Frankenstein's Bride (14 page)

T W E L V E

MRS. JACOBY'S FACE was very strained as she said, “You must hear what I have to say now, for tomorrow I leave Miss Clementi's
service. Would that I had gone sooner. I have stayed on with her, though, God knows, my conscience has urged me over and over
again to leave. Why did I stay? For the money, I confess. She paid me well. And because, in my vanity, I thought I did more
good than harm by staying and even—vain hope—believed I could convert her, eventually into a reasonable human being, a creature
with a heart and with a soul. But now I must tell you everything about her.”

“You are very bitter, Mrs. Jacoby,” Cordelia said. “Pray, do not say too much in the heat of your anger and disappointment
with Miss Clementi—”

“There is no heat to my anger,” Mrs. Jacoby interrupted. “Nor to my distress, nor my loathing of that abominable creature.
I am stone cold. I have been with her for years. I have seen all her doings. I have no feeling left but disgust. Maria Clementi,”
she went on, “is immoral, profoundly immoral by any normal standards, yet I believe she is actually beyond morality, if any
mortal can be. She is evil—yet I believe she does not know, she does not understand what she does. She is a savage—perhaps
even worse than a savage, for we read that savages have their society, their laws, their taboos, however strange. Maria is
secretly cruel: she steals, if she thinks she will not be caught; she is a libertine, but conceals it. She cares not what
she does, only whether she will be found out. And I—I have helped to hide what she does.”

“Mortimer is her lover?” Mrs. Downey asked calmly, as if asking the price of fish. I thought, he cannot be—that venal, shady
creature cannot be Maria's lover—but Mrs. Jacoby answered, “Yes. Of course he is. He and a hundred others. I have been with
her for five years in all the capitals of Europe and there have always been men, too many to count. Some loved her, poor creatures,
their sufferings were the worst. She did not know how she wounded them. How could she, for she cannot give or receive love?
I have seen dogs with more apparent love and loyalty. As to the rest, I cannot tell you all the terrible things she has done
and which I, for my sins, have helped her conceal.

“There was a beggar woman in Vienna, a poor woman with a child in her arms who stopped Maria nightly as she entered the opera
house asking for money. This woman Maria could not abide. She began by kicking the woman when she begged of her. But the woman
persisted. One evening, as she was entering the theatre, Maria fell on that woman—and her child—in a frenzy. She tore at the
woman's eyes and there was blood all over her face—and Maria's hands. The child fell to the ground—doctors had to be called.
Silence cost us dear. It was in Vienna too, on another occasion, when she thought the director of the theatre was favoring
another singer over her—this woman was given a song Maria thought was hers, she was put in the center of the stage where Maria
thought she should be. Perhaps the director was her lover and favoring his mistress. Maria put lime in the cream the other
actress used to clean her face. Imagine the pain and deformity with which that woman was left. Even in Dublin, where she was
first found, they told me she had killed a man among the people with whom she then lived. Perhaps she had some cause. Perhaps
he had attacked her but—oh—I have seen her close to murder so many times that I would not be sure she had any good cause to
kill the man.

“You see,” Mrs. Jacoby said, “Maria is unlike anyone in the world. She is violent, vengeful, without remorse. I have tried
to control her. I have covered up her misdeeds. But this affair with Mr. Frankenstein is the end. I knew she wanted him—but
why? Yet, as she wanted him, she had him. She is skilled at the measures of the old dance—as he moved forward, she moved back,
but only so far as to be nearly within reach. Then he moved forward again and she, with the appearance of the utmost purity
and virtue, moved away again—but only to bring him further on. She knew she must do that, for if she yielded too soon he would
value her less. And thus she hooked him and even now as he lies on what may be his deathbed she sucks the life out of him.

“I have borne enough; she has bought five years of my life at a price I should never have agreed—the price, almost, of my
soul.” She paused for a moment, the cold winter light on her drained face. She was no longer the capable woman I had first
met. “Why?” she questioned. “Why, having enticed him, does she wish to torment him? I have thought sometimes her evil ways
were the result of her upbringing, mute and defenseless among Irish tinkers, though not of them. She was untaught, used to
beg and sing for money in the streets. I had thought to help and improve her, make her more gentle in spirit, but now, after
five years, she is more ruthless and immoral than before. This refusal to leave Mr. Frankenstein's sick-bed is vile, a new
vileness, I cannot understand it. I will not bear it. I must leave.”

“But where will you go?” I asked.

“To my sister's in Chatham, today,” she told me. “She is a widow on a small pension. There will be little money and she is
an adherent of a narrow, canting sect. I expect to have their pastor with me continually exhorting me to wash in the blood
of the Lamb. It will not be a pleasant life, but better, better by far, than that with Maria Clementi. I leave you to protect
Mr. Frankenstein from her attentions.”

Cordelia then asked, “Who is she? Where did she first come from? You must have some knowledge of what made her what she is?
What of these gypsies, or tinkers?”

“It was Gabriel Mortimer who found her at the house of friends in Dublin, where they had her to sing after supper. She had
been singing and begging in the street for some time before that, and due to the sweetness of her voice and her beauty it
came to be the habit of some of the better families to hire her to perform for them in the evenings after supper. The beautiful
gypsy, they called her. At that time she was in the charge of a dirty old woman who controlled her comings and goings and
I'm sure took her wages from her when she was paid. That woman may have been a tinkerwoman or have bought her from tinkers.
Anyhow neglect and cruelty must have been Maria's portion. Sometimes she screams aloud at night, as I confided to you, Mr.
Goodall. Sometimes she will sit and stare with clouded eyes as if recollecting some scene from the past. But because she cannot
speak she is locked away from ordinary discourse with others, as a prisoner is locked away, and for that reason I believe
she lives much in the past, even as a prisoner will. For that I pity her. But for nothing else.

“I came into her employment as a result of Mr. Mortimer's visit to some members of my husband's family in Merrion Square.
I was staying with them and had become used to the occasional visits of Maria, who was brought to the house by the old woman
of whom I have spoken. Even then she had a fastidious nature, for considering her condition she was as clean as a cat, and
of course able to sing most beautifully, not just in English and French but also the old Erse songs. One could not understand
the words of them, yet listening one found oneself almost weeping. She had, you see, a facility, perhaps compensating her
for her dumbness—she could learn any piece of music after hearing it only once.

“Then we come to Gabriel Mortimer. He was visiting my brother-in-law having some business with him touching a joint share
in a trading venture in Canada—this on the verge of going wrong (Mortimer has a finger in many pies; money is his god). He
heard the girl sing and there was I, on a soldier's widow's pension, vigorous and lacking occupation—who better to act as
the girl's guide and companion when Mortimer rapidly decided to take her to London for her debut? I believe he bought her
from the old woman.

“At first all went well. She was pleased to be well housed and fed and not beaten—her body was and is badly marked by beatings.
On her arm there is a scar where she was pushed or fell into a fire as a child. She most rapidly learned the manners of those
in a better way of life, how to comport herself and to dress and to behave abroad and at table. Her progress was so rapid
I wondered if she might have been at one time locked away by a respectable family ashamed of her deficiency in speech, given
away or stolen away from her parents, unable to cry out. That might account for her aptitude in learning so quickly the niceties
of life. But it was not long before her evil ways emerged—she would steal anything and everything, always with the utmost
skill. She was cruel, wantonly needlessly cruel, as if possessed. To try to make her love something, even if she could love
no human being, I tried the experiment of getting her a little dog. She burned its body, artfully hiding the burns for as
long as she could. When I found out, the wounds had festered—Mortimer and I had to have it killed.

“And her behavior was lewd, debauched. Not two months after we reached London Mortimer was her lover—I daresay he was after
two days but I did not suspect until later. Though when I say he was her lover I do not mean there was love involved in the
affair. On his side, low as he is, there may have been some—on hers, none. She took him as an animal will, with no thought
but to satisfy her base desires. She is not, however, exclusive. Those looking for her relationships with Lord This or the
Count of That will find nothing. Thus, as well as due to my help, she retains her reputation for extraordinary purity in a
profession not given over to virtue. No—if you wish to find out where Maria Clementi disposes of her body, go to the waterfronts
of any of the capital cities of Europe, go to the stews, go into the filthiest parts of the towns—there you will find her,
with one man, or many. I will spare you more. I have said enough already before Mrs. Downey. Leave it that she is the foulest
creature who ever walked the earth.

“Mercifully, we were always moving from city to city—from Vienna to Rome, from Rome to Budapest. Had that not been the case
much trouble would have come to us. Mortimer and I, in conspiracy, by bribery and by continually moving on, were able to hide
what she did. All the while we pretended Maria was an angel—and all the while I knew I was protecting, was paid to protect,
a woman who, thwarted, prevented or annoyed in any way, reacted by attacking the source of her pain without any consideration
at all, who saw no reason not to take what she wanted, hurt whom she wished to hurt, without any remorse. I do not know how
long it is,” Mrs. Jacoby said, “since I realized I had lost all hope of influencing her for good. I know that for too long
I have eaten her bread and quenched my conscience.”

As this confession continued I wished my dear Cordelia absent. Mrs. Jacoby's tale, as she had said, was unsuitable for her
ears. However, inasmuch as I could tell what Cordelia, who listened intently, was thinking, she showed no signs of shock or
horror. She now said, “My dear Mrs. Jacoby, if what you say is true, you have been in a most unusual situation, one you could
not have prepared for, and must have had much difficulty in understanding.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Jacoby, fastening her bonnet strings and folding her mantle firmly about her, “thank you for those words.
I must now go to earn my forgiveness in Chatham and regret I shall have to leave the business of the doctor to you, for, to
be honest, I hope never to hear the names of Mr. Frankenstein and, above all, that of Maria Clementi, ever again. I go to
do my penance now, but, before I go, I warn you, if you become any further involved in this matter you may find yourselves
having to do your own penance later. This affair is damnable and may entangle the best of individuals like weed dragging them
down to the bottom.” And with that she turned abruptly, crossed the long room and went out, leaving us standing in that cold
room together.

Cordelia gazed after the departing figure, then turned to me and asked, “Jonathan? Do you believe what Mrs. Jacoby says?”

“I do not fully know,” I answered her, “but it is as well we are due in Nottingham as soon as the weather is sufficiently
improved for us to make the journey. We cannot disappoint my family, who dearly wish to meet you and I long to take you to
my home. And in that way I do what I ought, and dearly desire to do and we take Mrs. Jacoby's parting advice also. We will
be far away from London soon.”

Cordelia said, “Will you not call for Mr. Frankenstein's parents? They ought to be with him—and may manage to keep that viper
from his side. But I will see Mrs. Jacoby before she leaves.” I did not ask her what she hoped to discover by a further conversation
with the lady.

When the doctor arrived I urged him in the strongest terms to ensure Victor had nurses day and night and that Maria Clementi
was not allowed near the sick man at any time.

We had taken a carriage home and it was there that Cordelia, one small cold hand in mine, said, with some diminution of her
normal confidence, “I am afraid of all this, Jonathan, and not for fear of any madman coming to murder us. I dread further
entanglement in Mr. Frankenstein's affairs may end our joy, destroy our love.”

I laughed and called her a goose.

T H I R T E E N

THAT EVENING, we sat at our fireside. The ladies sewed and rather than dwell upon the melancholy and alarming events of that
gloomy house in Chelsea, we spoke rather of our forthcoming visit to Kittering Hall. Mrs. Frazer then recalled she had been
invited to attend a private performance by Mr. Augustus Wheeler one evening the following week at the house of a friend, a
titled Scottish lady residing in London. On account of our journey, she said, she would be obliged to tell her friend she
could not come. Cordelia said she considered this a great sacrifice.

A scientist as well as a showman, Augustus Wheeler had been causing much interest with his displays on the London stage and
in private homes over the past few months. Audiences had been delighted and horrified by his power over those members of his
audience—apparently unknown to him—who, having been subjected to his mesmeric powers, crowed like cocks, walked about the
stage on their hands, delivered long poems they claimed earlier to have forgotten and all manner of such things. Some called
Wheeler a charlatan, while others were entirely convinced by him. Others still pointed to the consultations he conducted in
private, for a fee, at which he cured people of stammering, bashfulness and, in the case of one lady, of an apparent inability
ever to leave her own front door without fainting. The newspapers debated the truth of mesmerism; clerics warned their congregations
against his displays; Wheeler was a celebrity. He was invited to great men's houses and entertained many important persons
with his displays.

Said I to Mrs. Frazer, “You would not, I hope, have offered yourself for a demonstration.”

“Good heavens, no,” she exclaimed, “I have no wish to be seen clucking like a chicken in front of half London.”

“Do you think the man a fraud?” Cordelia asked Mrs. Frazer.

“I do not know what to think,” she responded.

“What of you, Jonathan?” Cordelia asked me.

“There is much evidence to say it is true,” I answered. “Yet it violates our belief in man's free will if one man can mesmerize
another and persuade him to do things he would ordinarily eschew.”

“That is what is so frightening,” mused Cordelia. There was a silence and then it was as though we two thought as one, for,
just as Cordelia began, in a thoughtful tone, “Miss Clementi—” I myself said, “I wonder if Mr. Wheeler—” and we stared at
each other in, as the poet says, “wild surmise” and both fell silent again.

“Come, come, the pair of you,” Mrs. Frazer said. “You know you must not start sentences without finishing them.”

I said, “I believe Cordelia and I both thought at the same moment that Mr. Wheeler might be the last hope of restoring Maria
Clementi's powers of speech. She has seen many doctors and other eminent men of science, but so far none has been able to
help her. Surely it is at least possible that a man who can make a lifelong stammerer cease to stutter, as Wheeler has, and
has performed many other apparent miracles, might have some effect on Miss Clementi. Is that not so—is that not what you were
about to suggest, Cordelia?”

Cordelia nodded and Mrs. Frazer said, “Maybe so. But why do you want to do anything for that nasty creature?”

“She is the only person who may know what happened on the night Victor Frankenstein was attacked. She may have seen his assailant.
But she cannot speak and Mr. Wortley says even if they lay hands on the villain and accuse him of murder, there is a chance
the jury will pronounce him innocent, as there is insufficient evidence.”

“Surely that cannot be true,” Mrs. Frazer said. “Here is a man, half a beast, who has been haunting Mr. Frankenstein's house.
Mrs. Frankenstein has been murdered, Frankenstein himself attacked—how could they declare the man not guilty?”

“Wortley knows his juries,” said I. “He tells me they can behave most unpredictably, especially when, as in this case, there
are no other witnesses to the man's guilt.”

“If they ever find him,” Mrs. Frazer said tartly.

“If they do,” said I. “Nevertheless,” Cordelia said, “if Mr. Wheeler could assist Miss Clementi to speak, what might she not
be able to tell of the attacker?”

“I imagined I heard you say earlier we should have no more to do with the affair,” I said, pretending confusion.

“And that I most sincerely believe,” Cordelia responded. “Yet a lady may think two things at the same time and go unchallenged.
Poor Mr. Frankenstein needs any help we can give up before we leave for Nottingham.”

“Then I will speak to Mr. Wortley tomorrow,” I said. “He may consider any attempt to get evidence against the assassin worthwhile.
But then comes the matter of persuading Miss Clementi to accept the treatment. I suppose there will be no trouble with Wheeler.
He will welcome the notoriety such an attempt would bring. But to persuade Maria Clementi without the stabilizing influence
of Mrs. Jacoby—” And there was another sentence left unfinished.

I saw Wortley next day and, though initially startled by the proposition that testimony might be got from Maria by the intervention
of a mesmerist, he agreed that information from any source was better than none at all. He added that it was after all my
affair and Miss Clementi's if we chose to seek the help of Mr. Wheeler.

That afternoon Cordelia and I set off for Cheyne Walk and, on our arrival, were somewhat astonished to hear that Miss Clementi
was again upstairs with Mr. Frankenstein. Had not the doctor given explicit instructions that Miss Clementi be not allowed
in the sick-room, I demanded of the manservant? He looked at me helplessly, but did not reply.

“She has got round the nurse,” Cordelia declared in an undertone as we set off up the stairs. “I believe she must be one of
the cleverest women in England.”

Her prediction was all too true. When we reached Victor's chamber door the nurse was seated outside. Recalling the dreadful
fear on Victor's face I had seen last time Maria was with him, I lost my temper with the woman and asked her harshly had she
not heard the doctor say Miss Clementi was not to be allowed into the sick-room? What now possessed her to run against the
doctor's orders? The nurse, evidently seduced by Maria's fame and charm of person, responded with some rambling tale about
never having seen before such sweet and selfless devotion, she had heard the sick man calling for her and much rubbish of
that kind.

“Go in and ask her to come out,” I ordered.

But she would not. Happily at that moment the doctor arrived, visited Victor in his room and came out with a compliant and
sweetly smiling Maria. The nurse was discharged and Cordelia went to get a good woman of whom she knew.

“This is a most difficult situation,” the doctor told me. “There is no one here to take charge. Mr. Frankenstein's condition
is very grave.”

“I have sent for Mr. Frankenstein's parents,” I told him and then turned to Maria, still standing by, and asked if I might
have a private word with her.

She had evidently organized the household to her liking, for she led me to the little parlor which had once been Mrs. Frankenstein's
and there I found a good fire burning and, over the fireplace, a portrait of Maria herself, satined and bejewelled, as Aeneas'
jilted lover, Dido, painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence. This shocked me, though I said nothing. Instead, I explained to her, as
clearly as I could, that it might be that Mr. Augustus Wheeler, by mesmerizing her, could restore her lost powers of speech.
She appeared to understand completely, knew the name of Wheeler and charmingly mimicked his work by closing her eyes and laying
her pretty head sideways on her hands. I added it was felt she might be able to help with the investigation into Victor's
assailant, should she be able to speak. Again she smiled nodded and showed every willingness to help. Would she, I asked,
permit me to talk to Mr. Wheeler about the matter and see if he agreed with our plan? To this she agreed, indicating to me
by gestures she would not be found at Cheyne Walk but (point-ing) at Russell Square henceforth. Plainly, she had decided to
abandon Cheyne Walk and return to her own home (picture as well, I suppose).

“Very well,” said I to her, “I will find you there when I have spoken to Wheeler,” and I began to take leave of her. She was
all happiness, with the gaiety of a child and charm a woman in one. She came up to me, put her little hands on my shoulders
and lifted her face for a kiss. I kissed her brow, then stepped back quickly, for the urge to take her in my arms was almost
irresistible. I found myself beginning to mistrust the account of her given by Mrs. Jacoby, though I knew I would not confide
my doubts to Cordelia.

I returned to Gray's Inn Road where my bride-to-be awaited me. There we sat down to talk, hand in hand. Cordelia smiled at
me a little wearily. “How I yearn for all this to be over and done with and you and I married and living peacefully together,
I keeping your house, you taking care of your land and completing the work on your dictionary.”

I felt a terrible tiredness wash over me like a wave and could scarcely answer her.

Meanwhile, whether Mrs. Frazer had engagements or no, we were unable to leave London. It froze hard, snowed, then froze for
over a week. There was no question of making the journey of one hundred miles to Nottingham in such conditions. A man on horseback
would have had a very hard time of it and to journey in a carriage containing two ladies and a child would have been madness.
Beggars froze to death in their doorways, birds froze on their branches. It was a hard year when we felt spring would never
come.

I used the time to write to Augustus Wheeler at his theatre, telling him what I was sure he must know, of the mysterious muteness
of Maria Clementi and asking if he would contemplate making a last attempt to restore her powers of speech. I added he might
be aware she had been present at the time of the maniacal attack on Mr. Victor Frankenstein, and therefore might have some
information to give as to the identity of the criminal. The undertaking, I said forcibly, must be entirely private and not
used to enlarge his name.

The very next day an answer came from Mr. Wheeler, thanking me for my confidence, stating that he would be very happy to attempt
to restore Miss Clementi's voice by mesmerism and assuring me he would observe the utmost confidentiality over the experiment.
He made some references to the power of mesmerism and added that if I or Miss Clementi would care to attend what he called
“a demonstration in mesmerism” at the theatre one night he would be pleased to present us with tickets. His writing, I observed,
was flowery and ornate; the ink he used the palest blue. I guessed from this flamboyance he must be only part scientist, the
rest showman.

That settled, I sent a message to Gabriel Mortimer at Russell Square, telling him I would call on him on a matter of importance
the following afternoon, unless I heard from him earlier that he would be away from home.

Next day I went there and I was shown into a sitting-room on the first floor of the house, which overlooked the icy branches,
laden with snow, of the trees in the square outside. A bright fire burned in the room, which was charming, decorated with
pictures, delicate furniture and bright carpets. I observed the portrait of Maria as Dido on the wall opposite the fireplace.
She and her painted representation had evidently re-established themselves at Russell Square. The lady who was seated, sewing,
when I entered, put her work away and got up to greet me, both hands outstretched. Mortimer remained in his chair, legs extended
to the fire, as Maria put both soft hands in mine.

I could not convict her. I was not even sure I should. Was I to reject her on Mrs. Jacoby's words alone? Had there not been,
perhaps, a grievance between the two, resulting in Mrs. Jacoby's dismissal and her subsequent bitterness? Even the look of
fear on Victor's face as Maria sat by him—might that not be caused by pain or terror of death, rather than by the woman sitting
near him?

Nonetheless, I reflected that Gabriel Mortimer seemed more at home in this house than perhaps he ought, Maria being without
the chaperonage of Mrs. Jacoby. Yet this need not mean the pair were lovers; these were after all stage folk, made intimate
in special ways by long and arduous journeys together and all the alarms and excitements of their trade. I was not a censorious
old woman—Maria Clementi might merely be unwise not depraved. These were my thoughts at the time—I told myself what I wished
to believe.

I briefly gave my message, that Augustus Wheeler would be happy to mesmerize Miss Clementi in the hope of restoring her powers
of speech. Gabriel Mortimer, in spite of his foppish appearance—on this day he sported green velveteen trousers and a butter-colored
waistcoat, over which spread a watch-chain thick and heavy enough to rival the Lord Mayor of London's chain of office—took
my point. He stood up, went to Maria and, looking down on her, asked her earnestly if it was true she wished to try the experiment
with Wheeler. She nodded eagerly. He questioned her again, urgently, did she understand what he could do, put her to sleep,
tell her to speak, did she understand she would have no control over herself while she was in his power, that, in the end,
sadly, the attempt could fail?

She smiled, stood up, twirled round gracefully, a delighted child looking forward to a treat. She smiled at me radiantly.
Poor creature, I thought, how hard her life must have been, from her beginnings as a mute, exploited girl in Ireland to her
present existence of continual travel and performance. I compared the lot of my sisters, sheltered and protected from all
harm, with Maria's. How hard it must have been, leading such a life, to be unable to speak, to express herself, or to communicate
with others. Her existence, though filled with applause and heaps of golden guineas, lacked gentleness and solace. No wonder
she now danced, I thought, with her skirts sailing round her, her motions light and feathery, her smile full of innocent pleasure.

Seconds later she was at my chair, gazing down at me, still smiling, her great eyes with those enormously dilated pupils fixed
on mine. I felt, I confess, a surge of passion for her which I simultaneously wished to deny. It was an urge to succumb to
her to which I knew I must not yield. I greatly feared that small, light creature, frail but strong. And I knew she knew all
I was feeling—and rejoiced.