“Later, she said; after Mortimer had picked her up and made her fortune, she heard I was in London, for my name at least she knew. When I walked into her net, she said, she played with me a little, then killed my wife and child, to play with me a little more, then made me pant after her like a dog. I lay beneath her, her strong hands pushing me down, her hair half-blinding me. And then, as if all that were not hideous enough, she said, smiling—oh, the horror of it—“Adam is here. I hid him for a long time in your garden.” Then she brought her face closer to me and said, “We have met every day in his hiding place. I stole your food for him. Are you not amused? Each day, hour on hour, I have made love to him. Do you laugh? He loves me, Victor Frankenstein, as I do him. We cannot love anyone but each other. And now he and I are here—both here—in this house and you who made us, who treated us as you would and disposed of us as you wished when you found you could not love us—you will die yourself, at our hands.”
“And even as I thought in horror of graceful Maria being savaged by that maimed, inarticulate monster, the bedroom door burst open—and he was there. I saw in the doorway the huge body of the man I had created, heard his heavy tread, felt his great hands seize me as a child seizes a doll and looked into his savage, gloating face. I could not cry out. Effortlessly, he pulled me from my bed, threw me over his shoulder and ran downstairs with me. In the drawing-room by the window he held me, my arms pinioned at my sides, my feet barely touching the floor, while she, Maria, in her nightdress, stabbed and slashed at me in a frenzy with a knife saying, “This is for the blows you struck, this is for the hunger you did not assuage, this is for the cold, for the whip, for the chains.”
“I remember falling, hearing a crash of glass as I suppose the beast sprang out through the window to make his escape. Then I recall Maria bending over me crooning, “Now you die, my dear creator and Adam's creator. Now you die.” She must have been found thus as if very grieved at my injuries, by those who came into the room. I knew nothing of this, for I had lost my senses.
“This, Jonathan, is my most dreadful story. I am sorry, my friend, that I deceived you and used you to mask my passion for Maria. I am sorry I deceived you, to protect-myself when you began to come across the truth. I could not endure the thought that all would soon know what atrocities I had committed, I could not bear to believe it was impossible to return to Eden, the week before I constructed my downfall. But that garden, once one has eaten the fruit of the tree, cannot be re-entered. I know there is no hope for me in this life; I think there is none in the next. I believe I'm going towards damnation.
“Jonathan, forgive me, and pray for me if you will.
“Finally, for the love of God, protect yourself and your family from these two abominations I have made. They will have fled and I do not think they will be caught. Beware of them, I implore you.
“God bless you, dear fellow. You have been loyal to a fault to your most unworthy friend. If you can, I beg you to pray for me, pray for Victor Frankenstein, little as you may think he merits your prayers.”
E I G H T E E N
MY LORD—I MUST ADD A POSTSCRIPT to the dreadful and pathetic tale of Victor Frankenstein, one of the unhappiest of men who can ever have walked the earth, and creator of his own unhappiness. For there is more. You may perhaps see in Frankenstein's account the ravings of a man enfevered and near death. Often and often I have tried to persuade myself that is all there is to the tale, but, alas, there is too much evidence to support its substance.
You will recall that I read Frankenstein's final testimony at Gray's Inn Road on the afternoon of the day he died. I read, as would have anyone, with growing horror, yet the doubt, that twilight of half-seen shapes and forms in which I had been living had been almost as terrible in its way as was the horror, fully revealed.
Yet what frightening intellectual questions it raises!
I took no note of Victor's warnings about the uncaptured pair. They had no reason to attack me or mine, if his account were true. If it were true. For to believe Victor's account one would have to believe that Victor had made—created—revived from the dead—two seemingly human beings who ought never to have existed.
As in an old tragedy Victor had dared the gods, usurped their power, suffered direly as a result of his own ambition, pride and vanity. Even in his final, desperate confession one can still see traces of that lack of humility. Perhaps to those vices he also added one further sin, that of inhumanity. For though that misbegotten pair were not as we are, one constructed and brought to life, the other brought back from the grave where she should have been left peacefully at rest, were they not in some ways human? Did they not share, in however warped a manner, some of our humanity? The art of Maria Clementi—the passion of the monster for his bride—are those the attributes of mere beasts? Are they not close to our human qualities?
Let us settle that, though not man, they were not beasts. My friend had not treated them as men, for they were not. Yet they were not quite beasts, but he had used them as such; tried to kill them as a man does a dog—worse—as if they were cattle bred and slain for man's use. To me it seemed strange that he had never, from beginning to end, contemplated the way he should treat these creatures or in what relation to him they stood. As for my part in this tragedy—I was no protagonist, more like one of those ancient tragic choruses, deluded and bewildered, admonitory, ever powerless to alter anything.
As I dropped the pages to the floor, wishing them out of my hands completely, I knew poor Victor would all too soon be standing before his own Maker, to receive final judgment.
I pitied him.
As my story will have demonstrated, my Lord, I had up to that point been an indifferent Christian, no Christian at all. My religion had been a background to my life, but I had thought, as many men do, that it was a matter more for women and children, not the concern of grown men. This view, unacceptable as it might be to the Church is common enough, we all know. But Victor's terrible story compelled me to contemplate many grave matters which had never concerned me before. Principal among these questions was that of redemption. And I knew, even as the last pages of Victor's own history left my hands I must make one final effort to find a way of convincing my poor friend, before his death, of the mercy of God. For he seemed certain his God was about to condemn him to eternal hell. I could not endure that this would be his last thought before he died.
My acquaintance with the clergymen of London was small, but I found Simeon Shaw at the bedside of an old woman of his parish and hauled him out into the snow to go to Cheyne Walk. On the way I confided to him much of Victor's story, which he half-believed. As the coach crawled forward through snow, he made the telling point that if Victor Frankenstein had bequeathed to me his scientific papers I might be in possession of the secret of the creation of life. He then ambitiously suggested I put these papers into the hands of the Church—by which I think he meant, himself.
My lack of faith in religion has always been inextricably mingled with my lack of faith in the clergy, for, throughout the ages, has not the priesthood suppressed knowledge to incease superstitious power among the credulous? Therefore I said plainly and in an angry manner, “Mr. Shaw—I am taking you to the deathbed of my friend in order that you may convince him there is a Redeemer who will forgive all if he truly repents of his sins. That, and no more. I will give you no papers, and if you indicate to anyone that such papers exist I shall deny all knowledge and claim that you are inventing. If you wish to do any more than bring the consolations of religion to a dying man then we will turn the coach round here and now and go back.”
I felt sure of my ground here, having already the impression that he did not stand well with his Bishop, being considered cranky and perhaps in some respects not altogether in his right mind. At all events, this statement silenced him. But his suggestion that Victor's papers might convey the secret of his experiments has haunted me over the years, thus my great relief in handing the documents to you.
We
were let in by the butler, very grave. His master's parents were with him; he was dying. I took Simeon Shaw upstairs.
I had no place in the room where parents were bidding the last farewell to their only son, I went downstairs. Poor Victor, I learned, died only a little later. While Victor's mother had held one of his hands, Mr. Shaw had the other in his own grip. They said Shaw told him of the all-embracing mercy of God. Victor had squeezed the clergyman's hand, unable to speak, and died. But that is often said on such occasions. Whether Victor was consoled, whether he had truly repented, I know not.
After I blundered down that chill staircase and as those final scenes took place upstairs I remained in the salon where full of melancholy thought. I pressed my forehead against the freezing panes of the long windows. The two guards were there, playing cards, as ever. Then something—some shadow—caught my eye. In the moonlight on the snow-covered lawn, two hundred yards away from me, were two dark shapes dancing, one huge and lumbering, crippled, in a long black flapping coat, the other a graceful, bird-like, swooping figure. They danced in the snow and ice, bowing, capering, gliding, following some pattern understood only by themselves. Even he, ungraceful as he was, showed a peculiar, clumsy agility. They were completely caught up in each other.
I saw Maria—for I knew one of the figures was hers, the other being that of her monstrous bridegroom—raise her arms above her head and twirl into his embrace—then he released her and she spun again on the white carpet of their outdoor ballroom. The dance continued, their feet making black patterns on the snowy grass. I closed my eyes, thinking the sight an hallucination—but, no, when I opened them again, there they still were. Now the courtly dance had become wilder, a twirling, stamping fandango, as they swung each other round by their extended arms. It ended as they went into a long embrace. Then straightaway they parted and still hand-in-hand began to run, as two children will run happily towards some morning game on a summer's day, away from the house and into the trees.
I believe that must have been the moment when Victor died. This was the triumphal dance of the creatures he had brought into being.
“Two kings—a deuce.” I heard one of the guards say.
“No—curse this light,” said the other. Then a gust caught their one candle and it went out. We were left in the darkened room with only the moonlight coming through the window. The figures outside had gone now. There was only the trampled snow they had left behind and a trail of their footmarks over the grass.
It was, of course, a horror beyond anything. I should have called out the guards, now cursing as they searched for their tinder to relight the candle. But what would have been the point? To find and seize that pair would have taken a regiment, and I knew that now they had accomplished the death of Frankenstein, their maker, and they were reunited, they would go far away. Frankenstein was dead. They had found each other; they needed no more.
I left that mournful house without speaking to anyone.
That night Cordelia, bolder than I, came to me over the icy roads. We were married a month later after the thaw, when sun and light returned and spring was making its first efforts to warm and cheer the world. In that year I gave her Victor's terrible account to read and when I asked her opinion as to what she thought I should do with it—should I preserve it, put it into other hands, burn it?—she advised that Victor's testament along with the drawings and formulae should be safely locked up, where no one could ever find them. And this we did. It is only now, as I am trying to settle my affairs and my conscience (though, I hope still looking forward to many years of health and contentment), that I have felt I must solve the difficulty of what to do with this material.
But, my Lord, there is a further postscript to this affair which I feel I must relate. This event occurred some years after those I have described when I and my wife were on holiday in Switzerland. We were sitting with Flora and our little son at the edge of one of that country's many beautiful lakes, gazing with pleasure across the body of water at the view on the opposite side. Here there was a small, grassy foreshore, behind that a forest of tall pine trees. It was a clear day, the distance between ourselves and the other side of the water being some two hundred yards. Suddenly my wife rose to her feet and cried, “Look! Jonathan—what is that?” On the verge of the lake opposite us walked two figures, one huge, lame, clumsy, the other, nearer to us, a woman, small and graceful. And between them, holding the hand of either parent, a small child, by her clothing a girl. Then they were gone, into the pines, too quickly for either of us to be perfectly certain of what we had seen, whether they had been there at all. We gazed at each other, though, in some horror. My wife asked me, in awe, “Was it them, do you think?” But I could not answer her.
My Lord, we may have been mistaken in what we saw but, since you are to be the recipient of Victor Frankenstein's papers, and since they may contain the secret of how to create human life by artificial means, it is vital that you should be told this later part of the story. For—imagine—if those figures were those of Frankenstein's creations, his Adam and his Eve, if the child was a child they had between them, then not only are they still at large but between them have bred a child like themselves. And so might any other creature produced as they were. Will such children, if nurtured as ours are, be different from us, be more or less evil than we are ourselves? Who, what will they be?
And another sober thought came to my mind then. If the child was born of Maria Clementi, then she might be the only surviving child of Victor Frankenstein himself, fathered on the woman he brought back to life, his creation. Dreadful, impossible thoughts, my Lord, but dare we in conscience ignore them?
It is almost twenty years since I saw those figures. From time to time there are still moments when I dread the reappearance of that child, grotesque or inhumanly lovely in form—an angel—or devil? What might she be? I pray, my Lord, I shall never encounter her.
For the rest, I confide these papers to you in the confidence that your good judgment will help you to decide better what to do with them. Whatever you decide may I make one plea—that you offer up a prayer for poor Victor Frankenstein—and another for me, witness to these frightening events. Then also, if I may presume to suggest it, I suggest you pray also for yourself, who now know all the story of Frankenstein, and to whom it is given to decide what to do with his heritage.
I remain, most respectfully, my Lord, your servant, Jonathan Goodall.
Frankenstein or the modern prometheus
Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
LETTER 1 TO MRS. SAVILLE, ENGLAND ST. PETERSBURGH, DEC. 11TH, 17—
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Peters-burgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has traveled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendor. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and ma
y regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favorite dream of my early years. I have read with ardor the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas's library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.
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