Frankenstein Lives Again (The New Adventures of Frankenstein)

by Glut, Donald F.

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” said the American.

  “But here, now you may have it back.”

  “Thank you,” stated the American. He grasped the book, holding it covetously as if it were some treasured family heirloom.

  The man who now held the book might have been in his early thirties. It was really difficult to discern his true age, for though his ruggedly handsome features were those of a younger man, there was far more pronounced maturity — wisdom, perhaps — in his eyes. The American’s brown hair was wavy, professionally styled, and there was a look of intelligence and sophistication about him.

  The American smiled politely. “I know what you mean about these rather dull train trips,” he said. “I’d have taken a plane myself, possibly charted one or flown one myself, but only a fool would try to land out in this area. I was extremely lucky just to find a railroad line that runs out this far into the wilderness.”

  The younger man glanced out the passenger car window. The shade was pulled down halfway to shield his eyes from the blinding six-month sun. Although the train was chugging through small, populated areas, his eyes were more concerned with the distant stretches of white desolation that painted the earth as far as he could see.

  “The far North is certainly barren, isn’t it?” he said, making idle conversation with his temporary traveling companion.

  “I know,” said the man with the mustache. “Don’t the people out there ever come out of their homes? It seems we’ve been traveling for hours and have only seen a few animals running about. Surely the Arctic is populated by more than just a few horses and dogs.” Again he slurped on his empty pipe. “Say, if I’m not too bold in asking, just what in blazes are you doing up this way? I don’t get the feeling you’re an explorer or fur trapper. And please pardon my clumsy attempt at making conversation.”

  “Nothing to pardon, my friend. In fact I’m more than happy to talk about something that has occupied my every thought for the past few weeks... maybe months, even.”

  Smiling, the American turned to the Frenchman and raised the paperback book to his eye level, as if putting it on exhibition. “I’m here because of this.”

  The Frenchman’s eyebrows raised and lowered. “Frankenstein? An old nineteenth century piece of gothic fiction brings you into this white hell?” He chuckled and bit on his pipe stem. “Ha! I’m afraid, dear sir, that you’ve confused me on that one. An explanation, monsieur? I would appreciate one, now that you’ve aroused my interest.”

  For a moment, a look of complete seriousness swept over the young American’s face. Then his lips broke into a warm and knowing smile. “Yes, I’m out here because of a novel written by a teenaged girl, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. The book was first published in a three-volume set back in 1818. And it is this book — or rather the story that Mrs. Shelley set down — that has brought me on this journey into the Arctic.”

  The Frenchman cleared his throat and rubbed his sun-tanned chin. Again he looked intently at the novel, noticing that the other man was holding it with a reverence usually reserved for a sacred book like the Bible.

  He waited, trying to organize his thoughts into tactful words, then inquired: “Pardon me, monsieur, if I again seem too concerned with affairs which do not concern me, or if I am, as you Americans might say, a bit nosey, but you are telling me that a book written over a century ago has put you on this old train ... on a journey into the wilderness of the Arctic? Now, I admit that you’ve got me hanging on a thread, monsieur. You must tell me everything. This I insist, or else I fear that I’ll never have another night’s sleep in my life!”

  “All right, then,” said the American, grinning and extending his hand to sternly grip that of his companion. “All right, I’ll tell you. Tell you everything you want to know. We’ve still got a way to go on this ride and I don’t mind talking. Undoubtedly, you won’t believe a damned word that I tell you and will probably think I’d best check into the first Arctic lunatic asylum that we hit. But here goes anyway. First off, my name is Winslow. Dr. Burt Winslow.”

  “Good to know you, Dr. Winslow,” said the Frenchman warmly, raising his eyebrows as he emphasized the American’s professional title.

  “Burt, please,” answered Winslow, laughing. “I guess using first names is one of my only successful ways of not sounding too stuffy.”

  “All right, Burt,” he returned. “And I am Dupré . . . Pierre Dupré. And, of course, I prefer to be called Pierre. I work for a lumber company in Alaska. This is rather a short vacation forme now. I am going to visit some friends up at a communications outpost at the Pole. Hmmmff! Some vacation! Yet, when one has no where else to go, one often makes the worst of one’s free time.”

  For the first time in minutes, Dupré lowered his pipe and placed it in his lap.

  “But tell me, Burt,” the Frenchman continued, “just what kind of doctor are you? A general practitioner? Specialist of some sort?”

  “No, nothing like that, Pierre. I’m a scientist. And when you hear my story, you’ll undoubtedly think I’m your classic mad scientist. I am a specialist, however. My main interests and talents lie in the fields of biology and electro-chemistry.”

  Dupré nodded. “Hmmm. That sounds like a good enough reason for your interest in Frankenstein,” he said, laughing, and hardly believing he had said that. He expected, and in a way hoped, that Winslow would correct him.

  But Winslow’s reply was a bit startling. “Precisely,” he responded. “That’s one of the reasons I’m so fascinated by the... account of Frankenstein.”

  Pierre Dupré coughed as he replied, “Account? Just a minute, monsieur, but did my hearing deceive me, or did you say ‘account’? You mean ‘novel,’ do you not? I mean, your inference that the story written by Mary Shelley was anything other than pure and simple fabrication could not be accepted by a scientist. You don’t mean to imply that Frankenstein was — er, was…”

  “Based on fact?” Suddenly there was an impish look on Winslow’s face. His eyes sparkled with anticipation to go on with his story.

  “Yes.”

  “Indeed I do. Quite certainly. I believe the story to be, for the most part, absolutely true.”

  “But,” Dupré continued, his eyes widening with disbelief, “I don’t see how — “

  “Now, don’t get ahead of me, Pierre. I’ll explain everything as I go along, I promise.”

  Burt Winslow took out a cigarette, monogrammed with his own initials, and lit it. After inhaling several long drags, he continued speaking, with the smoke that issued from his mouth seemingly assuming awesome, demonic shapes, that came alive with his every word, then dissolved back to formlessness again, as the scientist told his impossible tale to the man seated beside him.

  * * *

  “I still think that we should have slain him,” said Bruk, who then hooted and cracked his whip over the heads of the huskies that were drawing his own bobsled along.

  Norcha shook his head. He was still the leader of this group and their decisions were his to make. “No, there was no need to kill the stranger.” He shot a quick glance to the man who lay unconscious in the back of his own sled.

  “But he defiled our sacred grounds, actually beheld the face of our God...”

  “He is already near death,” said Norcha. “There is no need for us to slay him. And he has seen the countenance which shall haunt him until he does perish. We will take him to unhallowed grounds, Bruk. And there he shall remain with that image in his mind, until he dies. And when he does succumb to death, then the Ice God will claim his spirit... and punish him as he alone can punish those who trespass upon his holy tomb.”

  Bruk and the others did not reply. They knew that, as always, Norcha spoke with the wisdom befitting his years. Again Bruk drove on his team, and the sleds, with their nearly-frozen burden, continued on their way toward the white man’s civilized world.

  CHAPTER III:

  Castle Frankenstein

  “To begin, my friend, I have alwa
ys been a man of financial security,” said Dr. Burt Winslow, smoking as he talked. “You might go so far as to catalogue me as your typical spoiled American playboy, supported entirely by my parents. My father put me through the best schools in the world. I repaid him by always being the top student in my classes and the foremost athlete — sorry if I’m boasting — in all the sports in which I chose to participate. When my father died, I was still away at school. Mother had died a few years earlier. And so, being an only child, I inherited the entire family fortune.

  “But enough of my past history, Pierre. Let’s just sum it all up by saying that being idle gives a person a lot of time... time to think, to let one’s imagination run wild, to dream about goals that would be unattainable to most people. And being filthy rich gives one the means to make one’s dreams, oftentimes the wildest dreams of all, reality. But it’s about Victor Frankenstein and the creature he made that you want to hear.”

  “And especially,” said Pierre Dupré, “I want to know of your involvement in that, er, account.”

  “Ever since I was a child,” Winslow continued, “I was terribly bored by the mundane. I was always the one to organize my friends in creative play. It was always I who was known as the ‘weird’ one of the group, the one who did things differently than most of the other kids. I had various hobbies, but most of my free time was spent in a preoccupation with science. Remember the old Gilbert chemistry sets? I outgrew them fast. And for a while, like Victor Frankenstein himself, I became enthralled by Nature’s coveted secrets of death... and of life.”

  “No, I never had any yearnings to go, as did Frankenstein, into cemeteries and charnel and slaughter houses to secure dead organs, to piece them together into a composite human being and then endow that creation with life. But, though I never really wanted to create life myself in that fashion, I did become intensely interested

  “Obsessed?” asked Dupré.

  “... if you will, obsessed with the idea that one man might really have accomplished that feat some two hundred odd years ago.”

  “Oui! When Mary Shelley’s, uh . . . account was set.”

  “I read Frankenstein or, The Modern Prometheus over and over again. The more I dwelt upon Mary Shelley’s words, the more I began to suspect that they were not mere fiction, but had at least some basis in fact. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, Victor Frankenstein, unburdened as we are today by so many conventions and rules of science, did, in fact, create a living man — or, if you prefer, Monster. Maybe he did, as was the dream of Mary Shelley’s husband, the famous poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, bestow upon his creation the gift of immortality.”

  “Yes, that thought became what you’d call an obsession with me! The only way to get this Frankenstein business out of my system was to learn for myself whether or not the story was true. I began to do some research. Somewhere along the line, I came across some of the writings published in psychic journals by a student of the occult — I’ve forgotten his name, since I was more concerned with what he had to say than who he was — who lived somewhere, I think, in upstate New York. It was that writer’s contention that the frame story in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, consisting of a series of letters written by Captain Robert Walton to his sister, were authentic letters with only the names changed to preserve anonymity.”

  “According to the novel, Walton picked up the dying Victor Frankenstein in the Arctic. Frankenstein had been pursuing the Monster he had created, after the being destroyed his loved ones. It was to Walton that the delirious Victor related his tale. Walton, then, set down the entire account and somehow his writing, which contained some errors, fell into the possession of Mary Shelley. Mary, then, further revised the account to suit her own literary and philosophical needs and, carefully keeping silent about the true origins of her ‘tale,’ had it published as a novel.

  “I had all the money I’d ever need at my disposal. And so I decided to fly to the very town in which Victor—according to Mary Shelley — created his living man. I went to Ingolstadt, in Germany.

  “If the Monster were indeed given life in Ingolstadt, there might be some record of the event in that town, even after the passage of centuries. Remember that genealogists often have their greatest successes by checking through local church records. Whoever saw the creature — and someone must have — would have made some report to the local authorities. According to the book, the Monster was so hideous that everyone who saw it fled from it. We can see today the effect that the Monster has had, even upon his hapless creator; for many people, even now, confuse the name of Victor with his nameless creation, calling the Monster simply ‘Frankenstein.’”

  “So, monsieur, what secrets did you unearth in Ingolstadt?” asked the Frenchman, curious.

  Winslow took another drag on his cigarette. “Remember, my friend, that Mary Shelley’s book was based on Walton’s account. And Walton’s was based on the delirious Frankenstein’s. Since the novel also contained a long flashback, narrated by the Monster and reported to Walton by Victor, there was enough hearsay ‘evidence’ in the final published work that I was ready to discover any number of contradictions between the printed word and the hard fact. Also, Mary eventually thoroughly revised her novel, changing various motivations, altering the relationships between characters, even adding a full, new chapter, for the new edition of Frankenstein — the version you read today — which was published in 1831. So, when I stepped off the train and walked into the streets of Ingolstadt, I was already prepared for surprises as well as secrets.”

  “Ingolstadt was a relatively small town, though larger than I had suspected. It was typically Germanic, something I might have expected to find in a picture book about Bavaria in some earlier century. Many of its residents wore American clothing, but some were dressed more traditionally German. I saw a few of the men in the short leather pants that I’m sure you’ve seen before. When I stopped in a local inn, it was mainly populated by men singing and joining in with their friends, drinking beer from ornate steins served by comely barmaids who seemed to delight in bending over their tables to show off the cleavage displayed by their low-cut peasant dresses.

  “The locals were quite friendly to me. I had learned to speak German fluently in my younger days, even before I took it as a subject at school. And so I could converse with them like a native. However, I detected in some of the townspeople an air of superstition, and thought it best not to go poking around their secret fears or to mention my mission in their hometown.” I’d save all talk of Frankenstein and monsters for their mayor.

  “After receiving directions from one of the barmaids, I hastened to telephone him for an appointment. He seemed impressed over the phone that an American scientist — one who had achieved some notoriety in the States — wanted to see him. I was careful not to mention the name ‘Frankenstein’ over the phone and to let him think he was going to be visited by someone who was known only for his achievements in collegiate academics and sports.

  “Mayor Krag was a roly-poly type of man, a real character if you will, with the rosiest cheeks I had ever seen, and a long white mustache that he liked to twirl at the ends. There was a sparkle in his eyes — a twinkle, actually, that made me think of Santa Claus. He greeted me with a smile and a handshake. I was prepared to speak to him in his native German, but he seemed more intent on impressing me with his own perfect English.”

  “ ‘Yes, Herr Doktor Winslow, you have come a long way just to visit our town and to meet its mayor,’ said Krag. ‘Your business must be quite special?’

  “ ‘Important and special,’ I told him, ‘at least — to me.’

  “ ‘Then tell me and I will do my best to help you in any way I can.’

  “I anticipated a change in Mayor Krag’s attitude toward me. ‘All right,’ I went on, studying his features as I spoke, ‘this is why I’ve come all the way to Europe. I’m here because of something that purportedly occurred here about two hundred years ago.’

  “He seemed suddenly, to know what
I was going to say next, for the sparkle that had been in his eyes was suddenly extinguished, and a noticeable pallor swept across his round face.

  “ Yes?’ he said in a drawn-out word, suspiciously cocking one eyebrow. ‘And just what, mein herr ... might that be?’

  “There was no use in prolonging it. ‘Frankenstein,’ I said slowly.

  “Mayor Krag’s eyes bulged in their sockets. He made a fist with his right hand and slammed it hard upon his paper-littered desk. ‘Frankenstein!’ he exclaimed angrily, his once jovial appearing face contorting into a scowl. ‘Nein!’

  “ ‘But... ’ I started.

  “The mayor cut me off. ‘Frankenstein is a name we do not speak in this town. It suggests only the worst possible horrors. Horrors best left forgotten.’

  “ ‘But, Herr Mayor, you do not understand —’

  “ ‘Understand? Harrumphf ! What is there not to understand? You wish to pry into our past — a past which we have endeavored to keep secret for all these years. I suggest you ask no more of me and return to the United States as quickly as the next train leaving Ingolstadt will allow you.’

  “Of course, I had no intention of leaving Ingolstadt until I had found what I’d come for and proven my theory about the truth behind Frankenstein. It was not just a pipe dream. Besides, Krag’s reaction to the name of Frankenstein only whetted my interest more so.

  “ ‘Then if you refuse to help me,’ I said to him, ‘I’ll just have to search this town for someone who will. I’m sure I have enough American dollars with me to tempt someone down at one of your inns to tell me what I need to know. As we say in the United States, money talks... especially through a mug of beer.’

  “I could see that Mayor Krag was fighting to restrain his temper. He realized the implications in my, er, attempt at persuasion.