Young Frankenstein

by Gilbert Pearlman

  The monster, feeling good about the happy ending, moved on.

  After he had been traveling for an hour or so, he came upon another cottage. This one was not so attractive. It was somewhat tumbledown, in fact. It, however, appealed to him, too. For, from it came the odor of food. The monster's need for food was increasing.

  He went to a window and looked in. The only light was the glow from the fireplace. It cast dark, wavering shadows. And in the dimness, the monster saw an old man kneeling beside a crude bed. The man was praying.

  "A visitor is all I ask, Lord," the man said. "Take pity on me-I am blind. Give me a temporary companion to help me pass a few hours of my lonely life."

  The monster looked toward the fireplace. A kettle of soup was heating. It seemed like the perfect time to show a little kindness to a poor, lonely blind man. It would be an even trade: a few minutes of companionship for a bowl of soup.

  Going on to the door, the monster shoved it open and entered the cottage. "Mmmmmmmmmm!" he said hungrily.

  "A visitor!" the blind man cried out. "Oh, thank you, Lord!"

  "Mmmmmmmmm."

  Rising, the blind man groped in the dimness. "Don't speak!" he said. "Don't say a word! Just let me find you, let me touch you, let me feel you, let me hold you, let me smell you-oh, my joy, my happiness, my prize from Heaven!"

  The monster watched the blind man grope ineffectually for a few moments, then, taking pity, he moved into the man's path and held out a hand to him. The blind man still couldn't find him. So the monster grasped the man's hand and put it on his own hand.

  "Oh, my!" the blind man said, surprised. "You are a big one, aren't you? I can tell by the size of your hand. I'll bet you were the tallest boy in your class." He released the hand. "My name is Harold," he announced. "I live here all alone. What is your name?"

  "Mmmmmmmmm."

  "I'm sorry, I didn't get that."

  "Mmmmmmmmm."

  "Oh! Forgive me. I didn't realize-you're mute! It's perfect. Look how Heaven plans. Me, a poor blind man, and you, a-an incredibly big mute. Are you hungry?"

  "Mmmmmmmmmmmnimmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!"

  "How does a cozy fire, a bottle of wine, and some nice hot soup sound to you?"

  "Mmmmmmmm!"

  "God love you!" the man enthused. "Yes, that's good, isn't it? All right, come along."

  Grasping the monster's hand once more, Harold led him to a crude table. It was set with a candle, a soupspoon, an old wooden cup, and a napkin.

  "You make yourself comfortable," the blind man told the monster, "and I'll get the soup. I haven't had company for so long, I'm a little nervous-I hope you'll excuse me." He started toward the fireplace, then halted. "Oh-my cane," he said. "Do you see it anywhere around? I use it to feel my way."

  The cane was hanging on the back of a chair. The monster picked it up and put it into Harold's hand.

  "Many thanks," the blind man said. "You'll need a soup bowl, of course. I think you'll find it over there-" he said, swinging the cane in the general direction of the cupboard. The cane rapped the monster across the side of the head. "-on a shelf."

  "Mmmmmmm!" the monster complained.

  "Oh, you already have a soup bowl? Fine."

  Again, Harold started toward the fireplace. But then, as before, he halted. "Salt," he said. "The salt's in the same place," he said, swinging the cane. It banged the monster on the head again. "-right there on the shelf, next to the soup bowls."

  "Mmmmmmmmmm!" the monster said angrily.

  "Oh, yes, you're right, this is going to be a fun night!" the blind man said, going on toward the fireplace.

  "Mmmmmmmm!"

  "Coming up!"

  Harold lifted the pot of soup from the hook in the fireplace and headed back toward the table with it. "Oh, oh, oh, hot, hot, hot!" he said cheerily. "Just the thing to take the chill off a hungry tummy." He placed the pot on the table. "Mmmmmmmmm!" the monster said, as the aroma reached his nostrils with full force.

  "I know what it's like to be hungry," the blind man said, feeling his way with the cane toward the cupboard. "And how much a little kindness from a stranger can mean. Especially when you're all alone in this world."

  From the cupboard, he got a bottle of wine and a cup. "Are you ready for the soup?" he asked, returning.

  "MMMMmmmmmm!"

  Harold put the bottle of wine and the cup down on the table, then, groping, found the handle of the ladle that was sticking out of the soup. "Hold out your bowl," he said.

  "Mmmmm," the monster said, obeying.

  The blind man ladled soup from the pot. "Oh, my friend, if you only knew what your visit means to me," he said. He reached the ladle past the bowl that the monster was holding and poured hot soup into his lap. "How long I've waited for the pleasure of the company of another human being," he went on, as the monster stared down at the soup that was now running down his legs and onto the floor. "The sound of good conversation across the dinner table-nothing like it! We forget, in our preoccupation with worldly matters, that it is these simple pleasures that are the basis for true happiness. How's the soup? Like it?"

  "Mmmmmmmm," the monster said feebly.

  "Oh, I knew it would hit the spot," Harold said happily. He lowered the ladle back into the pot- "Now, then! A little wine to go along with it!"

  "Mmmmmm!" the monster said sharply, trying to tell the old man that he hadn't yet had any soup.

  "Burgundy, I think," Harold responded, opening the bottle. "Hold out your cup."

  Again, the monster obeyed.

  The blind man held the bottle over the monster's lap-Quickly, the monster reached out and got hold of Harold's hand and guided it until the bottle was over the cup.

  The blind man poured, and the cup filled.

  "Mmmmmm!"

  "Enough? Fine." Harold groped and found the other cup, then poured wine for himself. "I hope it's a good year," he said.

  "Mmmmmmm."

  "Oh? Fifty-nine? That was a good year." He put the bottle down. "A toast," he said, raising his cup. "A toast to a long friendship!"

  The two clinked cups.

  The monster's cup shattered, and the wine went splashing onto the table.

  "Excellent!" Harold said, tasting his own wine.

  The monster looked pathetically at the spreading dark spot on the tabletop.

  "Oh, my yes!" the blind man went on. "It is a fifty-nine. You have an educated palate, my friend."

  "Mmmmmmmm," the monster said weakly.

  "Full up, eh? Well, I'm glad, I know how hungry you were." He headed for the cupboard again. "I have an extra surprise for you," he said. "A real treat. I've been saving it for just such an occasion as this! Guess what it is?"

  "Mmmmmmmm?"

  "You are a clever fellow. Cigars, it is! Now, we can have a pleasant smoke and a nice, quiet chat." He sot two cigars from the cupboard. "Good soup, good wine, and a good cigar," he said blissfully, returning.

  "Mmmmmm."

  "Cuban, I think," the blind man said, handing one of the cigars to the monster. He lifted the candle from the holder and walked toward the fireplace. "But, of course, with my eyes, they can sell me anything and I never know the difference." Reaching the fireplace, he lit the candle and touched the flame to the tip of his cigar, lighting it, then headed back toward the table.

  "Mmmmmmmmmm!" the monster said, as the flaming candle got closer.

  "What is it? The fire? Oh, no, you mustn't be afraid of fire. Fire is our friend."

  Drawing back, frightened, the monster dropped his cigar.

  "There's nothing to fear," the blind man, continued. "If we didn't have fire, we-Oh-I misunderstood, didn't I? It isn't that you're afraid of the fire. You're a young chap, you've never smoked a cigar, that's what you're telling me."

  "Mmmmmmm!" the monster said, shying away from the flame.

  "Nothing to it," Harold told him. "Give me your hand."

  Timidly, the monster reached out.

  The blind man got hold of the m
onster's thumb. "Good, you know how to hold a cigar, at least," he said, "that's a good beginning."

  "Mmmmmmmm!" the monster said, on the edge of panic.

  The blind man held the flame of the candle to the monster's thumb. "Inhale," he said.

  "Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!" the monster screamed, leaping up and retrieving his thumb.

  "What-?" Harold said, baffled.

  The monster galloped across the room and went charging out the door. There, he halted and put his thumb in his mouth to nurse it.

  "Wait! Come back!" the blind man called. "I was going to make espresso!"

  "Mmmmmmmmmmm," the monster grumbled, glaring back through the doorway at the old man.

  Sadly, Harold raised his useless eyes to Heaven. "Oh, Lord, a visitor is all I ask, a temporary companion. Just to help me pass a few short hours of my lonely life-"

  The monster was not interested in hearing any more. Still sucking his thumb, he stomped off into the woods.

  By the time the pain of the burn finally passed, the monster discovered that he had reached the outskirts of the village. His first inclination was to turn and flee. His experiences with civilized human beings had taught him that they were cruel and vicious. They were monsters. But then he noticed that the streets appeared to be deserted. Evidently the villagers were all in bed and asleep.

  Hoping to find something to eat-even if he had to get it from a garbage can-the monster entered the town. He felt frightened, knowing that human beings like to hide in bushes and leap out at unsuspecting monsters and scare the wits out of them. Hunger, however, drove him on. Then, as he was passing a clump of bushes, his worst fear was realized. A human being leaped out. He was a small man and he was wearing a mask over the lower portion of his face.

  "Your money or your life!" the little man said viciously, jabbing a pistol into the monster's kneecap.

  The monster peered down at the little man.

  And the little man peered up at the monster. " 'Ere, now, you are a big one, ain't you!" he said. His eyes opened wide. "Forget that little bit about your money or your life," he said. "We can compromise. Jack Sprat -that's me-can make a deal wif any man."

  "Mmmmmm!" the monster said angrily. He reached down and took the pistol from the man and crushed it in his hand.

  "Oh, I see, rough stuff," Jack Sprat said. "You're one of us. You just got a different technique."

  "Mmmmmmm!"

  "I can play along," Jack Sprat said, trembling. "What do you want, my money?" He reached under his jacket and brought out a cloth bag that jingled with coins.

  The monster gave the bag a swat and it went flying off into the bushes.

  "That narrows the choice," Jack Sprat said. "If it's not my money, it must be my life."

  The monster gave Jack Sprat a swat and he went flying off into the bushes.

  Feeling somewhat avenged for all the suffering he had endured at the hands of humans, the monster strode on.

  From behind came Jack Sprat's muttering. "I got to get glasses. It don't pay to hold up people you can't see well."

  As the monster made his way on through the streets, he suddenly became aware of music. At first, he assumed that some villager had fallen asleep with a radio on. But then the music became clearer. He stopped, his mind confused. The music was familiar, he'd heard that song before-it was the eerie old Transylvanian lullaby!

  Drawn to the music, as a moth to a flame, the monster walked on. Ahead, standing under a street lamp, he saw a bearded, stooped old beggar. The man, shrouded in night fog, was playing a violin. Mesmerized by the music, the monster continued. He had no more control over himself, he was the captive of the eerie Transylvanian lullaby.

  "Mmmmmmmmm . . ." the monster murmured.

  The beggar played on.

  "Mmmmmmmmmmmm ..."

  Then, abruptly, the monster realized that he had been done in again by the treachery of a human being.

  "Now!" the begger shouted. And he yanked off his beard, revealing himself to be none other than Dr. Frederick Frankenstein.

  At that instant, a net dropped down out of the night fog, trapping the monster. He struggled mightily, but the more he fought the more enmeshed he became.

  "Mmmmmmmmmmm!" the monster cried out.

  "Help!" Dr. Frankenstein shouted.

  Two figures appeared, One, Igor, climbed down from the top of the street lamp. The other, Inga, came running from the darkness.

  "The sedative!" the doctor ordered.

  Inga handed him a syringe.

  Another stab in the backside from humankind, the monster thought sorrowfully to himself.

  And he was right.

  As the monster lost consciousness, he heard the doctor's voice.

  "That'll hold the vicious son of a bitch!"

  When the doctor and Inga and Igor had untangled the net from the limp monster, they loaded him into the cart that they had parked around the corner, then drove swiftly back to the castle. There, they dragged the monster from the cart, into the castle, and down the steps to the laboratory.

  "Those straps won't hold him," Dr. Frankenstein said. "We'll have to lock him up."

  They dragged him to Baron Victor von Frankenstein's private library, dropped him to the floor, then hurried from the room and locked the door.

  "At last!" the doctor said, relieved.

  "That's only the beginning," Igor pointed out. "We've still got him on our hands."

  "Yes, you're right," the doctor said. He looked toward the locked door. "We all know, I suppose, what has to be done now."

  "Oh, Doctor!" Inga said tragically.

  "You want me to get lots of matches, boss?" Igor asked.

  "No, it's too late to frighten him to death. Let's not kid ourselves any longer. It's got to be the real thing. We've got to kill him!"

  From the darkness came a voice. "No!"

  "Frau Blucher!" Inga said.

  From outside came the sound of horses rearing and neighing in panic.

  "Yes!" the doctor shouted into the darkness.

  Frau Blucher appeared. She was holding a pistol. "No!" she cried.

  "Well, maybe I was being too hasty," Dr. Frankenstein said, eying the pistol. "But what else can we do?"

  "You can be-a doctor!" Frau Blucher told him. "You can be-a scientist! You can be-a Frankenstein!"

  "Are you trying to shame me?" the doctor asked. "Shame me because I wanted to spare that poor, dumb creature any more pain and suffering?"

  "Yes, I am trying to shame you. Your grandfather had the same problem you have-a monster on his hands. Don't you think he felt what you feel now? But he had a vision of something greater. Beyond failure! Beyond ridicule! Beyond pain! The re-creation of life!"

  Dr. Frankenstein stared at her. He began to straighten. His upper lip appeared to stiffen. His chin jutted. "I'll do it," he said. He addressed Igor. "Get me the file. The file on that abnormal brain," he commanded.

  "I'm off!" Igor replied, dashing for the stairs.

  "Inga," the doctor said to his laboratory assistant, "put on the tea water. It's going to be a long, long night."

  "Does that mean, doctor-Does it mean-Does it mean you're not going to kill the monster?"

  He hedged. "Not right away, at least."

  While Inga made tea, Dr. Frankenstein paced the room, recalling every bit of medicine he had ever learned. The more he thought, the less convinced he became that he could save the monster. But then, glancing at Frau Blucher, who was seating on a stool, cleaning the pistol, he had second thoughts. What the hell -give it a try. Maybe a miracle would happen.

  In time, Igor returned with the file on the abnormal brain. Taking it, Dr. Frankenstein perched himself on a laboratory stool near the door to the private library, where the monster was being kept, and began to read. Inga busied herself making up another gallon of tea. Frau Blucher began putting the bullets back into the pistol.

  Dr. Frankenstein, as was his custom, read aloud:

  Extreme supraorbital development with deep
parietal fissure. Classification mark; Abnormal. This gentle human being, of more than average intelligence, exhibits kindness, strong feelings and compassion, reasonable fluctuation, and a well-integrated thought pattern.

  "I told you: he's a lamb," Frau Blucher said. The doctor read on:

  However, under stress, particularly when stress takes the form of embarrassment or humiliation-

  From the library came the monster's voice. "Mmmm-mmmmmm!"

  "He can hear me through the door," the doctor said, somewhat distressed.

  "You're making the rest of us listen," Igor said. "Why should he get off?"

  Dr. Frankenstein shrugged and read on:

  -this patient, convinced that he is unloved, demonstrates a profound deterioration of Ego, characterized by fits of depression, murderous rage, and, upon rare occasions, has been known to dismember imagined persecutors.

  "I only said he was a lamb, I didn't say he was perfect," Frau Blucher told the doctor.

  Preoccupied, Dr. Frankenstein did not reply. He stared into space.

  "Mmmmmmmmm . . ." came from the library.

  The doctor spoke again, "In other words," he said, "one wrong word and-convinced that he is unloved- he may go bananas." Again, he looked off into space. "Convinced that he is unloved," he mused.

  "You think that's the key phrase, boss?" Igor asked.

  "Convinced that he is unloved," the doctor mused again.

  "Oh, Doctor, could it really be it?" Inga said.

  "If I could transform . . ." he said. "If I could transform that uncoordinated, uncontrollable, simple-celled paleolithic hulk into a talented, cultured, well-mannered gentleman-"

  "If you could-" Inga said.

  Dr. Frankenstein got down from the stool. "Give me a candle," he said. "I'm going in."

  "No!" Ingra cried, terrified by the thought.

  "Yes!" Frau Blucher shrieked, pointing the gun at the doctor.

  "I really have no choice," he told Inga.

  She put a lighted candle in his hand, and he strode to the door to the library.

  "No matter what you hear," the doctor told the others, "no matter how cruelly I beg you, however terribly I scream, do not open this door once I've gone inside. If you do, you'll ruin everything. Is that understood? Do not open this door!"