As for M. Waldman, the speech I have heard him deliver to a group of beginning chemistry students was but little different, I think, from one that is recorded in the Walton papers:
The ancient teachers of this science promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transformed, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem made only to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.
Stirring words, but I think that the old man's heart is no longer in them when he delivers his set speech of inspiration to each new crop of students. Something, I think, has happened to discourage him.
And I do not think that any philosopher has yet ascended very far into the heavens, nor begun to command the thunders thereof; but you, Father, are more advanced in these matters than I, and must correct me if I am wrong.
My talks with both professors again today confirmed the difference in their views of Frankenstein and his experiments. Waldman still has almost reverent feelings toward his former student, whom he considers a great genius; nor does he believe that the terrible events that followed, in Geneva and perhaps elsewhere, were Frankenstein's fault. But Waldman persists in his reluctance to speak of the subject, and only my repeated mention of your interest induced him to say as much to me as he did.
Later—a small flirtation with a maidservant here in Frau Bauer's house has enabled me to take another look at certain parts of the establishment where the good landlady does not wish anyone to trespass. I am perfectly sure now that the little room at the top was Frankenstein's laboratory, and that secret, or at least inconspicuous, access to it is perfectly possible by means of the stair at the rear of the house and the alley behind it.
And you will be pleased to know, Father—I may have mentioned it before—that the iron points of your most famed invention are in use here, as I suppose they are in every more or less civilized region of the globe. This house wears two of them upon its uppermost extremities; yet I can see where it has sustained some damage, almost certainly from lightning, upon a chimney near the high room in which the experiments took place. Perhaps the young philosopher who used these rooms, in his eagerness to sample the electric fluid from the clouds, took liberties with the arrangement of conducting rods to the detriment of the good Frau Bauer's property.
I continue to pursue my inquiries as best I can. Failing to receive any Instructions to the contrary from you within the next fortnight, I purpose to travel on to Geneva, there to investigate the next chapter in the story.
Yr Obdt Son
Benjamin Freeman
P.S. I shall not forget to look further into the matter of "Saville" before I go.
Chapter 7
November 9, 1782—
I have arrived at long last in Montreal. The final days of my journey were accomplished over the surface of a river covered with several feet of ice, upon which snow of equal thickness has already fallen. More snow is descending now. If I have not outraced the winter to this latitude, I have at any rate survived it in the wilderness.
I have already visited the house of Father Jacques' ecclesiastical superiors. I cannot say that they were particularly saddened to hear that he was dead_more annoyed, as if it might cause some inconvenience to their plans. I wonder how warm my friend's welcome would in fact have been, had he survived to meet them. When I told them of his fate, they at first gave the impression that they half suspected me of murdering their fellow priest_though they did not venture to indicate why I should have done so and then come to them to report his death.
Then one of them took pity on me, so far as to make a half-hearted offer of some menial employment—a form of charity, of course—but I declined with what I believe was dignity. My would-be benefactor appeared to be surprised and insulted by my adopting such an attitude. I realize that I am proud sometimes, and I wonder why. My position in the world is certainly unique, anomalous: I am neither peasant nor lord, commoner nor king, slave nor nobleman. I am only what the world takes me for. And so far, with a few exceptions, it has taken me for nothing but a nightmare.
I can sense already that in America all these and other categories into which human beings are arranged count for far less than they do in the Old World. Perhaps I am, like Franklin, an American, in spirit if not by birth.
However that may be, I am not sheltering tonight in the establishment of the haughty priests—Oratorians, I think they are—but under the solid stable roof of someone else, who does not know that I am here. Naturally I am all but penniless, and expect to go hungry if I do not find work tomorrow. But I am told, and can well believe, that sturdy fellows are everywhere in demand for clearing snow. And I certainly fit that category, if no other.
During my several passages today through the streets of Montreal, folk gaped at me, even as others have done, in the past, in Europe. None today were bold enough to say the words aloud: Behold the hideous giant!—but I am inured to that reaction now, whether it is silent or outspoken. And I have learned that humans, or some of them at least, are capable of better things.
Despite the reactions of the crowd, it is obvious that the city—any city, European or American, and the bigger the better—is a more congenial place for me than any but the most exceptional village or farm would be. A city is accustomed to the odd. Today there were heads turning to look after me, and there was some laughter, and some uneasiness. But no one screamed and fled at my approach, or took it to be his duty to fire a gun at me.
November 10_As I expected, I experienced little difficulty this morning in finding work as a laborer, and earning the few coins needed for bread and soup and a place to lie in comparative warmth. My giant's frame promises such a capacity for work that employers are ready to ignore my face. I have also been lucky enough to come into the possession of a few used garments that fit me not too ill. I rest tonight above a stable, where I share a loft with several of my fellow-laborers. They have generously given me half of the considerable space all to myself; no doubt at this moment they are curious as to what I am writing, but I doubt that any of them will develop the courage to ask.
Should they ever have the chance to read what I intend to set down tonight, they will find their courage tested.
After that first encounter with the resurrectionists, the gentlemen and I remained for several months in London. During all this time I lived ashore, simple lodgings having been provided for me in a dockside warehouse now owned by Saville. This building provided a place where he and Walton, as men concerned in maritime trade, could reasonably maintain an office and greet callers who came to them on business. It was a huge, rambling, brick structure, and with its many rooms suited our purposes admirably. My quarters, naturally, were neither spacious nor very comfortable, yet still they offered a vast improvement over what I had been forced to endure aboard the ship. And no attempt was made to confine me to my quarters closely; each of the gentlemen had many other concerns to keep him occupied, and I suppose each of them assumed that the others generally had me in charge.