AITA? or WWMD?

To Mr. R. Walton, St. Petersburgh, June 10, 17__

My Dear Robert,

  It was with tremendous satisfaction that I received your copious packet of letters sent from St. Petersburgh. I am greatly relieved that you have returned to civilization intact. You were perhaps apprehensive that I would not credit your amazing tales, but you may rest assured that I do not imagine you could have made yourself out to be such a dolt in a story of your own invention. I have recounted the tale to several acquaintances, and they are of one mind with me: this M. Frankenstein that you speak of with such admiration for his intellect and gentleness is uncommonly brutish and--though some credit must be due to his ability to find the secret of bestowing life--unfathomably stupid. It can only be the influence of the cruel winter stalled in the ice that has brought you under the spell of this repulsive gentleman. 

To begin, in relating your tale amongst my acquaintances, it became quite laborious to continually refer to this creation as “the wretch” and take pains to point out that M. Frankenstein was the name of that unfortunate creature’s creator and not that of the beast himself. All of this would certainly be clarified by the simple assignation of a name; therefore, I shall henceforth refer to the wretch as “Jim,” a very fine name and one that has done credit to many a man of lesser parts than this fine intellectual who could pick up multiple languages by listening at cracks in hovel walls. 

Let me make the case for you that your dear friend is not only very much in the wrong in general when it comes to Jim, but also has at every turn been an out and out blockhead. Your own case speaks eloquently to the fact that if he had only described Jim to the public he could have forestalled violent rejection, as you are the only person in the entire narrative to receive any forewarning of poor Jim’s existence and appearance. Shall we find it mere wild coincidence that you are also the only person to refrain from shooting him, waving pitchforks, or hurling rocks? Ridiculous. The only coincidence here is the wild misfortune of finally deciding to relate his tale upon your boat, for where else in the world but on a boat stuck in the ice of the Arctic Sea could he find an audience wholly free of any woman to point out to him the error of his ways? My only regret at the expiry of this despicable monster (I here refer to the scientist, you’ll note) is that I have to direct my remonstrances to you in his stead. 

You shall find them as follows:

Though M. Frankenstein was doubtlessly derelict in his duty in not forming any plan for how to deal with the impending quickening of his creation, not to mention cowardly beyond measure to run away and fall asleep rather than care for it (really! Imagine having no plan at all for a birth and running in terror from the newly emerged infant, and this without even the suffering of pregnancy and confinement for an excuse!), we will put that aside knowing that anyone in the fever of obsession can exert poor judgment. I myself have been known to feel the pull of a nap competing with my inclination to ensure that my offspring are provided with the basics for survival. But let us examine one or two other points of failure for which M. Frankenstein can plead no such mitigation.

I shall set the scene: M. Frankenstein has spotted an eight-foot giant scaling the vertical cliffs of the Alps nearby the town where his brother has recently been killed. His foster sister, who would not hurt an insect and who loved the boy as her own brother stands accused. M. Frankenstein says nothing of the giant for fear of being thought mad. The unfortunate Justine is duly hanged while the countryside abounds with irritated farmers wondering what has become of their crop. Does a man of science really propose that this superhuman goliath has ranged the country for a year and more without anyone noticing either it or any missing food? Surely some light investigative journalism should reveal that indeed something with a healthy appetite lurks in the forest? 

Or if you prefer, let us choose a later scene. M. Frankenstein is at his labours in Scotland, preparing the wife and helpmeet Jim requires to satisfy his loneliness. M. Frankenstien, as we know, has created Jim from his constituent parts, each fibre and tissue painstakingly assembled at enlarged size to accommodate the man’s own clumsy fingers. He is at the point of completing his work. Lightning flashes outside, illuminating his devilish visitor, apprehensively awaiting the fulfillment of his creator’s promise of happiness. 

Overcome by horror and remorse, M. Frankenstein takes up a knife, raises it over his head. The inhuman howl of the wretch, sorry of Jim, outside his window informs him that the action of destroying his work will spark a fatal vengeance, an internecine war between them that leaves bodies and destroyed lives in its path. He weighs the destruction against that which might befall if these two become the Adam and Eve of a new race of beings: sworn enemies of man who has rejected them and is so, so very much prettier than they are. In terror he comes to the only reasonable conclusion: he does not give the new creature a functioning reproductive system.

How much of a clodpate was he to start off the project with the ovaries included in the blueprint? Just don’t attach them, you silly oaf! Even if M. Frankenstein was not abreast of the work of Fallopius, Fabricius, and Mr. Harvey, and subscribed to the exploded notion of preformation, surely he could have made his female creation wholly without a womb for Jim’s conception to grow in. I feel an involuntary pull of my eyes heavenward. 

For that is not how the scene played out. Your dunderheaded best mate instead slashed his work to ribbons, leaving poor Jim traumatized out in the storm with only his hatred to keep him company. He even told M. Frankenstein he’d see him on his wedding night, but did he talk to Elizabeth about it? Did he hire some security for her? No, he decided to shew how manly he could be in taking on the, I must reemphasize literal, giant--whom he made with his own hands and thus could not have mistaken for a weaker being, a creature who had already explained to him that he can survive pistol shots--head-to-head. 

It is rather unfortunate that M. Frankenstein could not have my persuasive discourse laid before him in a timely manner. He would certainly have found me reasonable, for I am, as they say, undeniably easy on the eyes, and your Swiss friend rated good looks the only scale of credibility. On the other hand, I could perhaps have introduced him to one or two very charming rapscallions from my past who could set the record straight on the score of physical beauty equating to moral virtue. Ahem.

My dear brother, I am very pleased that you had the good sense to reach out to me with this tale. That alone shews you’ve a good deal better judgment than your late scientific friend. Your propensity to contemplate “what would Margaret do” has saved you a good deal of folly of the type M. Frankenstein fell into. However, as you did assert admiration for M. Frankenstein throughout your missives while his status as the vilest rogue was patent to me, I have taken the liberty of submitting his question to the column “Am I the Assailant (AITA)” in the Spectator. 

It was necessary to rephrase the whole of the narrative, not only because (forgive me for saying so) you do go on, but also for the tedious phrasing. Knowing full well that our dear governess Mrs. Harlan would wrap your knuckles for such prose (no creature can imagine my suffering indeed, M. Frankenstein! One could easily empathize with your despair if you once shewed a human emotion!) I can only conclude that you were attempting to capture your interlocutor’s turn of phrase.

 Even having corrected for tedium, however, the response was unequivocal: M. Frankenstein is deemed the assailant, wholly. Moreover, I have received dozens of invitations from around the country to host our poor Jim in the spare rooms of diverse homes across the nation, to speak at public events, to accept employment in the security field, to tutor children in various languages and literary pursuits. In short, the response has overwhelmingly argued that had M. Frankenstein lifted a finger to introduce Jim to the world, he could instantly have ended the creature’s suffering and rendered him happy. He could likely have accomplished the requisite introduction by foregoing a single nap.

I do hope you plan to return to England to pass a season or two in my profitable company before setting off again into the wild. There is no telling what sort of riffraff you may take in. On the other hand, you may fare no better at home. Rumor has it there is an ancient mariner making the rounds of weddings accosting guests with tales of ghosts and albatrosses. Knowing you, you will not only locate this reprobate but be entirely taken in by him. 

If you do decide to return directly to the frozen north, please be aware that the reports of toxic polar bear meat are credible and not just some cavalier husbands’ tales. 

Your affectionate sister,

Margaret Saville

England