And so were mine, dear Sir, I assure you, when I first glanced over this horrific record. But then I soon grew doubtful.
Fortunately for our purposes—and no doubt for Frankenstein's as well—Frau Bauer is somewhat deaf, and suffers a stiffness in the joints that makes her unable to climb to the small topmost room within her tall old house. She is a touch nearsighted too, I think. The small handful of other lodgers are as elderly and harmless as herself. So it is perhaps possible that such researchers as those described by Frankenstein could have been carried out inside her house without her knowing it. I ought to mention that the house, and the rear stairway, are easily accessible from an alleyway in the rear. For Big Karl or anyone else to come and go unseen by night would have been perfectly easy.
The job of "filthy creation," according to Walton's quotation of Frankenstein, took him at least an entire year.
It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was al-ready one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a conclusive motion agitated its limbs.
But success, so long sought and long delayed, brought only "horror and disgust" to the experimenter.
Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued for a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on my bed in my clothes…
And slept. But not for long.
I started from my sleep with horror… a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window—shutters, I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs.
And out of doors, where he spent the night, as he says, "catching and fearing each sound" in terror of "the approach of the demoniacal corpse" to which he had given life.
Strange behavior, Sir, I think, for a man who brags of being utterly free of all superstitious terror.
In the morning Frankenstein, accompanied by a friend of his named Henry Clerval (who is now, unfortunately, also reported dead) re-entered the house and ascended to the upper rooms. The creature, to Frankenstein's joy and amazement, had completely disappeared. Clerval, who had no idea of what sort of experiments had been going on, or of their result, was "frightened and astonished" to see how the philosopher in his relief "jumped over the chairs," clapped his hands, and laughed aloud.
Frankenstein then very promptly—on the same day—fell ill, with an acute attack of brain fever, from which it took him months to recover. During these months no appearances of the "monster" are recorded anywhere.
Frau Bauer says she remembers no such extended period of illness afflicting her lodger. She does, I think, remember the night of the experiment, almost three years ago—some peculiarity then occurred—it is hard to get her to say anything that might allow me to deduce what it was. But according to her, only a few days after that night, Victor Frankenstein, appearing agitated but healthy, left her house and the town, never to return. The university records support this. Frau Bauer says she thought the young man was going back to his home in Geneva.
I fear, Sir, that this epistle has already grown far too long, and I am uncertain whether you, having read this far in it, may not already have concluded that the information that prompted you to write me was mistaken, this whole matter is all silliness, and that neither of us should waste more time upon it. That is—I am almost sure—my own opinion. It would be so without qualification, were it not for the grimly silent attitudes of some of the people here. There is a certain looking over the shoulder that I detect—though it is hard to put one's finger on—and what might be a tremulous secret listening.
I fear that I am not conveying my impressions well. They are that something quite out of the ordinary happened here three years ago, something startling which has not yet become common knowledge. And I am quite sure that the truth of it has not yet been told, in Walton's pamphlet or anywhere else.
Yr Obdt Srvt
Benjamin Freeman
LETTER 2
November 3,1782
My esteemed Parent—
My life here at the university, or rather on its fringes, goes on apace. Most of the folk whom I encounter in Ingolstadt, I am sure, take it for granted that I am but another student—I am only a handful of years older than most of those in attendance. Still I flatter myself that were I to put on a solemn mien, I could convince many that I am a youngish master.
To my American eyes and ears this university is something of a strange place, filled with rumors of a secret society called Illuminaries, or Illuminists, and including in the student body, as it does, a number of young men whose favorite recreation, beyond drinking beer and wenching, seems to be duelling one another with swords.
And, perhaps rather more to our present purpose, there is the medical school.
I have learned that a certain medical student, enrolled here until four years ago, was named Saville—it is of course to a Mrs. Saville, in London, that the Walton letters are supposedly addressed. Whether this coincidence of names be more than a mere result of chance, is certainly one of the questions that ought to be answered in the course of my investigation. Quite possibly, if there is a real Mrs. Saville in London, it was she who arranged for their widespread publication.
The story here is that the student Saville, having attained the age of five-and-twenty years, came into a very considerable inheritance. At about that time he ceased to be a student, the former circumstance no doubt contributing materially to the latter. However, he continued in residence in Ingolstadt for some time, probably a month or two, after ceasing to attend the university. Alas, the well-to-do Ingolstadt Saville is no longer here, though in his case I have heard no report of death.
M. Krempe has been kind enough to let me audit one or two of his classes, and I am coming to think that his tirade against Frankenstein should not be taken too seriously. While I was in his presence the good professor delivered at least two more similar outbursts, one against lazy students In general, and the other targeted (sorry, Father, I know you dislike the cobbling of good nouns into verbs; perhaps it is my recent efforts to speak German that derange my English) against some unnamed colleagues on the faculty, for precisely what crime I am not sure.
I do have the feeling, however, that the professor's feelings against Frankenstein are especially bitter, as if there had been at one time some real affection, now betrayed.