The Lady and Her Monsters (21 page)

Thy messenger, to render up the tale of what we are.

Victor Frankenstein's desire to make the creature stems, in part, from a desire to learn about that evil snatcher he knows as death. Just like the narrator in Shelley's poem, Frankenstein raids coffins and cemeteries, as well as death houses. This is done not only for practical reasons—he needs body parts to stitch together—but because he yearns, through the process of decomposition, to learn what death, and life, is all about. “I collected bones from charnel houses . . . the dissecting room and the slaughter-houses furnished many of my material,” Frankenstein says, using almost the same words Percy Shelley had. Frankenstein's words are a combination of Shelley's childhood antics, a young adult's poetic musings, and the ideas spewed out by the natural philosophers of the time.

Although the similarities between Victor Frankenstein, the real-life scientists, and Percy Shelley were obvious—Mary even chose the name Victor as an homage to Percy, who had used that name in his youth because he felt it showed power and strength—Mary always maintained that no one, least of all her husband, had directly influenced her work. “I certainly did not owe the suggestion of one incident nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to my husband,” she adamantly wrote in the introduction to the 1831 text. “And yet for his incitement, it would never have taken the form in which it was presented to the world.”

What incitement was she referring to?

Most critics were also not only quick to show the similarities between
Frankenstein
and the works of natural philosophers like Humphry Davy, but also to point out the parallels to myths and legends of eras past, most especially because of the novel's second title:
The Modern Prometheus.

The legend of the Titan Prometheus was well known to Mary, as it was to Percy, who, during the time of Mary's writing, was also composing a work based on the Greek mythological figure. Percy's efforts culminated in 1820 with the publication of
Prometheus Unbound,
a four-act stage play.

The Greek legend told of Prometheus's efforts to help humanity by pitting himself against the powers of Zeus. Prometheus had tried to steal fire from Zeus so he could bequeath it to humans. But when Zeus learned he was being deceived, he became enraged and punished Prometheus by shackling him to a rock for eternity. To inflict further punishment, Zeus sent a bird, most often described as an eagle, to devour Prometheus's liver, which regenerated day after day and was then again eaten by the same bird. In one famous version of the myth, it was Hercules who saved Prometheus. While traveling in the area, Hercules came across the Titan, unbound him, and killed the bird.

In the original myth, Prometheus, while troublesome, was seen as a source of strength. In later retellings, Prometheus morphed into a rebel, a youthful challenger to Zeus's almighty and omnipotent powers. It was his assault on something or someone bigger and more omniscient than himself that caused his downfall. In even further retellings, Prometheus not only stole fire, a symbol of knowledge and power, but was also accused of creating man from clay.

The comparison between Prometheus and Mary Shelley's Victor Frankenstein was not that hard to see. Just like Prometheus, Frankenstein also tried to steal what was most sacred from God: the ability to create man and control life. By questioning those powers that were beyond his control and level of understanding, he caused his own downfall.

Perhaps, some critics felt, the author had a great understanding of the philosophical debates and moral implications that arose from discussions about nature, the quest for knowledge and power, man versus God, and man's ability to create another entity without God's help. After all, at its most basic level, the book also spoke to society's fear that scientists were delving into regions unknown to them and would, by their own efforts and uncontrolled desires, create their own individual creatures to unleash on the world. The book was, some realized, a scathing critique of society, science, and religion. Given that, it was not surprising that people thought William Godwin had written it.

The Godwin family did not bother to correct reviewers. They were glad the author's true identity had not been discovered.

In June 1818, when William Godwin learned that
Frankenstein
would be critiqued in the
Quarterly Review,
he anxiously awaited the article's publication. But nothing came of it. “The article is very innocent,” he wrote to Mary. “They say that the man who has written the book is a
man of talents;
But that he employs his powers in a way disagreeable to them.”

None of the reviewers ever considered that a woman might have created the text. No one saw the subtle but evident signs: that the story took place within a nine-month period, a typical gestation period for a pregnancy. They also did not note the attachment disorders both Victor and the creature seemed to suffer from, nor that a woman would know that such disorders stem from the lack of a mother figure. The critics also missed the judgments directed toward a society that thought so little of women, which were plainly evident in the way the female characters were depicted. No one paid attention to or commented on those matters.

Claire Clairmont seemed to be the only one who expressed the significance of a woman's having written such a text: “Mary has just published her first work a novel called
Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus,
” she wrote Lord Byron in January 1818. “It is a most wonderful performance full of genius & the fiction is of so continued and extraordinary a kind as no one would imagine (to belong to) could have been written by so young a person. I am delighted & whatever private feelings of envy I may have at not being able to do so well myself yet all yields when I consider that she is a woman & will prove in time an ornament to us & an augment in our form.”

As the weeks passed, the critics continued to speculate that either Godwin or Shelley had written
Frankenstein
. In a way, they were right and wrong at the same time. By birth and marriage, Mary was both a Godwin and a Shelley.

Chapter 8

T
HE
A
NATOMY
A
CT

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

F
RIEDRICH
N
IETZSCHE,
B
EYOND
G
OOD AND
E
VIL

O
n August 27, 1818, Alexander Love, a gentleman in his late seventies living on the outskirts of Glasgow, awoke shortly after midnight, eager to begin another day of work. He also woke up his young grandson, a ten-year-old boy, and following a light breakfast and those personal ministrations an aging body and a young one required, they left their home and set out for their destination. It was by now nearing dawn, one of those balmy and windless early summer mornings where the humidity thickened the air and stuck to one's skin.

Much like his surname indicated, Mr. Love was a kindly, “inoffensive,” and “industrious” sort of fellow, and due to his personal disposition and his relatively advanced age, he neither sought nor ignited trouble with anyone who crossed his path. But trouble was about to find Mr. Love that morning.

As grandfather and grandson slowly walked the narrow and darkened streets, they saw thirty-year-old Matthew Clydesdale nearing them. Clydesdale was a weaver, but he was also a mean drunk, and when Love and Clydesdale met, the younger of the two was thoroughly and viciously inebriated. No one knows for certain what sparked their argument or what instigated the outburst, nor, for that matter, what was said between the two. But upon seeing the old man and the young boy, Clydesdale became so enraged he assaulted them both, brutally killing Mr. Love and severely injuring the boy.

Some newspapers reported that Clydesdale had used a pickaxe, while others said his hands had done the deed. Regardless of what method he had used, following the murder Clydesdale left the area and the two victims—one still breathing—by the wayside and walked toward his home. He arrived there with wet blood on his clothing, and when asked what had happened, he said some drunken fellows had attacked him and tried to rob him, and he had had to retaliate.

He didn't try to deny that he was a drunk and even acknowledged the conditions that overtook him when he drank too much. It was said that “there was something in the temper of Clydesdale when he drank spirituous liquors that his most intimate acquaintances never could fathom; and it was thought that he had momentary fits of derangements when in liquor.” Thus it was believed he had committed the murder and assault precisely because of the excessive amount of booze he had ingested.

Matthew Clydesdale was charged with murder and brought to trial on October 3, 1818, in the old High Court of Justiciary in Glasgow, before a Lord Gillies. For better or worse, his counsel turned out to be a young man named William Taylor, a rookie at his job, who had just passed his school tests and the Scottish bar exam that allowed him to practice law. Taylor had learned all he could about the case and intended to use every bit of information he had to get his client off. A lanky, skinny, and somber man, Taylor was, in the eyes of many, “cadaverous-looking,” given his paleness and his refusal to ever crack a smile. Peter Mackenzie, who years later wrote a detailed, albeit somewhat salacious, account of the events that transpired, described him as the very “picture of a potato boggle, fitted to scare away the crows.”

But while his looks may have been lacking, his powers of reason and persuasion were impressive. To a packed courtroom, he described what had occurred in grave but clear details, flinging his arms about for emphasis, intonating the highs and the lows, delivering for hours a sermon in a screeching timbre that resembled the cries of those angry crows he had been likened to. When he was done, dampened and somewhat disheveled, the audience applauded with abandon, but it wasn't clear if that was because they had been captivated by his account or because he was finally done.

Lord Gillies was equally and justly impressed by Taylor's speech, admiring the “uncommon style” and his eloquence. Still, despite all the rhetoric, he was not convinced of Clydesdale's innocence, and neither was the jury. Following a brief respite, Clydesdale was found guilty of murder, his sentence being death by hanging on November 4, 1818, between the hours of two and four
P.M
., as tradition demanded. Not only that, Lords Gillies and Succoth “decerned and adjudged that he shall be fed on bread and water only, till the day of his execution and that his body, after being so executed, shall be delivered up by the Magistrates of Glasgow, or the officers, to Dr. James Jeffrey, Professor of Anatomy in the University of Glasgow, there to be publicly dissected and anatomized.”

“Having shed man's blood,” the hanging judge added, “by man let his blood be shed.”

B
y the time
Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus
was published in early 1818, the study of anatomy across Europe was at an all-time high, and viable cadavers were becoming harder to find and increasingly valuable. The immoral act of unearthing and stealing corpses had become common practice, so much so that funerary rites that had been practiced for centuries had to be adjusted to secure eternal rest for the dearly departed. New apparatuses were erected by those who could afford them; called “coffin-collars,” they were cagelike iron structures that straddled the coffins and could be unlocked only by thick iron keys held by the mourners. These cages appeared to prevent body snatchers from getting their hands on the dead body, but resourceful thieves found other ways in. They dug tunnels from the sides, putting themselves in a position that allowed them to hit the coffins at the precise point where the head rested. From there, they cracked through the wood and dragged the body out by the head or the neck. Naturally, this process took longer and increased the risk of being discovered. Regardless of that, they continued on.

Cemeteries hired guards to protect the premises, and groups came together on their own as a sort of vigilante movement. But the height of the body-snatching business occurred during the winter, and those watchers soon realized they needed places not only to hide from the prospective thieves but also to protect themselves from the weather. Small round-shaped structures began to appear in graveyards across England, Scotland, and Ireland. Some were strips of wood nailed together, with a small porthole for viewing and in which a musket could be rested; there was also enough space to lay out a blanket. But others were more ornate: large, bleak, circular fortresses equipped with small working fireplaces; windows surrounding the structure; and space for a reasonably comfortable cot, blanket, and seat, all large enough for a group of watchers.

Some people also put up what they called mort houses. These impenetrable houses were protected by iron bars and offered just a single way in; the coffins rested inside until the bodies decomposed, and then they were buried in the earth. The doors and locks were so secure that grave robbers could not get past them, and if they tried, sophisticated booby traps were set off. Some people took the whole booby-trap business to a vicious extreme, lining the corpses and coffins with quicklime, so that a robber would find a nasty surprise if he cracked open the casket. But instead of quicklime, others used gunpowder, which went off as soon as the seal was broken. The booms were often heard in the nearby villages, signaling that someone had just joined the same people he had tried to disinter.

Attendance at anatomy classes continued to rise, with the attendees demanding that they also be given the opportunity to dissect the corpses. And they were all still particularly interested in the theory of galvanic electricity.

Giovanni Aldini—following his ill-fated attempt to resuscitate the corpse of George Foster—was no longer dabbling in such things, though he still believed he was capable of bestowing life-giving properties. When he returned to Italy, he decided that instead of reanimating the dead with a bolt of electricity, he would do something to preserve life from the damaging effects of fire by building a kind of fireproof armor.

But others continued their work on cadavers, seeing Aldini's experiments as just the beginning of work with galvanic electricity. New laws had to be implemented to stop the more grotesque experiments. In France, for example, an edict had to be passed against overusing cadavers because these so-called galvanic experiments had become spectacles for entertainment and simply a way to shock people.

This is where Matthew Clydesdale's fate was taking him, or at least his body. The deeds that were about to be performed on his body would bring about such infamy, they would be considered even worse than the act he committed himself.

When the courtroom audience learned his sentence would include dissection, “a deep shudder fell” over them, as it did over Matthew Clydesdale. Along with him there had been three other convicts tried that day—two were given pardons and another, a young boy named Ross, who had been charged with robbery, was also sentenced to die alongside Clydesdale. Together they were transferred to the old jail of Glasgow, which “was constantly guarded long before and after that period, with a strong picquet of thirty or forty soldiers.”

Though the sentence had startled Clydesdale, he was eventually overwhelmed by remorse and realized that nothing more could be done for him. In order to find solace for his soul and peace in what was left of his days, he sought God's help, and in this case it came in the shape of Dr. John Lockhart, the reverend of Blackfriars Church in Glasgow. Speaking to him, Clydesdale became very sorrowful for his actions.

Giving up drink and finding religion caused Clydesdale to mollify his temper and to ingratiate himself to the prison's longtime governor, John M'Gregor. Despite being “a powerful, strong-built man,” M'Gregor had a touch of tenderness in him, and Clydesdale found that part. Clydesdale had become such a well-behaved and model prisoner that a few days prior to his death, M'Gregor entered his cell carrying a bottle of porter for him. Maybe M'Gregor saw this as nothing more than an act of generosity, but he should have known better.

On seeing the amber elixir in its shiny bottle, Clydesdale perked up. He chugged down most of it in one gulp, then politely asked if he could keep the rest, including the bottle. Though it was against the judges' ruling—he could only have bread and water—M'Gregor left the bottle and locked the door behind him. The prisoner was well chained, the doors were securely locked, and the prison was guarded by dozens of heavily armed men; where could Clydesdale go? What could he do? M'Gregor entered his own rooms and quickly fell asleep.

When he woke up the next morning and made his way to Clydesdale's cell, he found a scene so terrifying in its brutality and bloodiness, it momentarily stunned him. Sometime during the night, Clydesdale had broken the liquor bottle—shards of it were strewn across the concrete floor—and, with a chip of it, slashed his wrists and his throat. When M'Gregor found him, he was barely alive, warm blood gushing out from the severe wounds he had inflicted on himself.

Clydesdale's reaction to a sentence of dissection was not uncommon. Prisoners almost always preferred to die by their own hand than the noose of the hangman, especially if dissection was to follow. Just the idea of the anatomist's knife was enough to send a man into a state of panic, so much so that suicide seemed like the better option.

M'Gregor immediately recognized that he had fed the prisoner liquor and could stand trial and be found guilty. He asked for help from a Dr. Corkindale, who often performed surgeries at the prison, as well as a few others who were well regarded in the area. Together these men were able to stop Clydesdale's bleeding and patch him up so he could be led to the gallows and be hanged.

As the date neared, thousands of people gathered before the scaffolds. There were so many people that the execution site had to be heavily guarded by the Fortieth Regiment of Foot. Ready to do his job was Thomas Young, the infamous hangman of Glasgow who was said to have sent so many men to their maker, he had now perfected the art of the drop.

When Clydesdale and Ross arrived, a shout arose from the crowd. They wore the white gloves and white caps drawn over the ears that were the typical hanging outfit for such events. Facing the crowds, the nooses around their necks were tweaked to ensure a somewhat painless and speedy send-off. Thomas Young might have been good at his job, but he had miscalculated the measurements for Ross, and the young man struggled and flopped about like a carp for some minutes before he passed; the crowd, of course, cheered him on. Clydesdale, on the other hand, died almost immediately.

As the law demanded, the two men were left to hang for some time, until a familiar white horse and cart that had carried away executed criminals in the past drew near the gallows. People watched from rooftops, balconies, steps, windows, lodges, and every other possible empty space as the body of Matthew Clydesdale was carted off to the college. So many people had left their homes to see this that the lawmakers worried someone would try to inflict more harm on the corpse. To prevent this from happening, more officers and the military were hired to accompany the body to its final destination. Still, a caravan of eager spectators followed the horse-drawn cart to the college, hoping to crash its gates and enter to view the dissections. But when the body was inside the building, the gates were quickly shut to prevent further troubles.

Inside the anatomy theater, students and others who had managed to find their way in shuffled by as the two most important professors attending the session entered: Dr. Andrew Ure, who taught chemistry, and Professor James Jeffrey, from the Faculty of Medicine, who by then was well on his way to a record “fifty-eight year occupancy of the chair at Glasgow.” Both men were familiar to the Glasgow community, not only for their medical reputation but in Ure's case, for a somewhat sordid personal life.