In 1781 my visit to the venerable American renewed my courage and determination, even if it did not provide me with the answers that I sought. Simply to reach Paris, and Franklin, had required a considerable pilgrimage. To rehearse all the stages by which I progressed from the Irish coast to the middle of France would form a long and tedious tale, which under the present conditions I do not feel like trying to set down.
I do thank all the Fates who have me in their hands that so far, at least, I do not seem in the least subject to seasickness. Did my brain once know a sailor's art? And did my stomach, proof now against the elements, once digest the last meal of some hanged pirate? Oh my creator, why would you never tell me anything of these matters? Why did I not, years ago, take you by the throat and force you into speech?
The first communications to pass between myself and Franklin were written, and earlier attempts were doubtless discarded by his servants before he ever saw them. In any event, several were necessary before I could persuade a member of his household staff at Passy to pass my messages directly to the great man. Franklin enjoys a large house there, a private headquarters provided for him by the French while he remains the real ambassador of their American allies. Had it not been for the fact that a great many important communications must come to him in such clandestine fashion as I sent mine, and that his whole staff must be somewhat attuned to this method of conducting business, I might never have succeeded.
That first interview was difficult to arrange, but in the end my promise of inside information about the experiments of Frankenstein proved irresistible. I had warned my host in advance of my unusual appearance, though I thought it best to withhold any extraordinary explanation until he should be able to see me for himself.
At the beginning of our meeting he had two bodyguards with him in the room, well-armed and determined-looking men, who, Franklin told me, did not understand English; but when we had been talking for a quarter of an hour he dismissed the bodyguards, and became cordial, offering me wine and brandy.
Franklin began the private portion of our interview by saying: "Your story, Sir, is the most remarkable that I have ever heard—nay, let me amend that. The most remarkable which I believe on hearing to be substantially the truth."
"What I have told you is all the truth, Mr. Franklin. As nearly as I can remember it and tell it."
"Aye, I have said I believe you. The truth, as you have experienced it. But at the very least there must be more." Chubby, wheezing, old, but at the moment apparently healthy, he sat in his chair exuding an air of discontent brought on by my story.
"Yes sir, I am sure there is more. It was my hope in coming to you that you might help me to discover what it is. And, of course, that you might do something for my creator."
He shook his head. "I might—I might, I say—be able to exert some influence, to the effect of ameliorating the condition of this man you regard as your creator. But the results, if any, will be slowly produced, and indirect. And as for his trial, I fear my influence upon Irish justice will be negligible."
I shrugged. I felt exceedingly weary, but at the same time as if relieved of a burden. "I have done all I can for him, then."
We drank our wine, and talked. About science and philosophy, electricity and life. Many things. We were to meet again, but events intervened, in the form of Saville's agents, and I was forced to flee from Paris. But Franklin is a remarkable old man—or was. I hope that he is still alive.
This gale has not yet quite decided to drown us all. It seems we must await its pleasure.
LETTER 4
December 11,1782
Dear Sir & Parent—
In accordance with your instruction, I am departing Geneva by the next post, and will make all reasonable speed to London. If the Channel crossing can be managed under the usual winter & wartime conditions, another fortnight should see me safely ensconced there, at the lodging and under the name by which you are accustomed to communicate with me when I am in those parts. As for the danger in my returning to England, that I should be exposed as a Rebel agent, I think that is now all but completely past. It is my impression that very little interest is taken in such creatures anymore. As you know very well, being yourself in the very midst of the negotiations, to these people the war has been all but dead since Cornwallis laid down his arms.
Since my last communication to you, a message has reached me here in Geneva from an informant in Ingolstadt, providing some more information about the former medical student there, Saville.
His Christian name was—or is—Roger, and he was—or is—indeed an Englishman. The fact of his wealth is confirmed. At the university he was never accounted a good student, his cleverness being offset by an arrogance that rendered him objectionable to the professors, who as a rule can stomach no arrogance besides their own. With no more than that to go on, I have considerable hopes of being able to locate him. All wealthy Englishmen, as you know, are in London sooner or later. And as for Walton—can there be any English sea-captain whose face is unknown in the metropolis?
Meanwhile, as I await my transportation, allow me to offer for your consideration some further thoughts on the Walton manuscript. I wish now to consider in particular the supposed words of Victor Frankenstein, as he recounts what happened to him during his lonely sojourn to an Alpine retreat, following the deaths of William and Justine.
It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent… my heart, which before was sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed, "Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away from the joys of life."
As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing toward me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man… it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him in mortal combat… his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes.
"Devil!" I exclaimed. "Do you dare approach me?… oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims you have so diabolically murdered!"
"I expected this reception," said the demon. "All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things!…you purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine toward you and the rest of mankind. If you comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you in peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends!"
But Frankenstein was not the man to bow meekly before this threat. Feeling his rage "without bounds," and "impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another," he tried to attack the monster physically.
But the creature "easily eluded" his aggressive efforts, and kept on talking. Presently he had persuaded Frankenstein to accompany him to an isolated mountain hut, where the man sat down and listened to a long story. It is this story, supposedly in the monster's own words, that forms the bulk of the Walton relation. It gives an account of the creature's whereabouts and actions during the year and a half said to have intervened between the creation in Ingolstadt and the killing of William in Geneva. (I have discovered, remember, that the interval was only six months.)