Pride and Prometheus

by John Kessel

  “I don’t pretend to know what you are talking about.”

  Frankenstein stood and began to pace the floor. “Please! I recognized your look of reproach when we found you in the forest. You saw that monstrous thing with your own eyes. Believe me when I tell you I intend to make right what I put wrong. But I will never be able to do so if you expose me to the world.”

  To Mary’s astonishment, she saw that his eyes glistened with tears.

  “Perhaps I will keep silent,” she said. “But you must first tell me everything.”

  She sat back in an attitude of expectation. He stared at her, took his seat again, and began to speak.

  “It began,” he said, “when my mother died.”

  Over the next hour Frankenstein told her how his mother, the most loving of parents, had died on the eve of his leaving for the university. A reader of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, from childhood he had entertained fancies of alchemical powers; this tragedy only increased his forlorn wish that he might discover the elixir of life. At Ingolstadt he became the pupil of two distinguished scientists, M. Krempe and M. Waldman. They convinced him that alchemy was an outdated fantasy, but chemistry offered the chance for human beings to bend nature to their purposes. They set him to the study of the modern masters of natural philosophy and introduced him to the realm of the laboratory, the experiment, the minute observation of nature in all her works.

  Having read some of the same thinkers that Frankenstein mentioned, Mary could see the attraction of the prospect, and how a person of strong enough imagination might seek to discover what Frankenstein after years of intense research claimed to have found: the secret of life. He told Mary how, emboldened and driven on by his solitary obsession to demonstrate his newfound power over life and death, he had formed a man from the tissues of corpses he had stolen from graveyards and purchased from resurrection men. Three years ago he had succeeded, through his science, in bringing this artificial being to life.

  Only on the first vital motions of this new being did the monstrous horror of his accomplishment strike him.

  “Nothing I can say can convey to you what I felt in that instant of triumph and sickening despair. One moment, heedless of my exhaustion, forgetful of the violations of common decency I had committed in the service of my obsession, I wanted nothing more than to see the result of my years of labor show signs of life. In the next, as the thing’s fingers twitched and it opened its watery eye, the full horror of my actions, the godlike responsibility I had stolen and my presumption in stealing it, which until then I had ignored or pushed aside, transfixed me the way a pin fixes a moth in a box. My soul recoiled and my frame staggered under the weight of returning conscience.”

  In revulsion at this misbegotten parody of a human being, Frankenstein had fled his laboratory, and when he returned, his creation was gone. He fell ill, and months passed before he was well enough again to contemplate what he had done; by that time he assumed that the thing, without his care, had sickened and died. Fatal irresponsibility: the monster had survived. Two years later, it had somehow discovered Victor as its creator, made its way hundreds of miles to his home in Geneva, strangled his brother William, and caused his family’s ward Justine to be blamed for the crime.

  Mary did not know what to say. These were the ravings of a lunatic. But the earnestness with which Frankenstein spoke, his tears and desperate whispers, gave every proof that, at least in his mind, he had done these things. And she had indeed seen a horrifying man in the woods.

  She considered all that he had said. “But if you knew that this monster had committed such awful crimes, why did you not intervene in Justine’s trial?”

  “I had no proof. Had I spoken, no one should have believed me.”

  “Yet I am to believe you now?”

  Frankenstein’s voice was choked. “You have seen the monster. You deduced, from your reading, that these things are possible. I come to you in remorse and penitence, asking only that you keep this secret.” He fell to his knees, threw his head into her lap, and clutched at the sides of her gown.

  Frankenstein had wholly mistaken what she knew. Yet if his story was true, it was no wonder that his judgment was disordered. And here he lay, trembling against her like a boy seeking forgiveness.

  She tried to keep her senses. “Certainly the creature I saw was frightening, but he looked more wretched than menacing.”

  Frankenstein lifted his head. “Here I must warn you—his wretchedness is mere mask. He feigns humanity, and he is a superior mimic. Do not let your sympathy for him cause you ever to trust his nature. He is the vilest creature that has ever walked this earth. He has no conscience, no soul.”

  “Why then not alert the authorities, catch him, and bring him to justice?”

  “He cannot be so easily caught. He is inhumanly strong, resourceful, and intelligent. If you should ever be so unlucky as to speak with him, I warn you not to listen to what he says, for he is eloquent and persuasive. Let me tell you a story about him to demonstrate his arrogance, his lack of conscience, and his derision:

  “After he had killed William and Justine was hanged for his crime, I went to the top of a glacier to contemplate ending my life. He followed, and there confronted me. He accused me of abandoning him. I tried to reason with him and he told me he would keep no terms with his enemies. When in despair and rage I commanded him to relieve me from the sight of his detested form, he did this—” Frankenstein reached out and held his hands over Mary’s eyes. “ ‘Thus I relieve thee,’ the fiend said, to show me that though I might not see him, he would ever be only an arm’s distance away.

  “He is brilliant and sardonic, and that makes his rage against humanity more bitter still. He has told me in his own words that he has declared everlasting war against our species.”

  “All the more reason to see him apprehended.”

  “I am convinced that he can be dealt with only by myself.” Frankenstein’s eyes pleaded with her. “Miss Bennet—Mary—you must understand. He is in some ways my son. I gave him life. It is I he follows. His mind is fixed on me.”

  “And, it seems, yours is fixed on him.”

  Frankenstein looked surprised. “Do you wonder that is so?”

  “Why does he follow you? Does he intend you harm?”

  “He has vowed to glut the maw of death with the blood of my remaining loved ones, unless I make him happy.”

  “But how can you face this thing alone? Is there somewhere you will flee? You are bound for Scotland—will he not follow?”

  “I intend to travel, without Henry, to the remotest spot I can find. When he comes, I will deal with him away from the rest of humanity.” Frankenstein’s eyes glistened with tears. He rested his head again in her lap. He whispered, “Please, keep my secret.”

  Mary was touched, and in some obscure way aroused. She felt his trembling body, instinct with life. Tentatively, she rested her hand on his head. She stroked his hair. He was weeping. She was acutely aware of him as a physical being, a living animal that would eventually, too soon, die. And all that was true for him was true of herself. How strange, frightening, sad. Yet in this moment she felt herself completely alive.

  “I will keep your secret,” she said.

  He hugged her skirts. In the candle’s light, she noted the way his thick, dark hair curled away from his brow.

  “I cannot tell you,” he said softly, “what a relief it is to share my burden with another soul, and to have her accept me. I have been so completely alone. I am sorry to have come to you like this, so abjectly and improperly. Forgive me, and I will forever be in your debt.”

  He rose, kissed her forehead, and was gone.

  The suddenness of his departure left her dizzy. Had she dreamed it? But she felt the lingering impress of his lips on her brow.

  Mary paced her room, trying to grasp what had happened. A man who had conquered death? A monster fashioned from the flesh of corpses? Such things did not happen, not even in the novels she read
. She climbed into bed and tried to sleep, but could not.

  Mary remembered the weight of Frankenstein’s head upon her lap.

  The coals of the fire still illuminated the room, dimly. She felt stiflingly hot. She got up, stripped off her nightgown, and climbed back between the sheets, where she lay naked, listening to the occasional pop and crack of the dying fire.

  The Creature had vowed to kill all whom Frankenstein loved.

  Kitty’s fever worsened in the night, and before dawn Darcy sent to Lambton for the doctor. Lizzy dispatched an express letter to their parents, and the sisters sat by Kitty’s bedside through the morning, changing cold compresses from her brow while Kitty labored to breathe.

  When Mary left the sickroom, Frankenstein approached her. He looked calmer and more settled than he had the previous day. She would not have known that he had been in her bedroom several hours ago. “How is your sister?”

  “She is gravely ill.”

  “She is in some danger?”

  Mary could only nod.

  He touched her shoulder, lowered his voice. “I will pray for her, Miss Bennet. I cannot thank you enough for the understanding you showed me last night. I have never told anyone—”

  Just then Clerval appeared. He greeted Mary, inquired after Kitty’s condition, and then suggested to Frankenstein that they return to their inn rather than add any burden to the household and family. Frankenstein agreed. The gentlemen packed their belongings and Darcy had a chaise brought round to drive them back to the Matlock inn.

  As they gathered at the front entrance to Pemberley, Henry and Victor thanked Darcy and Elizabeth for their hospitality. Mary’s thoughts were with Kitty upstairs, but Frankenstein took a moment for one last word with her.

  “I regret that circumstances will not allow us to better know each other, Miss Bennet. My heartfelt wishes for your sister’s speedy recovery, and my sincere gratitude for your kindness.” He held her hand and looked her in the eyes.

  “God bless you, Mr. Frankenstein.”

  With that they climbed into the carriage and were driven away.

  Dr. Montgomery arrived soon after Clerval and Frankenstein left. He listened to Kitty’s breathing, measured her pulse, felt her forehead, and examined her urine. He feared she might have contracted a Boulogne sore throat, and recommended that the immediate family members, and particularly any children, be kept from her room. He administered some medicines, and came away shaking his head. Should the fever continue, he said, they must bleed her.

  Given how much thought she had spent on Frankenstein through the night, and how little on Kitty, Mary’s conscience tormented her, and she was not about to leave Kitty’s side despite the doctor’s warnings of contagion. She spent the day in her sister’s room. That night, after Jane had retired and Lizzy fallen asleep in her chair, she still sat up, holding Kitty’s hot hand. She had matters to consider. Was Kitty indeed with child, and if so, should she tell the doctor? Yet even as she sat by Kitty’s bedside, Mary’s mind cast back to the touch of Frankenstein’s lips on her forehead.

  In the middle of the night, Kitty woke, bringing Mary from her doze. Kitty lifted her head from the pillow. “Mary,” she whispered. “You must send for Jonathan. Tell him I accept. We must be married immediately.”

  Mary looked across the room at Lizzy. She was still asleep.

  “Promise me,” Kitty said. Her eyes were large and dark.

  “I promise,” Mary said.

  “Prepare my wedding dress,” Kitty said. “But don’t tell Lizzy.”

  Lizzy awoke then. She came to the bedside and felt Kitty’s forehead. “She’s burning up. Get Dr. Montgomery.”

  Mary sought out the doctor, and then, while he went to Kitty’s room, pondered what to do. Kitty was not in her right mind. If Mary sent one of the footmen to Matlock for Jonathan, no matter that Mary might swear her messenger to silence, the matter would soon be the talk of the servants, and eventually the town. The likelihood that Clarke would come was small, and what purpose would his coming serve? It would only arouse the speculation of scandal that Kitty had feared. Kitty’s request ran contrary to both sense and propriety.

  But Mary had promised.

  It was the sort of dilemma that she would have had no trouble settling, to everyone’s moral edification, when she was nineteen. She hurried to her room and took out paper and pen:

  I write to inform you that one you love, residing at Pemberley House, is gravely ill. She urgently requests your presence. Simple human kindness, which from our acquaintance I know you possess, let alone the duty incumbent upon you owing to the compact that you have made with her through your actions, assures me that we shall see you here before the night is through.

  Miss Mary Bennet

  She folded and sealed the note and woke Benjamin, one of the footmen, whom she dispatched immediately with the instruction to put the letter into the hand of Jonathan Clarke, owner of the Matlock butcher’s shop, at his home in Chesterfield Road. She asked him not to let on to the other servants that he had gone; if Mrs. Reynolds or even Mr. Darcy should discover he had been out, he should direct them to speak with Mary.

  After he had left, Mary returned to Kitty’s room. Kitty had dropped back into sleep, and her labored breath was audible in the stillness of the room. Dr. Montgomery was there, and Lizzy had woken Jane. The three were in whispered conversation, and Mary joined them.

  “Her fever is very high,” Montgomery said. “If we are going to do it, I believe it is time to bleed her.”

  “Shall we wait until Father and Mother arrive?” Jane asked.

  “There is no way to know when they will arrive,” said Lizzy. She rubbed the back of her hand across her brow. “I think we should proceed.”

  Mary said, “I would like to hold the basin.”

  “We can have one of the ladies’ maids hold it,” Dr. Montgomery said. “This is a difficult procedure to watch. I do not want to have to deal with a fainting sister.”

  “I shall not faint,” Mary said.

  Jane and Lizzy looked skeptical. Dr. Montgomery assessed her for a moment. “All right,” he said.

  From his bag he took a small enameled basin and a straight razor. “Bring the lamp here, if you would,” he said to Lizzy. “Hold it steady.”

  Dr. Montgomery pulled back the counterpane, gently lifted Kitty’s arm, and laid it on a towel at the side of the bed. He let her hand and wrist dangle over the edge. He directed Mary to hold the basin below Kitty’s forearm, and then unfolded the razor. Jane looked away. Lizzy held the lamp. Kitty’s breathing sounded rough in her throat.

  Montgomery made an incision along the blue vein that showed beneath the pale skin of Kitty’s forearm. Very slowly dark blood welled up and trickled over her arm into the basin. The flow was paltry. Montgomery held Kitty’s arm with one hand while he felt for the pulse at her swollen throat with his other. Mary watched the blood drip from her sister’s arm, compelling herself to breathe deeply and evenly as she caught every drop in the basin.

  After some minutes, Montgomery said, “That’s enough.” He pressed a clean linen pad to Kitty’s arm and wrapped a bandage around it from elbow to wrist. He took the basin from Mary. “Thank you,” he said. “I see no reason why you ladies should not retire to get some sleep. I will wait here with her.”

  Jane extracted a promise that she should be called at any change in Kitty’s condition. Lizzy and Mary insisted on remaining, but a half hour later Darcy entered and persuaded Lizzy that she could do nothing for anyone in the morning if she spent another sleepless night. “Mary is here; let her sit with her sister as she has for so many years.” Mary was grateful for his words. Lizzy conceded; Darcy had a few words with Dr. Montgomery and bid Mary good night, and they left.

  The doctor and Mary said little to each other. He settled back into a chair; soon his chin rested on his chest, and he gave a slight snore.

  Mary was wide awake. She considered how she might deal with Lizzy and the others if Clarke d
id arrive. She decided to cross that bridge when she came to it.

  She watched her sister’s face. Kitty looked ten years older than she had in London. Mary could see the old woman she would become written in the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the softness of her chin, the hollowness of her cheeks. Yet she was still beautiful. Her eyelashes were dark and fine. They fluttered as Kitty passed through some dream. Her brow furrowed. Her breathing came fast and shallow. Mary wondered what was happening in that dream.

  Their temperaments were different, Kitty’s and Mary’s, but they had been yoked together for ten years. How many times had they whispered secrets to each other in their bedroom at Longbourn, speaking of things that they wished for, the difficulty of being alone? Kitty had teased Mary for her books and fossils, but begrudged her, Mary thought, just a little, the escape they gave her from the desert of spinsterhood. Kitty had even envied Mary the attentions of Mr. Woodleigh. Mary recalled the way they had both laughed when Mary swore she would not marry him.

  Tears gathered in Mary’s eyes. She reached out to hold the hand of Kitty’s bandaged arm.

  When Dr. Montgomery woke some time later, Mary asked him to watch Kitty while she stepped out of the room. The light was coming up in the east, and the clock in the hall told her it was six in the morning. She hurried to the servants’ quarters and knocked on the door to Benjamin’s room.

  The footman was awake, and answered immediately. “Miss Bennet,” he said in surprise.

  “Did you give the note to Mr. Clarke?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You put it in his hand?”

  “I did, ma’am. The girl that answered said he was asleep, but I made her wake him. He was quite unhappy about it, Miss Bennet.”

  But Clarke was not here. “Thank you, Benjamin. Please do not say anything about this to anyone.”

  “Yes, ma’am. How is Miss Catherine?”