Creature and Creator:
Myth-Making and English Romanticism
Frankenstein has as much
claim to mythic status as any story ever invented by a single author. The
original novel continues to be read by a wide audience, and has of course
spawned innumerable adaptations, imitations, and sequels.1 Through
its cinematic incarnations, the Frankenstein
story has ingrained itself on the popular imagination. Although no one believes
in the literal truth of the story, it has all the other earmarks of a genuine
myth, above all, the fact that men keep returning to it to find ways of
imagining their deepest fears. But as original as the Frankenstein myth
is, Mary Shelley did not
create her story out of thin air. Much of the power of her book can be traced
to the ways she found of drawing upon traditional mythic patterns. A glance at
the title-page shows that
in composing the book she had two of the central creation myths in the Western
tradition in mind. The subtitle of Frankenstein,
"The Modern Prometheus," points to the myth of the Greek Titan. The
epigraph from Paradise Lost suggests
that the story refers to Milton's creation
account, and by extension to Genesis. But if one tries
to align the characters in Frankenstein with
traditional mythic archetypes, one runs into difficulties. Although Frankenstein at first seems to
offer a potentially confusing array of mythic correspondences, by trying to
sort out the mythic roles assigned to the central characters, we can approach
the thematic heart of the book.
We can begin by asking: who is the modern Prometheus referred to
in the subtitle? The obvious answer is Victor Frankenstein, and many critics
have pointed to the Promethean elements in Frankenstein's character.2 Victor wants to be
the benefactor of mankind, rebels against the divinely established order,
steals, as it were, the spark of life from heaven, and creates a living being.
But like Prometheus he ends up bringing disaster and destruction down upon
those he was trying to help. In many respects, however, the monster
Frankenstein creates is an equally good candidate for the {104} role of
Prometheus in the story. It is the monster who literally discovers fire, and in
a sense steals it (99-100). Moreover, the
monster tantalizes Frankenstein with a mysterious secret concerning what will
happen on his wedding night. Frankenstein's blindness to the real meaning of
the monster's prophecy (182) associates him
with the role of Zeus, particularly if one looks ahead to Percy Shelley's version of the
Prometheus myth, in which the story of the secret concerning Jupiter's wedding
hour is central to the plot. The fact that both Frankenstein and the monster
have their Promethean aspects should not be surprising, since the original
Prometheus archetype is ambiguous. With respect to man, he appears as a creator
and thus as a divine figure; with respect to Zeus, he takes on the role of a
rebel against divine authority and eventually of a tortured creature, thus
becoming a symbol of human suffering at the hands of the gods.
The same sort of ambiguity of mythic archetypes is
evident when one considers the Miltonic analogues to the Frankenstein story.3 As the
creator of a man, Frankenstein plays the role of God. But Frankenstein
also compares himself to Satan: "All my
speculations and hopes are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to
omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell" (200). The narrator
Walton describes Frankenstein in terms that clearly recall the fallen Lucifer
of Paradise Lost:
"What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity,
when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his own worth and
the greatness of his fall" (200).
The monster similarly compares himself to two Miltonic
roles. He is both Adam and Satan, as he tells his
creator: "Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I
am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed" (95). Later, while
reflecting on his reading of Paradise
Lost, the monster develops this idea:
I often referred
the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I
was apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his state
was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the
hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial
care of his Creator; . . . but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition, for often,
like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy
rose within me. (114)