Chapter 19 — Teaching Companion

What it asks It asks the student to account for a friend Victor keeps leaving. In London he sees in Clerval “the image of my former self”: a young man “inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction”, who finds in every new manner “an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement”. In the same paragraph Victor hides his low spirits so as not to spoil Henry’s pleasure, and often refuses to go out with him, “alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone.” Then he begins to gather the materials. The student decides what makes Henry hard to be near. The card should keep Henry as more than a cheerful contrast: Victor himself makes him a likeness.

One reading

Grief. Henry is what Victor was before “a blight had come over my existence”, and every hour beside him measures the loss. Joyous faces bring back Victor’s despair, and Henry’s is the dearest of them. In his days of study and happiness, this same journey would have given Victor “inexpressible pleasure”. Now he watches Henry have it.

• If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure.
• But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart.

Another reading

The work. Henry is open and curious, with nothing to hide. Victor now has a task no one may see, and the excuses are how he gets the hours alone to gather the materials. Being near the former self means hiding from him, so Victor goes where he does not have to hide.

• I often refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone.
• I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation,

Listen for

• Notices that Henry is “for ever busy”, a paragraph after “busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair”.
• Notices that Victor hides his gloom from Henry “as much as possible”, so the image of his former self never sees what he has become.
• Notices that the excuses and the gathering of the materials come in the same paragraph.
• Keeps to what this chapter says the former self was like: “inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction”.

If stuck

• What is Henry like in London, and what is Victor like?
• What reasons does Victor give for not going out with Henry?
• What does Victor do while he is alone?

A strong answer A strong response names what makes Henry hard to be near and grounds it. One reader says grief: Henry is what Victor was before “a blight had come over my existence”, and he is having the journey that would once have given Victor “inexpressible pleasure”. Another says the work: the excuses buy time alone, and in the same paragraph Victor begins to collect the materials, so being near an open, curious friend means hiding. The best answers hear that Henry is “for ever busy”, a paragraph after busy faces bring back Victor’s despair.

What it asks It asks the student to read one image for what it says about this making. In London Victor begins “to collect the materials necessary for my new creation”, and says it was “like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head.” He adds that every thought given to it was “an extreme anguish”, and every word he spoke about it made his lips quiver and his heart beat hard. The student decides what the drip, and not a single blow, tells about the work. The card should keep to this image and the London paragraph; the island’s “cold blood” belongs to the last question.

One reading

The slowness. A blow comes once and is over. A drip comes one drop at a time, and each drop is felt by itself. Nothing carries Victor through this work; he meets every step of it awake. The picture is of a task done piece by piece, and felt at every piece.

• Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish,
• every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.

Another reading

The helplessness. Torture is done to a man by someone else, and a man under the drip cannot make it stop. Victor is the one gathering the materials, but the picture makes him the sufferer of the work, not its maker. He calls the work “the completion of my promise”: a debt he pays, not a thing he wants. The picture shows how he sees himself more than what he is doing.

• I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head.
• I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise

Listen for

• Notices “single”: each drop alone, one at a time.
• Notices “continually”: the drops do not stop, and the work has only begun.
• Notices who acts: Victor collects the materials, but in the picture something is done to him.
• Hears that the pain is in small daily things: a thought, a word, a quivering lip.

If stuck

• What is it like to be hit once? What is it like to be dripped on for hours?
• What happens to Victor when he only thinks or speaks of the work?
• In the picture, who is doing the torturing?

A strong answer A strong response says what the drip shows and grounds it. One reader says slowness: each step is felt by itself, “Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish”, and nothing carries him through. Another says helplessness: torture is done to a man, and the picture makes Victor the sufferer of a work he is doing himself. The best answers notice “single” and “continually”, and ask who, in the picture, holds the water.

What it asks It asks the student to measure Victor’s task against the ideas that lift him at Oxford. At the tomb of Hampden and the field where “that patriot fell”, his soul is raised “from its debasing and miserable fears” to “the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice”. For an instant he dares “to shake off my chains”, but “the iron had eaten into my flesh”, and he sinks again into “my miserable self”. The student weighs how much liberty and how much self-sacrifice there is in the work he has promised. The card must not say that he makes the second being out of pity for the creature: this chapter speaks only of “my promise” and his fear of the dæmon’s “vengeance”.

One reading

Both, more than he can feel. A promise is a word freely given, and Victor keeps his at a cost to himself. He gives up his peace and his friend’s company so that the dæmon will not turn on his relatives. That is liberty and self-sacrifice of a kind. What sinks him at the tomb is not the task but his fear: his soul rises from “its debasing and miserable fears” and falls back into them.

• He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance on my relatives.
• but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.

Another reading

Neither, and that is what sinks him. Hampden fell in the open for a cause he chose. Victor works in secret, gathering what he needs for “the completion of my promise”, a task he dreads. His fear is for himself as much as for others: when letters come from home he hardly dares to read them and “ascertain my fate”. The tomb shows him what a free sacrifice looks like, and his own is not one.

• I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise
• I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate.

Listen for

• Notices that his fears are “debasing”: they lower him, and the tomb raises him for a moment.
• Notices that the chains have been on long enough for “the iron” to eat “into my flesh”.
• Notices “my fate” in the letters paragraph: whose fate he thinks of when news comes from home.
• Weighs whether a promise kept under threat can be a free act.

If stuck

• What did Hampden do, and what do his tomb and field stand for?
• What is Victor giving up to do the work?
• Why does he do it, as he tells it in this chapter?

A strong answer A strong response weighs both words and grounds the weighing. One reader finds both, more than he can feel: he keeps a promise he gave, and pays with his peace to shield his relatives from the dæmon’s “vengeance”; what drags him down is his fear, not the task. Another finds neither: Hampden fell in the open for a cause he chose, while Victor works in secret at a task he dreads, and fears for “my fate” as much as for his family. The best answers ask whether a promise kept out of fear can ever be a free sacrifice.

What it asks It asks the student to read one word Victor uses twice for his rare moments of ease. In London, “the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace.” In Cumberland, among hills that remind him of Switzerland, new acquaintances “almost contrived to cheat me into happiness.” A cheat is a trick that makes someone believe what is not so. The student decides what Victor would have lost if the trick had worked. The card must not say that Henry or the family come to harm in this chapter; the danger to them is only Victor’s fear.

One reading

His guard. For Victor, ease and neglect come together. Among the lakes he is almost cheated into happiness, and when they leave he is “not sorry”, because he has “neglected my promise for some time” and fears the dæmon’s revenge. The fear lets him snatch no “repose and peace”. If the cheat had worked, he would have lost the fear that, as he sees it, keeps his relatives safe.

• For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the dæmon’s disappointment.
• This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace.

Another reading

The truth about himself. Peace and happiness belong to the man he was. At Oxford he says he was “formed for peaceful happiness”, and a few lines later that he is now “a blasted tree”. Any happiness now would be a lie about what he has become. If the cheat had worked, he would have forgotten what he is, and he will not let himself forget.

• I was formed for peaceful happiness.
• But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul;

Listen for

• Notices who does the cheating: in London Victor cheats himself; among the lakes others “almost” cheat him.
• Notices “almost”: the cheat never quite works.
• Sets Victor, “not sorry” to leave the lakes, beside Henry, who says, “I could pass my life here.”
• May argue that he would lose nothing worth keeping, and tests that against the fear for his relatives.

If stuck

• What does Henry’s voice do for Victor in London?
• What do the new friends among the lakes almost do for him?
• What has Victor left undone by the time they leave the lakes?

A strong answer A strong response names what the cheat would have cost him and grounds it. One reader says his guard: among the lakes ease and neglect come together, he leaves “not sorry”, having “neglected my promise for some time”, and the fear that robs him of “repose and peace” is the fear he thinks keeps his relatives safe. Another says the truth about himself: he was “formed for peaceful happiness”, but now he is “a blasted tree”, and peace would be a lie about the man he has become. The best answers notice who cheats whom: in London he cheats himself, and among the lakes others “almost” cheat him.

What it asks It asks the student to turn Victor’s remark about the islanders back on him. Five people live on the island, “whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare”. He hires the empty third hut, has it repaired, and lives “ungazed at and unmolested”, because the cottagers’ senses are “benumbed by want and squalid poverty”: “so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.” Victor has suffered too. The student decides what suffering has done to his senses. The card must not say that the creature is on the island or has been seen there; Victor only fears that he will come.

One reading

Sharpened them. Suffering has not dulled Victor; it has left him raw. In this solitude nothing can draw his mind off the work, even for an instant, and he grows restless and nervous. He keeps his eyes on the ground for fear of what he might see. Where the islanders notice nothing, he feels everything, even what he will not look at.

• immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous.
• Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold.

Another reading

Dulled them toward other people. The islanders’ misery is useful to him: it is why he can take the hut and no one wonders at it. He remarks that he was “hardly thanked” for what he gave them. The man who could not bear joyful faces in London now lives among starving ones and minds their thanks. His own suffering has blunted his feeling for theirs.

• an incident which would doubtless have occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty.
• As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.

Listen for

• Notices that the remark about blunted senses ends the sentence about his own thanks: “hardly thanked for the pittance”.
• Counts how often “miserable” falls on the island: the cows, the fare, the huts, the penury.
• Notices that he came to be unseen, and ends afraid “to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures”.
• Weighs “even the coarsest sensations”: suffering, he says, dulls even the plainest feelings, the wish to look at a stranger among them.

If stuck

• Why does no one on the island take notice of Victor?
• How does Victor feel while he works there, and what does he fear?
• What does he say about the food and clothes he gave the islanders?

A strong answer A strong response says what suffering has done to Victor’s senses and grounds it. One reader says sharpened: in a solitude where “nothing could for an instant call my attention” from his work, he feels everything and dreads to raise his eyes. Another says dulled toward others: the islanders’ misery lets him live unnoticed, and he remarks that he was “hardly thanked for the pittance”. The best answers notice that he came to be unseen and ends afraid to leave “the sight of my fellow creatures”.

What it asks It asks the student to test a claim Victor makes about himself. Leaving Cumberland, afraid for his family and for Henry, he writes: “I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.” Earlier, in London, he sees a barrier between himself and other men, “sealed with the blood of William and Justine”. The student builds a thesis on where a curse ends and a crime begins, and so whether “guiltless” holds, meets the strongest objection, and revises. The question is not whether Victor feels guilty: he says that he does. The card must not say that harm comes to Henry or the family while he is away; the chapter gives only Victor’s fears.

One reading

A crime is willed; a curse falls on you. Victor never meant William or Justine to die, and he did not kill them. He feels “as if” he had committed a crime, and says plainly that he had not. A curse can be as deadly as a crime and still not be one, because no one chose the deaths it brings.

• I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me.
• this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine,

Another reading

The line is thinner than he says. He had “drawn down” the curse; his own verb makes him the one who acted. The deaths came from a being he made, and in this same chapter he is at that work again. A man who brings a curse down by his own act cannot stand wholly outside it, whatever he meant.

• I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.
• I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation,

Listen for

• Notices “drawn down”: the verb makes Victor the one who brought the curse.
• Notices “placed” in the London barrier sentence: the barrier is placed there, and no one is named as placing it.
• Notices “as if”: he feels like a man who has done a crime, and denies it in the next sentence.
• Weighs whether intent alone decides guilt, or whether what a man sets going counts too.

If stuck

• What does Victor say he feels, and what does he say he is?
• In his own sentence, who brought the curse down?
• Whose blood does he name in London, and what does he say it sealed?

A strong answer A strong thesis draws the line and argues it. A student might argue that a crime needs a will, and Victor never willed the deaths: he feels only “as if” he had committed one, and the curse falls on him. The strongest objection is in his own verb: he had “drawn down” the curse, so the act that brought it was his, and in this chapter he is at the same work again. A good revision might hold that he can be guiltless of the deaths and still answerable for what he set going, and ask which of those two the word “guiltless” covers.

What it asks It asks the student to read the chapter’s last sentence closely. Victor works on, and his labour is “already considerably advanced”. He looks toward its completion “with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to question but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken in my bosom.” Just before, he has swung between days when he could not make himself enter the laboratory and days and nights of toil. The student builds a thesis on the question Victor will not put to his hope, meets the strongest objection, and revises. The card must not say whether the work is finished or destroyed: the chapter ends with it “considerably advanced”.

One reading

Whether he wants the work itself. His hope is “eager”, a word for wanting, and the toil “day and night” is the pull of a making that is near its end. He dares not ask whether some of the old eagerness has come back, because the answer might be yes.

• Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work.
• I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager hope,

Another reading

Whether finishing will set him free. The hope is to be done: to keep the promise and be rid of it. He dares not ask whether it will truly end there, because the forebodings already answer him. He expects the monster to appear when the work is finished, and the question he will not ask is what happens then.

• I did not doubt but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion.
• which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken in my bosom.

Listen for

• Notices that “tremulous” and “eager” pull two ways in one phrase: trembling and wanting.
• Notices that “sicken” comes back: his heart “sickened at the work of my hands”, and now it sickens at his hope.
• Notices “dared not trust myself”: he does not trust the answer he would give.
• Keeps clear of how the work ends; the chapter stops with it “considerably advanced”.

If stuck

• How far along is the work when the chapter ends?
• What two feelings does Victor have as he looks toward the end of it?
• What might a man be afraid to learn if he asked himself why he hopes?

A strong answer A strong thesis names the unasked question and argues it. A student might argue that he dares not ask whether he wants the work itself: his hope is “eager”, a word for wanting, and the toil “day and night” is a making that pulls him toward its end. The strongest objection is that the hope is only to be done, and that the “obscure forebodings of evil” already tell him what he fears to ask: what comes once he has “finished”. A good revision might say that he cannot question the hope because both answers are hard, and ask what it means that a man will not look at his own hope.

What it asks It asks the chapter’s whole question. On the island Victor sets his two makings side by side: “During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.” Everything before it narrows his world toward that hut: away from Henry, “the image of my former self”, past the chains at Hampden’s tomb and the parting at Perth, to a barren rock where nothing calls his attention from the work. The student builds a thesis on which way of making is worse, meets the strongest objection, and revises. The card must not say that the new being is finished or destroyed, that the creature is on the island, or that Victor makes it out of pity; this chapter gives only “my promise” and his fear of the dæmon’s “vengeance”.

One reading

Cold blood is worse. The first time he did not see what he was doing; now he sees it and goes on. He also knows, as he did not then, what a made being can bring: the barrier between him and other men is “sealed with the blood of William and Justine”. To make again with open eyes, out of fear, is to choose the horror knowing what it is.

• But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.
• this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine,

Another reading

The frenzy was worse. A maker so blinded that he cannot see the horror of his work has no conscience at work at all. Now Victor’s heart sickens, he stays out of the laboratory for days, and he dreads the end. That sickness is a conscience awake. A maker who sees what he is doing can still judge it; the blind one could not.

• During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment;
• Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days,

Listen for

• Notices the eyes: “my eyes were shut” in the first making, and now he sits “with my eyes fixed on the ground”, afraid of what he might see.
• Notices that “horror” comes twice in the first sentence, both times as the thing he could not see.
• Weighs “cold blood”, the common phrase for a deed done calmly and on purpose.
• Asks what the second making is for, as the chapter tells it: “my promise” and fear of the dæmon’s “vengeance”, not pity.

If stuck

• What does Victor say kept him from seeing the horror the first time?
• What does he feel now, while he works?
• Which is worse: doing a wrong you cannot see, or doing it while you see it?

A strong answer A strong thesis takes a side and earns it. A student might argue that cold blood is worse: the first time he was “blinded”, but now he knows what a made being can bring, a barrier “sealed with the blood of William and Justine”, and he goes on with open eyes. The strongest objection is that the sickening heart is a conscience at work, which the frenzy shut out: he cannot make himself enter the laboratory for days, and he dreads the end. A good revision might ask whether seeing the horror makes the act worse or the man better, and whether both can be true at once.