Читать книгу Children of Prometheus: Romanticism and Its Legacy - Gregory Maertz - Страница 11

Written by Mary when she was only nineteen, Frankenstein is among the most enduring icons of Romanticism, and in recent years it has attracted as much attention from critics as any text in the canon. As the only daughter of Godwin and Wollstonecraft’s ill-fated union, Mary was “nursed and fed with a love of glory. To be something great and good was the precept given me by my father.”12 Emily Sunstein dismisses as inaccurate the assumption still accepted by some that Mary received no systematic education prior to falling under the influence of Shelley. “Living with Godwin was an education; she loved leaning; he encouraged her, and gave her the background Wollstonecraft had not had and regretted having missed.”13 Years later, Jane (later Claire) Clairmont corroborated her stepsister’s account of the tenor and routine of their Godwinian education:

All the family worked hard, learning and studying: we all took the liveliest interest in the great questions of the day: common topics, gossiping, scandal, found no entrance in our circle, for we had been brought up by Mr. Godwin to think it was the greatest misfortune to be fond of the world, or worldly pleasures or of luxury or money; and that there was no greater happiness than to think well of those around us, and to delight in being useful or pleasing to them.14

Godwin described the spirit that governed Mary’s education in this way: “I am anxious that she should be brought up like a philosopher even like a Cynic. It will add greatly to the strength and worth of her character.”15 Her father’s choice of a second wife was only the first of devastating paternal rebuffs she suffered; the other was his reaction to her elopement with the older married poet, which may be seen as an effort to establish independence from Godwin’s control over her discourse.16 As the precocious child grew into a young woman and emerged as an author, her father’s texts provided the authoritative discourse with which she contended in an effort to establish her own distinctive voice. Her earliest literary efforts were, of course, published by the Juvenile Library, her stepmother’s publishing venture, and Mellor suggests that there is “a peculiar symbolic resonance” in the loss of Mary’s early writings which were “accidentally” left behind at a Parisian hotel: “Mary’s first impulse in her new life with the poet Shelley was to establish her own literary credentials, to assert her own voice, and to assume a role as his intellectual companion and equal.”17 But at least initially she merely exchanged one male tutor for another; it was only with her emergence as an author that she attained liberation from both father and husband.

While a number of candidates for Mary’s precursor text are named or cited in the novel, including those by Milton, Plutarch, and Goethe, St. Leon is the “adult” text for which Frankenstein serves as a reduction, translation, and revision. Its author combined the functions of Mary’s father and mother as well as her chief teacher and her chief literary “precursor,” and yet the most striking structural and thematic correspondences between Frankenstein and St. Leon arise from the urgency of Mary’s efforts to mediate her Godwinian education by re-writing one of its canonical texts. In a modification of the Russian linguist I. M. Lotman’s model of the “reception” and “appropriation” of adult texts by children, Michael Holquist suggests that “not only do children thus limit the scripts of the playlets their parents enact with them; they also limit the size of the cast. That is, for children all possible players in the world’s drama are reduced to the characters experienced in the family culture.”18 Barbara Johnson has written that “Frankenstein can be read as the story of the experience of writing Frankenstein,” but actually the writing of Frankenstein is about the re-writing of St. Leon.19 This accounts for the parallels between St. Leon and Frankenstein with respect to their dramatic personae. The model for St. Leon’s family is, of course, Godwin’s own deceased first wife, daughters, and stepson; and in Frankenstein Mary sustains this pattern, less as a way of exorcising an Electra complex by gender substitution (in this sense Victor and Alphonse Frankenstein can be seen as surrogates for Shelley and Godwin; Elizabeth is Fanny Imlay’s double) than as a means of completing her literary education. As such, education assumes the form, initially, of appropriating parental speech patterns and narratives. Once this step is successfully completed, the child moves on to the second stage in the process of Bildung: the articulation and creation of her own original discourse.

Bakhtin used the term “novel” to denote “whatever force is at work within a given literary system to reveal the limits and the artificial constraints of that system.” According to this view, “literary systems are comprised of canons and novelization is fundamentally anticanonical.”20 This characterization applies to both St. Leon and Frankenstein, since each work is a militantly anti-canonical, composite literary form that explores the outer boundaries of the novel’s possibilities as a genre and combines, appropriates, and fuses other narrative sub-genres, including the Gothic, travel, and sentimental fiction. Bakhtin argues that the content and images of the novel are therefore “profoundly double-voiced and double-languaged” because they “seek to objectivize the struggle with all types of internally persuasive discourse that had at one time held sway over the author.”21 One such sub-genre exhibited in Frankenstein that illustrates this process is the Bildungsroman, in which the process of intertextual dialogue has been fused with the dialectic of education.

The composition of Frankenstein may, in fact, be compared to the manner in which children learn to appropriate adult speech for themselves and the means by which a writer distinguishes their voice from those of precursors and literary authority figures. The first process is analogous to translation in that it involves assimilation, rearrangement, a certain amount of necessary distortion, and simplification of the parental discourse adopted by the child as models in developing their own voice and speech patterns. Lotman describes language acquisition as a mediating process combining translation, appropriation, and reconfiguration:

The child’s contact with the world of adults is constantly imposed on him by the subordinated position of his world in the general hierarchy of the culture of adults. However, this contact itself is possible only as an act of translation. How can such translation be accomplished? . . . [T]he child establishes a correspondence between some texts familiar and comprehensible to him in “his” language and the texts of “adults” . . . . In such a translation—of one whole text by another whole text—the child discovers an extraordinary abundance of “superfluous” words in “adult” texts. The act of translation is accompanied by a semantic reduction of the text . . . . The child reduces the semantic model obtained from [the language of adults] in such a way that translation into his own language of the texts flowing from without is possible.22

The child’s mediation of adult discourse thus may be likened to the reception of literary texts belonging to a foreign culture. In Les voix du silence (1951) André Malraux describes the process of cultural interaction in terms of a “conquest,” an “annexation,” a “possession” of the “foreign,” of that which is culturally “other,” and Bakhtin characterizes the impact of another’s discourse upon the writer as a dialectical opposition between the self and the other involving, first, the recognition of difference that is then followed by the struggle for individuation or originality:

When someone else’s ideological discourse is internally persuasive for us and acknowledged by us, entirely different possibilities open up. Such discourse is of decisive significance in the evolution of an individual’s consciousness: consciousness awakens to independent ideological life precisely in a world of alien discourses surrounding it, and from which it cannot initially separate itself . . . . One’s own discourse is gradually and slowly wrought out of other’s words that have been acknowledged and assimilated, and the boundaries are at first scarcely perceptible . . . . When such influences are laid bare, the half-concealed life lived by another’s discourse is revealed within the new context of the given author. When an influence is deep and productive, there is no external imitation, no simple act of reproduction but rather a further creative development of another’s discourse in a new context and under new conditions.23

In its mythical treatment of the necessity to struggle against even the most beloved presence in one’s life, Mary Shelley’s novel also reflects the centrality to Romanticism of Germaine de Staël’s maxim: “Force of mind is developed only by attacking power.”

The Monster’s acquisition of speech, reading skills, and, most importantly, the capacity to generate texts symbolically, replicates Mary’s education as a struggle with another’s, more powerful discourse. Within her narrative this process approximates the Lotman/Bakhtin paradigm according to which the Monster learns, first, by appropriating the discourse of the De Lacey family and of the books he finds in the “leathern portmanteau”: Milton, Plutarch, and Goethe, and, secondly, in articulating its own individuated discourse.24 In the Godwin household the categories of parents and authors were conflated, and the circle of family friends included prominent literary and cultural figures who were familiar to the children.25 Mary’s, and by extension, the Monster’s obsession with language reflects their shared struggle to gain command of a medium in which to express their own thoughts in the midst of many authoritative models of discourse: “By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment: I found that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds . . . . This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it.” (83) There is a remarkable parallel between the Monster’s language acquisition through a process of eavesdropping on the De Laceys and the famous anecdote of Mary and the other Godwin children hiding behind the sofa in order to hear Coleridge’s reading of the “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” How many countless times was this scene replicated over the years during visits by Wordsworth, Lamb, and Holcroft? An interesting irony disclosed in the dialogic process is how the Monster acquires and demonstrates a command over language that far surpasses the eloquence of any other figure in the novel. Indeed, the source of his eventual domination of Victor is not his superhuman strength, but his greater rhetorical power. It is also an irony of literary history that in securing her authorial identity with the endurance of Frankenstein Mary surpassed the success enjoyed by St. Leon, her primary precursor text, which Byron considered superior to Caleb Williams. And while Frankenstein continues to generate countless literary and cinematic spinoffs at a dizzying rate, Godwin’s novel, until recently, was only available in an antiquarian reprint.

A further instance of Mary’s identification with the Monster is found in their similar responses to maternal deprivation. Victor and Reginald are also motherless, and for both this loss is exacerbated by the deaths of other loved ones. Anne Mellor has described Frankenstein as “an analysis of the failure of the family, the damage wrought when the mother—or a nurturant parental love—is absent.”26 This is also the central theme of St. Leon, which is, as already suggested, a transparent redaction of the Godwin family experience, and Mary’s treatment of the orphan’s agony of the Monster illustrates Sigmund Freud’s view that “missing someone who is loved and longed for is the key to an understanding of anxiety.”27 John Bowlby, the English psychologist and biographer of Charles Darwin, modifies Freud’s observations on grief and separation anxiety to suggest a possible cause of Mary’s frequent bouts of anxiety during her many pregnancies:

States of anxiety and depression that occur during adult years, and also psychopathic conditions, can, it is held, be linked in a systematic way to the states of anxiety, despair, and detachment . . . that are so readily engendered whenever a young child is separated for long from his mother figure, whenever he expects a separation, and when, as sometimes happens, he loses her altogether.28

By virtue of a kind of sorcery akin to alchemy, Mary and the Monster seem to have been formed by a hermaphroditic father, who combines both the male and female principles of generation and whose powers of multiplication correspond to the recondite powers of the philosopher’s stone. As a descriptive term “hermaphroditic” is preferable to William Veeder’s “androgyne,” since androgyny refers only to proclivity or “sexual character,” while hermaphroditism actually has reference to actual sexual nature or capacity.29 Victor’s ability to create life from inanimate matter and Reginald’s multiple rebirths by means of the elixir vitae are methods of creating life that circumvent the female body but not the maternal principle. In a thinly veiled disguise for Godwin’s relationship to Mary and her half-sister Fanny, Reginald outlives his wife and appropriates the maternal role in his relationship to his daughters. The life-giving powers exhibited by Victor and Reginald correspond to Mary’s own birth in which the maternal principle was eliminated in Wollstonecraft’s death. Through their traumatic births and status as orphans the Monster stands revealed as her fictive other.

The main narrative and thematic vehicle in both novels—the perversion or misuse of science, old and new—is, in fact, a distortion of procreation, and the bridge between alchemy and natural philosophy is the discovery of the means of creating or perpetuating life by a subtraction of the female principle from procreation. Ironically, the stain of mortality is removed from persons not of woman born. The elimination of the female principle in procreation invites Mary’s critique of the monstrosity of neglectful parenting. Testifying to the power of environmental conditioning in childhood, which is a fundamental teaching in Godwin’s Political Justice, both motherless protagonists reveal themselves to be neglectful parents in their own right. And Victor’s feckless record as the “parent” of the offspring of his scientific labors is symbolic of the neglectful male parents in Mary’s personal life—Godwin and Shelley, Victor rationalizes the abandonment of his child on grounds not usually associated with maternalism, that is, aesthetic criteria, insisting “that no mortal could support the horror of that countenance”; even a “mummy endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch.” (43) There are strong parallels here to Godwin’s “monstrous” behavior as a parent, for we know that he not only opposed Mary’s decision to elope with Shelley, but he also refused to claim or identify the body of Fanny Godwin following her suicide on October 9, 1816. (Like her half-sister, this doubly orphaned young woman had, in her father’s view, indelibly stained the family’s honor.) The novel also provides subversive commentary on the egregious behavior of other parents in the Shelley circle: Percy, Claire Clairmont, Byron, and even Mary herself. Byron gained custody of his daughter Allegra only to have her placed in a convent where she died of neglect. The frenetic wanderlust (and the woeful traveling conditions they endured) of the Shelleys may be directly implicated in the deaths of their children Clara I (March 6, 1815), Clara II (September 24, 1818), and William on June 7, 1819. Perhaps of all acts the most reprehensible was Shelley’s abandonment of Harriet and their children when he eloped with Mary. In what can only be reckoned a display of astonishing insensitivity, Percy and Mary were then married less than three weeks after Harriet, who was pregnant at the time, drowned herself in the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Considering this monstrous record of neglect, which clearly contravened the teachings of Godwin by which the Shelleys claimed to be fashioning their lives, the Chancery judgment delivered on March 17, 1817 denying Percy custody of his children with Harriet could have come as no surprise and, respecting the moral universe of both St. Leon and Frankenstein, was certainly justified.30

With the appropriation and rewriting of St. Leon Mary attains independence, as a creator of texts, from both her father and her husband. For her husband, she serves as an extension of her father; her elopement and marriage to Shelley represent efforts on his part to attain consanguinity with her father, his great idol, through the instrumentality of her mind and body. At the same time, it reflects Percy’s attempt to usurp Godwin’s role as Mary’s primary educator and literary precursor. We can see this as an attempted exclusionary gesture whose objective is to assume control over her continuing development as a writer. In Frankenstein Mary therefore seeks to perform a double divestiture not only of parental influence, but also of authoritative discourse associated with both dominating literary figures in her life, her father and her husband. In this way the novel serves as a powerful reminder that literary texts function instrumentally. In Holquist’s phrase, “they serve as a prosthesis of the mind. As such, they have a tutoring capacity that materially effects change by getting from one stage of development to another,” and in its dual capacity as an enabling device and as a necessary stage in the dialectic of education leading to the attainment of a secure authorial identity, Frankenstein enacts for its author and protagonists a dual process of soul and voice formation.31 Emulating Reginald’s and Victor’s search for ideal companionship, empowering knowledge and opportunities for doing some action that is “great and good,” the Monster’s odyssey begins with the discovery that he lives in a hostile world and that he has been rejected by his “father” and denied the right to engender his own offspring. His odyssey or Bildungsreise ends with the murderous inversion of Godwinian altruism as he lashes out at Victor, destroying all those with whom he enjoys emotional intimacy in order to render his condition identical to his own. The rebellion of the Monster, which proceeds from inarticulate rage to the discovery of speech and the art of discourse, invites comparisons with Mary’s efforts, first, to assimilate and, secondly, to overcome her father’s authoritative discourse, a process which culminates in her marriage to Shelley and the nearly simultaneous inception of her novel.

Recognizing that even the most persuasive interpretation may fail to convince, I would hesitate to suggest that the genesis and development of Mary’s novel is fully explained as the result of intertextual dialogue with Godwin’s St. Leon. Neither would I reduce the text’s function to mapping her development as a writer. But, as I have attempted to show, such an interpretation brings us closer to the novel’s textual and psychological matrices and it delineates the central autotherapeutic function of writing. Moreover, by adopting Bakhtin’s dialogic framework we gain a more pronounced awareness of the struggle involved in moving beyond mere appropriation of another’s authoritative discourse to the production of discourse that is distinctly one’s own. In contrast to those critics who have inserted Frankenstein into or extracted the novel from a patriarchal tradition, the preceding discussion should make it is possible to reject both alternatives. The tradition into which we should place Frankenstein is that which makes apparent its structure and language as empowering psychological scaffolding. Godwin’s St. Leon provided Mary with a dialogic partner in the struggle for self-expression, and Frankenstein is a reflection of the will to articulate her own consciousness and to attain individuation apart from the discourse associated with the “strong precursors” in her personal and literary experience. What makes the intertextual dialogue forming Frankenstein of particular interest is that the authoritative discourse with which its young author contended was formed by the texts of her father, mother, and husband—a body of texts that she habitually and even ritually read at home and on her mother’s grave in the St. Pancras churchyard. This is the tradition formed by St. Leon. From this perspective Mary’s novel can be seen to replicate intertextual dialogue with a text that we can readily identify, St. Leon, and because of Shelley’s filial relationship with its author, it is possible to extrapolate from this process of intertextual dialogue to her development and growth as a writer. The end result of this process is the acquisition and exercise of genuine cultural power.

1 Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. Ed. Michael Holquist. Trans. Caryl Emerson (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982), 345.

2 In citing St. Leon but not pursuing the extensive thematic and plot correspondences with Frankenstein, recent studies follow Burton R. Pollin, “Philosophical and Literary Sources of Frankenstein,” Comparative Literature 17 (1965): 97–108. See, for example, Chris Baldick, In Frankenstein’s Shadow (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1987), 37; Anne K. Mellor, Mary Shelley: Her Life, Her Fiction, Her Monsters (New York and London: Routledge reprint, 1989), 85; and Emily Sunstein, Mary Shelley: Romance and Reality (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 1991, paperback edition), 23–24.

3 Emily Sunstein takes a neutral stance in the dispute over the character of the second Mrs. Godwin as compared to the first and reminds the reader that Mary’s singularly possessive attachment to her father was such that “no woman under Heaven, not even Mary Wollstonecraft had she descended from it, would have been readily accepted as her father’s consort by the four-year-old Mary Godwin,” Mary Shelley: Romance and Reality, 2.

4 The British Critic (July 1795), 95.

5 William Godwin, St. Leon: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century, 4 Volumes (London: Printed for G.G. & J. Robinson, R. Noble, printer, 1799), Vol. I, ix. Hereafter all intra-textual references are to this edition.

6 William Godwin, An Enquiry Concerning Political Justice (Third Edition, 1798), ed. Isaac Kramnick (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1976), 762.

7 Baldick, op. cit., 26.

8 Mary Shelley, Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus (1818 edition), in The Mary Shelley Reader, ed. Betty T. Bennett and Charles E. Robinson (New York: Oxford UP, 1990), 30. All intra-textual references are to this edition.

9 Masao Miyoshi, The Divided Self: A Perspective on the Literature of the Victorians (New York: New York UP, 1969), 86.

10 Gary Kelly is persuaded that Mary’s father “felt himself to be in possession of great and terrible secrets: the philosophy of Political Justice which he could not use for the benefit of mankind, but which, on the contrary, made him an object of fear and loathing,” The English Jacobin Novel, 1780–1805 (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1976), 209. Emily Sunstein (op. cit., 20) notes that Godwin’s contemporaries “compared him to a great, if failed explorer on humanity’s behalf, a Promethean paradigm that Mary Godwin would immortalize in her scientist, Frankenstein, whose confidant, Walton, is a polar explorer” and would-be altruist savior of mankind.

11 “The Female in Frankenstein,” in Feminism and Romanticism, ed. Anne K. Mellor (Bloomington, Indiana: Indiana UP, 1988), 224.

12 Journals of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. Abinger MSS, 21 (October 1838).

13 Emily Sunstein, Mary Shelley: Romance and Reality, 38–39: “All the children were deeply influenced by him, but Mary was his star disciple, the most powerfully engaged and permanently affected, the one from whom he demanded and gave most. Her most felicitous, intimate, even thrilling intercourse with her father was that of pupil and teacher, and most inordinate as her later tributes to him might seem, it was homage to mentorship that few fathers gave their daughters.”

14 Journals of Claire Clairmont, ed. M.K. and D. M. Stocking (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1968), 18.

15 Letter to W.T. Baxter, 8 June 1812 in Shelley and His Circle, 1773–1822, ed. Keith Neil Cameron and Donald H. Reiman (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1961–73), 3, 102.

16 Evidence for Mary’s idolization of her father is found in a letter: “Until I met Shelley, I may justly say that Godwin was my God,” The Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, ed. Betty T. Bennet (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins UP, 1980), 1, 296.

17 Anne K. Mellor, Mary Shelley: Her Life, Her Fiction, Her Monsters (New York and London: Routledge, 1989), 23.

18 Michael Holquist, Dialogism: Bakhtin and his World (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), 82.

19 Barbara Johnson, “My Monster/My Self,” Diacritics 12 (1982): 8.

20 From the author’s introduction, Mikhail Bakhtin, The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, xxxi.

21 Bakhtin, op. cit., 348.

22 I.M. Lotman, “On the Reduction and Unfolding of Sign Systems,” in Semiotics and Structuralism: Readings from the Soviet Union, ed. Henryk Baran (White Plains, NY: International Arts and Sciences Press, Inc., 1976), 302.

23 Bakhtin, op. cit., 345, 347.

24 All of these works figured prominently in Godwin’s scheme of education for his children, but Goethe’s Werther carried especially deep emotional resonance for the Godwin family because William was reading it at the time of Wollstonecraft’s death.

25 Regular visitors to the Godwin household included William Wordsworth, Charles Lamb, S.T. Coleridge, William Hazlitt, Thomas Holcroft, Joseph Johnson, Samuel Rogers, John Flaxman, J.M.W. Turner, Maria Edgeworth, Helen Maria Williams, and Charlotte Smith.

26 Mellor, op. cit., 39.

27 Sigmund Freud, Inhibitions, Symptoms and Anxiety (1926) in The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud (London: The Hogarth Press, 1953–1974), Vol. XX, 136–137.

28 John Bowlby, Attachment and Loss, Separation: Anxiety and Anger (New York: Basic Books, 1973), Vol. II, 4–5.

29 William Veeder, Mary Shelley and Frankenstein—The Fate of Androgyny (Chicago: U of Chicago Press, 1986).

30 See Chapter Six, “Deaths by Land and Sea,” in Robert Gittings and Jo Manton, Claire Clairmont and the Shelleys, 1798–1879 (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1992), 66–73.

31 Holquist, op. cit., p. 83.