The Frankenstein Papers

LETTER 7

February 20,1783

Saville Estate, near London

Sir-Many of the messages I have written you during the past few years have been composed and dispatched under what I considered the most difficult circumstances. But I have perhaps more doubt regarding this one than I have had for any other, that you will ever see it. I know that I am surrounded by our enemies as I write; and, when I have finished writing, I intend giving this paper into the care of the very being whose existence has been, for some months now, the object of our search. Tonight I have seen him, touched him, and have discovered that he lives. He thinks, he speaks! Nay, more than that! He tells me that he has seen you and spoken with you, not two years past, in your house at Passy. The tone in which he made this claim, the evident keenness of his thought, and the particulars of detail that he can give, regarding your person, your servants, and your surroundings there, are such that I tend to believe him. If it be true, there must be, I suppose, some reason of good policy why you could not have told me long ago about that meeting. In any case I pray that you will now tell me all about it, as soon as you can, and in no uncertain terms.

But all that—even that—is only the beginning of my news. I was invited to dine here last night—as I would have written to tell you then, had there been time to do so. To cut the story short, I accepted, and the dinner party—more below on its complications—was extended, by the most pressing invitations, into an overnight stay. There were some natural grounds for this, the night being one of really wretched weather, even for the middle of a British winter.

Inside all was warm and snug, and more or less convivial. Dining and conversation were at an end, and it was only when I had said goodnight to my host and hostess, followed a servant upstairs, and was alone in my room, that I met him—he who has no name, whose existence I have long doubted_he who tells me that he has seen you and spoken with you, in those very rooms at Passy where you and I last spoke face to face—but, as I say, there is much more to tell.

Item: Victor Frankenstein is very much alive. Not only alive and in passably good health, but still actively continuing his work, and that under this very roof; I dined with him this evening.

Why, then, does Walton's book say that Frankenstein is dead? The explanation offered by my hosts for the deception is that the philosopher himself preferred the peace and anonymity of being thought deceased, a condition that would allow him to devote all of his energies to his ongoing labor. The man himself, who was present during this discussion, concurred in this explanation, though, as it seemed to me, without any great enthusiasm.

Frankenstein was, it appears, really aboard Captain Walton's ship on an Arctic voyage, but he had been aboard her from the start at Archangel, and was not rescued from a sled. That voyage was the last leg of a great and well-organized pursuit, beginning in Paris, whose sole object was to recapture the "creature" he had created. Saville and Walton, who organized the chase, hive known of the creature's existence almost from the start. It was not the pursuers, but only their quarry who traveled by means of a dogsled for any distance across the ice.

Item: Saville himself has returned home, and was present when I arrived. Early in the evening, a few remarks were dropped in the drawing room and around the table, in an evident effort to maintain the fiction that Saville has really been in India; but the pallor of his face and hands, if nothing else, would cast grave doubts upon that claim, and evidently it is to be allowed to die. I am sure the man would faint, or more likely explode, if he had any idea that the "demon" he has now been hunting for years was really somewhere on the grounds of his own estate, or indeed anywhere within ten miles of it.

I, of course, have cast no doubts, either by word or by look, upon anything told me by my hosts. I have nodded and smiled, and pretended to believe everything that I was told.

I am sure that my hosts' objective in having me here is to learn from me every thing I know on the subject of the creature, particularly to extract from me any clue I might consciously or unconsciously possess as to its present whereabouts. Mrs. Saville has been interested in that subject since I met her, but I think something must have happened very recently to arouse that interest to a new pitch. This attitude is entirely shared by her husband. Needless to say, I have tried to withhold information as much as possible, while doing my best to let them believe that I just possibly do know something, and that if properly approached I might be willing to consider sharing what I know with them.

There are strong hints from both the Savilles that if I choose to cooperate, I am to be let in on the profits—exactly how profits are to be derived is not yet clear. They wonder if I am authorized to represent my illustrious father—yes, I am afraid they are in no doubt about the connection—and drop more hints that there will of course be profits for you also if I do.

At dinner Mrs. Saville introduced me to her brother, Captain Walton, who had just come in. Her brother is not as pallid as her husband, but still remarkably so for a seafaring man. I took the opportunity to congratulate the captain upon his book, which, as I was able to assure him with some truth, everyone I know has read or is now reading. (My newfound acquaintance, or perhaps I should already call him friend, the very tall one I met in my room, has already assured me that he has read that book, nay, almost committed its every word to memory.)

Walton, as is obvious from his book, is a remarkably well-educated man—at least for a sailor_and prides himself more, I think, upon his literary skill than on anything else. He basked in my compliments.

At dinner there were Saville and Mrs. Saville, Walton, Frankenstein, and myself. The food and wine were the best I have enjoyed in a long time, the service near perfection.

Conversation at first was general. Saville complained at considerable length about the costs of doing business on his plantations in Jamaica, and the general difficulties of trading in blacks and molasses. He related, with some indignation, the story of another businessman, an acquaintance of his, who suffered a sharp loss when the captain of one of his slave-trading ships had attempted to cheat his insurance company by dumping overboard a whole cargo of ailing Africans, then claiming them as having been lost at sea. Under the circumstances the insurance company refused to pay, and the refusal has been upheld in court. Saville's indignation was directed at the insurance company.

I recount all this to you now, that you may have no illusions about the sensibilities of my hosts, and the tenor of their usual conversation. The fact is that the slave business and all other topics were quickly forgotten when the subject of Frankenstein's work came up.

As I have already mentioned, the young philosopher has now established his laboratory within this very mansion. He has been here for some months, I gather, since shortly after last summer's Geneva tragedy. Imagine my surprise when his presence was announced to me, with elaborate casualness, shortly before we sat down to dine; and imagine if you can my great interest a minute later when the man himself appeared. Judging by appearances he must have come fresh from his labors; the odor of chemicals still clung to his clothing, and on close inspection of his sleeves the stains of what must have been his most recent endeavors could still be seen.

In general appearance Victor is pretty much as I had imagined him, dark-haired, gaunt and pale, in physique tending to the frail rather than the robust, and with a nervous manner.

Frankenstein appeared cheerful when he first joined us, if slightly nervous. At dinner his state of mind became agitated, increasingly so as the conversation turned to the subject of his work, and there were several occasions while we were at table when I thought he would have communicated something of real importance to me, had there been a chance for him to do so privately. When we arose, I contrived to continue my mild flirtation with Mrs. Saville; her husband, a moment earlier, had allowed himself to be called out of the room to discuss some business, perhaps deliberately getting himself out of the way. There followed a general invitation to walk in the conservatory, which Walton declined, but Frankenstein and I accepted. And, presently, when our hostess had pleaded an urgent need to confer with the servants and had temporarily withdrawn from among the stunted orange trees, I had my chance, at least for a moment, to talk alone with Frankenstein.

I wondered whether this opportunity too might have been contrived by the Savilles, that the scientist would have a chance to add his unforced plea to theirs, that I would share with him all I had learned about his creature, most especially its present whereabouts.

But what he whispered to me, rapidly and confusedly, when he had the chance, was that he had once fled from the Savilles himself, and that it had been a horrible mistake later to be reconciled with them. That he now feared, more than before, those who had him, and now seemed to have me too, in their power. That, if the being he had created still lived, and I knew anything of its whereabouts, I should do everything I could to assure that it never fell into Saville's or Walton's hands.

Scarcely knowing what to make of this confused plea, or how I ought to respond, I yet managed to keep control of my countenance and my manner; I assured him vaguely that I would do my best to see that all came out well; and when we rejoined the others presently, I doubt that they were able to tell anything of what had passed between us, except that Frankenstein now appeared somewhat more cheerful than before.

Great pressure was then put on me, though all in the finest and most generous way, to persuade me to remain as the Savilles' guest overnight. What might have happened next had I been firm in my refusal of the invitation, I cannot say. But I was too much intrigued with the possibilities of the situation to persist for long in declining to accept. If in fact I am a prisoner, it was in a willing mood that I became one.

I retired, glad for a chance to mull over in solitude the surprises of the evening. But the greatest surprise of all was yet to come. Hardly had I been left alone in my room and the door closed after the last servant, when there came a tapping, firm, light, and regular, upon the nearest window, from outside.

To say that on first hearing this sound I doubted the evidence of my own ears is not to overstate the case. The windows of this room are perhaps thirty feet above the ground, and I had not thought them readily accessible. Next it occurred to me that the noise might represent the tapping of a tree branch upon the pane, though there was something in it too purposeful for that. Meanwhile, the dogs out in the grounds were giving vent to melancholy howl-ings, between the howlings of the wind, and I felt sure that something was disturbing them. The tapping continued, and presently I opened the draperies.

I had looked out of the same window once with the servants present, before the tapping came. On that earlier occasion there was almost nothing to be seen except the darkness of the night. But I could see then, far up in the adjoining wing of the great house, how a single, melancholy light burned in a high, narrow, shuttered casement. I felt sure at once that Frankenstein was working there, having taken his leave of the rest of us not to sleep but to return to the high and lonely thoughts that must engage him as he labors. The sincerity of the man had impressed me more than anything else during our conversations, though when they took place I still had not the proof of his success that awaited me the second time I went to my window. And an intense sense of his isolation had come over me when I first beheld his remote light—surely, I thought, he is more alone there in that high room than it would seem possible for a human being to be, this close to the swarming throngs of London.

During dinner and immediately afterward, Mrs. Saville had continued, as I say, what had seemed up to then to be only a mild flirtation with me. And one of the younger maids had looked at me several times, as I thought, with a certain meaning. I confess that a quiet tapping at my door should not have been a tremendous surprise. But to hear that same sound, at the window…

When I looked out for the second time, in incredulous response to such a summons, I beheld to my astonishment a giant figure, its face muffled in a cloak against the wind and freezing rain, crouching there on what looked like an impossibly narrow ledge. With some half-formed idea that this could only be some secret courier, perhaps from you, bearing some message of vast importance that would justify such risks, I opened the window at once. I think that sheer concern for the man's survival, as I beheld him clinging in that perilous position, was also a motive for my action.

He kept his face muffled as he crossed the sill into the room; only his dark, piercing eyes were clearly visible. But I think that from the moment he stood erect, unfolding his great height, the truth of who he must be unfolded itself to me.

It was he who spoke first. "You are the son of Benjamin Franklin," he declared, looking down from his great height and speaking in a deep voice. "And, as such, you need fear no harm from me."

"And you," I replied—bravely enough, I trust, before this awesome being—"are the nameless person of the book."

He took my meaning instantly. "If by 'book' you mean that most malign and perfidious publication, the supposed letters of the sea-captain to his sister, then I am indeed the person most slandered and defamed in it. If you have read it, then you must fear me."

"I have read it. But it contains so much that I do not believe, that I think I would fear you more if it gave you a good character."

My visitor laughed, a surprising, very human, yet almost frightening sound. "Then bless you for an intelligent man. Your apprehensions of me, if you have any such, are needless. Your father has been my friend, and my enemies are also yours, and his." Saying this, he reached to close the window behind him, shutting out the blasting wind and cold.

We moved a little closer to the fire, toward which he stretched out a pair of enormous hands. "But," I demanded, "how can you possibly know who I am?"

The giant nodded toward the window where he had come in. "Since yesterday I have been out there, in the grounds. Last night, and again tonight, I have prowled for hours around the house, from window to window and from door to door, trying to plan what my next course of action ought to be."

"I heard the dogs tonight," I remarked. "I thought that they were after something."

"The dogs are frightened of me, and do not interfere. The humans—except for you now—do not yet know that I am here."

"You are living out of doors?"

"I have found shelter of a kind. And what to you is the fierce blast of winter, is to me little more than a chill breeze. I have survived the Arctic storm, and the Atlantic gale. Still I confess that at the moment this fire is welcome." He had opened his cloak partially to the warmth, and, in doing this, had loosed the muffling fold across his face. A moment later the cloth fell completely back. Having read the book, I was forewarned, and made no sudden cry or motion. Still—as you must know if the meeting between you did take place—the book, in its description of his personal appearance, is nearly accurate.

"And are you aware," I asked my caller, "that your creator is here too?"

"I have known that for some hours. I looked in at your dining table tonight, from outside, and became a silent and unseen member of your party. The ivy and the decorations on the outside walls offer enough in the way of handholds and footholds to allow me to explore virtually the entire exterior of the house.

"My astonishment was very great when I beheld him alive, entering the room where you were. And yet, on reflection, I am not tremendously surprised.

I had thought Frankenstein dead because of the circumstances under which I last saw him, in the Arctic; yet it is greatly to Saville's interest, and Walton's, or they believe it is, that he should survive, and labor for them."

"What were those circumstances, then?" I asked. "The book says—"

"The book lies," he rejoined calmly. "In that scene as in much else. I fled from the vicinity of the ship under a hail of bullets, Saville having lost his temper totally at last, and decided that I must be taken, dead or wounded, even fatally so, after his repeated efforts to take me alive had all come to nothing. I headed into the north, resolved to shake off my tormentors finally or to lead them to their destruction if they still persisted in the chase. Frankenstein, who had endeavored again to save me, had been struck down on the deck, and as I thought murdered. Now he is here, and I suppose has been convinced that what happened on the ship was my fault too, or a mere accident."

"After dinner," I said, "Frankenstein spoke to me alone."

"Ah. When you walked in the conservatory."

"Precisely."

"I saw you, but could not hear what was said there between you."

"He said that he was a mere prisoner here now. He urged me not to help our hosts, and to keep you out of their control, to such an extent as that might lie in my power. The trouble, I suspect, is that I have now become a prisoner too."

"No doubt you have." The creature stood regarding me, but said nothing more for a moment;

I received the impression that he was uncertain in his own mind as to what his attitude ought to be toward the man who had created him. "Then he has changed his mind yet again." He murmured the last words without surprise.

"You have not yet told me," I persisted, "how you know who I am."

My visitor shrugged enormous shoulders. "I have said that I could hear much of what you said around the table during dinner—I heard enough to be certain of your identity.

"And what will you do now?"

"Take vengeance, upon Saville, and Walton—is there a man named Small here in the house? He is small indeed, ill-favored, and dangerous, though he prides himself upon his attractiveness to women. I have not seen him here."

"Nor I, anyone matching that description."

"—upon them for attempting to steal from me what miserable measure of a life I had. For treating me as their property, by right of conquest or discovery, to be disposed of as they choose. For killing…" Here he fell silent, staring once more into the fire.

"And Frankenstein?"

"He too should be punished, for letting himself be ruled by those… but it was he who gave me life." Again my visitor shrugged massive shoulders. "Perhaps I cannot bring myself to punish him."

"My father has been very curious about that. The bringing-to-life, I mean. How it was accomplished."

"Ah. He must ask Victor, then. I know but little more about it now than when I last spoke to your father. But I should be greatly interested to hear any explanation that Doctor Franklin can conceive."

We talked for a time of the more abstruse points of electrical science; or at least my new acquaintance talked on that subject, and I endeavored to understand. His knowledge surpasses mine enormously, but then I am sure that mine does not begin to approach yours, either. His discourse on the subject, embodying what I gather are some new ideas, may be quite intelligible to you.

My new acquaintance—I find I can no longer bring myself to write "the creature," and I scarcely know what other term to use—has said that he too has observed the light from that high window, protected by iron bars, that must show where Frankenstein's new laboratory has been established. We had just touched upon this subject when suddenly he announced a decision to go there, to confront his creator once more if he could, even though the laboratory windows are so elevated and guarded by barriers that it seems impossible for anyone to reach them from the outside. He said that he would infallibly return to my room, whatever befell with regard to the final confrontation that he sought; and would then take counsel with me, and try to help me, before he acted on his decision to seek revenge upon Saville and the others.

I am now, as I write, awaiting his return.

If his decision as to what he wants to do next strikes me as at all reasonable, I am ready to act in concert with him. I have no qualms about acting boldly against Saville, who is, I am sure, prepared to hold me a prisoner here against my will, which implies that he is also ready to do even worse. He is, besides, my political enemy and yours—and the enemy of our new country.

Later_My new friend has returned, through the window as before, to watch me pen these remaining lines. He says that the approach to Frankenstein's laboratory proved at last too difficult for him, and that we are to make our plans and act without consideration of the scientist. But he was gone for a long time, and I wonder. Meanwhile, I will seal this message, and hand it over for delivery to one who can, with little difficulty, pass the high walls and fences that make a prison and a fortress of this estate. This message will be added, he says, to a pile of letters that are already awaiting sending at the gatekeeper's lodge—and I have no reason to doubt what he says.

He will return from that errand well before morning, he says, and we shall then make our plans.

Your Affectionate Son,

Benjamin Freeman