“In the elevator,” she said abruptly. “At Polidori’s. In the dark.”
I looked out the window. I knew exactly what she was talking about. “Hmm? What of it?” I asked carelessly.
“That kiss was for you.”
I said nothing—had nothing to say. I was secretly ecstatic but wished too that she had never told me. For I feared these words would germinate in my devilish heart and send forth tendrils that might crack even my granite resolve.
I just smiled, and it took all my will to lift my feet and leave the room.
We sat out on the balcony wrapped in blankets, for the clear night was cool. It was just the two of us. Above the mountain peaks to the west was the last indigo hint of sunset.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That whole business with Elizabeth. I—”
“Victor, you don’t need to say anything.”
“I was a complete ass.”
Konrad chuckled. “Well, I don’t think I’ve ever been angrier in my entire life. That’s quite a skill you have.”
“It’s a good thing you fainted,” I said. “Or you might’ve killed me. I’d never seen that look in your eyes. You do forgive me, though, don’t you?”
He smiled, and I knew the answer was yes. “And by the way,” he said, “I’ve never thought myself better than you.”
I snorted. “Except at Greek and Latin and fencing and—”
“I didn’t mean like that. I meant as a person.”
For a moment I made no reply. “Well, I don’t know if I believe you, but it’s very nice of you to say. Thank you.”
“You’re impossible,” he said, shaking his head.
“Ah, that’s more like it,” I said.
“Do you still imagine interplanetary travel for yourself?” he asked, looking up at the first stars.
“At the very least,” I said. “And you will go to the New World?”
“Only if you come with me.”
“Just the two of us,” I said.
“Just the two of us.”
“We’ll do it the moment Father gives us permission,” I said.
Konrad smiled. “Given recent events, that might not be for several decades.”
But we talked on with great enthusiasm, about the lands across the ocean, and what kind of adventures might be had there. It was as if we were little again, with the atlas spread before us on the library floor. We talked about how, if we reached the farthest coast of the New World, we might continue on, across the Pacific to the Orient. I loved the idea of traveling west with my brother, always west, chasing the sun.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE ICE CRYPT
HE DIED IN HIS SLEEP.
I did not understand how it could’ve happened. He had been getting well. He had been growing stronger. How could he be gone?
Mother wept and wept—Father, too.
If any parents suffered more, I have never seen it.
They did not believe in heaven. They did not believe in an afterward. They knew they would never see their son again.
Elizabeth cried and prayed for Konrad’s soul.
“How can you pray?” I said coldly to her.
She looked at me, her face bleached by tears.
“We prayed to your God on the boat, when we sailed home with the elixir,” I reminded her. “You said—you said—He would listen and heal Konrad. Why didn’t He?”
“He heard us. But sometimes He says no.”
“He is not there at all,” I said savagely.
She shook her head. “He is there.”
“Make me believe you. Convince me, here.” I beat at my head with my hands.
“Stop,” she said calmly, grabbing my wrists. “You know that I have always believed. God does not disappear when bad things happen. He is with us through good and bad and will one day be our final home. We need no elixir to live forever. He made us immortal, and Konrad is not gone.”
I shook my head in disgust, and stormed off.
The elixir had failed. Or had it? Had Konrad simply been too ill for too long? I would never know, and it would torment me forever. But most poisonous of all was the thought that I might have killed my brother. What if he’d been recovering and the elixir had defeated him?
Father had no doubts. The elixir was a mirage, and I had foolishly chased after it. He did not need to say this aloud. It was in every look he gave me. He said he would have the Dark Library burned.
Meals were made and set before us.
Our servants went about their work.
Outside, the world continued without us.
We all moved through the house, pretending to be ourselves.
I could not cry.
Our carriage moved slowly up the winding mountain road.
There had been no church service, even though Elizabeth had begged my parents to hold one. There would be no funeral mass, no words of comfort spoken by a priest, no promises made.
We were all clad in mourning black. Elizabeth and I sat with Ernest between us. Facing us were Father and Mother, with William on her knee.
At the front of the procession was the hearse, carrying Konrad’s coffin.
Behind stretched dozens of other carriages and traps and horses, bringing our staff and friends.
The journey was a long one. For centuries the Frankenstein family had buried its dead high in the mountain just outside the city. The crypt was an enormous cave that, over the years, had been hollowed ever deeper into the glacier’s side. Even in the summer it was colder than death itself, the sarcophagi and their inmates sealed eternally with ice and snow.
As children we had seen the crypt only once, after Father’s younger brother had died in a hunting accident. Konrad, Elizabeth, and I had stood, blue-lipped and silent, as the coffin had been lowered into its stone sarcophagus. Afterward, during our lessons, Father had told us that because the temperature never rose above freezing, a body in that crypt would be miraculously preserved.
No worms or bugs would infest it, no water would rot it, no elements would corrode it.
Konrad. What if it was I who killed you?
It was close to noon when we reached the crypt.
Our footman came and lowered the steps of the carriage for us. I was glad of my cloak, for the air was very cold. The path to the crypt entrance had already been cleared of ice and snow, but all around, on the mountain slopes, it glittered painfully and almost cruelly in the sunlight.
I stared briefly into the darkness of the crypt, then went to the back of the hearse to join Father and the other casket bearers. I was glad Henry was among them. Carefully we pulled out the coffin.
Though there were three of us on either side, and the coffin contained only my brother, when I took my handle and lifted—that coffin was as heavy as the earth itself. I could imagine nothing heavier.
It took all my strength to keep from losing my grip. As we started to move toward the crypt, for a moment I thought I might faint. Torches had been lit inside, flickering orange. I was shaking as we crossed the threshold. Ancient walls of stone and ice. Huge sarcophagi ranged to the right and left, centuries of Frankenstein ancestors.
And straight ahead, an open sarcophagus.
My step faltered. If we put Konrad inside there and closed the lid, how could he ever breathe?
I staggered on. I did not know how I managed it, but I helped lift the casket over the lip of the sarcophagus and lowered it inside.
There was no priest or minister to preside over the ceremony, so we all stood in silence. The crypt was full, and people were standing outside, too.
I shuffled back to my mother and Elizabeth. Her hand slipped into mine and squeezed.
I thought of Konrad in his sarcophagus, never aging, his perfect body useless to him.
I tried to pray—Dear God, please—but could not.
My father went alone and slid the stone lid into place—and that was when I wept.
Konrad had gone to the New World without me, and no matter how fast
I ran westward, how close I kept to the sunsets, I would never catch up with him now. My tears were filled with fury—for I had failed him.
I’d tried to save him, but I had not been smart enough, or diligent enough.
I covered my face with my hands.
And I made an icy promise to myself.
I promised that I would see my brother again—even if it meant unlocking every secret law of this earth, to bring him back.
Victor Frankenstein’s journey continues in Mary Shelley’s classic!
VOLUME I
LETTER I
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 Petersburgh,1 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 travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams 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 for ever visible; its broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendour. 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 phænomena 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 may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. 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 enthusiasm2 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 favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour 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 sea-faring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so valuable did he consider my services.
And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage; the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.
This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapt in furs, a dress which I have already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road3 between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.4
I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June: and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.
Farewell, my dear, excellent, Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.
Your affectionate brother,
R. Walton.
LETTER II
To Mrs. Saville, England.
Archangel, 28th March, 17—.
How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow; yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel, and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.
But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic,1 my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my pl
ans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas’s books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate than many school-boys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want (as the painters call it) keeping;2 and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough3 not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature,4 beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional prejudices, un-softened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.
The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness, and the mildness of his discipline. He is, indeed, of so amiable a nature, that he will not hunt (a favourite, and almost the only amusement here), because he cannot endure to spill blood. He is, moreover, heroically generous. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock,5 and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.6
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