The Frankenstein Papers

by Fred Saberhagen

  "That is certainly interesting. Though I suppose it is possible that your memory plays you false. Count Cagliostro, as you have now learned from the man himself, remembers many things that could never have happened to him, and I am not sure that all of his false memories are deliberate lies."

  The turn the conversation had now taken reminded my host of Anton Mesmer, and in that case he was uncertain. "Many cures that are hard to explain by any known theory of medicine are credited to him."

  "And he is now in Paris?"

  "Yes."

  "I ask your advice, sir—should I see him?"

  "Were I in such a parlous state that I did not know what was wrong with me, I might well seek him out. Alas, I know full well my own difficulty, and animal magnetism is powerless to lift it—the burden of four-score years that weigh upon me."

  In my present state I am ready to try anything.

  LETTER 11

  March 10,1783 Paris

  Sir_

  Following your advice, we have been to see Mesmer, and the results were totally unexpected. I suspect that these results may have been of great importance, but of that I have no proof. That they were surprising I can swear without fear of being contradicted. Let me set the scene for you, that you may be able to comprehend exactly what happened.

  If we were going to see Mesmer, it seemed to me of considerable importance that we act before the impending beginning of Lent shut down the Carnival. Only a night or two remained, in which my companion would be able to move about the streets in the freedom of illusion.

  It was not that I really expected anything more than conversation and perhaps advice from Mesmer, but to make a regular appointment seemed the best and perhaps the only way we could gain admittance quickly. Arrangements were concluded through the good offices of that remarkable congress composed of mystics and their victims, the Société de I'Harmonie Universelle, for a regular private appointment with Mesmer for a magnetic treatment. Through a mutual acquaintance—you may perhaps be able to guess who—I was fortunately able to manage everything in a matter of a few hours.

  So it was within his own salon, this afternoon, that we encountered Franz Anton Mesmer, who like Frankenstein was born in Switzerland, and who this year is forty-nine years old. I can testify that the stories of his popularity are not exaggerated. There were twenty or thirty people in attendance upon him already when we arrived, a number of them besides ourselves in Carnival costume_indeed, such attire seemed to me quite appropriate for the performance that ensued.

  Mesmer's apartments, as you may imagine, are extensive as well as opulent, and several of the rooms through which we passed were quite filled with people waiting to see him en masse. As special arrangements had been made for us, we were conducted by one of the numerous attendants into a small anteroom that was curtained off from the rest.

  Music sounded from behind closed doors, and our attendant whispered to me that it was being played upon a magnetized harpsichord by Mesmer himself. Presently the notes ceased, and in a short time the man we were all expecting had emerged into the presence of his admirers. He was garbed in a silk dressing gown of lilac color, and carried in one hand what I first took to be a simple bar of polished metal, about one foot in length. When I asked our attendant about this object he whispered to me that it was in fact a very powerful magnet. Mesmer gestured with it as he walked among his suppliants and patients, and pointed with it at certain ones among them, generally women. Those so favored reacted more often than not with little cries and gestures, as if they might really be feeling some influence from the bar.

  The progress of the master among his patients, or suppliants, created an increasing stir among them. Someone else, back in the room with the harpsichord, was now playing the magnetized instrument, producing a kind of muted march tune. To the rhythm of this music a sort of dance began among the people we were watching. As if by some common unspoken consent, those who had come seeking the magnetic treatment rose to their feet and formed a human chain, in which patients of the male sex alternated with females, according to the directions given by the several attendants who stood by to keep the process running smoothly.

  My tall companion and I, as I say, were observing all of this from an adjoining room, behind the partial shelter of some draperies hung in the doorway. Each of the active participants in the rite now braced his hands on his—or her—own legs, at a space of a few inches above the knee, and the chain-dance continued, in something of a hobbling fashion. Next, at some signal that I did not observe, there was a general shifting, with the dancers now trying out their hands upon each other's thighs. As the sexes were thoroughly intermingled, as I have said, the effects of this last maneuver may easily be imagined, though not, at least perhaps in mixed company, described.

  It was not long before several of the more susceptible women had collapsed to the floor, amid a chorus of moans and groans. I thought these sounds were expressive, but scarcely of pain or suffering. Those who had fallen were apparently undergoing some kind of seizures, that produced spasmodic movements of the torso, actions of the limbs, and contortions of the facial features. Meanwhile their male partners only redoubled their, efforts at magnetization.

  The attendants—I believe almost a dozen of them, mostly young men, were in action now—were all extremely busy, and the young man who had been in attendance upon us had departed for greener pastures. They diligently stimulated, or soothed, all who appeared to be in need of their ministrations, according to whether the crisis in the particular case appeared to have passed or not. Several of the most severely afflicted women were carried away bodily to another chamber where, I was given to understand later, magnetic force in an even more concentrated form is industriously applied.

  My tall friend and I now glanced at each other, with some misgivings about the course our own interview with the great man was likely to take. But we waited and were quiet in our own little anteroom, while gradually the tumult in the other rooms subsided. In perhaps a quarter of an hour, Mesmer himself, looking tired, came in to join us, drawing the curtains closed after him so that we should have privacy. He is a rather kindly-looking man, not exhibiting any of Cagliostro's evident force of personality, at least not at the first meeting. With him Mesmer was carrying a large glass jar decorated with gold leaf, and nearly filled with a clear liquid. He told us that it was magnetized water. At the bottom of the jar, a polished metal bar, much shorter than the one he had earlier been carrying, was immersed.

  He put the jar down on a small table, and we exchanged greetings.

  "And which one of you, gentlemen, is to be my patient?"

  My companion arose with silent dignity, and removed his carnival mask.

  If Mesmer was shocked by what he saw then, he did not betray it. He asked calmly, "And what, Monsieur, would you like me to attempt to do for you?"

  "I wish to remember my name."

  "I see." For a few moments Mesmer calmly assessed the giant before him. "And how long has your name been forgotten?"

  "Three and a half years now—perhaps longer."

  "And before that… but never mind. You are not French?"

  "I am not."

  Mesmer paused, as though expecting some further explanation. But when none came, he was not disconcerted. "Very well, we shall see what we can do."

  Our host bade us both be seated, and I thought from his manner that he was beginning to take a keen interest in the problem we had brought him. Next the magnetic practitioner summoned an attendant, and gave orders that a few items be brought. When the man returned with these, he was dismissed, after being commanded to make sure that we were not disturbed.

  My friend and I sat in comfortable chairs—there was one large enough to fit him—while Mesmer in his lilac robe stood before us, looking an almost ghostly figure in the light of a single candle on a small table. All the blinds were closed, and the atmosphere began to be oppressive. Mesmer spoke in a low, monotonous voice of the planets, and how they provoke tides in
the psychic aether as well as in the sea; also of tides in the body, and of animal magnetism. After having to endure Cagliostro's shameless lies, I found this soothing discourse curiously credible. It was warm in the room, and the candle was so placed that it was easy for me to stare at the bright flame against darkness. My eyelids lowered; I admit I was on the verge of dozing off.

  Mesmer's gentle touch upon my arm roused me from the light sleep into which I had just begun to fall. He did not appear surprised or irritated that I had dozed, but gestured, indicating that I should look at my companion. To my surprise I saw that his chin was bowed upon his great chest, and he appeared to be actually asleep.

  "Can you hear me?" Mesmer asked the sleeper, standing directly in front of him and speaking slowly and distinctly.

  "I can." The response was slow in coming, and sepulchral in tone, but the words were clear. I stared at my friend. He still appeared to be asleep.

  "What is your name?"

  There was no immediate answer. But my companion raised his head, grimacing, like one in the throes of nightmare. His eyes opened, unseeing, and closed again. It was as if he were sleepwalking.

  Mesmer persisted. "You have told me that French is not your native language."

  "I have—that is true."

  "What is your native tongue, then? English?"

  I could have attested that that was not so; but at the moment I thought it wiser to say nothing.

  When his patient did not answer, Mesmer ordered briskly: "Tell us something in your native language."

  Again my friend evinced signs of agitation, but remained silent.

  "Is it German?"

  "No. No."

  "What tongue did you speak as a child?"

  There was no answer.

  Mesmer made gestures with both hands. The perspiration glistened on his brow. The huge form in the chair before him appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper into slumber.

  The questioning persisted, with the strain of it now evident upon both parties; until at last the poor fellow shrieked out something, a short phrase, and collapsed, to lie sobbing in a heap upon the floor. The sight was to me as pitiful as it was unexpected, and I could only gaze in amazement.

  Now abandoning all efforts to extract information, Mesmer crouched beside the fallen figure of his patient, and concentrated his efforts on soothing and awakening him. In this he was able to achieve success with what seemed to me remarkable speed. My friend looked around him, blinking his eyes, and asked in a calm voice what had happened and why he was sitting on the floor. He listened to my puzzled attempts at explanation, and though he still did not remember, nodded as if the whole matter were not as unprecedented as it seemed to me.

  A short while later we were leaving Mesmer's establishment, having been provided with much to think about. The man himself saw us to the door and even out into the street, urging my friend with apparent sincerity to come back for another session in a few days.

  In the street I observed, among the throngs of revelers, certain figures whose presence I took as evidence that we were being followed. Saville's people, I thought. Now they certainly know that we are here.

  I mentioned this to my friend, who was now greatly recovered, and he commented: "It's a French-sounding name, Saville. He may well have some family connections here, as well as paid agents."

  When we had regained our lodging, after apparently having been successful in shaking off our followers, the two of us discussed what the words might have been that he had blurted out while in the state of controlled sleep that had somehow been induced by Mesmer.

  My friend looked worried. "I don't remember saying anything. What language did I speak in? French? German?"

  "Neither of those_I think. Nor was it English. It sounded like nothing I've ever heard. Unless_" Struck by a new thought, I stared at him.

  "Well?"

  "It might have been…"

  "What?"

  "Well, now that I come to think back on it, the phrase you spoke might have been in German. Something like Grosser Karl."

  "Big Karl?" He whispered the words; I could see immediately that the name meant something to him.

  I had heard of a certain Big Karl in Ingolstadt, though he is not mentioned anywhere in Walton's book.

  My companion said, "I've heard them—Saville, Frankenstein, Clerval, all of them, talking about someone with that name. Someone who used to be Frankenstein's assistant in some way. I've never seen him, to my knowledge, but… and those are the words I spoke when I was pressed to reveal my name?"

  "It might not have been that exactly. All I can say is that it did sound something like it."

  "Big Karl," he repeated. I could see that he had been struck by some new idea.

  "You cannot possibly be that Big Karl," I protested. "Frankenstein would certainly be able to recognize his own assistant. Wouldn't he?"

  My companion only stared at me for some time, and uncharacteristically did not give me a direct answer.

  Carnival is at its end. I will let you know where we decide to go into hiding.

  In haste,

  BF

  Chapter 15

  March 13,1783

  Somewhere between Paris and Ingolstadt

  I now have true marvels of which to write. All that has gone before in these pages, everything, save perhaps my own creation, is commonplace, compared to this. And yet, what is the real miracle after all? Something whispers to me that I have not yet found it.

  It is not my intention to detail here the entire course of our pursuit, through the streets and byways of Paris, by Saville's agents; it will be enough to relate the means by which we effected our escape. Suffice it to say that the devils had somehow contrived to enlist some sizable body of French troops in their cause. And that our cause, as dawn drew near, was beginning to appear entirely hopeless.

  Freeman, as on one or two previous occasions during the course of our adventures, might have vanished into one group of humanity or another, and got clean away. But he would not desert me. As for myself, a giant over seven feet tall stands out in a crowd no matter what he attempts to do in the way of a disguise.

  Twice, as we fled in a circuitous route across the city, we had attempted to buy or rent vehicles, and each time our pursuers, closing in, had come near capturing us before we could conclude our bargaining. We had at last taken shelter in a park, which we had reason to believe was now thoroughly surrounded; Freeman more familiar with Paris than I was, told me it was the Place des Victoires, close by the Palais Royal. Despite the concealment offered by the park's vegetation, it fell short of providing an ideal shelter, for a crowd of people were nearby, inside the park and along one edge. The little that we could see and hear clearly suggested that they were engaged in some kind of purposeful activity. The sounds of heavy foot traffic came to us, and, though Carnival was over, torches and bonfires were keeping one section of the park illuminated.

  We rested for a few moments, having immersed ourselves in the deepest shadows we could find.

  "If we cannot bargain for a vehicle of some kind, then we must contrive to steal one," Freeman declared in a whisper. "Then you can ride concealed in the back while I drive."

  "Well. We cannot remain here long, and there are no wagons in these bushes. Maybe over there, where there are lights." I could hear horses, and the creak of wheels. "We must take a look."

  Having caught our breath, we worked our way closer to the sounds of undefined activity, until we were on the very fringe of it, near a path where workmen occasionally came and went, bearing what looked like heavy burdens.

  Freeman plucked at my sleeve, and pointed.

  Beyond the last barrier of bushes, near the center of the torchlight, there rose a looming shape, rounded, big as a small house, but wobbling almost as if it were alive. A vast bubble, of what looked like fabric painted gold and blue. The shape and size of it somehow pricked fiercely at my memory. I ought to know…

  Somehow, dimly, I did.

 
But of what use this academic, abstract knowledge? Behind us, as we faced the lights of the workers who were busy around the balloon, I could hear the voices of another detachment of the searching soldiers, coming closer.

  Freeman heard them too. "Join the workmen," he whispered. It was a stroke of madness, or of genius; I could not decide. But there was little choice. We crept forward, out of the fringe of bushes, and got to our feet, I remaining in a grotesque half-crouch, the best I could do to try to disguise my tallness.

  One or two of the workmen gaped at us in puzzlement as we boldly made our way in among them. They were carrying weighty glass flagons and heavy boxes, in one of which I glimpsed a fine, glinting substance, like metal filings. It was obvious to me now that the object of all this labor was the inflation of a very large balloon, very large at least by the standards of anything these people could have seen before. The process must have been going on for hours already, and was now near completion. The monster strained at the ropes that held it above its basket. No doubt some kind of an ascent was planned for dawn, now near at hand.

  Freeman, at my side, did not grasp what was going on as quickly as I did. But then he suddenly nudged me, and whispered: "Of course, I've heard something about this. The Robert brothers, they have a fabrics manufactory here in Paris. Great rivals of the Montgolfiers in trying to construct an aerostat that will—what are you doing?"

  I was tugging him closer to the balloon, and closer still. My eyes had picked out the largest guy rope of those holding back the balloon from its ascent. I said: "We need a vehicle."

  I saw again, stacked amid the orderly mob of laborers, what must be iron fillings stored in boxes, evidently great quantities of them on hand. Add water and sulphuric acid—vitriolic oil, they'd probably call it here—the mixing must be going on in that covered pit—conduct the resulting gas through airtight tubes to the balloon you wanted to inflate_yes, there were the tubes—the resulting gas, of course, would be—

  "Hydrogen," I said aloud. "I believe that Lavoisier has named it that. The simplest atom in the universe, the lightest gas, but very flammable. Pray that they keep those torches at a distance."