Frankenstein vs The Hunchback of Notre-Dame

by Charles Nodier; Victor Hugo

  (Quasimodo, tossing his knife down below the balustrade, slowly advances towards Claude Frollo.)

  CLAUDE FROLLO: Help! Help! Help!

  (The Archdeacon tries to take refuge behind the corner turret. Quasimodo finds him there and forces him to come onto the sill, then seizes him by the legs and throws him over the balustrade.

  Claude Frollo’s gown gets hooked on a gargoyle. The Archdeacon clutches at it with both hands. But, little by little, the gargoyle bends and gives way under his weight. He utters a scream and falls.)

  QUASIMODO (looking at the square and the Place de Greve): Oh! Everything I loved!

  FINAL CURTAIN

  The Passion of Frankenstein

  By Frank J. Morlock

  Statement by Alexandre Dumas, fils:

  I found several papers after my father’s death which were very disturbing. He had hidden them in various places, and some consisted merely of notes. This is one I have pieced together from letters and notes

  As is well known, in the year 1831, my father was a close friend of Victor Hugo’s. Rivalries that later estranged them had not yet emerged. Hugo had just written Notre-Dame de Paris to considerable critical success. Not long after the publication of that work, which gave the world Esmeralda and Quasimodo, my father wrote of a conversation that took place between himself and Hugo:

  Victor came to me last night, highly agitated.

  “What’s wrong, Victor? You seem to be shaking?” I asked.

  “I’ve had a terrible experience, Alexandre,” he replied. “I wish you had been with me.”

  “What on Earth is wrong? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I don’t think a ghost would have frightened me so much.”

  “Well, what has happened?”

  Hugo prowled around the room and kept going up to the fireplace to warm himself. He seemed unwilling to tell me at first, so, like a good friend, I waited for him to calm down and collect himself. Still, he hesitated.

  “You’re going to think I’m having hallucinations,” he said.

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “Promise on our friendship that you will never reveal this to anyone.”

  “I promise. Now tell me what happened.”

  “I was taking a stroll by the Seine with a vague notion of paying you a visit when I was accosted quite suddenly by–a–a monster.”

  “A monster? What kind of monster?” I asked.

  “A sort of giant. Considerably larger than you, Alexandre.”

  “Did he threaten you?”

  “No, he was very respectful, which made it all the more eerie. He came out of the shadows, huge, awkward, not really looking as though he were human. He wore peasant’s clothes and had a heavy hat pulled down over his face. I’m not sure how large he was exactly, but he seemed immense, and he radiated enormous physical strength. But he was awkward. Uncoordinated. He pulled off his hat and made something like a bow to me...

  “ ‘Mr. Victor Hugo?’ he inquired.

  “ ‘Yes,’ I replied.

  “ ‘The author of Notre-Dame de Paris?’

  “ ‘Yes.’

  “ ‘Which was published on March 16 of this year?’

  “ ‘Yes.’

  “ ‘You cannot know how enthused I am for your book.’

  “ ‘Thank you.’

  “ ‘I loved that book.’

  “ ‘Thank you again.’

  “ ‘I mean to say, I loved Quasimodo.’

  “ ‘Again, I’m much obliged to you.’

  “ ‘I’d–I’d like to meet him!

  “ ‘What?’

  “ ‘I want to meet Quasimodo.’

  “ ‘I’m afraid that’s impossible.’ ”

  “Your admirer, or rather Quasimodo’s admirer, seems rather original, Victor,” I said, interrupting him.

  “Mad, I think,” he agreed. “When I said it was impossible, he began to shake, all seven or eight feet of him. And he became very agitated.

  “ ‘Why is it impossible, sir? I must see him,’ he begged me.

  “ ‘But Quasimodo is a character of my imagination,’ I protested. ‘He’s not a real person. And if he were a real person, he’d be over 300 years old.’

  “ ‘I am sure Quasimodo is a real person.’

  “ ‘Well, I’m sure he’s not.’

  “ ‘I insist on meeting him.’

  “ ‘But I’ve just told you he’s a creature of my imagination–’

  “ ‘No!’

  “ ‘Are you mad?’

  “ ‘Quasimodo is a real person, and he’s exactly like me. He must be real.’

  “ ‘I assure you...’

  “ ‘You must have based him on a real person.’

  “ ‘Perhaps vaguely from my research. But that person, if indeed he had a real existence, died in 1481.’

  “ ‘Then you must turn back time so I can meet him.’

  “ ‘Sir, not even God can turn back time as you put it. I bid you good night.’

  “I thought he was going to attack me, so violent were the emotions that the Monster seemed to be experiencing. But suddenly, he controlled himself, put his hat back over his head and begged me to pardon him. He vanished into the shadows.”

  We discussed it for a while, but we were unable to make any sense of it. Who was this “Monster?” Why did he have such feelings for a hunchback who lived in a belltower of Notre-Dame several hundred years ago. I asked Victor to let me walk him home. He agreed. It was years before we mentioned the incident again.

  Another fragment by my father:

  While I was working on my play Urbain Grandier, in which I decribe the phenomenon of “channeling” and “far sensing,” I decided to see if I could channel events myself. I wasn’t having much success...

  Then, I remembered the incident that Hugo had described to me and decided to see if I could visualize the monster. But that, too, didn’t work. Later, it occurred to me that it all had something to do with Notre-Dame and Quasimodo. So I searched my library and found my copy of Notre-Dame de Paris. I skipped through it, focusing on incidents where Quasimodo appears. First, as the King of Fools, later, being whipped on the gallows. By the time I reached the final scene where Quasimodo is chasing Claude Frollo across the top of Notre-Dame and then stopping to watch Esmeralda being hanged on the Place de Grève, it was getting rather late at night and I had consumed quite a bit of wine, so it is small wonder if I was dreaming at this point.

  But, suddenly, my hair stood straight on end. I felt I was there, although invisible, atop Notre-Dame, watching with Quasimodo as Esmeralda was being hanged in the distance.

  I read and reread that last paragraph, then continued:

  Quasimodo raised his eye to stare at the Gypsy girl whose body he could see suspended on the gibbet, quivering in the distance, in the last struggles of death. He looked down at the Archbishop sprawled at the bottom of the tower, no longer having a human form. With a sob that shook his deep chest, he cried:

  “Oh, all that I ever loved.”

  Suddenly, I felt not only the pain of Quasimodo, but also the empathy that the huge creature felt when he read this. Victor’s novel basically ended there, but there was more... I was there, beside Quasimodo... I sensed that he was ready to jump. Suddenly, from nowhere, appeared a man dressed in armor, who placed his hand on Quasimodo’s shoulder and said in voice that must be obeyed:

  “Don’t!”

  Quasimodo shuddered and turned around, but was still clinging to his idea. He struggled against the powerful hand on his shoulder that held him back.

  “No, I said,” said the other.

  “Esmeralda is dead, hanging like a pigeon,” said Quasimodo. “I want to die.”

  “Esmeralda will live if you will listen to me.”

  “Esmeralda will live?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Someone who can help you, Quasimodo.”

  “You can save Esmeralda?”

  “Y
es, I can save Esmeralda.”

  “Then I will do whatever you say.”

  “Then come with me to fetch her.”

  “Are you the Devil?”

  “No, but I’ve been called by that name.”

  “I don’t care if you are, if you will save Esmeralda. What is your name?”

  “I am Dracula.”

  Placing his arms around Quasimodo, the man who had just called himself Dracula suddenly began to rise into the air; he seemed to sprout huge wings from beneath a military cape. Then, beating his wings like a kite, he flew straight from Notre-Dame to the Place de Grève, where Esmeralda still dangled lifelessly from the gibbet.

  The crowd looked up thunderstruck to see Quasimodo in the arms of a knight hovering over the scaffold. Dracula hissed “Begone!” to the men and women, who seemed to be forced back by the power of his breath, which was like a huge gust of wind.

  “Can you cut her down?” he asked Quasimodo.

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “Do so.”

  Dracula stood over Esmeralda’s lifeless body. He gently placed his hands on her neck and gave it a sudden twist.

  “Not a moment too soon,” he whispered.

  Esmeralda opened her eyes.

  “She’s alive,” screamed Quasimodo. “She’s alive!”

  The executioner having got his wits together, he rushed up, brandishing his axe.

  “There’ll be no rescues, here,” he shouted.

  Two sergeants-at arms seconded his efforts. Quasimodo, letting out a scream of rage, lunged straight at the executioner, who blanched before the Hunchback’s savage attack.

  Dracula drew his sword and effortlessly dispatched the two armed soldiers.

  “Quasimodo, pick up the girl and I will fly you both off,” he commanded.

  The Hunchback obeyed unquestioningly. A moment later, they were gone.

  And I woke suddenly in a cold sweat.

  I decided it was a dream. I didn’t tell Hugo about it for some time. When I did, Victor said that, if my vision were true, then Dracula, who was a vampire, had turned both Esmeralda and Quasimodo into creatures of the night. He shook his head and refused to say more. Of course, that’s pure nonsense.

  Still, all that did not explain the monster who had accosted him years ago.

  The next thing I found in my father’s file was a very strange letter addressed to Victor Hugo. It bore no date but apparently was written some time after Hugo’s meeting with the “Monster.” The scrawl was crude and difficult to decipher.

  Dear Monsieur Hugo,

  I am taking the liberty of writing to you. I think that when I first accosted you personally I–my presence is a little disconcerting to most people–which is why I have lived in retreat for many years. You may remember the rather large man who was very interested in Quasimodo? I regret that I was very emotional when I asked you to help me. I apologize very sincerely for my rudeness, but if you knew my story you would understand that I have had little opportunity to obtain the trappings of civilization. It’s for that reason that I am writing you, because I cannot discuss this matter without becoming very emotional.

  I left you with the conviction that, somehow, Quasimodo was a real person. You, of course, denied that and considered that he was completely a child of your imagination–a proposition with which my entire soul could not agree. But what to do? I wanted to go back in time to save Quasimodo and, as I understand now, you thought I was completely crazy.

  I thought about it for a long time. Was there such a thing as an ability to go back in time? I realized how strange I must sound to you. You went back using your imagination. But could one really go? The idea haunted me. Modern science is so powerful. It was able to create me–a man-made man. Unfortunately, I turned out to be a creature repulsive to all men–let’s not talk about that. I decided to consult with some very learned men.

  I went to see–(here the manuscript was erased and the name deliberately rubbed out–A.D. fils.) and this is how our conversation went:

  “ ‘But you did not make me,’ I said, after he correctly identified my nature.

  “ ‘Didn’t I?’ he said.

  “ ‘No. It was your friend and colleague, Victor Frankenstein.’

  “ ‘Ah, yes. I remember him. Been dead a long time. He was experimenting with artificial life...’

  “ ‘I am the result of that experiment.’

  “ ‘Not bad really, for a first effort.’

  “ ‘I am a monster.’

  “ ‘You’ve improved considerably, I believe. At least, compared to the initial reports I heard.’

  “ ‘I’ve had an education.’

  “ ‘Yes, you’re something of an autodidact.’

  “ ‘Have you ever read Notre-Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo?’

  “ ‘No, I’m not much for fiction.’

  “ ‘There’s a character in that book–’

  “ ‘Yes ?’

  “ ‘His name is Quasimodo.’

  “ ‘And?’

  “ ‘He was a hunchback. An outcast. I feel a great sympathy for him.’

  “ ‘Why?’

  “ ‘Because he was a Monster–just like me.’

  “ ‘Ah!’

  “ ‘But he had a good heart. A very good heart. He loved this Gypsy girl...’

  “ ‘Well, I’m glad you’ve found someone to sympathize with–even if he’s only a character in a book. It proves your essential humanity.’

  “ ‘But I think he was real.’

  “ ‘Real?’

  “ ‘Yes.’

  “ ‘How can that be?’

  “ ‘I don’t know but I’m convinced of it.’

  “ ‘It’s a work of fiction, right?’

  “ ‘Yes, set in 1481. I want you to send me back in time so I can save him.’

  “ ‘But I cannot do that.’

  “ ‘Why not?’

  “ ‘Because no one can do that. It’s impossible.’ ”

  I admit I was becoming very agitated at this point. I got up and started screaming:

  “ ‘Why impossible? You, too, have created life! If you can do that, you can turn back time. You can do whatever you please.’

  “ ‘Sir, I am not a magician. Modern science is helpless to do this.’ ”

  I began to shake him. But he persisted.

  “ ‘What you need is a Magician, a Wizard–someone like Faustus or Balsamo, or the Comte de Saint Germain.’ ”

  I swear I did not intend to harm him, but I became so agitated and I’m so strong, you see, that I shook him like a rag doll. And after a while I noticed that he was dead. I was very upset. Someday, I must learn to control my emotions...

  I consulted several other scientists, but they all told me the same thing. The idea of time travel was interesting but far beyond our current science. One fellow said it might be possible, but several centuries of work would be required. But they all said what I needed was a necromancer, a magician.

  Finally, I declared myself defeated. Science held no hopes for me. I decided to follow their advice and seek out a wizard. But where does one find a wizard these days?

  It turned out to be very easy. I was walking through the streets of Paris, quite near Notre-Dame, as a matter of fact, when I saw a sign in a window: “Tarot Readings. Learn the Future from the Celebrated Doctor Festus, Recently Returned from Germany where he astounded the Court of Weimar. Simple reading: 5 francs. Special reading: 10 francs.”

  So I went in.

  “ ‘I am seeking Doctor Faustus,’ I said.

  “ ‘I’m Doctor Festus,’ replied the little man behind the counter.

  “ ‘Are you the same person?’

  “ ‘Some people think so.’

  “ ‘And can you travel through time?’

  “ ‘They say I can.’

  “ ‘And what do you say?’

  “ ‘I refuse to say unless I’m well paid.’

  “ ‘You want money?’

  “ ‘Yes.’

>   “ ‘A lot?’

  “ ‘I’m reasonable.’

  “ ‘Will this do?’ I asked, spreading a few hundred francs before him.

  “ ‘Yes, that will do very nicely.’

  He reached to take the coins, but I placed my hand on the money.

  “ ‘I’m glad to give you the money–if you can really take me back in time. But don’t play games with me–Doctor Faustus.’

  “ ‘Festus. I won’t play games with you. But I will need a little time to prepare.’

  “ ‘They say that you are a magician?’

  “ ‘There are rumors to that effect.’

  “ ‘Are you any good at it?’

  “ ‘I’m the best in the world.’

  “ ‘Then send me back to the year 1481.’

  “ ‘1481? Why, for Heaven’s sake ? Nothing much going on then as I recall.’

  “ ‘You were there?’

  “ ‘Of course, I was there.’

  “ ‘That was the year that Quasimodo...’

  “ ‘Quasimodo–who’s he?’

  “ ‘A character in a novel.’

  “ ‘Umm?’

  “ ‘But I’m sure he was real–’

  “ ‘And you want to go back in time?’

  “ ‘To–to meet him.’

  “ ‘Where was he living?’

  “ ‘In Paris. He was the bellringer of Notre-Dame.’

  “ ‘Well, that does make things a bit easier–we don’t have far to travel in space.’

  “ ‘How will you do it?’

  “ ‘The means are my concern. Here, take your money. Come back tomorrow night and I will be prepared. How long do you intend to stay?’

  “ ‘If all goes well only a few hours. I just have to save him.’

  “ ‘Hmm. I’d better accompany you.You’ll need a guide.’ ”

  So I am writing this to you, Monsieur Hugo, before I leave for 1481. You cannot imagine the joy and anticipation I am experiencing. If I return successfully, you will hear from me again. If not, I remain your sincere well-wisher. You have provided me with the only happiness I have ever known.