The creature affectionately grasped the captain’s hand, taking care not to employ too much pressure lest he injure this man who had been so kind. “Good Captain Usher, I thank you for your compassion, but if I am to be given the solution to this enigma, I prefer to be alone. So many of my days have been spent thus.”
“I know, and my heart breaks for it. Even my dear Madeline has wept at the thought of the misery which has for so long been your only companion.”
“Farewell, then, Roderick Usher. It pleases me to call you my friend.”
“And your friend I shall remain. But I will not accept a ‘farewell’ from you, for you will dine with myself and my family this evening. The rancor and malice you have encountered in the world does not exist in this heart, nor in those of my wife and sister. None shall cringe at the sight of you, nor scream and turn away. On this you have my most solemn word.”
“Until this evening, then,” said the creature.
“Which cannot arrive soon enough for my satisfaction,” replied the captain who, with a respectful, affectionate salute, continued on his rounds.
Making his way toward the chaplain’s office, the creature chanced to encounter a little boy who was playing at shuffleboard. It did the creature’s heart well to see this child, who though alone except for his imagination, was nonetheless enjoying himself. Perhaps, to some, aloneness was not a curse and the knowledge achieved from imagination hung around their necks like pearls instead of chains. The creature was almost envious.
Without warning, the boy suddenly stopped playing and spun around, glaring.
Never before had the creature experienced such an overwhelming dislike. Had he been pressed to describe the boy, he would have been struck dumb, but there was, nonetheless, something wrong with the child’s appearance, something displeasing and downright detestable. He could not say why he so disliked this seemingly innocent child, only that for the first time in years, the urge to kill came over him. But such impulses had been his damnation once before and he would not, could not, succumb to their seductions again.
“Methinks I know you, horrid beast,” said the child with a sneer creeping onto his face. “Indeed, there is such a mark on you.”
Seeing in the child an all too familiar evil, the creature stumbled backward into the rail.
The boy’s voice was the hiss of a serpent. “I should call you father, would that Fate had bequeathed us a different lot.”
The creature pressed a fist against his mouth to repress the shriek that lodged in his throat, thinking that this terrible boy must be deformed somehow, for he gave a strong feeling of deformity though it was impossible to specify its origin.
Swallowing back the scream, the creature pulled the fist away and said, “If ever I were a perversion, I would appear almost Divine under your shadow.”
The boy smiled. “Is that how a murderous abomination addresses one whose life has been inspired by him?”
Before the creature could respond, an angry female voice shot through a far cabin window. “Edward! Edward Hyde! If you are not in front of my eyes in one half-minute, I shall thrash you within an inch of your life!”
The boy glanced in the direction of the voice, the hurled into the creature, grasping his hand and kissing it. Then he was gone.
Shaking with such a force he feared his body might shatter into fragments, the creature stumbled toward the stern, his through clogged in terror at the knowledge that the violence, so much a part of his accursed nature, was not limited to himself, that it was infecting the world like a malignancy, seeping into the psyches of mere children, turning them into the unholiest of demons. But did such a thing exist before his own birth, or was it through him that the malignancy entered the world?
“May God damn you to an eternity of torment, Victor Frankenstein! Through my anger and violence you have begat the seeds of humanity’s self-destruction. All in the name of your filthy science!” He stood at the end of the ship, shaking with hatred and self-loathing, and so screamed at the horizon: “Did I solicit thee from darkness to mold me Man? Or was I, like the doomed Iscariot, simply a vessel used to carry out the will of One more powerful than even your science? Here I stand, an ABOMINATION! SHRIEKING TRAVESTY! WHERE, THEN IS HOPE? WHERE REASON? WHERE TENDERNESS? Or is it all a diseased illusion? If there be Any who hears these words, I say this to You: will my sufferings forever endure, or is there an end to it?”
He dropped his head, weeping, unable to stanch the flood of faces and memories that assailed him; the cries of those he had killed—Clerval, William, the dear Elizabeth—underscored the deaths of Justine Moritz and Alphonse Frankenstein who, were it not for the creature’s grief-maddened actions, would breathe still. The anvil of guilt so long a part of his every breath weighed even heavier for the glorious sight of the sea before his gaze: what right did he, unholy brute, have to enjoy anything so wondrous?
He thought of the blind De Lacy and his children, and missed them intensely.
He thought of the image of his doomed mate, torn apart by Victor Frankenstein before she could be instilled with life.
He covered his face with one hand.
He remembered the loneliness of all the days leading up to this one.
Imagined the loneliness of his future.
And, deep within himself, he screamed.
And he screamed.
And he screamed.
Then a tiny hand touched him, and he blinked away tears to see another little boy standing beside him, only where the child Edward carried only the sense of deformity, this poor boy’s affliction was apparent to even the weakest eyes. A more dreadfully misshapen being had the creature never seen, and where the previous boy had filled his heart with disgust, this one filled it with empathy.
The creature knelt, pulling the twisted child to him.
“Have you a name, sad little man?”
“Erik,” whispered the boy through knots of crusty and discolored flesh. “I have been sent for you.”
“And who is it that would send such a ... fine ... lad ... as ...” The creature’s heart brimmed and he could speak no more, only embrace this boy whose heart, he was certain, had been broken as often and as mercilessly as his own.
“It’s all right, now,” whispered the boy. “No one is so wicked or ugly that they do not deserve a chance at redemption.”
“Thank you, dear child,” choked the creature as a shadow fell across his sight.
A woman of chiseled and ethereal loveliness touched the child upon its head and whispered, “Such a serious little boy you are, Erik. How often have I told you that your face will not shatter were you to allow a smile to cross it every now and then?”
The child turned from the creature and said, “I have found him.”
“So you have. Such splendid work cannot go unrewarded.”
The child’s face tensed in anticipation
The woman touched Erik’s cheek with great love and said, “You may go to the music room and play the piano until it is time for lunch.”
“Oh, thank you!” he said throwing his arms around her neck and kissing her cheek with hard, little-boy glee, then bestowed the same affection on the creature before taking flight toward the stairs.
The woman, smiling after him, looked at the creature and said, “I hope you know, sire, that even though Erik is only my ward, I could not love him any more if he were my own son.”
“That you feel such affection for him, dear lady, is proof enough I need not pity the misfortune of his form.”
“His soul is pure and full of music. His skill at playing and composing are nearly godlike. How could one not treasure him?” She extended her hand. “I am Christine Daaé, fiancée of D. Gray, chaplain of this vessel. I know well who you are, sir. Jonathan Merrick spoke glowingly of you when he gave this to my betrothed.” She removed an envelope from her pocket and placed it in the creature’s hand. “I hope the contents gives your tortured soul some degree of peace. If not, then please, please seek out my
loving Dorian. He will do for you all that he can, even if it crumbles against the weight of the pain previously inflicted on you.” She touched his hand then, flooding his system with warmth and promise and a hope of deliverance he had dared not imagine.
“The sight of your devotion to the child has already given me some measure of peace.”
“I am glad for that. More than you can ever know.”
And with that, she left him there, the envelope and the mysterious contents clutched in his hand.
Heart pounding, breath staggered, hands shaking, he broke the seal on the flap and slowly removed the folded pages.
He read:
My Dear Friend, Child-of-None:
How even to begin this? Shall I say that your tragedy has moved me to such a degree that I will measure the remainder of my life as blessed? Or would it be more fitting to say that nothing this far in my thirty-one years has compared with the effect you have had on both my heart and my—if you’ll pardon my using the next word—science? Suffice to say this: you have moved me deeply and it will be only upon the moment of my death that you shall be elsewhere than the forefront of my thoughts.
There is much to tell you and my time is short (the ship sails in less than five hours) so I will dispense with any further declarations of respect and affection, save for this last: know that, whatever may befall you come the next dawn, you are, and always shall be, welcome in my home and my hearth should you ever choose to return to Ireland.
You have doubtlessly found the letters which I placed in your jacket while you were suffering from fever. The young lady whose hand composed them was and is the daughter of an esteemed Italian scientist who, though well-respected in the community of his fellow scientists, was recently and posthumously stripped of several honors when it was discovered that his quest for knowledge (much like that which possessed your Dr. Frankenstein) led him to commit an act so cold-blooded in its conception, so heinous in its disregard for individual human life, and so atrocious in its consequences, that many in the medical community have official stated our belief that the discoveries he made and the serums he created, though ultimately beneficial, are almost totally negated by the appalling manner in which they were achieved. I tell you this because the girl consistently failed to make mention of these facts in any of her letters—motivated, no doubt, by the fear that, should you recognize her name, your heart would grow cold. And who can place blame on her for that, knowing, as I do, that she herself was the unknowing (at first), then unwilling subject of her father’s experiments, which rendered her life, as yours, a painfully lonely one?
Before continuing with a listing of further facts surrounding the girl and her letters, I think it is necessary to tell you of a very strange occurrence which took place after our arrival back in Dublin.
A private wing of the Institute Infirmary had been isolated solely for the purpose of your care. Know that you were wall-attended by every member of my staff during this period. (I say this because you were unconscious during the journey from Siberia to Ireland, and remained thus for several weeks after our arrival.)
One evening, shortly after the midnight hour, I was awakened in my chambers by an orderly who informed me that you had regained consciousness and were asking for me by name. My curiosity and unease were beyond any measure at that moment, for I had never introduced myself to you and had given specific orders that, upon your revival, no one but myself was to speak to you. I dressed quickly and climbed the tower stairs to the private wing.
Imagine my shock when, upon entering, I saw you standing by your bed, examining the intravenous drip attached to you. When I inquired how you felt, you turned to me, smiled, and said, “I suspect that he is fine, Dr. Merrick, being deep in a coma as he is.”
“Is this some jest?” I asked.
“Would that it were,” you replied, in a voice very unlike the one I recalled hearing when first I saw you in Siberia.
“Have you a name?”
“In life, I was known as Victor Frankenstein.”
“Victor Frankenstein is dead, having succumbed to fever and infection aboard the ship of Robert Walton. His death has been documented in newspapers and medical journals world-wide.”
“I know. And for what will he be remembered when all the facts surrounding the circumstances of his life and death are made known?” Your hands balled into fists, striking at your chest. “For having remade Man. The dubious morality of the act itself is not why I am now being punished, Dr. Merrick. I am being punished by my Creator for having given life to this tragic form you see before you and then, in ignorance and selfishness, turning away from it in denial and revulsion. My sins against him are multitudinous, but none so fierce and harmful as that of having disallowed him compassion. Because of that refusal he became the tortured killer who robbed my life of meaning. And why not? I gave no thought to the meaning of his life. But I digress.
“Sit down, Dr. Merrick, take the writing pad and fountain pen from your desk. I am about to pay my penance and, insomuch as it can be done now, right the ghastly wrong which I have committed.”
It was through him that I learned of the girl, a childhood friend of Victor’s from his early years in Italy. Then he bid me write to Professor Pietro Baglioni at the University of Genoa. I complied, writing words which he dictated, and did soon receive Baglioni’s reply. The professor, a very intelligent fellow possessing a singularly dry wit, yet often stale in his manners, was quite happy to provide the facts behind the girl and her father—who, at the time, lay on his deathbed.
Over the ensuing months, Victor Frankenstein returned to you every night. Having obtained all the information about the girl from Baglioni, Victor informed me it was time we wrote the girl herself, now that she was orphaned and completely alone in the world. Night after night did your Dr. Frankenstein dictate the most passionate, poetic letters to me, missives so overpowering in their honesty and desire that I often found myself on the verge of tears, having been reminded of my own youth and first love.
We—or rather, I—sent those letters as quickly as they were written. And her responses! Well, you have the letters, so you know well how deeply she reciprocated the feelings expressed on the page. Then, at last, she inquired as to the source of your sadness. (I say “your” sadness for the letters were conceived and constructed with the purpose of making a romantic arrangement between you the girl and yourself. I’d never been part of a matchmaking before, though my mother used to speak of such things, and I found that I very much enjoyed it.)
Before next contacting her, Victor instructed me to write to Margaret Saville in England, sister of Robert Walton, and request that she send me a copy of the journal R.W. wrote to her during his last sea voyage. Since, as I’m sure you know, that journal contains your story, I was most anxious to see it myself. Mrs. Saville was more than kind and sent a cleanly typeset copy of the journal.
I wept for you, my dear friend. None who reads your sad tale could hold you in contempt, even in light of your many violent actions.
After sending the journal to Italy, I prayed each night that the girl would be as moved by your story as I. And it would appear that, sometimes, God hears such prayers.
Soon, the girl’s response arrived, and her love for you, her compassion and tenderness, were tenfold what they had been before.
Allow me to impart this one last fact concerning her: there is no living man on this Earth who could be her love. Only you, being already dead yet alive, can fill the void in her life.
And so I was compelled to act quickly.
I booked passage on the SS Catapaxi. Your fever was in its final stages. I would not have sent you on your way so soon were it not for the fact that no other ship will sail again for Italy until early next year, and to deny you the promise of happiness for even one hour longer seemed to me a sin of unforgivable measure.
I know not what fate befell the soul of your creator, for his visits ceased after we received the girl’s response to Walton’s journal.
I can only hope he has found the forgiveness he sought. Too much misery has already resulted.
And so, my friend, here ends my take. I shall miss you, and pray that jubilation awaits you on the Italian shore. I take leave of you with these words from Gibran: “Love gives not by itself and takes not from itself; live possesses not nor would it be possessed, for love is sufficient unto love.”
Your Friend,
J. Merrick
The creature carefully folded the letter and put it with the others.
He turned back toward the sea and saw the ghost of errant light dancing across the waves, imagined the reflections in the ripples to be figures of himself and his beloved engaged in a waltz.
The radiant sphere of the moon shone down upon him, and he gave himself all the way over into its light.
And there beheld promise.
And there beheld sublimity.
And there beheld forgiveness, bequeathing it as well and saying, for the first time, the name of his creature with no hatred in his heart.
He looked at the letters in his hand.
He wondered if she would be as delicate and lovely as her script (she was even more so), if she would smile at the sight of him (she did, and resplendently, opening her arms for his embrace), and if she would ever dance with him (there was music in the square when he arrived at her gate, and they danced; oh, how they danced).
He raised his arms above his head, the moonlight passing between his fingers to create silver rays which shrugged away the shadows; the sea-spray bathed his face, becoming the scent of perfume as it beaded against his skin; and he recalled having heard a fairy story about a puppet who longed to become a real boy, who wished upon a star, and whose wish was granted.
Aided by the moonlight, he gazed inward, quietly saying the name of his beloved over and over, as if it were a prayer—”My dearest Beatrice, daughter of Giacomo Rappaccini”—until he found a solitary pinpoint of shimmering icestar in the night sky.
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