Mr Krempe now commenced to eulogise. He did it in a bush. Clerval had never sympathised with my tastes for natural science. He came to university to master the Oriental languages.
The Persian, Arabic and Sanskrit – what a waste! No one in Switzerland spoke them and for the rest of his life he would have to talk to himself in one of these three languages. There were only three works of the Orientalists: the Omar Khayyam Ice Cream Factory, the King Durius Sewage Works and the Sheik Hussein Laundry.
Summer passed away, having been delayed by several accidents: (1) I was run over by a train; (2) I fell over a cliff and (3) I fell down a well. The roads were deemed impassable with snow.
During the month of May I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure. As I was still down a well I found it very hard to answer. Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt and I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise but not that bloody fond. In the end it was to prove too strenuous for me. My health deteriorated; I tried very hard. I was taken for the salubrious air of the Alps but when I breathed it I fainted. In a few days I recovered.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety and I started to yodel. He exerted himself to amuse me: he would juggle three bags of flour, he stood on his head and yodelied the ‘William Tell Overture’, he played the banjo and danced. He could make himself disappear; this he did by the simple expedient of leaving the room. His conversation was full of imagination. He spoke in Persian and Arabic; that was wonderful, but I didn’t understand a bloody word. He repeated my favourite Wordsworth poem:
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That drifts aloft over dales and hills
And all at once I came upon
My dog being sick on the daffodils.
Clerval believed the world was flat, but he kept tripping over it.
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing and hurling each other off cliffs into the lake. It was an old custom and they never tired of it, except those who drowned. My own spirits were high and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity. From a great distance my family could see me bounding with unbridled joy and hilarity.
CHAPTER VII
On my return I found the following letter from my father:
My dear son,
You expect a happy and glad welcome and a box of gift-wrapped suppositories for your haemorrhoids. Well fuck your luck. But how can I relate our misfortune? William is dead! – di diddly I di – dead; he has stopped yodelling. One day he went for a walk but did not return. We searched for him until night fell and then we returned to the house. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, who the night before I had seen blooming and yodelling, stretched on the grass lifeless and motionless. He was as stiff as a poker. His neck had been broken and his face was facing backwards. In other words he was lying face downwards on his back. He was conveyed home in a wheelbarrow. The anguish visible on my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. The fact that the body was rigid was another giveaway. She was very keen to see the corpse; she likes that sort of thing. Seeing the corpse, she fainted away; a bucket of water soon revived her. The previous day William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature. It was an ivory elephant and he wanted to use it as fishing bait.
Come, Victor, not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin – but just in case would you bring a musket, a sword, a brace of pistols and a bomb.
Your affectionate and afflicted father,
Alphonse Frankenstein
Geneva, May 12th, 17––.
“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weeping with bitterness, “are we always to see you unhappy, you miserable bastard?”
I motioned him to take up the letter so he took it up to the first floor while I walked up and down the room from north to south, to east and west, to nor-noreast, to sou-souwest, to 20° west, to 30° east – by which time I had covered the whole room.
“I can offer you no consolation,” said he.
“Then piss off,” said I.
“Now I go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order four horses over the counter.” I held up four fingers to make sure we got them. As soon as the horses arrived I hurried into a cabriolet and bade farewell to my friend.
My journey was very uncomfortable as I was suffering from piles and looking forward to the gift of suppositories. I wished to hurry home for I longed to console and sympathise with the miserable bloody lot back home.
As I approached my home
I recognised the dome
I recognised the bailiff’s men
Bringing out the furniture now and then
The last contents they brought was my mother
And then my invalid brother.
I remained two days at Lausanne in a painful state of mind and arse and men continued my journey towards Geneva. The road ran by the side of the lake which became narrower and narrower and narrower and finally it disappeared, and so did I; it took a month to find me again. As I approached my native town I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura and the bright summit of Mont Blancmange. I wept like a child – boo hoo hoo. “Dear mountains! My own beautiful lake! How do you welcome your wanderer?” At that moment a landslide pushed me and the carriage into the lake. That’s how they welcome their wandering kith and kin.
“Which are you,” said a peasant digging me out, “are you kith or kin?”
“I am kith.”
“Well good, we don’t want any kins here.”
Yet as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me so I did not care a fuck for the Jura or Mont Blancmange. Night also closed around and I could hardly see the dark mountains. My landlady said she had put a po under my bed but if I used it I was not to put it back under the bed because the steam rusts the springs.
As I cowered on deck it started to rain
And, terrible luck, I fell in the lake again
William, this storm is your funeral hymn
But I got no bloody response from him.
As I was unable to rest I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage, as I was rowing, the boat flooded and sank and I had to swim for the shore. I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blancmange. Already soaked to the skin, it started to rain again, absolutely flooding me. It was pitch dark until my eyes recovered themselves to the darkness. During that time I fell in the lake for a second time.
From the bank I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands and exclaimed aloud: “William, dear angel! this is thy funeral dirge.” [I don’t think William heard it but it was well meant. Ed.] A flash of lightning illuminated the object and discovered its shape plainly to me, its gigantic stature. His trousers were still around his ankles. Each flash of lightning lit up his huge wedding tackle. What did he there? I waited, but he did nothing there. Was he the murderer of my brother? He suddenly rushed towards me. “Have you got a fag?” he said. I hastily gave him a packet. Yes, he was the murderer! [There is not a shred of evidence against this poor monster. Ed.] Yes, it must have been two years since I gave this monster life. Was this his first crime? A murderer two years old? No court would believe it!
My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer and cause instant pursuit to be made. “Quick, police, fire, ambulance!” This being I had myself formed and given life to and met me at midnight. He asked me for a cheese sandwich. I told him I had no cheese, would fish paste do?
“Oh,” he queried, “what will fish paste do?”
“Nothing,” I said, “it just stays there.”
He asked me to help secure his trousers which I did, fixing them from the back where it was less dangerous.
It was about five in the mornin
g when I entered my father’s house. I told the servants not to disturb the family and they didn’t but they, too, were still in bed. Six years had elapsed. I embraced my father, beloved parent. I gazed on the picture of my mother which stood over the mantelpiece. It was an historic subject painted at my father’s desire and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. My father was really bent. Her garb was rustic and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Nevertheless it was a bloody miserable painting. Below this picture was a miniature of William; my tears flowed when I looked upon it and soon the room was ankle deep in tears.
While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered. “Still bloody miserable? Welcome home my dearest Dick,” he said.
“I’m not Dick,” said I, “I’m Victor.”
“Poor William, he was our darling. We tried to revive him, we even tried a vet.”
Tears unrestrained – strained tears are much purer but less plentiful – fell from my brother’s eyes. “Elizabeth, alas, announced herself as having caused the death of William and that made her very wretched, but since the murderer has been discovered…”
Good God! How can that be? Who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds or confine a mountain stream with a straw. He disappeared at a speed of 100 miles per hour. He was eating a fish paste sandwich and his trousers kept falling down. The police, ambulance and fire brigade chased but he outstripped them.
“Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz became capable of so appalling a crime? The morning of the murder, servants had discovered in her pocket the ivory elephant brooch. She has been apprehended and charged with the murder.”
Nonsense! I knew that the murderer had been eating a fish paste sandwich and travelling at 100 miles per hour with his trousers down.
The real murderer was eating a sandwich of fish paste
To finish it he would have to make haste
His trousers were laying in haste on the floor
Could he ask for anything more?
My dear father, you are mistaken. Justine is innocent. No sir, I tried it on with her and she wasn’t having any of it. I sincerely hope she will be acquitted. The murderer was a man with his trousers down, eating a fish paste sandwich and travelling at 100 miles per hour.
My tale was not one to announce publicly. I would tell it to someone privately in a cupboard.
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish years – and huge boobs. She welcomed me with the greatest affection, and I gave them a quick squeeze.
“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I.
“Yes, I too am innocent,” said Elizabeth.
“And me,” said father. “And we are all of us innocent. Does that make you feel better?”
“Dearest niece,” said my innocent father, “dry your tears. If she is Justine, as you believe, she will have to rely on the justice of our laws.”
“I tell you,” I said, “that murderer had his trousers down, was eating fish paste sandwiches and travelling 100 miles per hour.”
“Of course he was,” said my father, helping me on with my straitjacket.
She related the evening of the night of the sailor
I think he was a sailor or it might have been a tailor
“All night I watched him go up and down on my bed
By dawn he fell off dead.”
CHAPTER VIII
At Justine’s court appearance I called out to the court from the witness box, declaring that she was innocent, that the murderer was eight feet tall, with his trousers down, travelling at 100 miles per hour and eating a fish paste sandwich. She entered the court, threw her eyes around the room and then caught them coming back.
She had been out the whole night with a sailor; the murder had been committed towards morning. A woman asked her what she did and she said, “I did the sailor.” When another one enquired where she had passed the night she replied, “With a sailor.”
A murmur of indignation and disbelief filled the court and the street. As the trial proceeded her countenance altered. One minute she was Tommy Cooper, then Lon Chaney, then Jimmy Durante and, finally, Frank Bruno. She collected her powers, men spoke in an audible although variable voice: she did Tom Jones, Frank Sinatra and Paul McCartney.
She related the evening of the night of the murder. She had been at the house of an aunt at Chene with a sailor. On her return she met a sailor who asked her “Would you like a fuck dear?” All through the night she watched him go up and down. As dawn broke she awoke and the sailor rolled off her, dead. From the back of the court I called out, “It was a giant with his trousers down, eating a fish paste sandwich and travelling at 100 miles per hour.” That is all I said and for saying it they put me back in a straitjacket.
Several witnesses were called who said they had known her for many years. Many spoke well of her but were unwilling to come forward, so they went backwards and disappeared out of the court. During her service with us she was the most benevolent of human creatures. In her last illness she nursed Madam Frankenstein until it killed her. But public indignation had returned with renewed violence against her, with blackest ingratitude.
I perceived the countenances of the judges and they had already condemned my unhappy victim. I rushed out of the court in agony and was run over by a bus. I felt I had never before experienced such sensations of horror – not since I saw Don’t Forget Your Tooth Brush. Words cannot convey an idea, only things like fork, hippo, nut cutlet, couch, tree, but none of them convey the heart-sickening despair.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “we will go and visit her in jail and you, Victor, shall accompany me.” (“Oh fuck.”) “I cannot go alone.”
The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. I didn’t want to be seen going so I put a towel over my face. We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some straw at the far end; her hands were manacled and, with difficulty, she was trying to eat a packet of Smith’s crisps. She rose on seeing us and threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. We were soon all ankle deep in tears.
“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth. The poor girl rose six feet in the air and remained there.
“Would you like a sailor to make your last hours happy?”
“Can I come down now?” Justine asked. “The local priest said that unless I gave £10 towards the church I will go to hell.”
“Then pay the £10 and avoid going to hell,” said Elizabeth.
“Dearest William, dearest blessed child! I soon shall be able to see you again, in heaven where we shall all be happy and I can see the strangle marks on your neck. Goodbye cruel world, goodbye. I leave a sad and bitter world, and that stupid man in the corner with the towel over his head.”
During this conversation I had retired to the corner of the prison room where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me with a large piece of cardboard.
“I feel as if I could die in peace.” We all waited while she tried to die in peace but nothing happened.
Thus, the poor sufferer tried to comfort others – she tried to comfort the Pope, but before she could she would be strung up.
We stayed several hours with Justine and I danced with her three times.
On the morrow, Justine died, a favourite with Her Majesty’s Royal Navy. I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth but she wasn’t there. All that woe and the desolation in the home. All was the work of my thrice-accursed hands, bloody hands multiplied by three. Justine’s funeral was accompanied by wailing and lamentations and weeping. It was so bloody noisy we couldn’t hear the coffin go into the ground.
Meanwhile, this monster was walking the countryside at 100 miles per hour, demanding cigarettes and strangling people if they did not give him one.
VOLUME TWO
CHAPTER I
I could never watch Drop the Dead Donkey; I could only watch it fall and pray for its soul. They say all the souls of dead donkeys go to Bexhill-on-Sea.
“Victor,” said my father, “for fuck’s sake snap out of it. I loved your brother.”
Tears came into his eyes; they ran down his body into his boots where they escaped through lace holes as steam.
“It is a duty to improve or enjoy, even the discharge of daily usefulness without which no man is fit for society. For fuck’s sake, snap out of it.”
Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his view behind a piece of cardboard from where I shouted, “For fuck’s sake I can’t snap out of it.”
About this time we moved to a house at Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable as there was no rent to pay. Often, when the rest of the family retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. It sprang a leak, and despite four hours of bailing out it sank. Another time I hoisted the sails and let the wind take me wherever it would. I ended up in France.
It took me two days of sailing to get back. Often I was tempted to plunge into the lake; that the waters might close over me and end my calamities forever, but each time I ran short of breath and had to surface. Thank heaven, it saved my life.
I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new hobby like haddock stretching or nude woodchopping. None of these activities could obliterate the monster from my mind. I must find him, even if it means going to the Andes. There I would arrest him.
The monster would not leave my mind
Suppose he left it behind!
He could throw it in the sea
Dearie me
And that would be the end of me.
My father’s health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. We had to put heavy rocks on him to keep him still.
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