies for the kind of insight into their lives and characters that in 1826
may have been only or chiefly available in fiction.
So I will probably not be assigning The
Last Man to my students. But those teachers of sf who wish to do so will
find McWhir’s edition ideal for their purposes. As in the Broadview Frankenstein,
the text is annotated by a series of footnotes that convey useful and needed
information without becoming too obtrusive; and the appendices offer an even
wider selection of supporting texts—contemporary works on the same theme, a
selection of plague literature, poems by Mary Shelley, contemporary reviews, and
much else—that are pertinent in one way or another to the serious study of the
novel.
The three secondary works under review here—John
Williams’s critical biography and the two collections of critical essays
edited by Michael Eberle-Sinatra and by Betty T. Bennett and Stuart Curran,
respectively—will probably be of less interest than the two editions to most
readers, especially to those whose main interest in Mary Shelley concerns her
place in the history of science fiction. All three volumes are dominated by the
idea of "the other Mary Shelley," a phrase that forms the title of an
influential book published in 1993 by Mary Shelley scholars Audrey Fisch, Anne
Mellor, and Esther Schor, and that registers an important development in Mary
Shelley criticism over the past decade. Essentially, "the other Mary
Shelley" means two things: that Mary Shelley was something other than just
Percy Shelley’s wife and that Mary Shelley is something other than just the
author of Frankenstein. The first sense can be unambivalently welcomed.
To be sure, we need to remember that being Percy’s wife and widow was a major,
sometimes almost an obsessive, component in her sense of herself; so that, for
instance, she attached great importance to the work of her later years (notably
her four-volume 1839 edition of The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley)
that was devoted to reviving Percy’s flagging posthumous reputation and to
establishing his place among the very finest poets, thinkers, and human beings.
But any notion that our interest in Mary Shelley’s writing is a kind of
appendage to a sovereign interest in Percy Shelley’s writing certainly ought
to be gone forever. Frankenstein is today more widely read and discussed
than any other single work of British Romanticism; and, as we have seen, its
importance, compared to that of Percy Shelley’s poetry, is quite different and
in some ways superior.
But the second meaning of "the other Mary
Shelley"—that we ought to move beyond Mary Shelley as the author of Frankenstein
and take much fuller cognizance of her other novels, her short stories, her
criticism, her biographical pieces, and her travel writing—seems to me more
dubious. An interesting general problem is at stake here. The idea of the unsung
masterpiece is such a powerful commonplace of literary criticism that one may
hesitate to point out that often—or usually—books are unsung because they
contain little or nothing worth singing about. To some degree, this hesitancy is
proper. Literary value remains the most difficult problem in the entirety of
criticism, and by far the least satisfactorily theorized; thus it is only
sensible, as C.S. Lewis used to maintain, to be somewhat tentative in our value
judgments, especially our negative ones. Just as Anglo-American criminal law is
supposed to be based on Sir William Blackstone’s principle (alluded to in Frankenstein)
that it is better for ten guilty defendants to go free than for a single
innocent defendant to be punished, so one would rather see a multitude of texts
receive more attention than they really deserve than see even one text unfairly
neglected. Nonetheless, the problem of value, however difficult, must be faced
sooner or later; and, in the current instance, it seems clear to me that Frankenstein
is so overwhelmingly more significant not only than The Last Man but than
anything else its author ever wrote, that criticism which evades this fact is
bound, in the long run, to look rather unbalanced and eccentric.
Such, in my view, is the case with the two
critical anthologies to be discussed here. The Bennett-Curran Mary Shelley in
her Times contains fifteen essays, two of which are devoted in whole or in
large part to Frankenstein, while Eberle-Sinatra’s Mary Shelley’s
Fictions has fourteen essays, three of which deal substantially with the
same text. The implication thus conveyed—that Frankenstein is just one
of many important works by its author, and not necessarily more privileged than Matilda
(written 1819), say, or Valperga (1823)—is not, I suspect, one that
will ever gain favor with any considerable number of readers. This is not to say
that much of the material gathered in these two volumes is not, in its own way,
intelligent and worthwhile; but the audience to which the books are addressed is
pretty clearly that of Mary Shelley specialists, not general readers and
certainly not students of sf.
A few of the essays, however, may well be of
interest to readers of this journal. In the Bennett-Curran collection, the
outstanding example is William St Clair’s "The Impact of Frankenstein,"
which employs both quantitative and conceptual tools to trace the reception of
the novel, from its first printing in 1818—when it made more money than all of
Percy Shelley’s writings together earned in his lifetime—through the stage
adaptations that were the most popular forum for the Frankenstein story during
the Victorian age, to the twentieth-century film versions by directors from
James Whale to Mel Brooks. St Clair argues that the main impact of Frankenstein
has been to inculcate a conservative fear of radical change and experiment—"the
direct opposite," as he notes, "of what the author and her
collaborator [i.e., Percy Shelley] hoped for and intended" (56). Mention
might also be made of Betty T. Bennett’s "‘Not this time, Victor’:
Mary Shelley’s Reversioning of Elizabeth, from Frankenstein to Faulkner."
This essay focuses on one of the less frequently discussed characters in Mary
Shelley’s first novel—Elizabeth Lavenza, Victor’s beloved—mainly in
order to contrast her with the far less passive and more defiant Elizabeth Raby
in the author’s last novel. Two of the better essays in the volume are, as it
happens, about The Last Man. Samantha Webb’s "Reading the End of
the World: The Last Man, History, and the Agency of Romantic
Authorship" constructs the novel as vitally concerned with the vocation of
authorship in Mary Shelley’s own time, as contrasted both with the ancient
world of the Roman Sibyl, when writing could possess grave religious and
political significance, and with the post-apocalyptic world of Lionel Verney,
the eponymous last man, in whose time, as Webb points out, writing is
"obsolete for all but the most self-reflexive purposes" (133). Perhaps
even more compelling is Constance Walker’s psychoanalytic "Kindertotenlieder:
Mary Shelley and the Art of Losing," which uses Freud’s Schreber
case-history and Melanie Klein’s theory of mourning in order to read The
Last Man as a meditation on loss but also, and crucially, on the survival of
loss.
In Eberle-Sinatra’s anthology, the
outstanding offering is Marie Mulvey-Roberts’s "The Corpse in the Corpus:
Frankenstein, Rewriting Wollstonecraft and the Abject," which
synthesizes literary and biographical scholarship with Julia Kristeva’s theory
of the abject in order to make an arresting argument that "Frankenstein is
a parasitic text, being both necrophobic and necrophiliac, that feeds off the
nurturing parenting texts that have given it life" (199). The title of Nora
Crook’s "In Defence of the 1831 Frankenstein" is startling,
not only because of the growing critical consensus in favor of the 1818 edition,
but also because Crook is the general editor of the current standard scholarly
edition of Mary Shelley—the 1996 Novels and Selected Works of Mary Shelley
brought out by William Pickering—whose own text of Frankenstein is
based on the 1818 version. But the article turns out to be not a call to reverse
the general preference but simply a detailed empirical argument to the effect
that the difference between the two editions is less than has generally been
supposed. Mention should also be made here of Eberle-Sinatra’s own
"Gender, Authorship and Male Domination: Mary Shelley’s Limited Freedom
in Frankenstein and The Last Man," which essentially extends
Robin Roberts’s concept of these as "codedly feminine" novels,
though Eberle-Sinatra does not seem aware of A New Species. Finally, sf
scholars perusing this collection may wish to have a look at the two pieces
exclusively on The Last Man by Sophie Thomas and Julia M. Wright; Wright’s
essay is especially notable for employing current theory of nationality and
nationalism by writers such as Homi Bhabha and Benedict Anderson in order to
analyze the conceptual geography of the novel.
Like the two critical collections, John
Williams’s biography, Mary Shelley: A Literary Life, also takes the
authorship of Frankenstein to be only one among many aspects of Mary
Shelley’s life, though this emphasis is, I think, more logical here than in
the anthologies. Critics are free to write about whichever texts seem
interesting and important to them, but a biographer must attend to what the
subject of the biography actually did. What Mary Shelley did, mainly, was to
read and write, and to associate with others who did the same. Indeed, though
the subtitle of Williams’s volume is evidently dictated by the name of the
series—"Literary Lives"—in which it is published, it seems clear
that Mary Shelley’s was a literary life more profoundly and in more different
ways than is the case with most writers. It is not just that her parentage, her
marriage, and a great many of her friendships were all in one way or another
literary. Many of the actual events of her life—her famous elopement with
Percy Shelley, for instance—seem modeled on the sentimental and sensational
fiction of her time; and Williams interestingly suggests that she was herself
intensely aware of the fact. At the same time, one impulse behind the
composition of her own fiction was the desire to make sense of her life and to
sort out her feelings about her various tribulations: so that life and
literature shaped one another for Mary Shelley in unusually complex and
multidirectional ways. It is thus quite fitting that Williams should announce
that his "narrative of Mary Shelley’s literary life has tended to
resemble her own fictional storylines" (180). Then too—and this is one of
the facts that Williams most usefully stresses—Mary Shelley became (far more
than Percy ever did) an emphatically professional writer, and, like most
professional writers, she was often motivated by the simple and inescapable need
to earn a living.
Compared to life, literature can be variously
considered as an escape from it, or as a degraded second-hand version of it, or
as an improvement upon it. In any case, Mary Shelley’s life contained a good
deal that she must have wished improved. She never knew her mother, since Mary
Wollstonecraft died of complications arising from her daughter’s birth. She
adored her father (to whom Frankenstein is dedicated), but William Godwin
was consistently unable or unwilling to allow his daughter the close
relationship with him that she craved (though he did not hesitate to cadge money
from her on numerous occasions). She loathed Godwin’s second wife, Mary Jane
Clairmont, and a desire to escape from her stepmother’s household was surely
one factor that led her to run off, at the age of sixteen, with the
already-married Percy Shelley. Mary did adore Percy, however, at least during
the early years of their association; and Percy, as a lover and later as a
husband, was far more passionate and sympathetic than the cold, aloof Godwin
ever was as a father. But Percy’s treatment of Mary was often irresponsible,
in both material and emotional terms; for one thing, "free love,"
which Godwin had preached and which Percy Shelley practiced, tended to exact a
high price from the women involved. Percy’s ultimate irresponsibility, of
course, was the suicidally dangerous sailing adventure of 1822, which left Mary
a widow less than two months before her twenty-fifth birthday. She lived on
until 1851—attaining what almost counts as a ripe old age by the standards of
the second-generation Romantics—but for the rest of her life she was haunted
by feelings of guilt for having loved her husband imperfectly during his last
years; she also had to contend with the related threats of poverty and of Sir
Timothy Shelley, her petty, tyrannical, miserly father-in-law. Worst of all,
surely, she lived with the consciousness of having survived all but one of her
children. Though evidently attractive to more than one man, she never remarried.
Some familiarity with Mary Shelley’s life
thus makes it easy to understand why, though quite privileged in certain ways—she
knew a fairly high percentage of the contemporaries whom the typical intelligent
time-traveler would wish to meet—she nonetheless gravitated, in her work,
toward the theme of the lonely outsider. True enough, this theme was generally
prominent in British Romanticism (and in other romanticisms too) and so might
well have figured in Mary Shelley’s writing even if her life had been one
triumphal happiness after another. Still, no one but the most naïvely dogmatic
formalist can fail to sense a connection between her own frequent loneliness—from
1812 through 1814, for example, her father forced her to spend most of her time
in faraway Dundee, Scotland, living with a family whom she had never even met
before—and her authorship of one of the supreme literary treatments of
loneliness. Part of the genius of Frankenstein is that it paints a
brilliant double portrait of the outsider. For all of Victor Frankenstein’s
idealizing (and somewhat unconvincing) insistence upon the idyllic happiness of
his family circle when he was growing up—and upon his perfect friendship with
Clerval and his perfect love for Elizabeth—he is fundamentally a loner, as is
suggested and symbolized by the fact that his own choices indirectly lead to the
death of nearly everyone supposedly dear to him. In his essential solitude
Victor is at one with his creature. One might say of the two of them what the
historian and novelist David Caute has said of the relationship between master
and slave—that what they share in common is more tragic than what separates
them. Indeed, it is not exactly a mistake that (despite no explicit warrant in
Mary Shelley’s text) the term "Frankenstein" has long been commonly
used to refer to the (technically unnamed) creature as well as to the scientist.
After all, a man normally bears the same name as his father, and Victor’s
creation is very much a chip off the old block—with the interesting twist,
however, that Victor’s isolation is mainly the result of his own actions and
attitudes, whereas circumstances never really give the monster a chance to form
the human bonds he ardently desires. I think that the depth and intensity with
which Frankenstein conveys the horrors of solitariness—which are
delineated in a way that no non-sf novel could approximate—are no small part
of the novel’s enduring fascination. I also think it no accident that the most
memorable treatments of the Frankenstein story after Mary Shelley are those that
most vividly emphasize the same theme—I mean the Universal films Frankenstein
(1931) and Bride of Frankenstein (1935) by the famously lonely homosexual
director James Whale. In Mary Shelley’s novel it is clearly Victor’s moral
responsibility (and within his power) to alleviate his creature’s loneliness,
as the creature himself points out; but Victor does the very opposite. Mary
Shelley knew what it felt like to have a father like that, and also to be
treated similarly by many others in her life, including sometimes even her own
husband. In middle age she confessed to her journal that her entire life had led
to "a state of loneliness no other human being ever before I believe
endured—Except Robinson Crusoe" (qtd in Williams, 162).
Overall, Williams narrates this sad but
vitally creative life in an adequate fashion, though by no means a brilliant
one. His volume has, indeed, a number of shortcomings. The style is never more
than serviceable and is not infrequently less than that; sometimes it is so
awkward as to cause genuine confusion. He also often adopts the annoying habit
of telling us with placid certainty what Mary Shelley was thinking about this or
that, or, in the odd syntax he tends to favor, what she "will have
thought." A more serious flaw is the relative (though not absolute) lack of
cultural analysis and contextualization. Mary Shelley’s life, we should
remember, encompassed one of the most fascinating and tumultuous periods in
British history, economically, militarily, politically, culturally,
scientifically, and in many other ways; moreover, few of her contemporaries were
more alive than Mary Shelley to the changes about her, from the ground-breaking
publications of Erasmus Darwin to the proto-totalitarian development of the
despotic British state, from the new poetic vistas opened by Wordsworth and
Coleridge to the embryonic growth of the English working class. Yet this ferment
goes generally unremarked by Williams. His method is less that of the cultural
historian than of the soap-opera narrator, concerned with the personal
relationships among a particular group of individuals more than with any larger
picture.
On the positive side of the ledger, however,
Williams’s biography does provide a concise account, informed by the most
recent scholarship, of the major facts of Mary Shelley’s life, and in that way
can be recommended as an introduction to the subject. He is reasonably deft in
weaving together accounts of her various publications with the narrative of her
life, though, unsurprisingly, he tends to read her novels in an extremely
biographical fashion, often stressing the roman-à-clef aspect more than
some readers may think useful. Yet this approach is not without its rewards.
Williams points out that Mary Shelley’s fiction was, after all, valued by its
first readers largely for the information it was assumed to provide about
herself and her circle (it should be stressed, as Williams fails to do, that
Mary Shelley and her friends—especially Lord Byron—in many ways count as the
world’s first literary celebrities), and he persuasively argues that, owing to
the censorship imposed by her father-in-law, Sir Timothy, she was often able to
be more candid in her novels than in her nonfictional writing. Though Williams’s
Mary Shelley is far from the work of biographical art that its subject
deserves, it contains much—and not only in its more obvious, inevitable
details—that a truly great biography would encompass.
One detail struck me with particular force.
Three years after Mary Shelley’s death, a memorial sculpture of her husband
and her was constructed; a photograph of it appears on the dustjacket of
Williams’s book. The memorial is done in Pietà style, and shows a
sorrowful, compassionate Mary cradling the drowned Percy—thus ratifying the
analogy between Percy Shelley and Christ that Mary Shelley frequently maintained
in her writing about him. Though it may seem odd that Mary is herself thus
represented as the mother of the man whose lover and wife she actually was, this
aspect of the sculpture might well have its own emotional accuracy. As she lived
to an age a full generation beyond that attained by Percy, and as she solemnly
devoted herself to tending to the needs, as she saw them, of his posthumous
reputation, perhaps Mary did come to feel maternal toward the older man who had
once swept her off her teenage feet. In any event, the Pietà imagery
seems appropriate, and the memorial may well quicken one’s impulse to hail
Mary. She was not the mother of God or of Percy Shelley, and her life resembled
the legendary career of the Madonna little more closely than does that of the
rock diva who currently bears the title. But many of us will always revere her
as the mother of science fiction.
I will conclude with an issue which, though
minor, can—I assure you— become quite annoying after one has read enough
about Mary Shelley. Her increasing prominence means that we will just have to
adjust ourselves to the fact that two canonical English authors not only share
the same surname but also were intimately connected to one another, in both
personal and literary terms, and hence will frequently be discussed in the same
context. To refer to "Shelley" and "Mary Shelley," as was
once all but universal and remains common, is confusing and at least faintly
sexist. To reverse the procedure (so that, for instance, one might refer to
Percy as "Shelley’s husband") is now becoming popular, but only
dubiously mends the sexism and does nothing to mend the confusion. The only good
solution is to hit a few more keys and refer consistently to "Mary
Shelley" and "Percy Shelley." This strict equality of
denomination is not only pellucid but also, I think, entirely appropriate for
the most remarkable literary couple of all time.
WORKS CITED
Asimov, Isaac. "Introduction." The
Rest of the Robots. London: Panther, 1968. 9-12.
Crook, Nora and Pamela Clemit, eds. The
Novels and Selected Works of Mary Shelley. 8 vols. London: Pickering and
Chatto, 1996.
Fisch, Audrey A., Anne K. Mellor, and Esther
H. Schor, eds. The Other Mary Shelley: Beyond "Frankenstein."
New York: Oxford UP, 1993.
Freedman, Carl. Critical Theory and Science
Fiction. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2000.
Roberts, Robin. A New Species: Gender and
Science in Science Fiction. Urbana: Illinois UP, 1993.
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