by John Burke
Letting myself sink on to the laboratory stool after that concentrated effort over the tank, I realized that I was dizzy with exhaustion. If I was to go on working into the night, I needed coffee. I could go for a long time without food, but not without the stimulus of black coffee.
Elizabeth and Paul should have finished dinner by now. If I went down I would be in time to take a cup from the tray. And perhaps when he saw the gleam in my eyes Paul would, after all, find himself making excuses to follow me back to the laboratory.
I went along the landing and down the stairs. The door of the dining room was open and I could hear the murmur of voices as I descended. Suddenly Paul’s rose in a plea that brought me to a halt.
“Leave this house at once. It won’t be safe here.”
“Not safe?” came Elizabeth’s quiet but surprised response. “But Victor will be here.”
“It’s because of Victor I’m asking you to leave. He is conducting a series of experiments which could be extremely dangerous.”
I was on the verge of hastening down the rest of the flight and into the dining room to cut short this disloyalty. Then I heard Elizabeth’s calm voice, and noted with approval the tinge of reproach in it.
“I don’t think Victor would have invited me here if he had thought I would be in any danger.”
“He doesn’t realize himself just what risks he is taking.”
“What are these experiments?”
“You wouldn’t understand them.”
“I’m sure I would. I could try, anyway. Please tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I shall have to ask Victor. If I am to marry him—”
“Marry him!” Paul’s reaction was an absurd shout.
“We are engaged,” said Elizabeth coolly. I foresaw that she was going to make an admirable wife. Her dignity and tranquillity would suit me very well. “It was agreed years ago between Victor and my mother.”
“But . . . you’ve hardly seen him in recent years. You can’t know anything about him.”
“It has always been my dearest wish to marry him,” she said, “and I shall do all that is in my power to be a worthy wife to him.”
There was a silence. Paul broke it with an appeal that had lost all its force. “I still say that you must leave here . . .”
He heard footsteps along the passage just as I did. Justine walked into the dining room. I stayed where I was, now more gratified than angered by what I had just overheard.
“Shall I take the master’s dinner up, do you think, sir?” Justine asked.
“He may be ready for something by now,” Paul agreed. “Leave it outside the door.”
“Of course, Herr Krempe. I always do.”
I turned and went swiftly back to the laboratory. When Justine came to the door some minutes later, she rapped twice, but I refused to answer. She stood there for a few minutes. It was not the first time she had done this. Whether she expected me to come out to her or whether she wanted a glimpse into the laboratory I could not tell: whichever it might be, she obtained no satisfaction.
That night I worked until dawn and then stole a few hours’ sleep. With some reluctance I forced myself to spend part of the afternoon with Elizabeth discussing our future. The reluctance faded somewhat after I had confirmed my original opinion that she was a serious, intelligent, well-balanced young woman. She made no stickily romantic protestations, and expected none in return. In her face I read both affection and respect, mingled in what I considered the ideal proportions. We had no need to discuss family or financial problems since we were both familiar with all the ramifications of the Frankenstein lineage and estates. We were two sensible adults: it had been established years ago that we should marry and we had no quarrel with this arrangement. A decent period would be allowed after her mother’s death, and then we would have a simple ceremony to which, unfortunately, it would be necessary to invite one senile uncle and two remote cousins. Elizabeth would then be mistress of the household. I made it plain that, so far from objecting to her rehearsing this role before we were married, I would take it as a favor. It would take the weight off my shoulders and enable me to concentrate on my own work.
“This work of yours,” she said tentatively: “is it very . . . unusual?”
I knew that, provoked by Paul, she had been about to use another word, but was too noble to do so.
“Very unusual,” I said.
“You are not in any danger?”
I swear that she phrased the question sincerely. It was the possibility of danger to me rather than to herself that concerned her.
“None,” I said. “And when the work is completed, you shall be the first to share in my triumph.”
She accepted this sweetly, without demur.
Acceptance did not, however, come easily to Justine. In Elizabeth’s presence she grew surly, though was never so insolent as to necessitate her dismissal. Elizabeth assumed that the girl had been used to taking many decisions for herself and was finding it difficult to adjust to a new regime. She was patient with her.
But Justine was not patient. One night when I had worked late in the laboratory and was on my way to my bedroom, she materialized suddenly from the shadows in a corner and flung her arms round me. They were strong, demanding arms. She wore only a flimsy shift, and when I touched her I felt a tremor of urgent desire run through that body which I knew so well.
She breathed: “Victor . . .”
“How many times must I tell you—”
“Baron, then,” she whispered derisively. “Herr Baron.”
“That’s better.” I had made it a rule that she should always address me this way. The last thing I wanted was for her to fall so much into the habit of using my Christian name that she would one day blurt it out when others were present.
She said: “How much longer is this to go on?”
Her hands were digging into my neck and yet she was holding herself away from me, not so much tantalizing me as waiting until something essential was said between us.
I was in no mood for her tonight. I said: “How long is what going on?”
“Meeting like this in dark corridors. Making love in secret. Treating me as a servant, beneath your notice, in daylight. When are you going to marry me?”
It was an outrageous question. I stifled a contemptuous laugh. She had given me many hours of pleasure and I had no wish to be discourteous. But this was really too absurd.
I tried to free myself from her arms, but she held on. “What makes you think I would contemplate marrying you?”
“Things you have said to me. In the night. And”—now she pressed herself against me—“this.”
Only the most strong-willed man could have resisted that woman. Her every movement was so well known to me that it immediately suggested all the following movements, and I knew from experience that my memories of her never lived up to the reality. I was helplessly drawn on. I kissed her. Our mouths fought savagely together, and she laughed. Then, with a typical change of mood, she wrenched her head away and said tartly:
“Herr Baron Victor. This woman—what is she doing here?”
“Are you jealous?” I asked.
“No.” Then she snorted and said: “Yes, yes, I am jealous. She is not your mistress, that pale creature? No, she could not be. If I thought she was—”
“On the contrary, Justine,” I said, “she is to be your mistress. It is your duty to serve my cousin Elizabeth and see to her every need just as thoroughly as you have mine.”
I expected an explosion, but what I had just said struck her as being funny, and at once she was warm and laughing.
“Oh, no,” she spluttered. “I think not, Herr Baron.”
“In a different way, of course,” I said, bringing on further laughter.
“Of course,” she said.
And we fumbled our way to my bedroom, where she proved to me that I was not as tired as I had thought.
Elizabeth suspected nothing of th
is. She had led a formal, somewhat restricted life, and took it for granted that life elsewhere—in her own social circle, at least—followed the same prescribed pattern. Gently and with admirable tact she took over the reins of management. Nothing was said about her eventually ceasing to be merely my cousin and becoming my wife. This was no business of the servants. They would be told when it was appropriate to tell them. For myself, I was not looking forward to breaking the news to Justine. Whatever she might suspect, she was still mercifully conscious enough of her own position to keep her curiosity within bounds. Once or twice she began to edge towards some awkward questions, but I silenced her in the most effective way I knew—which was pleasurable for both of us.
There were no people in our own circle to whom we made any announcement or even gave any hints. This was simply because no such circle existed. Paul had left the house, still firmly refusing to assist me in any further developments, and had settled in the village. This perturbed me slightly. It was amusing that he should have a quixotic desire to watch over Elizabeth, but not so amusing that he should be, as it were, on my doorstep, ready to give away our secrets to others if the mood took him. There was nobody else to pry into my personal or working life. We visited nobody and invited nobody. I could manage happily without company. If Elizabeth felt lonely, she did not complain. Since her mother had never been able to afford to entertain lavishly, the girl was probably used to occupying herself without the need for the chatter of others.
Her only complaint was that she saw so little of me. I spent what time I could with her, but I could not have been a very gay companion. All my thoughts were wrapped up in my experiments, and of these I could not speak to Elizabeth. There must be no false alarms raised at this stage. Only when the creature was complete and I could present it as an accomplished fact, justifying all my labors, would I let her into all my secrets.
I had discovered that the robber had had a defective right ankle, and as his feet were over-large in any case this meant replacing both of them to get a decent result. I made a trip to a charnel house in a canton many miles away: I was taking no chances near home. Then there was the question of the head. It took me several weeks to find a good specimen—and a specimen which was accessible—and then the eyes were in poor condition. A lot of intensive work was still to be done.
Leaving the house for any length of time worried me. I took the most stringent precautions to ensure that no one could get into my laboratory, but at the back of my mind was always the fear that some accident would happen—there would be a fire and someone might break the door down or find traces of my work in the ruins . . . and the mere idea of a fire destroying all that work was in itself a nightmare.
One day I received word from the keeper of a charnel house—whom I had promised to pay well for such a notification—that if I made haste I could claim a pair of eyes before deterioration set in. I hastily took my small bag and made ready to set out.
“You’re going away again?” said Elizabeth wistfully.
“I’ll be back tomorrow evening,” I assured her.
“I was hoping you would help me in checking the household accounts.”
“They’re your department,” I said, wanting to make it clear that I had complete faith in her. “I’m sure you’ll handle them admirably.”
“But I’d like you to see them. I’d like your assistance with them.”
“You’ll be asking soon if you can help me with my experiments.”
It was a rash thing to say. Her face brightened. “I would,” she said. “I’d like that more than anything in the world.”
Perhaps one day she would be the helper I needed. It was a fascinating concept. She looked so feminine and so fragile, yet there was a toughness in her loyalty and devotion that could make her worthier than Paul had been.
The mere thought of Paul irritated me. He was a coward. Petty though it might seem, there were times when I felt that above all else I wanted to prove to him that I had been right all along and, furthermore, that I had been able to attain my goal without his assistance.
I went to collect the eyes.
They made a beautiful pair. The man who removed them from the corpse had done so with skill. They were just what I needed.
“Not often we get them perfect in here,” the keeper confided. “Eyes is generally the first to go.” He looked at me anxiously. “Well, sir—what do you think?”
“They’ll do,” I said. He was still watching as I took coins from my pocket. “Ten, we said, didn’t we?”
“Each,” he nodded.
I was grateful to him for finding these excellent specimens, but not so grateful that I was prepared to be cheated.
“The pair,” I said.
He shrugged. “The pair, just like you said.”
I packed them very carefully, and headed back to my home and that laboratory under the roof where the miraculous was soon to be made feasible.
It was dark when I arrived. I was glad of this. It made it easier for me to go straight to work without having to make polite excuses or waste time in conventionalities.
Two days later I was unable to resist the impulse to send a message to the village asking Paul Krempe to call.
He came up at once. When he was shown in I saw that he was prepared for some alarming news. There was possibly a trace of disappointment in his expression when he saw that, far from wishing to give him news of a disaster or of a change of mind on my part, I was in a cheerful, confident frame of mind.
“You wanted to see me?” He was curt, immediately on the defensive.
Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to have us both back on our old footing. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been to see us, Paul,” I said affably. “You know you’re always welcome here.”
“I told you I wouldn’t help you.” He wasn’t going to give an inch.
“Then why continue to live in the neighborhood?” I could not restrain the jibe: “Do you think you’re better qualified than I to keep watch over Elizabeth?”
He refused to rise to this, but said simply: “What is it you want?”
I suggested that he came upstairs to the laboratory. It was a long time since he had set foot in it. He hesitated, but his curiosity was too great for him. Together we went upstairs.
As I opened the door and waved him in, I said: “Haven’t you found it difficult keeping away, just guessing what I was doing, never knowing how well I was getting on? I’ve decided to let you see my progress. You can judge for yourself whether I shall succeed or not.”
With obvious trepidation he approached the tank. He was longing to be confronted by a failure. He was scared not of scientific mysteries but of the chance that I was on the right lines. He of all people should have known how little doubt there was of this.
My robber lay in the fluid, no longer as he had been when Paul left but with a head, new hands, and new feet. His head was turned towards our side of the tank, and his eyes, perfect but still sightless, stared fixedly out at us. Soon they would be animated. Soon there would be emotion and recognition in them.
Still Paul said nothing. At last I asked: “What do you think of him?”
“It’s horrible,” he muttered.
I was surprised that he should be so unscientific about the whole affair. I had to admit that my creature’s face was not very pretty yet: there had been a great deal of grafting and stitching involved, and the scars were not yet healed. But the features were not important. What mattered was that I had created a being which would live and breathe.
“Victor,” said Paul earnestly, “I appeal to you once more to stop what you’re doing before it’s too late.”
“But what am I doing? Nothing wrong.”
He looked at the suspended, floating creature with revulsion. “You see nothing wrong in that . . . that assembly? That concoction of fragments, culled from God knows where . . .”
I said: “I’m harming nobody by robbing a few graves. What scientist or doct
or doesn’t? How else are we to learn the complexities of the human animal?”
“Doctors rob for the eventual good of mankind. This can end in nothing but evil.”
“Look”—I was patient with him because it was important to me that he above all others should understand and approve—“I admit he isn’t a particularly handsome specimen at present. But the facial expression is conditioned by the character which lies beneath it. A benevolent mind will gradually soften the outlines and show through. An evil mind creates an evil face. What we have here is nothing yet. But it will be something soon: something splendid. For this a brain of genius will be used, and when the brain starts to function within the frame then the features will assume wisdom and nobility. I’m at the last stage but one, Paul—the brain. A brain of superior intellect, with a lifetime of knowledge already behind it. Imagine it—my creature will be born complete with a fund of knowledge such as takes decades of arduous study to acquire.”
“Victor, where’s this brain to come from?”
I saw that he was, alas, not to be trusted. At this final stage I would have welcomed his help. But it would not be offered and so I must not say too much of my plans.
I said: “I’ll get it.”
4
Elizabeth was overjoyed when I suggested that we should break our austere routine by inviting a distinguished guest for a few days’ stay. She laughed when I went on to say that I was referring to Professor Bernstein, Europe’s greatest living physicist, and accused me of offering this hospitality only because I wanted to drag the old man off to my laboratory and pick his brains. I thought this was a singularly unfortunate way of putting it, but did not say so: I merely assured her that I had no intention of asking the Professor into the laboratory. We worked in different fields. I wanted to talk to him on general topics, and since I had heard from many mutual friends that he had lost none of the charm and breadth of interests which I remembered from a meeting some years previously, I thought Elizabeth, too, would find him a stimulating visitor.
Professor Bernstein certainly showed no signs of age. He was a spry, twinkling little man with a massive head of spiky white hair. His conversation ranged freely and effortlessly over every subject known to civilized man, and on every topic he was both witty and profound. I also envied him his unforced courtesy: he had a gift for enchanting a woman, and Elizabeth glowed in his presence. Once or twice he shook his head enviously at me. I was pleased by this and by picturing the well-matched couple which Elizabeth and I would make.
