Chapter 19.B
August 21, 1918
Dearest Megs,
I am sorry that it has taken me so long to write back to you. Things here for me have been rather taxing – but more about that later. First, I want to be sure to respond to your letter. I enjoyed reading your thoughts about Shelley's novel, though it made me wish for the days when we could sit side by side and argue more effectively. As it is, I will content myself in persuasively refuting your rather unorthodox ideas and trust that you will see the error of your ways (though you've never done that to date).
Shelley's novel is a gothic thriller – and only a mediocre one at that - but it is clear from your letter that it's challenged you to consider ideas you'd never before questioned. Setting aside the complete clap-trap that is her scientific explanation (or lack thereof) for the reanimation of organic life, I will contend that her sentimentality gets the better of her (and you). Frankenstein's creature is merely a patchwork of limbs and organs, robbed from the bodies of those to whom God had rightfully bestowed them. Yet, you wonder, "How can Viktor be so obtuse as to lack compassion on a soul who clearly feels and suffers just, if not more, than he does?" Meg, I rather wonder that you can make such a claim – first, the logic here is rather specious: are you suggesting that the ability to feel pain is the measure of a living organism's possession of a soul? Do you see no difference between humanity and all other living, sentient beings, then? Second, for a human body (cobbled together or completely whole) to retain its soul after being severed from life would be to undermine every precept of eternity into which you have been baptized and claimed to profess. If we, as men, may bestow a unique soul upon a lump of clay, what need have we of God? And though this year has tried my faith sorely, Meg, I still cling to the belief that there is a heaven and a Creator in whose judgment we all will stand. I dread the day when my knowledge of death may encompass more experience than theory, and I pray that day never arrives for you, dear cousin, but until my eyes have seen and my ears have heard otherwise, I will continue to believe as I do: our souls are what set us apart from all other life, and that spark of divinity is quick to flee the flesh in which it is housed once death claims the husk. I can think of no greater torment than the idea of the soul imprisoned in the body once it is dead – let us pray you are wrong, cousin. Now, as for your implication that some passing similarities might be found between myself and Viktor Frankenstein – I smile as I say that I choose not to understand you. I do not recall whether Viktor is described as handsome, and perhaps he ought to be deemed rather brilliant, but if you intend some oblique criticism you will need to be more explicit in your next missive.
I am enclosing a new address to which you will need to direct your future correspondence. You'll note that I'm being transferred up to New York: I've volunteered for the Army Ambulance Corp – they're training me to run the machines up north and will be shipping me out soon. Ironic that I'm likely to arrive across the pond before my compatriots here at Sheridan, but at least I'll not be fighting. I don't know when I'll have the chance to write next, Meggie, so don't fret if some time passes before I can get word to you.
I'm sorry to hear that my aunt has been ill – I hope that you'll be able to write back and tell me that she is on the mend. She's such a formidable force – I actually have trouble imagining her bedridden. I hope that caring for her has not been too difficult upon you or Evangeline. Be sure to give my love to each of them, and to Mother and Father too, but save the lion's share for yourself.
As Ever,
Edward