Frankenstein's Bride

by Hilary Bailey

  “I could not, would not, give her to him.

  “Yet, while he, that accursed creature, was there to distract her, I knew she would never be able to love me properly. So, I concluded—I must get rid of my maimed Adam and, when he was gone she, my Eve, would be truly mine. I was employing madman's logic, and like a madman, I did not know it.

  “I might have killed him, but the villagers in that primitive place were becoming suspicious. They suspected me of magic—and even Gilmore might have balked at helping me dispose of the corpse at sea. And—in any case—I made him. The creature was mine. Something prevented me from destroying my own creation with my own hands. I had attempted it before many years before. God help me, the result was that he as good as killed me.

  “I therefore took him to Dublin, drugged and crated, and released him. Describing him as my manservant, I accused him of the theft of my watch and had him searched. The watch was on his person, of course, for I had put it there. I handed him, and his future, over to the authorities there, to let them decide whether to hang or imprison him. I scarcely cared which, only to get rid of the creature. He did not understand what he was supposed to have done, nor what was happening, and stood in the dock when he was tried, blubbering mumbling and grimacing.

  “When they led him away—the verdict was transportation to Australia for the rest of his life—he held his arms out to me, tears running down his vile face, blubbering, ‘Master—master.' Even as they hauled him, struggling, down the passageways to the place of imprisonment I heard him calling out again and again those fatal words, ‘Master—my bride, my bride.'

  “I quit Dublin, thinking soon he would be taken away to live out his life in chains on the other side of the world, and if he did not die there, in that inhospitable land, then certainly he could never more return to Europe. Alas, ugly, feeble-minded, misbegotten as he was, he was strong. He survived that life of cruelty, that fierce climate, the deprivations, the beatings. He survived and somehow contrived to return here, still seeking his bride.

  “Even before I returned from Dublin my Eve—Marie had been her name, while she lived—had begun to deteriorate horribly, not in her body, which was beautiful as ever, but in her mind. Once I was gone with the creature she at first wept, then enticed both my guards. When I returned to my house the first sight I saw was the woman with my guards at my table. There was a bottle of brandy in front of them, my Eve was sitting on the knee of one, bare to the waist, as he fondled her and she laughed. The other guard stood before the seated couple and the woman—my woman—had her head buried in his waist. The men were terrified when they saw me and fled. I took her, my angel, and beat her black and blue. At first she screamed and tried to escape, then began to fight me tigrishly, biting, scratching and kicking. When I had done with the beating I let her go and she went and sat in a corner, her eyes following me—but when I looked at her, when I bent down and tried to reason with her and tell her what she had done was wrong, she would not meet my eyes. When I put my hand upon her she flung it off.

  “But the next day she was miraculously changed, an angel, and I praised her. The day after that she was good, and the next. But the following night she ran away. Next morning, from dawn on, we searched and found her on the hillside only two miles off, exhausted, for she had run and run frantically, not knowing where she was going, hither and thither round in circles. Tired as she was, though, she fought to get away from us. She bit my hand to the bone. That taught me she had learned cunning. She had pretended to love me, to be good in order to disarm me and put me off guard so that she could make her escape. Before, she had been licentious and violent in her behavior—now she was cunning! She had learned guile in the space of a week! And they say man is innately virtuous! Jonathan, he is not. He is bad from his moment of creation. And woman worse—that I know.

  “From that point forward she was the most evil creature in the world—cruel, dishonest, needing continual watching and guarding. She shrank, spat, flinched from me, growled like an animal when I came near her.

  “Yet—I loved her! But she hated me, that was the truth of it. She would run vainly to the barn all the time, if she got the chance, to look round its now-empty space and howl. She refused food, would not come to the table, would not wash or be washed, sat on the floor in a corner, glaring at me through her matted hair, that hair I had found so beautiful. The lovely face was smeared. She grew thin. In my despair I became angry. What could I do with her? She was no fit bride for me now. Now she was only fit for that other hideous creature for whom I had created her.

  “She was mad. I, too, became mad, prowled the house at night, fell sobbing on my knees to her in the corner where she lay. Where was the beautiful creature I had brought to life? I did not want this filthy, hating, hateful woman, if woman she was. I wanted my beauty, my creation—but she would not return. I wept to her and tried to lay my head on her angry breast. Then I did, alas, it is bitter to confess, what I had never done to any woman before, nor ever thought I would. I took the creature, raped her while she loathed me and I was sickened by her. We lay together on the floor after that awful, bestial act—and she smiled at me—such a smile! Such a devilish smile. Then she became affectionate, as it seemed, clung to me, followed me, would not have me out of her sight—and smiled and smiled—that indescribable smile.

  “I could not truly believe she had come to love me for my brutality. I thought this smiling guise was a deceit, that she feigned love now as once she had feigned obedience, to put me off my guard. And this time, I feared, instead of running away as she had before—this time her plan would be to kill me! For I thought she hated me and knew some pan of myself now hated her.

  “And all this confusion of mind produced only one clear thought, though it may have been a thought springing from madness. I knew I must kill her or she would murder me. I must finish this dreadful experiment in the creation of life or the restoration of the dead, whatever I had done. I must finish it and quickly end this futility and shame. I had been on that island only six months—a man may wipe out six months of his life, I reasoned, and go back to a normal life. Why, I thought—a man may with any luck wipe out years of degradation, shame and error, may hide all, put all behind him and go back to a contented and reputable life, enjoying the society of his fellows and the love of a wife—all crimes gone, healed, swept away. Many men have done this. Why not I, so I reasoned? Why not I? Why should I suffer the consequences, for the rest of my days, of those short, ill-fated years spent in creation of creatures who betrayed me? Why, said I to myself in my pride, should I be forever doomed for having made scientific advances of the most extraordinary kind (for they were, Jonathan, they were).

  “What harm would it do if I thrust back into oblivion those creatures I had made? It was not murder. They were not human, either of them. How could they be? The man I made. The woman I had brought back from death, rescued, like some Orpheus rescuing his bride from the Underworld. I would be doing nothing but what a potter does when he finds his work come from the kiln malformed or spoiled in some way and breaks it.

  “So I reasoned—so it was done. We packed our goods, a fire was set and matches put to it and the house burned down as the woman lay, drugged, inside. Or—so I thought.

  “I began to travel in places far from civilization. I had a need to be alone for a time and my ever-restless mind led me to making a study of the languages of the regions to which I went. Gradually I became calmer, and found some kind of forgetfulness. I lived among the Algonquians of Upper Canada for a time, studying their languages and customs. On a visit to New York I met my beautiful wife, Elizabeth van Dahlen. I believed, truly believed, my penance done, I might leave my solitude and create for myself a new, happier life.

  “We came to England to live. It was here in this house my child was born, here I continued my studies of language, those studies which brought us together, Jonathan. But how dreadful that those very studies made it possible for me to come close to Maria Clementi and in that
way meet the fate which had been awaiting me for so many years.

  “A week ago was the anniversary of the day I saw her. It was last year, at the end of winter. My wife and I had gone to the opera. You will remember Maria singing “Remember Me” that afternoon here at Cheyne Walk, Jonathan? Now, alas, the irony of that, her satire, will become clear to you. For that night she was taking the part of Dido, poor deserted queen, in Dido and Aeneas.

  “At first, like any other individual in the audience I was charmed by her grace and the uncanny beauty of her voice. Her hair was dark, she was made up for the stage—how could I recognize in this talented, fêted, worldly creature that girl who had opened her slate-grey eyes to mine—and smiled—when she was born a second time, reborn at my hand?

  “Yet slowly, as the performance continued, a strange sense of familiarity stole in on me—and with it a sick longing to come closer to Maria Clementi. My wife sat beside me in the box. I have never felt further away from her. As the performance continued my yearning grew greater, deeper than I ever felt when about to marry my first wife—whom I loved but almost as sister, for we had grown up together—or when courting my second wife, for, lovely as she was, to me she represented the final lifting of the cloud that had hung over me since Orkney, was the symbol of my re-entering the world of my fellow beings. But these are mere excuses for my feelings for Maria: what I knew was that we were twin souls, locked together, creator and created. I was afraid, of course I was afraid of what I felt for the actress, but my longing was too strong for fear.

  “It was when Maria came to the footlights at the front of the stage to acknowledge the rapture of the audience that I knew—I knew! Older by seven years, her hair darkened by artifice, I still recognized her as the woman to whom I had given life on Orkney. I had of course believed her dead in the fire. But I knew now she must have escaped for this was her—my Maria—my Eve—my Maria Clementi.

  “I was forced to go home that night with my wife and pretend that all was well. But all that night I did not sleep and knew that when morning came I must begin my plans to meet her.

  “I showed the caution and cunning of the true villain. Resisting the temptation to rush and find her, I went to the theatre later that day and found Gabriel Mortimer. I told him I was a student of languages presenting him with credentials of every kind. I said I had heard that Miss Clementi was mute (as all London knew) and that it might be possible for me to discover the cause of this condition and, that done, perhaps help her to find her speaking voice again. This was something of a risk, for I saw at once that this ‘impresario' was as good as an exploiter of the young woman and thought therefore that he could have invented the tale of Maria's dumbness to attract more fame and attention. And if that were so, Maria could expose me for what I was—if she remembered.

  “I cannot tell you what rage I felt then, and thereafter, when talking to Mortimer. This man was daily close to the woman I loved, knew her in all her most intimate moments, was, my fevered brain told me, perhaps her lover. But I had to suppress this hostility for I needed Mortimer to get me to Maria. I enquired into her past and heard she had been found barefoot, singing in the streets of Dublin, had been taken up by the better people in that city and produced at their entertainments, then brought to London by Mortimer, who added that in spite of her unprotected past she was a good young woman, ever attended by the most respectable of chaperones.

  “As we conversed I acted with calm and cunning. I took Mortimer in, I think, but he was so hopeful I detected of restoring Maria's voice, for profit, I believe he would have made a friend of Satan if he had promised Maria the gift of speech. Though I was not sincere, I had no desire to help Maria to speak, for she might denounce me. I only desired her. When I thought she was dead, I thought my desire for her died. It had not. It merely lay frozen ready to thaw—and now was the time of the thawing.

  “Mortimer detected none of this. He suggested I visit Maria's companion, Mrs. Jacoby, who would say if she thought me acceptable to Maria.

  “How I endured the three days before the appointed afternoon I do not know. I writhed, I twisted, was restless, distracted, incapable of any concentration. My mind was filled with suspicion about Mortimer's relations with Maria; and I cursed in advance the old woman who could, if she chose, keep me from her. I was forced to send my patient wife to the Felthams, so that she would not see my trouble and begin to question me in an attempt to share a burden I could not reveal to her. Truth to tell, I wanted Elizabeth from me. She stood between me and my desires. From the moment I saw Maria again, I wanted my wife away. This confession causes me profound shame, but it is the truth.

  “Came the day of our meeting. In the small drawing-room at Russell Square with Mrs. Jacoby's solid presence guarding the tea-table, I saw again, close to, the face of my Eve—Maria. For it was she. I knew it instantly. She was composed, charmingly but quietly dressed in pale blue. She greeted me with a handshake, a pleasant smile and no apparent recognition in her eyes. Gone was the girl who opened her eyes and smiled her first smile at me. Gone the filthy, biting, scratching creature that girl became. But it was her.

  “How could I guess that licentious, spiteful creature, subject to violent, uncontrolled emotions of every kind, had exchanged her undisguised lusts and malevolence for a quiet air and smile, like that of a Sicilian who will wait ten, twenty, thirty years for his revenge? She knew me, of course. She had known of me for many years, I have no doubt. But she had not come to me. She had waited for me to go to her so as to disguise her plans and make my final torments at her hands more dreadful.

  “The lessons designed to help her speak began. To cover my desires I enticed you, my friend, to share those periods of instruction with me, and for that I can only say I am deeply sorry. It was, moreover, useless, for when she rejected me I became desperate, as you know very well. It was all the beginning of her making my life a hell.

  “Of course, my relations with my poor wife grew worse. I did what so many other weak and treacherous men have done, allowed her to grow bewildered, denied there was aught wrong, became angry when she piteously asked me, yet again, if anything was the matter. Intimidated by my anger and vehement denials she then ceased to ask me anything, kept herself away from me as much as possible, grew thin and pale. I felt nothing for her but irritation when she was trying to make me speak and relief when she withdrew from me. I felt no guilt, no shame, nothing. I just wished I could remove her entirely so that I could pursue Maria without impediment. What a wretch I was—how unconscious of my own wickedness—and would that I had made Elizabeth leave my house and return to America. Had I done so, she would be alive now, and my child also. But she was too devoted, too loyal to leave me when she knew all was not well with me, and death was the reward she reaped for that loyalty.

  “It terrified me, Jonathan, when you told me of having seen that monstrous Other just after my wife was killed. I truly believed the crime had been committed by a robber disturbed in the course of conducting a theft. When you told me you had seen a man in the garden, even then the horrid suspicion came to me that the creature I had made had somehow found his way back from the other side of the world to punish me and lay waste my life. And all the while Maria beguiled me more and more, turning me into her slave.

  “Elizabeth was killed and I—I was so sunk in the mire I was almost happy. I felt so little for her by then, my head was so full of Maria. I thought little, even at that moment, except that now I could court Maria without shame, bring her to the house, marry her.

  “Hugo and Lucy saw me let her in just after my wife's death. She held me off, though, until that last night, fatal for me.

  I still did not suspect her. It was Maria, of course, who killed my wife and child, Maria who attacked me. The man, that ogre-ish creature I had made (and whom I believe she paid to have brought back from Australia) was innocent of anything.

  “She waited to tell me until the night came when she acceded to my desire to possess her. She kept me in torm
ent for two weeks after she came to the house, an agonizing two weeks, for she allowed me to kiss her, allowed me every familiarity other than the final embrace.

  “She came to my room late one night when the house was dark and quiet and in the bed in which I now lie dying she gave herself to me, coiled about me serpent-like, draining me of vital force, consuming me. I knew I would never have enough of her. She was Lamia. She was not Eve, my Eve, but Eve's bad counterpart, Lilith.

  “It was as I lay there, weak and extinguished yet utterly happy, that she pointed to the scar on her shoulder, past relic of the fire on Orkney from which she had escaped. She began to whisper. It was at first not so much what she said than that she spoke at all, which astounded me. She had been all along capable of speech! And then, as she leaned over me in the bed, her long hair trailing, I began to hear what she said—that she had known me all along, that she had escaped my fire and smuggled herself aboard a boat to Ireland, been picked up hungry and cold on the shore by tinkers and taken to Dublin. It was true, she said, she could not speak at first, for she had no language. Had she been able to speak, she would have had nothing to say. She had no experience of the commonest things of life, no account of herself to give, no past, no memories except certain little trailing recollections of France as a child, then a sharp memory of Paris streets and betrayal. Her only vivid memories were of Orkney, of me, of Adam, my creature. Otherwise, she knew nothing, remembered nothing, so what good would words have been to her, even if she had them?