Mr C begins by recounting just how miserable he is – he uses
the words ‘wretch’ and ‘wretched’ rather a lot – but he does, at least, have a
moderately entertaining story to relate, all about what he’s been doing since
his God and Creator (Whingey Victor) threw a wobbler and abandoned him.
The reading has become lighter. Mary Shelley’s porridge-like
prose has had water added and become more of a gruel – still perfectly
enunciated, but a little easier to wade through. In fact, it’s moderately
entertaining. There are, however, a few implausible elements which I’m hoping
will be explained in due course, such as:
1) If Victor created Mr C using bits of unrelated cadavers,
how does he come to be eight feet tall?
2) How does Mr C manage to be very much more agile and less
affected by extremes of heat and cold than the original owners of his bits?
3) How does Mr C manage to know just where Victor is at any
given moment, so that he’s able to make telling appearances in Victor’s life? Is
he telepathic, maybe?
4) How does he follow Victor around, even when the latter
moves from one country to another? We’ve learned from his own narrative that at
the start of his wanderings he didn’t even know what words were, much less be
able to read a stagecoach timetable.
5) If Mr C’s ascent from complete moron to something
humanoid derives entirely from watching and listening to an old peasant and his
two peasant kids, why is he now talking to Victor like a pretentious thespian?
(A few spring to mind.)
Come on, Mary, admit it. This story isn’t meant to be taken
literally at all, is it? It’s too implausible. Hollywood got it wrong, right? I’m guessing
that this is all about Father William’s political philosophy. Even I, relative
ignoramus that I am, have already picked up clear references in praise of
egalitarianism and benign anarchy. I’d say there’s more of Godwin than of Gothic about it. Reading on.
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