Meanwhile my comfortable country life went on—had to go on, for tomorrow I must see Mr. Such-and-Such about the wood, next day we would hunt, the day after that there was a visit, the day after the bailiff would come about planting, and so it went on.
It was a letter from my friend Hugo Feltham which dug me from my rut and brought me speedily back to London. This letter, delivered by a muddy cart from the village, arrived one day just as I had come in from the fields for my breakfast. I read it standing before the fire, warming my bones, while Arabella cut slices of beef for my father. We had gone up in the world but still kept to the old country habit of good beer, good meat and good bread for breakfast, taken after the house had been up and doing for many hours: even a lady who did not come down for breakfast was held to be sick, a man who failed to arrive was taken to be on his deathbed and past praying for.
I was surprised to receive a letter from Hugo, no lover of pen and paper. I have known him ride ten miles to communicate a message in person rather than send a letter or note. Consequently, when I opened the letter I knew some serious matter was afoot.
“My dearest Jonathan,” the letter read, “I have been hesitating for some time whether to write to you. But Lucy urges me to do so and we both agree you must be told what is happening as regards our valued friend Victor, whom I know we both love. Alas, all is not well with him. I am no penman, as you know, Jonathan, so I must put the matter bluntly—Victor is in love with Miss Maria Clementi. He haunts the theatre after her performances; he buys her gifts which, apparently, she receives; he visits her frequently at Russell Square. Poor Elizabeth has twice been dispatched to us by Victor, who tries to conceal what he is doing, but Elizabeth is undeceived and just now she has been here, with us at Old Hall, for a week. She has now resolved to return to London to be with her husband, however distressing his behavior. Lucy and I have offered what help we can and have said that if she finds her situation intolerable she must come again to us. I am detained here for the present and think you could be useful in this matter. In short, I ask you to go to Victor and attempt to find out the nature of his relations with Miss Clementi and tell him of the distress he is causing his wife. My dear old Jonathan, you know this is not the kind of task one man lightly hands to another, but for the sake of poor Elizabeth Frankenstein, and Victor himself also—will you assist?”
I was shocked by this message, after a moment I was still more shocked by my own stupidity. It should have been plain to me, witnessing Victor's agitation when Maria threatened to give up her lessons with him and his violent behavior at Russell Square later, that I was not observing a scientist but a man in the throes of passion for a woman. Such was my respect for Victor's intellectual gifts I had been blind to conduct which, in anyone else, I would have seen plainly as amorous folly.
Then, I reflected what a dreadful task lay ahead of me. I should have to appeal to Victor to give up Maria for the sake of his wife and child, not to mention for the sake of his own reputation. Then most probably there would be an interview with Mrs. Jacoby, and Heaven only knew how that little causerie would turn out. The vision was so afflicting, I believe, standing by the fireplace, I may have sworn aloud. At any rate Arabella uttered a startled sound and my father uttered a warning “Hmph!”
But Hugo had appealed to me, no doubt at Lucy's instigation, and I had no choice but to tackle this unpleasant duty. No point in delaying—I packed rapidly, said my farewells and took the London Road, which was mercifully dry for the time of year. I thus reached London by nightfall of the same day and, having made arrangements for the return of my horse to Nottingham, set off straight away for the theatre where Maria was appearing. I thought that if matters were as described in Hugo's letter, I might well find Victor there.
The house was packed. By bullying and bribing I managed to find a place standing at the back of the theatre and so saw, through a crowd of heads, the last act of Hera's Revenge. It did not fall short of the traditions of the London stage at the time, which is to say it was trumpery and trivial as a prize at a fair. Nevertheless, as the curtain went up on the slender, lonely figure of Maria Clementi, hands clasped in front of her, playing Jove's young lover Constantia and singing a pretty song expressing her love for the god, the audience, unable to contain itself (and lacking that restraint which these days we prefer to observe), stood, shouted, and cried out in delight. There were calls of “Brava, brava.” Having completed her song, Maria began to dance. That vision will never leave me—a gold-clad form, gossamer-light yet strong as a young aspen—white arms raised above a beautifully poised head, garlanded with flowers—her grace, her purity, her loveliness. How the men standing about me at the back of the theatre cheered and groaned. It was easy to see how Victor Frankenstein, like so many others, could feel passion for Maria. Who would not?
The dance ended and some black-faced dancers came on, for little dramatic reason, naming themselves African Sal and Dusty Bob and began some silly dance from the plantations, he in ragged trousers, she in a print dress with a rag tied round her head. Then came the implausible arrival of Jove, who appeared on the scene to court Constantia dressed as a golden ram (if sense were lacking in the piece the costumes and scenery were outstanding). With the entrance of his jealous wife Hera, rightly suspecting his plan to seduce Constantia, a duet began between the pair.
At this point I realized that, Victor, who was not in the theatre as far as I could see, might have elected to arrive before the end of the performance and gone directly to join what I was sure would be a mighty crowd behind the scenes. So I began pushing my way from the theatre, causing more protest, even, than when I had pushed my way in. Just before I left I turned to see a new backdrop, an English landscape with meadows and sheep. Against it stood Jove, Hera and a full chorus, all singing. In front of them was Maria, in her golden shift, a coronet of flowers in her hair, singing like a bird, with no harshness, yet clearly audible against the chorus of other singers. It was a pretty spectacle.
I went into the alley beside the theatre and found the stage door. As the result of a bribe and a claim of acquaintanceship with Miss Maria Clementi, I was ushered behind the scenes and in to a crowded greenroom. I spotted a marquis, an ambassador and many other dignitaries. There were ladies of fashion with plumes in their hair and officers in uniform just come from their duties. In one corner a parrot screamed in a golden cage and in another two large hounds sat perfectly still, looking a great deal more dignified than the people around them. But there was no sign of Victor. My eyes sought, and found, Mrs. Jacoby. She wore a black silk dress. Then Maria entered with other members of the cast—the crowd opened to receive her, then closed again. I thought, wrongly, as it turned out, that if I could get to Mrs. Jacoby I might have a private word with her about whatever state of affairs existed between Frankenstein and Maria. But, push as I might against shoulders clad in silk, red tunics or black wool, I could get no closer than the second rank of worshippers.
Whatever my suspicions of Mrs. Jacoby I was forced to admire her composure and competence. She was, after all, Maria's voice. For many years now she had had to judge what Maria wanted to say, and should or should not say. In that sense she had been a true support to the young woman. She now stood beside her, dealing with myriad comments and enquiries. I heard her say, “Miss Clementi finds this role taxing, but less so than the more sombre role of Dido in Purcell's Dido and Aeneas, in which part you have no doubt seen her. Miss Clementi thanks your lordship for his most kind comments. Miss Clementi exercises at a barre, as dancers do in Russia, for one hour each day.”
At one point she caught my eye, and, I think, controlled a startled expression at seeing me. I inclined my head but saw no purpose in staying longer; it would have been impossible to get a word, so I forced my way from the throng, feeling more respect for Mrs. Jacoby and more pity for Maria who, each night, whether in London, Paris, Rome or Vienna, must have to face first the demands of performance and then the demands of her admirers.
I left by the stage door and entered the alley beside the wall of the theatre, which was blocked at its end by a high wall. As I left the door and was turning to walk towards the street, I observed from the corner of my eye a movement in the darkness at the far end of the alley, by the wall, some ten or twelve feet away from me. Suddenly a hulking figure rose up from the ground where evidently it had been crouching. The man was enormous, almost a giant, clad in some long dark coat. All I could see was the whiteness of a face and long, unkempt, dark hair. I stared, appalled and expecting a plea for money or an attack, but neither came. The man, who had inclined his head towards me almost as if studying me, then once more sank slowly to the ground, again becoming invisible, part of the darkness. Having feared attack, I now conceived of some sick and starving wretch, too weak to beg, seeking only a quiet place to sleep. I found a coin in my pocket and flung it towards him. There was a scrabbling at the alley's end and a growling mumble, which might have been thanks.
I found a conveyance for hire and asked to be taken to Victor's house in Cheyne Walk. I wanted to get this business behind me and it was still early enough to find the household awake.
It was on the way here that I began wondering if, by some curious coincidence, that sad, huge figure in the alley was the same man I had seen on the quay in Chelsea. There could surely not be two such monstrous figures in London. But if it had been the same man, this time he had seemed less intimidating, more pitiable. My main thoughts, however, were of my visit. I was anxious to get to Victor's house before he and Elizabeth retired, yet dreaded the conversation which would ensue after I reproached him with his conduct towards his wife. Men do not like to charge others in this way, knowing most have been tempted to make curs of themselves over women, and a good many have fallen.
At Cheyne Walk I heard Elizabeth Frankenstein had retired and Victor was at his club. I had kept the carriage waiting so it was to this club, the Chesterfield in Dover Street, that I now went, feeling by this time quite fatigued. Indeed, I had been half-minded to go home to bed on finding Victor out, but there was something in the face of Victor's manservant when he opened up to me and told me his master was away at his club that silently appealed to me to concern myself in this matter. Servants know all that passes in a household and this man I swear, was telling me, silently, that something was amiss at Cheyne Walk. At any rate, he seemed relieved when I had told him I would go and find his master at his club.
It was past ten when I descended into Dover Street. Few were abroad. I walked past the linkmen on the steps and entered the club's dignified portals. The club's porter was sitting in his wooden box in the hall. He directed me to the library where, he said, I would find Victor, I walked through some cold, marble-floored passageways and entered the dark, vaulted room which was the club's library. A few candles in the sconces burned here and there but the room was largely dark, book-lined walls making it seem even more sombre. Victor was alone in the room, hunched over the fire like a man who would never get warm. Even as I walked up to him I could see a change. Never a fat man, he had become thinner. His nose stood out between more emphatic cheekbones, his eyes were sunken. Far from the flamboyant adulterer I had somehow expected, here was a wretched figure hiding away from home, but with nowhere else to go.
“Jonathan,” he said flatly, in greeting.
There was no way of presenting my mission as a cheerful visit. I looked at him as grimly as I could and said, “I have just been at the theatre, Victor.”
“Did you see Maria?” he asked me, too quickly.
“I saw her but we did not speak. She was surrounded by a crowd. Victor—” I appealed.
He said dully, “You come as a missionary, I know. I will spare you the embarrassment you anticipate. Hugo Feltham is not a man to go behind another's back. He wrote to me saying that during her visit to Old Hall Elizabeth confided her anxieties about me to his wife and that he had written you a letter appealing to you to visit me and discuss the state of affairs. So let me be plain. It pains me to say this but say it I must. I love Maria Clementi. That love torments me for she does not love me in return. I am completely wretched, made all the more so because I know my good wife, who has never injured me in any way, is wretched also. I cannot sleep. I cannot work. I can think of nothing but Maria. I do not know what to do for I must have her but she will not have me.
“Do you know, Jonathan, what my plan was for this evening? Because she has forbidden me, through Mrs. Jacoby, to visit the theatre every night, I was intending to go to her house, to hide in the trees of the square, to watch her arrive home in her carriage and spy out who might be with her. Then I would keep vigil opposite the house, watch the lights being extinguished and so stay on until at last I was weary enough to return here to sleep for a few hours. That is how I planned to spend this evening, Jonathan, as I did last night and will no doubt do tomorrow. You see to what state I am reduced.”
“My dear Victor!” I exclaimed.
“Do not pity me,” he said, “for I am being punished.”
I put a log on the fire and tried to kick it into a blaze. “Punished? Victor! For what do you think you are being punished?” The fire threw out smoke, but no flames.
“I cannot tell you that,” he said.
I suppose when I undertook to speak to Victor I had imagined that familiar kind of conversation in which a friend appeals to the husband on behalf of his distressed wife and is told either to go away and mind his own business or receives assurances, true or false, from the culprit that he plans to give up his mistress. I had not bargained for this—and, dishonorably, my heart soared. I knew I could not have Maria—or thought I could—I might—I did not know what I thought. My animal nature, where reason does not prevail, was organizing my thoughts, or failing to do so. All I knew was that Victor had not possessed that wonderful creature, Maria. And that made me rejoice. If I could not have her, it would still have upset me if Victor had. In this respect I was a madman and I confess it. Those who never looked into the deep, grey eyes of Maria Clementi, never saw her dance or heard that thrilling voice may condemn me; no man who did could fail to understand what I felt.
But, meanwhile Victor had spoken of punishment, his punishment. “What can you mean? Do you mean Maria will never love you?”
He did not reply. I continued to tussle with him as he sat there, thin and weary, seeming like a beaten man.
“My dear friend,” I said, “it is dreadful to see you in this state. Should you not battle with this desire for Maria, which may lose you everything you hold most dear, the affections of your wife, your work—would it not be better to take your family away from London, settle for a time elsewhere, try to shake off this passion, starve it by taking it far from its object? Dishonor can only come of this. Even if Maria loved you in return, what good could you do her? She is a young woman of good reputation in a profession where few others like her are to be found. As yet there is no scandal attached to her name. Do you, a married man, truly wish to seduce her and ruin her, setting her inevitably on the path downwards?”
“Unhappily, it is a bitter truth, one I would rather not admit, but that is exactly what I wish to do. I have no care for consequences, for her or for myself. I want her to be mine.”
“You know you can only harm her, and yourself and your wife. You must summon up your will—and go away.”
“It is a punishment,” he said again.
I stared at Victor Frankenstein, that man of intellect and command.
“You think me mad,” he went on, “but if you knew—if you only knew—if I could tell you. I am miserable and I deserve my misery.”
“Are you sure you are not answering to some fierce Calvinist God of your youth, some God of predestination, hell fire and damnation?” I appealed to him. “You have not slept, you say, and plan some vigil in Russell Square tonight. Let me take you home—or let us even order two beds here at the club, obtain a sleeping draught for you from the porter. I will stay with you until you sleep. By morning,
when you have rested, matters may look different and we can talk again. If you agree, I will send a message to Elizabeth saying where you are.”
“My presence is an affliction to my wife,” he said.
“Your absence is also an affliction to her,” I returned. “Elizabeth loves you dearly. Come, Victor, you must go home. Let me come with you.”
He said sadly, “What a villain, what a slave I am. How I wish my wife did not love me. How I wish Maria did.” Then he looked at me impatiently, saying, “Jonathan—leave me. You cannot help me.”
“I cannot abandon you in this condition,” I said and, hooking my arm under his, I raised him to his feet. “I shall take you home, see you swallow some opiate to make you sleep and return in the morning so that we can speak more of this.”
He agreed, being perhaps too weak to resist, but gazed at me as if he knew how little my plain man's approach would help his situation. Then began the dreadful nightmare . . . The club's porter sent for a carriage which could not be found quickly. We stood outside, snow falling, waiting while Victor spoke disjointedly of Maria. Eventually the servant returned through the snow walking beside an aged carriage drawn by a tired horse. The journey took place with a hideous slowness as I sat wearily in the carriage, Victor beside me, staring hollow-eyed, at something I could not see.
At Cheyne Walk there was a crowd milling about outside the house. The front door stood wide open. The windows of the house were all lighted.
Victor cried out, “My God! What is this? What has happened?” and threw himself from the carriage and ran to his house. I came rapidly behind, pushing through the people in front of the house, taking the steps two at a time, passing two maidservants clinging to each other in the doorway. By the time I reached the hall Victor had run upstairs.
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