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 And, presently, when our hostess had pleaded an urgent need to confer with the servants and had temporarily withdrawn from among the stunted orange trees, I had my chance, at least for a moment, to talk alone with Frankenstein.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.