Much fatigued by now, I got to the house, where my arrival much disconcerted the servants, who were enjoying the absence of the family. I sat down and penned a letter to Mrs. Jacoby, whose address in Chatham my clever Cordelia had thought to obtain before the lady left for the cold home of her sister. In it I begged her to forget the pains of the past and come once again, and for the last time, to the aid of her former employer. I feared, I said, Miss Clementi had fallen utterly into the wrong hands. I told her of the unholy alliance of Wheeler, Mortimer and Nottcutt and of the way Miss Clementi, while in a trance, had called out about fire. Now this dangerous experiment was about to be repeated in public. Would she, I asked, take a chaise from Chatham at my expense and come at all speed to London?
I was not sure my appeal would succeed. Mrs. Jacoby might be absent from home and even if she received my letter in time I thought she might stick to her guns and refuse to have any more dealings with Maria. Nevertheless, I sent off my message by the fastest means possible, hoping Mrs. Jacoby would come to my assistance in time.
The upper part of the house was in the process of thorough cleaning and very cold, no fires having been lit there for days, so I told the servants I would make do in the parlor. I had a fire lit there, stripped off my muddy clothes, arranged for food and hot water to be brought and generally set up an encampment.
Early that evening I went to that mournful house at Cheyne Walk which had been rendered a little more hospitable by the arrival of Victor's parents. The two guards, however, still occupied the drawing-room.
Mrs. Frankenstein was a tall, handsome woman, though evidently worn by caring for her son, still, she said, gravely ill. She greeted me kindly and took me into a little room downstairs which she had taken over for herself. She described to me how she had been forced to stop the visits of Miss Clementi to Victor, who, on one occasion, had found the strength to whisper, “Mother. She is killing me.” Of course she asked me about the relations of her son and Maria Clementi but I could scarcely tell her of the wicked passion for the actress Victor had conceived, even before his wife's cruel murder. I felt, however, that I must describe the efforts being made to bring back Maria's power of speech, and the hope that she would be able to give evidence about Victor's attacker. Mrs. Frankenstein expressed keen interest in this and asked me whether she and Mr. Frankenstein might attend the Royal Society demonstration. I offered to write then and there to request that seats be made available to them. The message was taken off by a servant.
It was then that Victor's mother told me something which astonished and disturbed me, speaking of the matter as if she assumed I was familiar with it. “He is much afflicted by the death of his wife and child,” she told me, “and I fear his recovery is much impeded by grief. And sometimes in delirium, he murmurs of his first wife, his loved step-sister, of course, with whom he grew up.”
I could not conceal my expression of astonishment at her words. Victor had not told me he had been married before. Mrs. Frankenstein noted my surprise before I had a chance to hide it and asked me, “You did not know of Victor's first wife, Elizabeth Lavengro?”
“I do not know. I forgot, perhaps,” was my very inadequate response. It seemed very strange Victor had not mentioned an earlier marriage.
Mrs. Frankenstein looked at me in some puzzlement, unable to credit a man could entirely forget the marriage of a friend, or this is what I thought. Alas, what she said next was far more alarming. “Poor Victor. What unlucky stars must have been in the heavens at his moment of birth. How could a man bear two such great afflictions? How could any man recover from two bereavements such as he has sustained—two wives, both murdered?”
Both murdered, she said. My head reeled. I felt I was taking leave of my senses and must indeed have looked very odd, for Mrs. Frankenstein bent towards me and asked if I felt ill, and indeed I did. I could not face a visit to the sick man upstairs, knowing what he had kept from me, from all of us and so, left the house.
I made my way somehow back to Gray's Inn Road, flung myself in an armchair with a bottle of brandy by my side and spent the remainder of the evening brooding over what Victor's mother had innocently revealed. The universe was spinning round me, not at first due to the brandy (though perhaps later). Then, wearily undressing, I fell into a deep, fuddled sleep, my last thought being only what my first had been on hearing Mrs. Frankenstein's words. How could a man, a friend, have kept back from others all information about a first marriage, ending cruelly in murder? He might refrain at first, unable to speak of the pain of the event—but surely he would inevitably refer to it when a second wife was killed? Not to do so was unnatural. Unless—it was an unworthy thought, but most men would have thought it—he had himself been responsible for both crimes.
It was only thanks to the long gallop to London and my business during the afternoon—as well as to the brandy, I suppose—that I managed to sleep that night. I was in fact awoken late in the morning by the arrival of Mrs. Jacoby, who had received my message the previous day and set out at dawn from Chatham.
She came in bundled up in many layers of clothing and deeply chilled. Over a glass of mulled wine she told me, “I wish to God I were not here, Mr. Goodall. I never slept a wink last night. I have a premonition of disaster. Something dreadful will occur, I'm certain of it. I would not have come, but for knowing I have helped to create this situation, and I feel it is a duty to see how it comes out and help to relieve myself of guilt.” At this she flung up her arms and cried out, “Oh, Lord! Oh, my good Lord! I have collaborated with sin, Oh Lord, Lord! Hear me and forgive. I have been a handmaiden to Satan, Lord. Forgive me, forgive me!”
I gazed at this exhibition with some horror. I was not then, and still am not, a believer in public rantings, weepings and declarations of faith. These days I may be a little more sedulous in my religious duties but I have as little taste for all that now as I had then. When Mrs. Jacoby had left Maria Clementi's service she had stated she felt she had much to atone for, but this remorse, in the hands of her nonconformist sister, had flourished and thrown out exotic blooms. I could not help preferring the old unreclaimed Mrs. Jacoby and was uncertain how useful she would be in her new form when it came to dealing with a world far from the chapels of Chatham. All I felt able to say was, “Take more hot wine, Mrs. Jacoby. Our breakfast will soon be here.”
She looked at me severely, saying, “Call on your Maker, Mr. Goodall. You, I and Maria Clementi—all need His help. Are you a true believer?”
Still preoccupied with my extraordinary suspicions of Frankenstein, and anxious about the day ahead, I responded to this bluntly, “I asked you to come here, Mrs. Jacoby, and am happy you have done so, but let me be frank, if you are to keep calling on your Maker and putting into His hands what should rightly be in your own, I would prefer to send you straight back to Chatham.”
This sobered her a little. “I will help you, of course.” she said. “Yet I dread what is to come.”
“Then you had better eat and take some rest for we must be ready for action,” I said as the food came in. The soldier's widow saw the point of this advice. I was cheered to hear her say, “From your letter I concluded it would be best if Maria did not take part in this demonstration at all. I propose to go and see her and shall try to get her alone and dissuade her from appearing. Do you know where she is to be found?”
I told her Maria had cancelled her theatrical performances, so would be away from the theatre but most probably at Russell Square or Nottcutt House in Grosvenor Square.
“Very well, then,” said the good woman. “I shall try to find her at one of those addresses and prevent this ungodly show.” And after taking a rapid meal she called on her Maker a little more, then collected herself together and left the house in military style.
I repaired to the Voyagers' Club and over coffee read the newspapers. Wheeler's coming demonstration at the Royal Society was announced, to my gloom. I earnestly hoped Mrs. Jacoby would succeed in persuading Maria to withdraw
from the event. If she could not, it would go ahead, and God knew what the result would be. At least, I thought, at the end of the day it would be over, for good or ill, and I on my way back to Nottingham. Whatever the outcome I must not let this affair detain me in London. If I did, I knew Cordelia would cease to believe in me and my promises. She loved me. I was sure of it. But she was a proud and high-spirited woman and would not take insult from me. It would seem her late husband had not been the easiest of men. She was wary of marrying another husband like the first and might well take the view that a man who cannot behave himself during the courtship would be unlikely to improve later. And what would I do, I thought, if she believed I stayed in London because I was entranced by Maria Clementi? What would my future be if Cordelia rejected me, if I lost her while stranded in this melancholy, mysterious world, this dark side of the moon?
When I returned to the house Mrs. Jacoby had already returned. Her search for Maria had been futile. She had been told at Russell Square that Maria had not been there for some days. Enquiring for her at Nottcutt House she heard that Mr. Nottcutt and a party of friends had left for another of his residences at Richmond and would not come back until much later in the day. There was hardly time, before the demonstration, to go to Richmond on the chance that Maria was still there. I guessed Maria had been deliberately hidden away from other influences until the time came for the demonstration at the Royal Society. I hoped at least they had rehearsed her there, to make certain nothing untoward would occur during the demonstration. But in the event, that, alas, was not to be.
F I F T E E N
ON THE AFTERNOON OF THE DEMONSTRATION it was dark; in the great hall at the Royal Society many candles glowed in the chandeliers, casting light on the dignified and fashionable assembly. I arrived in good time with Mrs. Jacoby, but even so we had to force our way to the front of the hall through a chattering crowd standing or seated on narrow, fragile chairs. Further off was a platform with two seats. We had earlier called at Nottcutt House in a last attempt to talk to Maria, but were told that the Richmond party had not returned. We now found ourselves part of the vast audience which comprised grey-bearded dignitaries, ladies in silks with fans, politicians, fops, professors, men and women of great rank and position. There, too, seated quietly together, were Victor's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Frankenstein. As we reached the front Mrs. Jacoby indicated another couple, sitting in the front row of chairs, “Those are Nottcutt's parents in front. They are quiet country dwellers. I should not have expected to find them here.”
“Let us hope that nothing in this charade will upset their quiet rural temper,” I responded.
There was an upholstered settle to the side of the room and on it we found Maria Clementi seated, simply attired in a cream dress and mantle, a small low-crowned bonnet on her head. Beside her sat Augustus Wheeler, severely dressed in a dark coat and trousers. Nottcutt leaned against the wall beside Maria and in front of the pair on the settle stood Gabriel Mortimer, a little soberer in his attire than usual, but, when he turned to greet, or rather, confront me, I saw a large diamond pin, big as a pea, in his cravat. Outside this inner circle were others, orbiting Maria's planet as it seemed, all trying to beg a word, seize a glance, find out in advance what was to be the nature of the event to come—a politer version of the kind of shoving and crowding which takes place among the French when a man or woman of notoriety is present.
Mrs. Jacoby and I determinedly achieved the settle, where an eminent man of science was bent over Wheeler in conversation. Two ladies in silks and Indian shawls leaned talking towards Maria, who stared ahead of her not acknowledging their presence in any way, this being tolerable to them, I suppose, merely because she was known to be mute. Wheeler spotted me, though he did not, at that point, observe Mrs. Jacoby, who stood slightly behind me. Seeing me, Wheeler looked shocked and broke off his talk with the eminent man. He stood up abruptly, evidently attracting the attention of Gabriel Mortimer, for he swung round, by which time both I and Mrs. Jacoby were up to them. The ladies near Maria also straightened and turned to hear Mortimer saying angrily to me, “What are you doing here, Goodall? And you, Rebecca? You are unwelcome.”
Mrs. Jacoby then said, “To you perhaps, Gabriel. But I wish to speak to Maria.”
Mortimer said nothing more but looked at her furiously. Mrs. Jacoby, somehow pushing Wheeler aside, sat down beside Maria, who barely acknowledged her. She placed a firm hand on her arm and began to speak urgently into her face.
Meanwhile, Nottcutt was still leaning against the wall. He called over, “Ah, Mr. Goodall—the muddy gentleman of yesterday, come to spoil our amusement, I see.”
I responded loudly, “If you consider this a good way to amuse yourself, Mr. Nottcutt, putting a dumb woman on show, then we have nothing to say to each other.”
This caused some consternation, even indignation, among those surrounding us. Nottcutt merely gave a condescending smile.
Mortimer then said to me, “Goodall. I can't imagine what you're doing in this business. I take it you have dragged Mrs. Jacoby back to London to be here—I hate your confounded interference.”
I would have liked to have struck him in the face and have followed this up with doing the same to Nottcutt. Instead, I bent my head to hear Mrs. Jacoby's urgent whisper to Maria: “Oh, Maria, you cannot do this. It is disreputable. Maria, through this you may hurt yourself. Have you ever had any reason to think I had not your best interests at heart? Or Mr. Goodall, for that matter. We have come to persuade you not to go through with this demonstration. What will you say, in your trance? This is reckless.” But all Maria did was put her fingers to Mrs. Jacoby's lips, shake her head and smile. She seemed to have very little awareness of what was going on about her.
Gabriel Mortimer was about to argue, but at this point Nottcutt walked coolly forward, took Maria's elbow and raised her up, with the intention of presenting her to his parents. No attempt was made to stop this. He looked spitefully at Mrs. Jacoby as he led Maria off.
“What is she doing? What does she think?” I asked Mrs. Jacoby.
She shook her head. “She will take part in the demonstration,” she told me. “I am sure of it. Her mind is made up and she is very strong. Yet at the same time she seems strange, unlike herself. She has not been like this before. Gabriel, have you been dosing her with something? You know she cannot tolerate soporifics or stimulants. Have you?”
Mortimer did not reply, but instead went over to Maria, who had made her curtsey to Nottcutt's parents, Lord and Lady St. Elder. Wheeler followed him.
Mrs. Jacoby looked up at me and sighed. I sat down beside her. “All my efforts have failed,” I said despondently.
My companion merely gazed at the scene now taking place. Wheeler was leading Maria up the three wooden steps of the platform and there he placed her in one of the two chairs. She sat looking in front of her, perfectly composed, her arms laid along the arms of the chair. That vigor of movement she had always possessed was entirely missing.
Now Wheeler seated himself in the chair opposite Maria's, so close that their knees almost touched. The audience ceased to clatter, chatter and move about. All were now seated; a perfect silence reigned.
“If not drugged, she is ill,” muttered Mrs. Jacoby beside me.
“Perhaps Wheeler has taken the precaution of putting her in a trance before they came here,” I said. “I wonder how much of her time she has spent under his mesmeric power during the last few days?”
The performance was about to begin. The afternoon grew darker. Shadows flickered to and fro as draughts caught at the candles. The audience, grave professors, fine ladies, peers and all, watched silently. Wheeler made several passes with his crystal before Maria's eyes, indicating confidence and satisfaction throughout. As I suspected, Maria must have been brought here already mesmerized. He then asked her, gazing into her eyes, “Maria Clementi, are you in a trance and completely under my control?” To which she answered, “Yes,” in a clear voice.
&nbs
p; “Have you hitherto been entirely mute?”
“Yes,” she said again. “I could sing but I could not speak.” Her voice was light, low and very clear. There was movement, exclamation, a buzz of comment from the audience.
“Why was it that you could not speak?” he asked.
If, as I supposed, the whole performance had been thoroughly rehearsed at Richmond, to ensure all would go smoothly in front of this distinguished audience, then this was the moment when all began to go badly wrong.
From the beautiful lips of Maria Clementi came a coarse and dreadful voice, quite different from the tone in which she had spoken earlier, which bore a distinct relationship to the voice which had captured all Europe. This was deep and grating, slurred, inconsistent in tone and accent. Indeed, throughout this whole, horrible episode Maria moved from voice to voice, imitating the tones of others as if uncertain of her own, as she perhaps was—as ignorant of her voice as of the thoughts and feelings, the very identity, it represented. It was most terrible, this inconsistency, more terrible still in that one of the voices she used was undeniably that of—Victor Frankenstein.
But first she grated in that uncouth voice, awful and slurred, “I never spoke, damn you, because I had no language—no language was given to me by my creator at my second birth, when I was brought back from death by my maker, far away on that rocky island, where the cold sea lashed the shores. So cold,” said the voice, “so cold. May his God damn him forever.”
There was a horrified stir in the audience, uncertain now whether it was being deceived by a staged performance or presented with a madwoman. There was a babble of talk. I heard a high, nervous laugh.
Maria now stood up, turned to face the audience. Her legs were apart, her stance full of tension, her chin up. I glanced at Wheeler, still in his chair. He was disconcerted but, showman that he was, attempted to conceal his alarm. The performance was not going according to plan. He hoped, no doubt, it would right itself, or that he would be able to set it back on course again. But he could not.
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