The Frankenstein Papers

Chapter 10

November 11,1782—

There is much to tell. I write this in a barn, some miles south of Montreal, by the light of a stolen candle. For all I know the whole country is up in arms and in full cry upon my trail; but my good fortune holds, howling winds push snowdrifts across my tracks.

This morning I returned innocently to my job, expecting nothing but another day of dull labor shoveling snow from the streets and public places of the city. My first assignment took me in front of a printer's & bookseller's shop. I had not been at work for two minutes when I was frozen in my cold tracks by the sight of a large pamphlet on display in the shop window. Its title read: Frankenstein: or, the Modern Prometheus.

The window contained several copies of the publication bearing that startling title. I know not for how long a time I stood there gaping at them.

Finally a remark from a co-worker, resentful that my giant's hands and arms had ceased to do their giant's share of the work, brought me back to an awareness of my surroundings.

Casting my shovel aside, I hurried into the shop, in my haste scraping my head on the beam above the doorway. For an instant the few customers inside were paralyzed by my appearance, and then they hurriedly got themselves out of my way. I threw some coins at the proprietor, and seized a copy of the publication from the display.

As I stalked out of the shop I heard a murmuring behind me. Some of the people whom I had startled inside had followed me out, and before I had gone far they were mingling with other folk on the street, commenting on my conduct, and probably on my mere existence, in a general buzz of indignation. By the time I had reached the corner and turned onto the next street, the murmur had already risen to something like a real outcry. I did not look back.

Hurrying with long strides, I rushed down one street and then another until I felt reasonably certain that any pursuers had been evaded. Seeking refuge in an out-of-the-way corner where I stood thigh-deep in unshoveled snow, I hastily opened the book. Not for a moment did it occur to me that such a title might possibly refer to some other Frankenstein.

The few pages that passed beneath my gaze during my first hasty perusal of the book amazed and astonished me. These reactions have only been intensified by the more thorough reading I have been able to give the book since taking shelter here for the night. I was, as I say, amazed and astonished even before I realized that I was the "monster" or "fiend" portrayed within its pages; or more accurately, that the character thus drawn was claimed to be a portrait of me. With what unutterable outrage I understood my intended identification with this "demon," I am sure that any innocent person who reads those lying pages will be able to comprehend. I stood accused by the author, with shameless effrontery, of any number of horrible crimes—even of the murder of the child William, whom I had never seen, and from the scene of whose death I had been hundreds of miles distant.

The whole book, I see now as I sample its pages further, is couched in the form of letters, from Captain Walton, supposedly on a prolonged Arctic expedition, to his sister in London. And these are letters, I am certain, that can never have been really written or sent… damned lying things in any case. Nay, they are something worse than that, which is the truth and lies all intermingled.

But I am beginning to understand the purposes behind the publication of this book. Much evil, for which my enemies are in truth responsible, is to be blamed on me.

I am, of course, innocent.

But how shall I ever be able to prove it?

My first perusal of the book's pages this morning, while standing in the city snowdrift, so stunned me that the fact of the gathering and murmuring crowd, from which I had originally retreated, had fled my mind. With the offending volume in my hand I started to retrace my steps toward the bookstore, with some vague idea of seeking redress there, or at least being able to make a reasonable protest. On my first coming in sight of the establishment again, I saw a knot of people, larger than before, gathered on the street in front of it. Some of them were gesturing as if in debate. I heard men's voices raised, and I thought the tone of those voices ominous. With ideas of protest and justice set aside for the time being, I prudently turned and departed.

But I was seen, and a pursuit commenced. I turned corners, and walked rapidly, as I had done before; but while walking streets in broad daylight it is impossible for me to avoid attracting attention, forever impossible for me to blend into a crowd. Yet I did manage to escape, for it is equally impossible that I, running, should ever be overtaken by humans moving on two legs. My flight from the city was not easy, but I have accomplished it.

As I write this I am still not sure if the pursuit continues, or will continue; or how many of those who saw me at the bookseller's today may have made some identification of me as the central character in the published charade that bears the name of my late lamented creator. But in any case I shall sleep soundly tonight, I have been pursued before.

The port of Montreal is of course icebound, but the ports of the colonies to the south will soon be free from the winter's ice—those that are not open all year round—but in those more southern colonies there is the war. Lately I have been able to hear but little news of the fighting. Just how effective the British blockade may be I do hot know, but south I now must go, in any case.

November 12_On the road. The thought has come to me that, in Philadelphia there may live some associate of Franklin—a fellow philosopher, perhaps, or a friend or relative—who will be intelligent enough to listen to my tale with an open mind, and sympathetic enough to help me. The great man himself is, to the best of my knowledge, still in France, and I suspect he will continue there until all the business of the war, and of the agreement that must conclude the war, has finally been settled. That is, if he is still alive; when I saw him in Paris, almost a year ago, he was clearly of advanced age.

Last night in my uneasy shelter I dreamt of my creator's first cramped workroom in Ingolstadt. In my dream I knew that by standing in the midst of his equipment and clutching the rod that led up to the roof where it connected with Franklin's iron points, I should come into the possession of all the mysterious powers of electricity. Franklin himself was there in the laboratory too, somehow, and was to play some role having a vital connection with my fate. That I may come to possess the secrets of myself! That is all I ask.

December 1_Still on the way to Philadelphia. The few other wayfarers I have come upon have not seemed anxious for my company. Nor I for theirs, in truth.

Perhaps Franklin himself Will have returned to Philadelphia by the time I get there, and he will be still alive and ready to give me help. I nourish myself with this hopeful dream. As if it were indeed probable, I rehearse in my mind a dozen possible ways to approach him. That is my dream_what is much more likely, of course, is that I will somehow be able to approach someone of his associates. I have not settled on how to do it but there is time. My journey is far from over.

I have acquired snowshoes. Thus shod, I was able to approach and club to death a deer I discovered trapped in a crusted drift. Seldom are streams here so completely frozen that I cannot break through the ice to catch a fish. And the American squirrels have been caching nuts in logs for me to find and take. At night, as now, a small fire, a rude construction of logs, sometimes a hollow tree, provide me with all the warmth and shelter that I need. I, who have survived the Arctic wastes, find this journey almost restful.

December 13_In among settlements now, I sleep by sufferance in a barn tonight. I have been given strange looks, but so far as I can tell no one of them has heard of Frankenstein. I drop a word or two of French or German, and I am taken for a straggler or deserter from one of the mercenary bodies of troops who were sent here, half a world away from their homes, to fight for or against the English. Such wandering deserters are common enough, apparently, that the presence of one more surprises no one. Also I have several times resorted to stealing, and in general feel little regret for doing so—I am sure that the snowshoes were not their owner's only pair. My creator's race owes me more than I ever am likely to steal.

The escape of Clerval, Frankenstein, and myself in a small boat from the west coast of Scotland was attended with fearful perils from sea and storm. My human friends, I suppose, could not have come through the first stages of that adventure alive, without my strength and endurance at the oars; I rowed whilst they bailed, and our boat did not_quite—sink. Nor could I, sickening as my wound became infected, have survived those later days without their care and help.

Our first leg of travel, across the open sea, was aided by some lucky winds and currents. At that point I was still not much bothered by my wounded shoulder, and during the first days did most of the rowing. I have not had the opportunity to trace our voyage on a map, but I suppose we must have traveled fifty or sixty miles at least, across the open sea, in a direction generally south.

Even before we launched our escape, I had deduced that we were probably in the Hebrides. Not only did the old papers in the houses offer clues, but more indications could be seen in the various configurations of land, and in the kinds of wildlife visible.

My deduction proved correct. But how could I even have begun to know such things? What likelihood that I had ever visited those isles, or even heard of them, in any previous existence? I could not answer such questions then, and cannot now. I knew, but without knowing how I knew. It was as if more and more of the old memories of my stranger's brain were gradually returning to me, though never in any way that would tell me that stranger's identity.

At length we came to land. We were then somewhere, as I correctly thought, on the north coast of Ireland. When we at last reached shore, we concealed our boat as best we could near the mouth of a small stream. I was by now much weakened by infection, and so I remained hidden with the boat, while Clerval and Frankenstein went in search of information.

My companions returned after an hour or so with some fresh bread and eggs, and news. There was no sizable settlement near, but the men had visited a farmhouse and could now confirm that we had reached northern Ireland. We fell to and ravenously devoured the provisions they had managed to obtain.

Reembarking, we rowed along the coast for a moderate distance, and after a few miles entered the mouth of a much larger stream, which we proceeded to ascend. By this time I was Very feverish with my wound, sliding in and out of delirium. I remember little of that period but lying in the boat, listening to voices only some of which were real, and watching the frightful and fantastic images formed by the leaves and branches that overhung the little river's banks and shaded me. Some days passed in this fashion while my companions did what they could for me.

They argued much between themselves, but in my fever I was unable then to grasp the matter of their dispute. Looking back now I suspect that Frankenstein, as ever unable to make up his mind, was having second thoughts about his break with Saville and Walton. Whether he actually was in favor of rejoining Saville at this point I am not sure; perhaps the argument was only about the best means of continuing our escape.

Knowing that we had escaped in a small boat, and drawing on Walton's substantial knowledge of those waters, our enemies considered that almost certainly the prevailing winds and currents would sweep us down in the direction of Ireland, but that we would not be likely to get so far. As a precaution the assassin Small was dispatched to Ireland, with orders to locate us, if we should arrive, and to keep us, at all costs, from giving convincing evidence to the authorities regarding the crimes of Saville and his hirelings. Meanwhile most of Walton's men, along with the captain and Saville himself, were engaged in searching the islands near the one from which we had got away.

My two companions were faithful to my interest, as they saw it, but they could come to no agreement as to what to do with me, or how best they might be able to secure their own persons and fortunes from disaster. In a state of indecision that promised to prove fatal to us all, we drifted about the rivers and the coast, trying to stay hidden, and at the same time trying to learn whether we were being looked for here, and in what circumstances.

From one trip to a nearby town, undertaken with the object of gaining information, Clerval failed to return. Frankenstein, after a couple of hours, went to look for him and did not come back either. By now I had begun to recover from the wound and the fever, and at last, when darkness had fallen, I grew desperate enough to drag myself in search of my companions.

Moving with great difficulty because of weakness, I made my way into the town. Listening from alleys and at windows, I learned that the body of a murdered man, evidently a foreigner, had been discovered on the street, and from certain personal particulars of dress and appearance I made certain that the victim must have been Clerval. That was a staggering blow, but it was not all; the next piece of intelligence was that another stranger, who could only be my creator, had been arrested and jailed for the crime. The trial, however, would not take places for many months.

I was determined to do what I could for Frankenstein. But any direct attempt at rescue seemed utterly hopeless, particularly in my weakened condition. No more did any imaginable appeal to the authorities, from me, appear likely to be of benefit. Victor himself must have attempted to tell them the truth, or part of it at least, when he was arrested. And if they would not believe the truth from him, an obvious gentleman, what chance that they would believe me, or even listen to my words, before they shot me?

In a state near despair I stumbled back to our concealed boat, and fell into it exhausted. Awakening, in the small hours of the night, from a stuporous sleep, I took thought as best I could on my situation. Only one course of action suggested itself. My brightest and indeed my only hope seemed to me to be in Paris. There, in a country still technically at war with his own, the influence of the powerful Saville would surely be diminished. And there, as I had so often heard from Frankenstein and others, Franklin could be found. The famous American, respected even by his enemies, not only knew my creator personally, but would be prepared, if anyone on earth would be, to understand, perhaps even to explain, how seeming miracles might be achieved with the aid of electricity. If anyone in Europe could help me, it would be he!

I must return to Europe. Such villainy as Saville's and Walton's cannot go undenounced, unpunished. And the responsibility has fallen to me alone. On to Philadelphia!

December 20_Today I have reached Philadelphia. Everywhere I go among the people here, I speak French, and though infrequently understood I am always taken for one of that nation, and usually made welcome. In general I am supposed to be an ally against the oppressive George III, and as such, in the flush of victory, I am now and again rewarded with food, drink, or clothing. As usual, very little of the latter is of a size to be of any benefit to me, but my wardrobe has been improved by the addition of one tolerably good shirt, and a pair of sound leather gloves that must have belonged to a man with hands nearly the size of mine.

Next day_All is grim. Franklin is certainly not here. While plying my trade of snow-shoveling in the vicinity of his house, I have overheard enough servants' gossip to make sure of that.

But there are plenty of places where The Modern Prometheus can be found—more bookshops in this city of quite moderate size than I can remember seeing in either London or Paris—though in truth I had little time for bookshops then.

At night_Lurking around the docks today, trying to discover a way of obtaining passage across the sea, I adopted, as I thought cleverly, the guise of one of a troupe of traveling showfolk—I cast myself in the role of an exhibit, naturally, not an exhibitor—waiting for the leader of the group and some of its other members to catch up with me, when we should all move on together to New York.

Such a story must have drawn some interest to me among the denizens of the cheap taverns and brothels there—what story about me would not? But ironically, as soon as I claimed myself to be a freak, a monstrosity of nature worthy to go on exhibition for a price, those who saw me became convinced that I am only a man, though one of unusual appearance and great strength. My humanity is perceived as soon as I attempt to cast doubt upon it, just as it is almost invariably questioned whenever I choose to present myself as human.

One of those who met me near the docks, a grotesquely tattooed sailor who attempts to appear reasonable and so impresses me as remarkably untrustworthy, has presented me with a proposition. I am to join the crew of a smuggler, now lying offshore somewhere to the north, which is in need of such "stout lads" as myself—and whose next port will, he promises, be London.

I can sense that this man has some additional, private motive in singling me out for this proposal. But if this adventure promises to get me back to England—aboard a smuggler, or not—who cares? In the present state of affairs I must do something.