The Frankenstein Papers

Chapter 9

At that season the day began at a very early hour. Before it had time to progress very far in its development, there came a messenger trotting toward us through the gloom and rain, from the direction of the largest house.

It was one of the sailors-turned-servant, in a state of quiet excitement. He was clenching his hands and moving his arms as if he did not know what to do with them. "Doctor Frankenstein, sir. Mr. Saville sent me to tell you. There's been—been an unfortunate accident. Miss Bess is dead."

There followed a grief silence, broken only by the drip of water from the skies, and from the shabby eaves of the little houses. From the moment that I heard the sailor's words I was possessed by a strong suspicion of the evil truth that lay behind them. But Frankenstein, curiously innocent, suspected nothing. Not at first.

His first reaction to the news was the natural one of shock and sadness. But then an inspiration struck him, and his demeanor altered. His eyes flashed, and he seized the manservant by the arm. "Wait! It may be—it may be that this is not after all a tragedy, but an act of Providence! Where is she?"

The sailor goggled at Frankenstein, not knowing what to make of this reaction. "A little distance inland, sir. She was alone when it happened—must have fallen down the bank of the stream, a little way from the village, at the place where the path is steepest."

"Quick, man, run! Tell them to bring her here! Quickly, quickly!" My creator pushed the messenger away.

"Sir, I believe they are already carrying her this way. Toward her cottage."

"No, it must be here, to the laboratory—run, tell them, quickly! Every minute may be important." Victor had now seized my arm, and this last order was addressed to me, for by this time my maker had come to have some idea of how fast I was able to run. The sailor had started quickly, but I passed him in half a dozen strides.

From the description he had given of the incident, I could readily enough visualize the place where Bess had died, and I met those who were carrying her before they had come halfway back to the village. Saville, who was with them, smiled without surprise when I relayed my creator's urgent demand.

Presently, with virtually the entire population of our small colony gathered round, the inert form that had been Bess, garments still sodden, was being laid upon the table from which, only minutes ago, the ghastly debris of Frankenstein's last experiment had been moved.

My gaze, passing across the room, met that of the assassin Small. The villain smirked at me in the bright light of the oil lamps, contorting his pallid face. He knew that I believed rightly that he had murdered the poor girl at the behest of Saville and Walton; desperate for success, they had decided that fresh materials were to be provided for the next experiment.

But Victor, I was sure, still did not know at what price his new opportunity had been purchased.

My fists clenched. The girl was already dead. If my master—at that moment I believe I thought of him as such—could bring her back, it would not be as a bride for me. Or would it? Would the artificial restoration of life to a single, simple body produce it in such a transformation as must have been wrought upon me at the moment of my animation?

As Frankenstein bent over the body, his hands already busy with preparations for the attempt, he asked about the nature of the accident that had taken the victim's life.

It was Small himself who answered him, in an obsequious voice. "I believe the young woman's neck's broken, sir. Looks like she fell down a little hill." No one else had anything to add.

Again I looked at the assassin, and again he gazed back at me, silent triumph glinting in his eyes.

My gaze returned to the table. That Bess's neck was broken, at least, looked very likely true, from the way her head with its brown curls had wobbled lifelessly when she was put down. Now, each time that her poor clay was moved by the scientist's hands, the deadly pendulation showed again.

With the assistance of Mrs. Hammer, Victor was now stripping off the victim's outer dress and one of her petticoats, casting the wet things aside. Now Frankenstein quickly bound wires to the young woman's limbs, and readied the probes again. He gestured to me, and I began to work the treadle that spun the glass globe by which the electric force would be restored within his mechanism.

This time, when the galvanic current was applied to the scalp and neck of the victim, the muscles of her face contorted in a most lifelike way, at which the gentlemen around the table uttered small cries, momentarily for all the world like children excited at a show. Walton, in particular, looked stunned by this result.

Next the probes were moved to each of Bess's limbs in turn. The muscles in each arm and leg were made to contract also, and new, lifelike movements were produced in each sequentially. At this, great excitement continued, though quietly, among the gentlemen.

Outside, full dawn had now arrived; yet the darkness of night, fortified by mist and rain, stubbornly refused to be forced into a complete retreat. It was as if day and night had abandoned friendly alteration, and were contending for the world.

Frankenstein's ministrations to the body went on steadily, methodically. Now he appeared to be trying to stimulate the heart. It was as if he had forgotten the observers who thronged around him.

If he had secrets that until now had been guarded from these close associates, he was now careless as to whether they were being revealed or not. And I, at least, was still unable to determine what they were.

The face of the dead girl was tranquil now, though certain discolorations had appeared upon the forehead. As I gazed at her it seemed almost as if, except for these marks and the angle of her neck, Bess might be only sleeping.

I met the eyes of her killer again, and saw him smirk again, and this time to my dismay I saw something worse than triumph in his face; I saw anticipation. Suddenly I understood, and my next thought was for Molly. Whether this present experiment finally succeeded or failed, those facial twitches seemed to indicate that it had already come close to carrying the day. It was inevitably, going to be repeated. Molly would be next.

Turning my head slightly I could see her, at the rear of the small crowd. She was gazing fearfully between men's shoulders at the still body of her friend and companion; but her fears were for Bess. Her face and manner gave no sign that she realized the gravity of her own situation.

I looked back at the assassin, who was whispering something to Saville.

Saville looked round, and I saw his gaze flick toward Molly, a cold glance of assessment. "Not yet," he replied to Small. His voice was not loud, yet it was careless of who might hear him.

Suddenly I could no longer bear the knowledge of what was about to happen. I pushed my way through the others and seized Victor by the arm, arresting his activity. In hasty words I made an effort to tell him of my fears and suspicions. He was so astonished by my interruption that I think he hardly comprehended what I was saying.

But my effort displeased the others. Snarling foul words, the killer grabbed at me, first pulling then trying to push me away from Frankenstein. His efforts accomplished nothing. Saville acted next, striking me with his walking stick. I hit back instantly, a backhanded, thoughtless, unplanned blow. My arm, hindred slightly by the assassin's tenacious grip, did not inflict death, but Small was shaken off, and Saville was knocked backwards, over a table of equipment which spilled with the impact. He rolled to one side, stunned, as flames blazed up from an overturned lamp.

Confusion reigned in the crowded room. Men outdid one another in shouting contradictory orders, and Molly screamed. I saw the assassin drawing one of his pistols from his belt, and aiming it at me. Walton was bellowing something at me, and Frankenstein too was shouting, helplessly and uselessly.

Knocking people aside again, I reached Molly's side in a moment, and seized her by the arm. First dragging her along with me, then lifting her bodily, I made a break for freedom. As I passed out of the door into the relative darkness outside, I heard Small's pistol fire behind me, and felt a burst of sharp pain across the side of my right shoulder. Before the assassin could draw another weapon and fire again, I had gripped Molly tightly in my arms and was running as fast as I could for the beach, with some confused idea of being able to seize a boat and row away before I could be stopped.

Shouts came from behind me. Bullets whistled past my head. Never would I be able to launch a boat and row out from shore before I was overtaken. I changed direction in midstride, heading inland. The young woman in my arms seemed no burden at all. A glance at her face assured me that she had fainted.

I fled inland, scanty bushes and tall grass whipping about my knees. The voices of our pursuers grew fainter as they fell behind. I fled on.

Full daylight found us well up in the central hills. Molly had recovered her senses at intervals throughout our flight, only to relapse, perhaps more or less willingly, when she found herself still in my grip, being borne along jolting and bounding through the foggy morning. She awoke a final time to find herself lying on soft sward beside the loch, and me kneeling beside her, bathing her face gently with its chill water. The rain had receded to a fine mist. For the moment, as her eyes opened to meet my gaze, the world around us seemed utterly at peace.

Then there were distant shouts, the voices of those who hunted us. To forestall the fear of me that I saw growing in her eyes, I said: "They were about to kill you, Molly. As they killed Bess."

"Oh." I think she recognized the truth when I spoke it, despite her abhorrence of my person. She wanted to say more, and had trouble finding the words, and I realized that she had no name to call me by.

"Call me what you like," I said.

Molly shook her head, refusing the responsibility of being first to bestow a name upon me. She said only, "You must take me back to the village. Please." Though I was sure she had momentarily believed my warning, still she could not live with it. So she thrust it away.

I was stunned. "They will kill you."

"Take me back. Please. Let me go. I can't… live with you." She could not, it appeared, even force herself to gaze directly at my face.

"You do not understand, girl. I am not trying to kidnap you. Remain apart from me if you must. But you will not go on living if you return to them."

It was no use. Presently, after she had stood up and stretched her legs and found them limber, she tried to run away from me.

Unbelieving, I gaped after her for a moment. Then I ran and caught her without much effort, though my shoulder pained me, each stride jolting it as I ran, blood soaking through my shirt.

She ceased to struggle, wept hopelessly, when my grip closed on her arm.

"I cannot let you go back to them."

She would not answer me.

As gently as possible I led her back to the loch. I asked her to bandage my wound for me; and that service she did not refuse. Once started on the task, using a strip torn from one of my garments, she did a good and tender job of it, though weeping softly all the time.

"Perhaps there is another boat available," I said, thinking I had convinced her. "We can get in it and—"

"No. No."

I tried yet again. "I repeat, I can understand that you dislike the idea of remaining with me. I do not want to force my presence on you. But they will kill you if you go back. You believed it the first time you heard me say it. I know you did."

"Yes. But they are—"

I could not prevail upon her to finish that sentence. I think she meant that, back there, whatever they might do, they were at least human.

Later, after warning Molly yet again of what would happen if the others caught her, I yielded unwillingly to exhaustion, and fell asleep. Molly was gone when I awoke, and the day was far advanced. I understood that she had gone back to them. So be it, then.

I knew that I might go back to them too, if I chose, and that they would not kill me. Saville would be firmly in control again by now, and he still thought me far too valuable to be killed. As for lesser punishment, I thought they would probably not attempt that either. My docility and cooperation were almost as needful to them as my presence.

My revulsion at those murderers was far too great to allow me to return and live among them, yet what other choices had I? I might have fled the island, but to what destination? To what purpose? Another day I roamed about the central hills alone, unable to decide what course to adopt. Once I heard what was unmistakably Molly's voice, calling something, and I knew that they must have brought her out from the village to call after me. It was their way of assuring me that she was still alive, that I was wrong in my suspicions. They could not understand they were perpetually unable to understand that I was not a fool.

I slept a little, lightly, like a hunted animal. Late in the afternoon there came fresh, soft voices among the hills, those of Clerval and Frankenstein, calling after me as if they feared that someone else would hear. I had no name for them to call, of course, but I could tell from the tone, one they might have used for a child, that I was the intended hearer.

I approached the voices cautiously, observing first from a distance. Only when I had made sure that the two men were alone and unarmed did I go to them.

Frankenstein looked more shaken than I had ever seen him before. But joy showed briefly in his countenance when I appeared, and he hastened to report all the bad news, almost as if I were the father now, and he a child in need of reassurance.

The effort to revive Bess had come to nothing. Frankenstein had abandoned his fruitless labors toward the end in horror, when Clerval managed to convince him that he had become a party to murder.

And Molly too was now dead. At last, when she was constantly under the eyes of Seville and Small, she had begun to realize the truth. Only then had she changed her mind about preferring their company to mine, and begun—stupidly—to voice accusations and to cry for help. Both my creator and Clerval had heard the cries cut short and were convinced of the girl's death, though they had not seen it. In horror they had seized a chance to flee the village unobserved. The tones in which the two men related their story to me now convinced me of their sincerity.

I felt a great sense of relief at that, and swore my own renewed loyalty to my creator. But such joy as I felt was short-lived. We were all three of us unarmed and could not long survive a determined hunt. Walton's ship was in the bay, and his whole crew now available for hunting.

Our only chance seemed to be the abandoned boat I had found earlier, still undiscovered by our enemies. That night we departed the island, rowing a somewhat leaky boat out into darkness, mist, and uncertain weather.

Even as we fled we could see torches on the island, near the spot from which, only minutes earlier, we had launched the boat. But the searchers were too late to find us. We rowed on into the misty ocean, hoping to find our way to some less cursed land.