The Frankenstein Papers

by Fred Saberhagen

  "Women do strange things, my friend." Franken-stein as he spoke was busy with his long-neglected work, connecting and adjusting certain pieces of his equipment. He had begun calling me his friend, I supposed, because he had never bestowed a name upon me. Nor had any of the others. Perhaps each of them was afraid that some mystical responsibility might devolve upon him who named me.

  Of that I could not say, but I concurred at least partially with Frankenstein's opinion about Justine: with her unlikely story of having spent the night alone in a barn, she must be protecting someone.

  "If she slept there, someone slept with her." Victor paused, and sipped some brandy, something I had seldom seen him do in London. He stared at the stone wall of the room in which we stood. "To know a woman who would do that for you, and then, more, who would lay down her life…"

  He drank a little more, letting work go for the moment, and began to discuss with me the prospects of his engagement with Elizabeth. For a moment I thought he might be about to offer me a drink, even though he had said before that it would be bad for me. But no: I sat on a table while he drank and listened as he talked.

  It was as if there were no one else with whom my creator could discuss this particular subject. He told me how everyone said how beautiful Elizabeth Lavenza was, and he showed me her miniature portrait, a painting probably much like the one for which young William was said to have been killed.

  Bess and Molly had been pleasurably saddened by the story of that distant murder and execution, and both were intrigued by the return among us of the rather handsome young Doctor (the title was by now indisputable among us) with the haunted eyes and emaciated frame.

  It was generally understood by everyone, of course, that he was engaged to be married, but he appeared perfectly ready to let matters continue in that halfway state. Were I pledged to share my bed and my life, I thought, with one who appealed to my senses as strongly as Elizabeth Lavenza evidently appealed to men of my creator's race, I would be striving at every moment toward the consummation of the pledge. Suppose Frankenstein should suddenly become eager for the wedding? What would happen to his labors in the laboratory then? It worried me that he might so easily be distracted from the project on which my whole future life depended.

  On a second evening, when we were again alone together in the laboratory, he showed me the miniature of Elizabeth.

  I asked: "Have you told her anything of your occupation here?"

  "No, I dared not."

  "Dared not? Why?"

  "The… the business of creation." Frankenstein shook his head. "It is very horrible."

  "Horrible?" I was not thinking of my own appearance, nor was he, I believe, at that moment. "But the result, is it not glorious?" Then I remembered that I was considered very ugly. "I mean the glory of the achievement."

  "Yes. No doubt." And in the way he looked at me then I saw the depth of the fear and loathing that undermined his pride and his occasional kindness.

  I did not care—not enough to be disturbed. There were times when I feared and loathed him too. I said, "Saville's woman knows. Why should not yours?"

  "What Saville tells his wife is his business." Then, as if aware of the inadequacy of such an answer, he hardened his face, and looked at me as if to rebuke me for daring to take an interest in the personal affairs of my masters.

  The fiction of the hospital died slowly in the minds of the sailors left on the island, and the two young women. I heard them now and then, in the early days especially, talking among themselves, wondering aloud when the real construction was going to start, and when and from whence the patients might be expected to arrive.

  This despite the fact that the gentlemen discussed plans incompatible with their stated purpose, plans that I at least was able to overhear. I recall one conversation in particular, in which Saville, who happened to be sitting alone with Walton at the time, set forth in greater detail than I had ever heard some part of his vision of the future.

  "Breeding alone won't do it, my friend. Not when we have to begin with only a single pair, or at best a mere handful of females. Oh, a man can breed slaves profitably enough, given time, a healthy climate, and a large number of mature females to begin with. But in our case, no; even if Victor should produce one female tomorrow, in the nature of things I suppose it would be twelve or fifteen years before she had any offspring old enough to breed, and another fifteen years before—but I see you understand."

  Walton murmured something.

  Saville went on, each word of his careless voice quite plainly audible to me, the unseen listener. "Ah, but there's such strength and hardihood in this thing he's made! What we must arrive at somehow, once Victor has shown the way, is the proper technique for manufacturing these creatures, males and females both, in substantial numbers. There are corpses aplenty everywhere, good for nothing now but fertilizer. And if they prove not fresh enough… well there is always Africa. A proper selection of brains ought to provide the docility we need—if not, there are ways of teaching the proper attitude, once we have more than one unique specimen that must be coddled."

  "Manufacturing them," repeated Walton, quietly marveling.

  "The Government has outlawed slavery in our home islands. Very well. But the invention of the living machine—"

  There was an interruption, as one of the servants came tapping discreetly at their door; and I could hear no more.

  Full summer—as full as it could be in those parts—came on, and the fields of the island blazed up prodigally with wildflowers, more common in the meadows than the grass. Less welcome were the swarms of midges, tiny bloodsucking insects that seemed to grow in strength and numbers as the summer progressed.

  As the weeks went on, becoming months, Molly grew gradually more afraid of me, and seemingly of all else on the island as well. Bess, meanwhile, grew accustomed to me, from time to time speaking to me almost as to a friend. What might eventually have happened between us, had she remained alive, I cannot say.

  The roofs and walls of all the cottages had at last been thoroughly repaired, with thatch and timbers. Some of the abandoned buildings were stripped of wood, the windows of oiled paper, and other useful items that the restoration of the others might be completed.

  Saville, Clerval, and Walton, whenever the latter was ashore, shared the largest of the remaining buildings, in which each one of the three occupied a bedroom, with another common room in which they generally took their meals. The three women of course had another cottage to themselves.

  Frankenstein's equipment had all been installed in the cottage selected to become his laboratory, while nearby, under the same roof, our shipments of specimens from London waited. I had rolled that company of hogsheads into the very room where I generally slept, not fearing the silent companionship of my intended brides.

  At last, Frankenstein was ready to begin his real work. One after another, those large barrels began to be opened.

  There were, of course, no horses on the island, no means of getting from one place to another save by walking, or going around through the surf by boat. I walked a great deal, almost invariably alone. Now and then Clerval chose to come with me, though we seldom talked. Again, without knowing why, I sometimes contemplated flight, and when I found an abandoned boat on the far side of the island from the bay and settlement, the idea came back more strongly. But escape would take me away from the possibility of such happiness as I could concretely imagine, the company of a mate, if not a whole harem of them. And, besides, to where could I flee? I did not fit into the world anywhere but there.

  In my lonely walks I descried a distant sail from time to time, and from the vantage point of the central hills could make out other islands in the distance. I judged that the nearest of these was not closer than eight miles; and there was no sign of any commerce between that place and this.

  Though in the room next to mine, my creator generally slept, I lived alone, as always.

  On one of my solitary rambles, I heard strang
e cries, and hastened forward to investigate. I discovered the elegant ruffian, Small, attempting to force his will upon Molly. She had perhaps accompanied him willingly to that remote spot; or perhaps he had used threats from the first. But now there was no question as to the state of affairs. Her dress had been torn, and he was menacing her with a knife, while with his left hand he held her wrist.

  I approached the pair and warned him to leave off.

  Letting the girl go, he turned and threatened me with his knife. We were among one of the rare groves of trees upon the island, and I bent to grab up a fallen branch some seven or eight feet long. As I did so he darted in at me with his knife, but I caught him by the arm and threw him bodily. He fell hard and rolled over and thereafter kept his distance, trying to blister me with foul language, which tactic I found far less impressive than his knife. Happily, he had no pistol, and it was plain now that he could not prevail against me otherwise.

  He swore he would report me to Saville, but I laughed and was sure he lied—I could report in turn that he had tried to kill me, and we both understood that if he was important in his master's plans, I was essential. Small also swore to wreak vengeance upon me at some future date. I had no trouble in believing that he wanted to try, but we both knew that Saville was not going to stand for my assassination.

  Meanwhile, Molly had fled the scene, and in the end we each made our separate ways back to the settlement, and none of us, for our several reasons, reported the incident at all.

  In the way of game our own island had nothing larger than a few wild goats, but there were red deer on one of the other nearby islands, and from time to time, when the weather was fair and promising, the gentlemen took a boat and went hunting them. Except of course, for Frankenstein, who was now lost in his work. He ate food when it was brought to him, and nipped at his brandy when he desired to sleep. Otherwise he worked.

  Once or twice I was commanded, by Saville and then by Small, to remain within the confines of the village. I did not argue with these orders, but ignored them. The gentlemen were doubtless aware that I still went wandering, but no one wanted to force a decisive confrontation. Continuing my solitary rambles, I watched the seals, swimming offshore, and as often as not I envied them. I recognized kittiwakes and puffins among the seabirds on the grey gneiss rocks along the shore, and marveled that I knew the names of birds and stone.

  One small loch lay in a cup amid the central hills. A few stands of trees remained in that area, mostly dwarfed and twisted, though most had been taken for the villagers' firewood. Some piles of cut peat were near one end of the little settlement, and we mined them to keep our fires going when the weather was chill, which was most of the time, though it was summer.

  Meanwhile, in his stone house, Frankenstein worked steadily, or tried to work. It was hard for anyone else to know what degree of success he was having, and he tended to ignore questions. Sometimes he called upon my strength to aid him in manhandling another hogshead into the laboratory, or in its careful emptying. Those parts he considered useless, those on which some operation of his had failed, or from which all bone or other useful material had been extracted, were buried at a little distance from the settlement, where a few neglected graves gave evidence that villagers from time to time had also been laid to rest. Clerval said prayers on these occasions—he became ever more thoughtful and moody, and occasionally he had arguments with Frankenstein, of which I was unable to overhear anything more than the tones of their raised voices.

  I now and then indulged a whimsical thought about the bodies—that they were my brides—but in the main I continued to view them impersonally. Whether in hogshead's or graves, they were really only materials, less awesome than the electricity that could be produced in the machines of the laboratory, or drawn down from the sky by slender rods. That these particular pickled arms or breasts or thighs might someday, restored to breathing life, become things of living mystery and objects of my devotion, was too peculiar an idea to arouse in me feelings of awe or bewilderment. Still I was not indifferent. Each time I was called upon to help my creator at his new work, I watched avidly for signs that I could take as indicators of progress, though I found the details repugnant.

  From the day on which his labors began, Victor kept the central table and its burden covered with a sheet. There was a single object on that table, awaiting animation, an object that daily drew, bit by bit assuming underneath its shrouds and wrappings a more nearly human configuration, and a size commensurate with my own. I wanted to observe this progress in all its details, but my creator refused to allow it. When I asked him Why, he snapped something that was not really an answer; the work was his, a private matter, and he would explain it all in good time.

  Saville himself was treated with but little better courtesy. On this point Frankenstein was not to be bullied, bought, or moved.

  For my part, I would not have cared at all to be an observer of his activities, had not so much of my future depended on the result. What little I could glimpse of the process, in my comings and goings through the laboratory, was not pretty: the selection of limbs and other parts from the stock available; the grafting of two limb bones to make one of the desired length; the sewing, gluing and splicing of parts together; the preliminary stimulation with Leyden jars and other apparatus.

  And, through and over and under it all, the continual struggle against decay. Despite the chemicals and electricity, my nose offered me subtle evidence that the struggle was being slowly lost. How then was it to be finally won? Avidly I followed my creator's progress, and studied the arrangements of his equipment each time I was admitted to the sacred room. But the secret of his success eluded me.

  Saville and Clerval, and Walton when he was present, cast impatient glances at the work, and then concentrated their attention peevishly upon the experimenter. I could see that they were hoping almost as intently as I was for indications of success. But the only real indication was the continued confident attitude of Frankenstein himself.

  At long last came the day, the night, when Victor announced that he was ready for the final test. The air was chilly with the onset of autumn, and wet, as are most nights in those islands, with intermittent rain, and thunder grumbling in the distance.

  Oil lamps were burning brightly in all four corners of the laboratory, and a peat fire smoldered on the hearth. A few candles had been placed closer to the worktable on which the object of our attention lay, giving it something of the aspect of a bier.

  Employing my own strength, and my own determination, I had made sure that the ceilings in several of these reconstructed houses, including this one, were high enough to allow me to stand erect. As I first approached the table, at the rear of a group of eager observers, lightning flared outside, and a loud hum sounded from the electrical equipment. I started, as did the other observers.

  A moment later, when Frankenstein pulled back the cover, my heart sank. My disappointment was acute. This grotesquely cobbled thing? This devil's handiwork, like some mad mockery of God's? This naked female form all mismatched parts and bandages and chemicals—the open eyes stared blindly back at me from their raw butchered sockets, and I could see that they had come from two different heads—I could not believe that this face, this frame, could be induced by any art to stir with life.

  And besides, bloody mosaic though it was, the countenance before me was undoubtedly a human face, and not an unclassifiable, sui generis visage similar to my own.

  The gentlemen had gathered round the table, as close to it as Frankenstein would let them, their faces composing a study in their various emotions. The connections were made to the batteries, the final process was set in motion. The probes in the hands of the philosopher were moved in particular order from one set of points upon the body to another, and at each was made an application of electricity.

  There was no immediate response from the subject on the table, except for a minor burning and sizzling, when, now and again, the full force of the electrical flu
id was made to pass through the inert flesh.

  There was an immediate slight reaction of disappointment among the watchers. But Frankenstein hastened to remind them all, pointing to me as he spoke, that in my case the reanimation had not been immediate either.

  "Nor did I suppose," he added, "that an instantaneous response would be obtained tonight."

  Eyes turned toward me. I stood before them all as living proof that Victor Frankenstein had once done just what he was attempting to do tonight.

  The philosopher continued, "We must be patient. In an hour, perhaps two, there will be evidence of life. I am going to wait here, for the first signs. I would prefer that the rest of you leave, for a time at least. You may return later."

  I had at first intended to remain with my creator during his vigil, but could not stand still enough to keep from irritating him, and he soon ordered me out. When I took my leave, the form upon the table was still as inert as it had ever been.

  I approached the other gentlemen, who were still outside, smoking and talking, and stood on the fringe of their group. Saville was saying: "I have seen it happen, I tell you. Seen it all, beyond any possibility of trickery. Clerval here can back me up." When Henry had nodded soberly, Saville continued: "Gentlemen, d'you think I'd be here otherwise, staking my gold and my time on a story like this one?"

  It was plain from their expressions that no member of the little group had the least intention of thinking anything like that.

  It began to rain again, thick mournful drops that spattered heavily. The group drifted toward the warmth and shelter of the largest cottage, with Saville still harking back to what had happened on the night of my creation. "We came there with pranks in mind, but before the night was over…"