The Frankenstein Papers

by Fred Saberhagen

  The captain was surprisingly amiable toward me from the start; but it is plain that he needs no bodyguard on his own ship. He impresses me as a businesslike and capable ruffian, quite competent to guard his own back as well as manage whatever affairs he finds in front of him. My thought is that he and his recruiting agent have some quite different use in mind for me later, when we have reached port. Whenever I question him about my duties he remains vague, urging me to "learn the ropes" and be patient. Meanwhile he has no interest in whether I really learn the ropes aboard his ship or not. And it is apparent that he and his officers consider me valuable. No one has sent me into the rigging, though I could probably cope with such acrobatics much more easily than almost any of the poor wretches who are actually ordered aloft in even the foulest weather.

  I have visited the crew's quarters, before the mast, and they are horrible enough, but those in which the slaves are ordinarily penned up for the weeks of the westward trip, are almost indescribable. Not cabins, not an open room like the fo'c'sle, nor even cells, but mere shelves, lacking enough space between them for a human, even a child, to do anything but lie flat. The stench of those spaces, even now when they are empty, is overwhelming. There the human cargo must remain, packed together like so many hundred sticks of lumber, with only occasional periods on deck for exercise, during the weeks and months of voyaging. I feel a considerable bond with those poor folk; if any were aboard now, I think I should turn mutineer out of necessity. But on this voyage there are only the empty pens, round which the odor still clings of humanity penned up in a fashion that would be hideously cruel if practiced on the veriest brute beasts.

  Not a single slave is aboard now; we are bound for England, and the practice has been declared illegal there, as the captain tells me, with a sprinkling of oaths to indicate his outrage. No law, however, prevents Saville and other Englishmen like him from enriching themselves in the three-way trade.

  I have a small cabin to myself, or "cell" might be a better word for it. There are formidable fastenings on the outside of the door, though they are not used now, and I suspect that on some voyages my accommodations have housed particularly interesting, violent, or perhaps diseased samples of the human cargo. Not that diseased slaves are very often transported for any considerable distance, as they are naturally very difficult to sell. It is much more economical to put them over the side, once hope of a prompt recovery has been abandoned.

  I have quietly, but I think efficiently, taken steps to insure that the formidable fastenings of the door are not suddenly employed to close me in some night when I am sound asleep. I have taken steps to weaken the door's hinges, using a marlinspike surreptitiously borrowed for the purpose; and I think that come what may, I shall be able to get out.

  Most of my time is spent inside my cabin, for I have no real duties, and it is plain enough that most, if not all, of the crew do not care much for my presence aboard. But that attitude is no more than fair, for I do not care much for theirs.

  Nor do I fear them. But there is terror in the wind and sea, against which my strength counts for little more than that of the weakest human; and I doubt that I shall live to see my goal.

  Franklin. Is he again my goal, as he was in the summer of 1781, when I was determined to help my creator survive his imprisonment? (Saville was willing then to let Frankenstein stew in prison for some months. Teaching him a lesson was the idea, I suppose.) Or do I now seek vengeance only? If so, it will be better found, I think, in London.

  In 1781 my visit to the venerable American renewed my courage and determination, even if it did not provide me with the answers that I sought. Simply to reach Paris, and Franklin, had required a considerable pilgrimage. To rehearse all the stages by which I progressed from the Irish coast to the middle of France would form a long and tedious tale, which under the present conditions I do not feel like trying to set down.

  I do thank all the Fates who have me in their hands that so far, at least, I do not seem in the least subject to seasickness. Did my brain once know a sailor's art? And did my stomach, proof now against the elements, once digest the last meal of some hanged pirate? Oh my creator, why would you never tell me anything of these matters? Why did I not, years ago, take you by the throat and force you into speech?

  The first communications to pass between myself and Franklin were written, and earlier attempts were doubtless discarded by his servants before he ever saw them. In any event, several were necessary before I could persuade a member of his household staff at Passy to pass my messages directly to the great man. Franklin enjoys a large house there, a private headquarters provided for him by the French while he remains the real ambassador of their American allies. Had it not been for the fact that a great many important communications must come to him in such clandestine fashion as I sent mine, and that his whole staff must be somewhat attuned to this method of conducting business, I might never have succeeded.

  That first interview was difficult to arrange, but in the end my promise of inside information about the experiments of Frankenstein proved irresistible. I had warned my host in advance of my unusual appearance, though I thought it best to withhold any extraordinary explanation until he should be able to see me for himself.

  At the beginning of our meeting he had two bodyguards with him in the room, well-armed and determined-looking men, who, Franklin told me, did not understand English; but when we had been talking for a quarter of an hour he dismissed the bodyguards, and became cordial, offering me wine and brandy.

  Franklin began the private portion of our interview by saying: "Your story, Sir, is the most remarkable that I have ever heard—nay, let me amend that. The most remarkable which I believe on hearing to be substantially the truth."

  "What I have told you is all the truth, Mr. Franklin. As nearly as I can remember it and tell it."

  "Aye, I have said I believe you. The truth, as you have experienced it. But at the very least there must be more." Chubby, wheezing, old, but at the moment apparently healthy, he sat in his chair exuding an air of discontent brought on by my story.

  "Yes sir, I am sure there is more. It was my hope in coming to you that you might help me to discover what it is. And, of course, that you might do something for my creator."

  He shook his head. "I might—I might, I say—be able to exert some influence, to the effect of ameliorating the condition of this man you regard as your creator. But the results, if any, will be slowly produced, and indirect. And as for his trial, I fear my influence upon Irish justice will be negligible."

  I shrugged. I felt exceedingly weary, but at the same time as if relieved of a burden. "I have done all I can for him, then."

  We drank our wine, and talked. About science and philosophy, electricity and life. Many things. We were to meet again, but events intervened, in the form of Saville's agents, and I was forced to flee from Paris. But Franklin is a remarkable old man—or was. I hope that he is still alive.

  This gale has not yet quite decided to drown us all. It seems we must await its pleasure.

  LETTER 4

  December 11,1782

  Dear Sir & Parent—

  In accordance with your instruction, I am departing Geneva by the next post, and will make all reasonable speed to London. If the Channel crossing can be managed under the usual winter & wartime conditions, another fortnight should see me safely ensconced there, at the lodging and under the name by which you are accustomed to communicate with me when I am in those parts. As for the danger in my returning to England, that I should be exposed as a Rebel agent, I think that is now all but completely past. It is my impression that very little interest is taken in such creatures anymore. As you know very well, being yourself in the very midst of the negotiations, to these people the war has been all but dead since Cornwallis laid down his arms.

  Since my last communication to you, a message has reached me here in Geneva from an informant in Ingolstadt, providing some more information about the former medical student there, Sa
ville.

  His Christian name was—or is—Roger, and he was—or is—indeed an Englishman. The fact of his wealth is confirmed. At the university he was never accounted a good student, his cleverness being offset by an arrogance that rendered him objectionable to the professors, who as a rule can stomach no arrogance besides their own. With no more than that to go on, I have considerable hopes of being able to locate him. All wealthy Englishmen, as you know, are in London sooner or later. And as for Walton—can there be any English sea-captain whose face is unknown in the metropolis?

  Meanwhile, as I await my transportation, allow me to offer for your consideration some further thoughts on the Walton manuscript. I wish now to consider in particular the supposed words of Victor Frankenstein, as he recounts what happened to him during his lonely sojourn to an Alpine retreat, following the deaths of William and Justine.

  It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent… my heart, which before was sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed, "Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away from the joys of life."

  As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing toward me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man… it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in mortal combat… his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes.

  "Devil!" I exclaimed. "Do you dare approach me?… oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims you have so diabolically murdered!"

  "I expected this reception," said the demon. "All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things!…you purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine toward you and the rest of mankind. If you comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you in peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends!"

  But Frankenstein was not the man to bow meekly before this threat. Feeling his rage "without bounds," and "impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another," he tried to attack the monster physically.

  But the creature "easily eluded" his aggressive efforts, and kept on talking. Presently he had persuaded Frankenstein to accompany him to an isolated mountain hut, where the man sat down and listened to a long story. It is this story, supposedly in the monster's own words, that forms the bulk of the Walton relation. It gives an account of the creature's whereabouts and actions during the year and a half said to have intervened between the creation in Ingolstadt and the killing of William in Geneva. (I have discovered, remember, that the interval was only six months.)

  The creature's story begins almost plausibly. Wandering in the woods near the university town, during the first few days following his creation, the creature learned for himself that day and night appeared in alternation, that water slaked his thirst, fire burned his fingers, and people, when he approached them, invariably shrieked and fled.

  Matters quickly take a less likely turn. The monster relates that he sought shelter in a "hovel." He soon discovered that this rude dwelling adjoined a neat peasant cottage. Through a handy hole in the wall of the cottage he spied on the inhabitants, and by this means learned language (French) —geography—the customs of society—how to read_and, for all I know, natural philosophy—how to count (except, perhaps, for bullet-holes; see below). The creature interested himself intensely in the affairs of the family, of cottagers whom he observed so intimately and for so many months. He absorbed the histories of their lives, and later recounted them at great length to Victor Frankenstein, who had to listen to all this in his mountain hut. (Walton on his almost ice-bound ship had to listen to it all again, as Frankenstein lay dying.) The creature described how, after living in his queer observation post beside the cottage for more than a year, he dared to reveal himself to the people in the cottage, was attacked for his pains, and driven away in the ensuing uproar.

  It is all, need I say, quite unbelievable. It is so completely incredible that in my mind it only emphasizes the question we have been facing all along: What did the creature really do during that period? (I assume, as you have ordered me to assume for the purpose of this investigation, that the monster really does exist.) How did it occupy itself during the time between its disappearance from Ingolstadt (if one can disappear from a place where one has never really appeared) and the murder and execution in Geneva, six months later?

  But to resume Walton's story: the creature, moving at last in the general direction of Geneva, rescued a young girl who was drowning in a river, and was shot in the shoulder as a reward.

  For weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavoring to cure the wound… the ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through.

  As I have already mentioned, counting bullet-holes was evidently beyond the sketchy mathematical education received by the monster during its studies at the peep-hole in the cottage wall. An alternative explanation for such uncertainty might be that the missile had in fact passed through its brain—or remained there.

  However that may be, in two more months the creature, his wound now healed, had "reached the environs of Geneva."

  It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding place among the fields… to meditate in what manner I should apply to you.

  Presently, the musing monster was roused from "a slight sleep" by "the approach of a beautiful child," who

  came running into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me that this little creature was unprejudiced and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him and educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate… urged on by this impulse, I seized the boy as he passed and drew him toward me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before his eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forcibly from his face and said, "Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me."

  He struggled violently. "Let me go," he cried. "Monster! Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces. You are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa."

  "Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me."

  "Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic—he is M. Frankenstein—he will punish you. You dare not keep me."

  "Frankenstein! You belong then to my enemy—to him towards whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim."

  I learned, esteemed parent, shortly after my arrival in the city of Geneva, that it presently boasts more than twenty thousand inhabitants. The number two years ago could not have been materially different. That the one out of twenty thousand first encountered by the monster in his random approach to the city, should happen to be the youngest brother of his creator… but I need not belabor the incredibility of it all.

  The murder of young William, the work of only an instant, followed immediately. Then

  As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman… for a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, her lovely lips… but presently my rage returned; I remembered that I was forever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow… while I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I entered a barn… a woman was sleeping on some straw; she was young… blooming in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is on
e of those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me… not I, but she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I am forever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her; be hers the punishment.

  And with that the creature placed the stolen miniature in the pocket of the sleeping Justine_for of course it was she—and fled.

  But no. It did not happen thus. Even supposing_by some miracle—that the rest of the Walton relation should be the truth, this I cannot believe.

  Consider, Sir: the creature, on entering the barn, could have had no means of knowing that any connection existed between the sleeping girl before him and the child he had just murdered—no reason whatsoever to believe that the painting, once concealed in her pocket, would ever be discovered by anyone but her, would ever be revealed to the world as evidence of any kind.

  And, of course, it was mere coincidence again that the creature happened to enter the one barn in which Justine was sleeping—no, I cannot go on, multiplying coincidence by coincidence, and trying to discuss it all seriously. There may be, for all I know, a monster—there may be a thousand monsters—but this portion, at least, of the Walton memoirs must be considered a tissue of lies from start to finish.

  Unfortunately, the murder of the young child was all too real. And the execution of Justine Moritz was a very real occurrence too, whether or not the young woman was in fact guilty.

  And we are told that it was shortly after this hideous crime that the monster supposedly confronted his creator in the mountain hut, boldly confessing his guilt, and in the next breath demanding help.

  Speaking to Frankenstein, the creature declared himself

  consumed by a burning passion that you alone can gratify. I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you must create.