The Frankenstein Papers

by Fred Saberhagen

  I did attempt to visit the Chateau Frankenstein_climbed a narrow street of houses roofed in brown tile, to behold a hillside of rich vineyards, and in front of them the house. It is an impressive dwelling, but there are others nearby more so. Standing at the front gate one has a view across Lake Geneva, with the Alps as backdrop. The house itself is ancient in some of its parts, modern in others, moderate in size—for a chateau—and now untenanted except for caretakers. Fountains play cheerily in front of it, and there is no outward sign of the history of horror and murder that the place contains. If other events had not come crowding in upon the city so thickly in recent months—the French have seen to that—I am sure that this mansion would be the chief topic of conversation among its neighbors.

  In Germany, I was forced to deal only with rumors about Frankenstein and his experiments; no one would admit to actually having seen the creature, or to taking part in any of the important events resulting from his creation. Most people there pleaded inability to remember anything they might once have known about the subject. Here, although I have yet to encounter a witness who will admit to actually having seen the monster, the chain of tragedies beginning about three years ago are still fresh in the public mind, and there is no disposition to pretend they are forgotten. Those events, as they involved the subject of my investigation, were mortally grim, with at least three deaths occurring during their progress. Here, there is no difficulty in finding some folk who are willing to speak on the subject. Few of those ready to express opinions seem to know much about it, however, and the problem of the investigator lies in trying to disentangle contradictory accounts, and deciding which of them are sheer fantasy, and which, however fantastic they may sound, deserve a hearing.

  The bald, undisputed facts of the events in Geneva are these: Victor Frankenstein's youngest brother, William, a child of only seven, was attacked and brutally strangled in May of 1780, approximately half a year after Victor's supposed creation of a monster in Ingolstadt and his sudden departure from that place. (It is worth noting that in the Walton relation, a full year and a half intervenes between the two events.) A young woman, Justine Moritz, who had served the Frankenstein family for years as a governess, was arrested within a few days after the murder, convicted (on what seems to me the flimsiest of evidence) and put to death within a few days after her conviction.

  According to the Walton relation, that tragedy visited the Frankensteins in the following way.

  The father, and the two brothers who were living at home (Ernest and William; the mother died of scarlet fever some years ago), along with a companion or two, had been on an afternoon outing near the city, when William wandered away from the others.

  The father, Alphonse Frankenstein, is speaking, according to Walton:

  … presently Ernest came and inquired if we had seen his brother; he said… that William had run away to hide himself, and that he had vainly sought for him, and afterward waited a long time, but he did not return.

  This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search… about five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the print of the murderer's finger was on his neck.

  There ensued, naturally enough, general alarm and confusion. Elizabeth Lavenza, Victor's fiancie (and since July of this year also among those mysteriously and violently deceased), was greatly affected at the sight of the child's corpse.

  She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty… she told me (Alphonse) that that same evening William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of his mother. This picture is gone and was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted…

  Thus did matters stand when Victor's father supposedly posted his letter to his eldest son, detailing the tragic news. But since we now know that Victor was not in Ingolstadt at the time, we may wonder where the letter was really sent. Evidently Victor received the news of the murder somehow, for he was in Geneva within a month.

  According to his narrative in the Walton account, he was obliged to pass the last night of his journey at Secheron, a village near Geneva, the gates to the city itself being already closed for the night when he arrived. Realizing that he was staying very near the scene of the crime, Victor resolved that night to visit the place.

  En route to the site of the tragedy, and on his arrival there, Victor observed a thunderstorm passing over lake and land:

  … this noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! This is thy funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently; I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy demon to whom I had given life… Could he be the murderer of my brother? The figure passed me quickly and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact.

  Should I ever find myself, Sir, standing in the dock, I should not be pleased to find the philosopher Victor Frankenstein seated on the jury.

  After affording Victor one glimpse of itself, the figure of the monster disappeared again into the rain, without approaching its creator or speaking to him.

  At the risk of repeating myself too often let me say again that I have not yet encountered anyone, in Ingolstadt or here, who will admit to having actually seen the thing. I have had, Sir, and continue to have, the gravest doubts concerning its existence. And yet, Father, and yet, there must be something—

  At dawn, when the gates of the city were opened, Victor entered, according to Walton's publication, and made straight for his grieving family: this included, at the time, his father Alphonse, his surviving brother Ernest, then about seventeen years of age, and his fiancie (there is some debate about whether she was also his cousin) Elizabeth. Until this moment, be it noted, he had seen none of them for six years. (I remark in passing that Ingolstadt is about three hundred miles, as the crow flies, from Geneva, no more; and that the journey, though doubtless arduous in some seasons, particularly as it must skirt the Alps, is not always so.)

  As soon as they met, Victor's family informed him that, in the interval since his father had written him the sad news of William's death, the murderer had been discovered. Victor, still firm in his instantaneous conviction that his creature was responsible, was astonished.

  "The murderer discovered! Good God! How can that be? Who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds or confine a mountain stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night."

  "I do not know what you mean," replied my brother in accents of wonder…

  Nor did he ever, it seems, make any effort to find out.

  "… but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who could credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable and fond of all the family, could suddenly become capable of so frightful, so appalling, a crime?"

  Who indeed? And yet a conviction was somehow obtained. It is said that the judges here are honest men. But that is sometimes said of judges everywhere.

  Earlier on in the Walton relation, there is quoted a letter supposedly written by Elizabeth to Victor, her more-or-less betrothed, in which she takes the trouble to describe Justine Moritz.

  Madam Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third… her mother could not endure her, and after the death of M. Moritz treated her very
ill. My aunt observed this, and when Justine was twelve years of age prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house…

  I was about to write, Sir, that I do not like this supposed letter in the least. But I shall go further. I do not like the entire Walton manuscript; almost everything in it smacks of fraud. For example, all of the events relating to Justine that are detailed in this supposed letter must have taken place while Victor himself was still living at home. Why, then, in the name of Beelzebub, must his adopted-cousin-fiancie rehearse them to him in writing?

  No, Sir, much of the Walton account must be fabrication. It is meant to lead someone astray. Whom, and to what purpose, are questions I cannot yet attempt to fathom. But I do think that we make progress.

  Later_I have now been allowed to see the official records of the trial. Justine had been taken ill on the morning when the murder was discovered, and for several days she was confined to her bed.

  One of the servants, happening to examine the dress Justine had worn on the night of the murder, claimed to discover in its pocket the valuable miniature that was taken from William when he was killed. It is on the strength of this evidence alone that Justine was charged—and convicted.

  She continually protested her innocence, and her ignorance of any way by which the miniature might have come into her possession. Elizabeth Lavenza made more than one impassioned speech in favor of the accused, and Victor Frankenstein publicly proclaimed his certainty that his old friend Justine must be innocent—it is not recorded, however, that he made any mention during the trial of having knowledge of who the real murderer must be. Why not? In the book he explains his reticence thus:

  My tale was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did anyone exist except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the world?

  The trial of Justine began very shortly after Victor's return to Geneva.

  My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living torture.

  But his sufferings, however intense, were evidently not great enough to induce him to come forward with his version of the truth.

  In the eyes of the judges, the case against Justine was very black.

  … several strange facts combined against her, which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been committed, and towards morning had been perceived by a market woman not far from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o'clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into hysterics.

  Justine claimed to have passed the early evening of the night on which the murder was committed at the house of an aunt in Chene, a village about a league from Geneva. This was confirmed. As she was returning to Geneva at about nine in the evening, she met a man who asked her if she had seen anything of the child that was lost. Evidently some details of this man's statement persuaded Justine that the missing child was William, and she began her own search for him, without first seeking to confirm the object of her search in any way. (To my mind, Sir, this is the weakest of several improbabilities in her statement.) When the gates of the city were closed for the night, at ten, she could not get back in, and therefore took shelter in a barn, where she passed the remainder of the night restlessly, falling asleep only briefly and toward morning.

  … some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavor to find my brother. (We are told that this is Victor speaking.) If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the market woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.

  She continued to deny any knowledge of how the picture could have come into the pocket of her dress.

  "Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; and… why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?"

  And, if Justine herself were indeed the thief and killer, why should she have sent her prize, so hardly won, off to the laundry in a pocket, rather than taking the most careful steps for its concealment? I would give a great deal, Sir, to be able to cross-question the servant who supposedly found the picture in Justine's dress. But I am told that is impossible, as the woman has since moved out of town. I have heard conflicting reports as to where she has gone. To track her down would undoubtedly be very difficult, but it is a task that I may yet undertake.

  As the trial drew to a close, various other witnesses came forward to speak of the good character of the accused, and to express their disbelief that she could ever be capable of such a deed.

  And what said Victor Frankenstein, who has told us, through Walton, that he knew the truth, a truth that made her innocent?

  … when I perceived that the popular voice and the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.

  What the accused might have thought about their relative degrees of suffering is not recorded.

  It then appears that Justine, like Joan of Arc, under great pressure from her confessor once she had been convicted and sentenced to death, did confess at last. But like the papists' Maid, Justine recanted her confession a few hours later. In Justine's case the recantation, the renewed protest of innocence, came very shortly before her death.

  Victor, in Walton's papers, reports that he did at last, after the verdict was in, attempt to argue with the judges. Not, however, that he went so far as to reveal then what he now assures us is the truth.

  My passionate and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my avowed purpose (to tell all—B.F.) died away on my lips… thus I might proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim.

  Of course, the Walton relation exonerates Justine, by presenting the monster as the killer_another agent, who, like Victor, cannot be brought to trial.

  When Justine was dead, Victor, "feeling a weight of despair and remorse that nothing could remove," retreated with his surviving family and a friend or two to the family cottage at Belrive, outside the city walls and gates. Regarding the monster, he had "an obscure feeling that all was not over." And so indeed it proved.

  One day, walking unaccompanied to the nearby village of Chamounix, Victor experienced his next encounter with the "fiend". But, Sir, the night here grows long and late, and to tell the truth I grow weary of writing about this tiresome and cowardly scoundrel.

  I await your instruction, Sir, as to whether I should after all abandon this pursuit, or carry it yet farther; and if so, where.

  Yr Obdt Svt,

  Ben Freeman

  Chapter 11

  About January 5,1783_I fear that I have again, as in my sojourn in the Arctic, lost track of days. Somewhere in the mid-Atlantic aboard a smuggler

  I write this in the midst of what feels to me like a gale, and not knowing whether this ship will ever see land again or not. Even the most experienced sailors aboard are displaying unmistakable signs of alarm. The winter crossings, I have now learned, are notoriously difficult and dangerous, yet the possibility of profit which they hold out tempts many owners to
risk their own fortunes and their sailors' lives in them.

  Precisely what cargo we may be smuggling now, I have no idea. Nor am I interested in finding out. The evidences aboard are ell too plain that previous cargoes have been more shameful than any mere dead stuff packed into bales or hogsheads could possibly be. This ship must ordinarily be engaged in the slave trade, that infamous triangular voyaging of valuable loads: trade goods from England to Africa; slaves from Africa to Jamaica or other Caribbean ports; and molasses, rum, and other tropical produce from the Caribbean back to England. Is it possible that Saville himself is the owner of this vessel? For all I know, that may be so.

  I had anticipated that, untrained as I am, I might encounter some difficulty in shipping as an ordinary hand. I see now that I might have managed it easily—there is always a need for recruits of any kind. No being in his right mind would choose the life of a common seaman voluntarily, had he any alternative other than starvation. But my lot aboard ship has been far easier than most.

  My acquaintance, the sailor who recruited me, told me as we trudged toward our place of embarkation that the smuggler captain had heard of me and wanted me for his personal bodyguard. It was a thin-sounding story but I accepted it. And indeed my position ever since I came aboard has been anomalous—no real surprise to me, as that has been the case throughout that portion of my life which I can remember.