“I went to Miss Clementi's house in Russell Square on February 19th, the day before I sought my interview with you. I arrived at about half past two and was welcomed by Miss Clementi herself and her impresario Mr. Mortimer. Another gentleman, never introduced to me, arrived a little later and was present with Mr. Mortimer during the proceedings.
“I would have preferred another lady, some relative or trusted companion, to be present—indeed I had assumed such a person would be there. Had I foreseen what would occur I would have insisted. But as it was, although I found the absence of any lady and the presence of Mr. Mortimer and the young gentleman a little unusual, I saw no reason to object. I recognized the unknown gentleman as having been present at one of my exhibitions at a private house, though I did not then know his name.
“It may have been Miss Clementi herself was not fully at ease in this situation. At any rate she proved singularly hard to mesmerize. My method is, in accordance with established practice, to persuade the object of my study to sink into a trance by the swinging of some object (I use a crystal on a silver chain) before his eyes while speaking to him in a low voice, thus relaxing his mind and persuading him into the necessary state of trance.
“As I swung the crystal on its chain before her, Miss Clementi sat in one chair, while I sat opposite in a similar chair, drawn up close. During this exercise Mr. Mortimer and his friend stood against a wall close to the door, to witness this procedure, acting in a most deplorable and quite unsuitable way, talking loudly to each other and at one point calling for wine. This undesirable atmosphere may also have made its contribution to the difficulty I found in having any effect on Miss Clementi. She was not an easy subject for mesmerism. The normal individual approaching mesmerism will either be willing to comply, or adopt a kind of nervous defiance of it, the former attitude being more common with ladies, the latter, with gentlemen. Miss Clementi reacted in neither of these ways but sat in her chair, charmingly, regarding the swinging crystal with a kind of neutral interest.
“I presumed that, hardened by her own work on the stage, she believed at bottom my scientific experiments in mesmerism to be some form of illusion, as with a magician or conjuror. In vain I swung the crystal to and fro before her, uttering what some have called my ‘incantations' (in fact a mélange of suggestions to her that she should repose herself and fall into a reverie).
“At one point, the crystal proving ineffective, I asked her to look into my own eyes, hoping thus to influence her. This I ceased to do, for, when she turned her gaze to mine I saw an emptiness in her eyes which alarmed me. They were like great dark pools, the pupils being much enlarged. They were almost, at that moment, if I dare say it, like the eyes of an animal, quite inhuman. I suspected for a moment, I confess, that she was turning the tables on me—attempting to entrance me.”
Here, I think, I laid the letter down on the mantelpiece. The room had emptied. Through the long windows I could see, on the grass outside, the crowd of horsemen and those who would follow on foot. The hounds wove in and out of the melee; there was all the gaiety and anticipation of the moments before a hunt sets off. I could hear cries, laughter, the baying of dogs and noted in the jostling throng, the groom holding my horse and gazing questioningly in my direction. Cordelia, who was mounted (to follow, not to hunt), nudged her chestnut through the crush and rode close to the windows, also, mutely, asking me when I would emerge. I gestured to her with the letter and indicated I would not be long. An unconfident rider, she turned her horse and urged it through to where it was less crowded.
Now that I had begun to read this letter, though every line pointed towards an alarming conclusion, I thought that I had better finish it for good or ill. As I read on I heard the horn begin to blow, the hounds go off at full cry and the thud of hooves galloping away. I pictured the hunt streaming off over the grass towards the fields beyond. They had found a scent quickly, as I had believed they might, for only the night before, leaning from my window, I had seen a pair of foxes playing on the grass outside the house. I had told no one of this, thinking to give them a chance—I am great for the chase but not for the kill, as many are, would they but confess it. As the sounds grew fainter I stood alone in the room, continuing to read Wheeler's letter, which went on:
“Some fifteen minutes after I had commenced my efforts to induce a trance in Miss Clementi, I believe I had worn down her resistance for, though she herself was not aware of it, as I continued to swing the crystal, her eyelids began to droop—the two against the wall, I am forced to say, continuing their racket as if they were at an inn. Ere long Miss Clementi became lethargic, I took her two hands in mine, her eyes opened, then closed again. She was at last in a trance.
“Mr. Mortimer and his companion, observing some change in the situation, now stopped their banter and came closer. I then commanded Miss Clementi to open her eyes. She did. She was under my influence at last.
“I began by asking her a few trifling questions, to which she did not respond in any way. I then said, ‘Maria—you know you can speak. And now you must speak. Speak now.' She did not, but I observed her head twitching a little, as if in agitation, and that she breathed faster. The two men were now all attention. I knew I must proceed slowly and with care. I recognized Miss Clementi was an imperfect subject for mesmerism. She was one of those rare persons who, even in a trance, retain some final controls. And I recognized it was my reference to her inability to speak which caused her such agitation.
“Mr. Goodall—on one occasion long ago I continued to demand answers to questions which disturbed my subject rather as I was now disturbing Miss Clementi. I will not describe the consequences but they were very grave and I vowed I would never do such a thing again. But I had witnesses urging me on as if they were at a cockfight; I had the most intense curiosity to get to the heart of this intriguing mystery. I took a risk I should not have taken and repeated my words to her, telling her that she could speak and must speak. Alas, her agitation increased. She began to toss her head from side to side with the very motion of a woman trying to keep strangling hands from her neck. Her chest rose and fell convulsively as if she were about to go into a frenzy. And still she made no sound.
“Then her mouth opened. She screamed. She cried, ‘The fire! I'm burning! The fire!' Then she screamed again, then began twisting in her chair as if in great pain, as if, veritably, burning.
“I reached forward, took her by the shoulders, put my face to hers and was about to demand that she woke, for the pain she was in seemed terrible, when her body suddenly relaxed and she began, my face still close to hers, but completely unaware of my presence, to sing, in French, in a childish voice—by no means that of the Maria Clementi we have heard on the stage. What she sang was that odious ditty of the French revolutionaries, the ça ira, which they sang as they advanced through the streets and countryside of France to kill and loot their fellow countrymen. Though that song is half a century old now, it still represents that spirit of frenzied rebellion which brings a shudder to all who remember the past—or fear the future. ‘Ça ira, ça ira, ça ira...' she sang, but as if—to me, it seemed—she had learned it as a child at her mother's or father's knee. Not such a strange idea, I suppose, for nothing is known of her past. Perhaps her parents had worn the red bonnet of the Revolution.
“By this time Mr. Mortimer and his nameless companion had become much alarmed. It is one thing to witness a demonstration where a man mimics animals or a lady holds her arm above her head without apparent pain or discomfort for five minutes: it is another to see a young woman mesmerized and brought to the portals of the madhouse. And this was, alas, what I had brought about.
“The young nobleman, for so I judged him to be, stood there, mouth agape, half-horrified and half-fascinated, and there was that in his manner which unhappily reminded me of a visitor in a brothel, a man watching a display in a whorehouse. Mortimer, a man of some sense, whatever his moral character, acted to stop the matter, though misguidedly, and rushed forward, a
ttempting to lay hands on Miss Clementi, crying as he did so, ‘Maria! Maria! Wake up, for God's sake!'
“I, still having hold of Miss Clementi's shoulders, shook my head violently and hissed at him, ‘No—let me do this. You may harm her.' Whereupon he retreated a pace and I roused Miss Clementi with one calm order that she should awake and forget all that had occurred during her trance condition. She ceased to sing, opened her eyes and gazed quite calmly at all of us, seeming unaware of what had taken place during the preceding minutes. Then she rose to her feet, looked round at our astonished faces and left the room with a graceful tread. With difficulty I prevented Mortimer and his friend from following. I rang for a servant and sent her to her mistress, whom she reported, only minutes later, to be lying on her bed fully dressed but for her shoes, in a profound sleep.
“ ‘But will she speak when she wakes?' was Mortimer's urgent question. I could not know and told him this. I warned him not to inform her of what had befallen her while in her trance, for I feared to recall to her conscious mind that which had so disturbed her.
“Since that afternoon I have met with Mortimer, who tells me that when Miss Clementi awoke from her sleep some hours later and in time for her evening's performance, she was mute as ever. Mortimer had obeyed my instructions and told her little of what had passed that afternoon though she had been curious, inasmuch as she was able to express that curiosity. Miss Clementi, he told me, wished to proceed with the attempt to regain or restore her powers of speech. I responded by saying I was most reluctant to try again soon, particularly, I stressed to him, in the undesirable atmosphere he and his friend had created on the previous occasion. Emphatically, I told him, it had been obvious to me, as it must have been to him, that Miss Clementi was able to speak, for she had done so when she cried out ‘Fire! I'm burning!' in such a harrowing manner.
“But I told him I considered her affliction to be such as I had met before, though seldom, where my subject appeared to be obeying unheard orders to behave in a particular manner. I told Mortimer I had caused cripples to walk and stammerers to cease stammering. But always my impression had been that the condition was imposed on the sufferer by orders given to that individual by himself which he dared not disobey until in a mesmeric trance, when I countermanded the order he had given to himself. Did Mortimer, I asked, know of Miss Clementi's having been in a fire where she lost those she loved—had per haps not raised the alarm in time, and therefore sentenced herself to perpetual silence?
“Mortimer said he knew nothing of such an event and, to put it bluntly, seemed to dismiss all I said as rubbish. His proposition was that while mesmerized some imaginings of Miss Clementi's had been released and that they were not to be taken seriously. The important thing, he claimed, was that while under my influence she had spoken, and therefore the sooner she and I met again to continue the work, the better. He had no doubt that in a week or two she would speak. told him that, while under mesmeric power subjects were not dreaming, as he seemed to imagine, but were less given to fancy and imagination than most of us are in our day-to-day lives.
“He ignored everything I said; there was no reasoning with him. I believe he is partly altruistic in wishing to get Miss Clementi to speak, but it cannot be ignored that he sees profit ahead not only for the lady but more for himself if she could take speaking pans. I have told him bluntly that I hesitate to proceed, fearing for Miss Clementi's sanity, as much as anything else—and certainly would not contemplate seeing her in the pothouse atmosphere he and his friend had created on the previous occasion. Were I to attempt again, I told him, I would need the support of a doctor and some respectable female friend of Miss Clementi's. Her reaction, I told him, had been as unusual and as horrifying as anything I had seen in thirty years and I would not answer for the consequences if some reckless and ill-thought-out attempt to restore her voice were made.
“I confess to you, Mr. Goodall, that only these considerations prevent my recommencing the work immediately. For I am immensely curious about the case of Miss Clementi, which might advance our knowledge of mesmerism considerably. But science has its responsibilities. A man yearning to learn more of medicine may dissect a hundred corpses without harming any living thing and the results of his dissections may be beneficial to future generations. But where the subject is alive a man in pursuit of knowledge must take his responsibilities seriously. Knowledge must not be gained at the expense of the health and happiness of another—yet, alas, Mr. Goodall, a man will always be tempted—always.
“To conclude, I parted on bad terms with Mortimer. He wrote me an hour later, full of apologies, and since then I have received a letter daily from him, urging me to visit Miss Clementi again and use my powers of mesmerism on her. He has offered me a large sum of money, which I have refused. He is now recruiting others to his cause and I fear the pressures on me will mount.
“In short, my dear Mr. Goodall, I appeal to you to favor me with your thoughts and advice about what should be done. Miss Clementi has no family and appears to have no true friends about her, though there are many, I think, who wish to exploit her. Can you help or can you direct me to someone else who might provide me with guidance? I keenly await your reply.”
I cursed as I put down the letter. Yet even as I cursed, I wondered what should I do? I was tempted to go to London, from a curiosity I knew I should restrain and because, I argued, it was I who had set this affair in motion, therefore I owed it to myself to see it through. In my mind's eye I saw Maria writhing in her chair, afflicted by visions, even the very sensation of fire. But, great gods!—what would my family think? I had come here with my bride-to-be and would be abandoning her after less than a week. What would Cordelia think of me for leaving her with my family, whom she had only just met, to go off to London and involve myself again in this murky affair? No, I declared to myself, I could not go, would not go, did not wish to go. I would write a judicious letter to Wheeler that very night. I would not go to London.
With that thought I left the room rapidly and found my groom back in the stable yard, walking my horse up and down. I got up on my good old Rodney and off I went.
A good gallop across open fields chasing the sound of the hunting horn blew away thoughts of Wheeler's letter. Soon I was up to the infantry, then caught up with the riders, passing Flora, spurring on her little mount, with Cordelia riding soberly beside her. Galloping on over a little rise, I found the hunt streaming across a vast ploughed field under a sky of clear pale blue. Ahead of them, plunging for the cover of a hedge, I detected the darting fox.
We crossed another field and headed at a gallop through our own coalfields, the horses' hooves drumming on the hard-packed earth as we passed the winches carrying swaying buckets to the surface, a group of black-faced men, a small group of drably dressed women sorting coal in vast troughs. Once through these two acres of blackened earth and puddles we were back in fields and it was in a copse at the end of one that the hounds finally caught up with our quarry and it was over. But no sooner had we clustered round the kill than some of the dogs caught another scent and we were off again, over hill and dale. We killed twice that day and would have gone on, but then down came the rain, drenching horses, men and hounds and the scent, too; so we turned for home, well satisfied, arriving weary, soaked, but in excellent heart.
Later, by the drawing-room fire we sat comfortable again. My sisters, Cordelia and Mrs. Frazer were sewing for dear life: there was to be a ball at a neighbor's house in three days' time, so that many hems were being raised and lowered, ribbons being replaced and necklaces rethreaded. My father was in his study, though Arabella's betrothed was with us, handing thimbles and the like. I sat to one side, watching the rain pour down over the window panes and over the flat landscape, and began to think anew of Wheeler's letter.
Cordelia might have read those thoughts for she raised her head from her sewing and asked. “What was the burden of this morning's letter to you, Jonathan?”
“It was from Mr. Wheeler, th
e mesmerist,” I responded. This caused much interest, of course. On the way down from London Cordelia, Mrs. Frazer and I had agreed to spare the Kittering folk as much as possible of the horrid story of Frankenstein, though the news of his attack, so shortly after the murder of his wife and child, was of course known. Now I told the company, “Miss Maria Clementi, the singer, whom you may know is able to sing but is otherwise completely mute, was present at the time of the attack on my friend Victor Frankenstein. Many doctors have tried to restore her power of speech and failed, so as a last resort it was thought a mesmerist should be asked if he could help her. Thus she might be able to tell us what she saw when Mr. Frankenstein was attacked.”
“Dangerous games,” Dudley Hight observed from his chair-predictably, perhaps. Stout-hearted squire that he was, he was more concerned with his land and the doings in the locality than the strange affairs of the city.
“Well, then,” said Cordelia. “Did he report on a meeting between himself and Miss Clementi? What was the outcome?”
I left the window and went to sit with the party by the fire. I was not altogether happy about speaking. Flora was among us, frowning over her cross-stitch, and I am not one who thinks it a duty to present children with unpleasant facts at an early age in order to harden them. I had decided earlier not to go to London but to write instead to Wheeler. Yet I now began to recognize I was tempted as a man recognizes he has a sickness in the blood.
I said only, “The outcome was not a good one. Wheeler believes he will make no further attempts to discover Miss Clementi's voice,” and that, in spite of many curious questions, was all I said.
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