Frankenstein's Bride (16 page)

“By this time Mr. Mortimer and his nameless companion
had become much alarmed. It is one thing to witness a demonstration
where a man mimics animals or a lady holds her arm
above her head without apparent pain or discomfort for five
minutes: it is another to see a young woman mesmerized and
brought to the portals of the madhouse. And this was, alas, what
I had brought about.

“The young nobleman, for so I judged him to be, stood there,
mouth agape, half-horrified and half-fascinated, and there was
that in his manner which unhappily reminded me of a visitor in
a brothel, a man watching a display in a whorehouse. Mortimer,
a man of some sense, whatever his moral character, acted to stop
the matter, though misguidedly, and rushed forward, attempting
to lay hands on Miss Clementi, crying as he did so, ‘Maria!
Maria! Wake up, for God's sake!'

“I, still having hold of Miss Clementi's shoulders, shook my
head violently and hissed at him, ‘No—let me do this. You may
harm her.' Whereupon he retreated a pace and I roused Miss
Clementi with one calm order that she should awake and forget
all that had occurred during her trance condition. She ceased to
sing, opened her eyes and gazed quite calmly at all of us, seeming
unaware of what had taken place during the preceding minutes.
Then she rose to her feet, looked round at our astonished faces
and left the room with a graceful tread. With difficulty I prevented
Mortimer and his friend from following. I rang for a servant
and sent her to her mistress, whom she reported, only
minutes later, to be lying on her bed fully dressed but for her
shoes, in a profound sleep.

“ ‘But will she speak when she wakes?' was Mortimer's urgent
question. I could not know and told him this. I warned him not
to inform her of what had befallen her while in her trance, for I
feared to recall to her conscious mind that which had so disturbed
her.

“Since that afternoon I have met with Mortimer, who tells me
that when Miss Clementi awoke from her sleep some hours later
and in time for her evening's performance, she was mute as ever.
Mortimer had obeyed my instructions and told her little of what
had passed that afternoon though she had been curious, inasmuch
as she was able to express that curiosity. Miss Clementi, he told me,
wished to proceed with the attempt to regain or restore her powers
of speech. I responded by saying I was most reluctant to try
again soon, particularly, I stressed to him, in the undesirable
atmosphere he and his friend had created on the previous occasion.
Emphatically, I told him, it had been obvious to me, as it
must have been to him, that Miss Clementi was able to speak, for
she had done so when she cried out ‘Fire! I'm burning!' in such a
harrowing manner.

“But I told him I considered her affliction to be such as I
had met before, though seldom, where my subject appeared to be
obeying unheard orders to behave in a particular manner. I told
Mortimer I had caused cripples to walk and stammerers to cease
stammering. But always my impression had been that the condition
was imposed on the sufferer by orders given to that individual
by himself which he dared not disobey until in a
mesmeric trance, when I countermanded the order he had given
to himself. Did Mortimer, I asked, know of Miss Clementi's
having been in a fire where she lost those she loved—had per
haps not raised the alarm in time, and therefore sentenced herself
to perpetual silence?

“Mortimer said he knew nothing of such an event and, to put
it bluntly, seemed to dismiss all I said as rubbish. His proposition
was that while mesmerized some imaginings of Miss Clementi's
had been released and that they were not to be taken seriously.
The important thing, he claimed, was that while under my influence
she had spoken, and therefore the sooner she and I met again
to continue the work, the better. He had no doubt that in a week
or two she would speak. told him that, while under mesmeric
power subjects were not dreaming, as he seemed to imagine, but
were less given to fancy and imagination than most of us are in
our day-to-day lives.

“He ignored everything I said; there was no reasoning with
him. I believe he is partly altruistic in wishing to get Miss
Clementi to speak, but it cannot be ignored that he sees profit
ahead not only for the lady but more for himself if she could take
speaking pans. I have told him bluntly that I hesitate to proceed,
fearing for Miss Clementi's sanity, as much as anything else—and
certainly would not contemplate seeing her in the pothouse
atmosphere he and his friend had created on the previous occasion.
Were I to attempt again, I told him, I would need the support
of a doctor and some respectable female friend of Miss
Clementi's. Her reaction, I told him, had been as unusual and as
horrifying as anything I had seen in thirty years and I would not
answer for the consequences if some reckless and ill-thought-out
attempt to restore her voice were made.

“I confess to you, Mr. Goodall, that only these considerations
prevent my recommencing the work immediately. For I am
immensely curious about the case of Miss Clementi, which might
advance our knowledge of mesmerism considerably. But science
has its responsibilities. A man yearning to learn more of medicine
may dissect a hundred corpses without harming any living
thing and the results of his dissections may be beneficial to
future generations. But where the subject is alive a man in pursuit
of knowledge must take his responsibilities seriously.
Knowledge must not be gained at the expense of the health and
happiness of another—yet, alas, Mr. Goodall, a man will always
be tempted—always.

“To conclude, I parted on bad terms with Mortimer. He wrote
me an hour later, full of apologies, and since then I have received
a letter daily from him, urging me to visit Miss Clementi again
and use my powers of mesmerism on her. He has offered me a
large sum of money, which I have refused. He is now recruiting
others to his cause and I fear the pressures on me will mount.

“In short, my dear Mr. Goodall, I appeal to you to favor me
with your thoughts and advice about what should be done. Miss
Clementi has no family and appears to have no true friends about
her, though there are many, I think, who wish to exploit her. Can
you help or can you direct me to someone else who might provide
me with guidance? I keenly await your reply.”

I cursed as I put down the letter. Yet even as I cursed, I wondered what should I do? I was tempted to go to London, from
a curiosity I knew I should restrain and because, I argued, it was I who had set this affair in motion, therefore I owed it
to myself to see it through. In my mind's eye I saw Maria writhing in her chair, afflicted by visions, even the very sensation
of fire. But, great gods!—what would my family think? I had come here with my bride-to-be and would be abandoning her after
less than a week. What would Cordelia think of me for leaving her with my family, whom she had only just met, to go off to
London and involve myself again in this murky affair? No, I declared to myself, I could not go, would not go, did not wish
to go. I would write a judicious letter to Wheeler that very night. I would not go to London.

With that thought I left the room rapidly and found my groom back in the stable yard, walking my horse up and down. I got
up on my good old Rodney and off I went.

A good gallop across open fields chasing the sound of the hunting horn blew away thoughts of Wheeler's letter. Soon I was
up to the infantry, then caught up with the riders, passing Flora, spurring on her little mount, with Cordelia riding soberly
beside her. Galloping on over a little rise, I found the hunt streaming across a vast ploughed field under a sky of clear
pale blue. Ahead of them, plunging for the cover of a hedge, I detected the darting fox.

We crossed another field and headed at a gallop through our own coalfields, the horses' hooves drumming on the hard-packed
earth as we passed the winches carrying swaying buckets to the surface, a group of black-faced men, a small group of drably
dressed women sorting coal in vast troughs. Once through these two acres of blackened earth and puddles we were back in fields
and it was in a copse at the end of one that the hounds finally caught up with our quarry and it was over. But no sooner had
we clustered round the kill than some of the dogs caught another scent and we were off again, over hill and dale. We killed
twice that day and would have gone on, but then down came the rain, drenching horses, men and hounds and the scent, too; so
we turned for home, well satisfied, arriving weary, soaked, but in excellent heart.

Later, by the drawing-room fire we sat comfortable again. My sisters, Cordelia and Mrs. Frazer were sewing for dear life:
there was to be a ball at a neighbor's house in three days' time, so that many hems were being raised and lowered, ribbons
being replaced and necklaces rethreaded. My father was in his study, though Arabella's betrothed was with us, handing thimbles
and the like. I sat to one side, watching the rain pour down over the window panes and over the flat landscape, and began
to think anew of Wheeler's letter.

Cordelia might have read those thoughts for she raised her head from her sewing and asked. “What was the burden of this morning's
letter to you, Jonathan?”

“It was from Mr. Wheeler, the mesmerist,” I responded. This caused much interest, of course. On the way down from London Cordelia,
Mrs. Frazer and I had agreed to spare the Kittering folk as much as possible of the horrid story of Frankenstein, though the
news of his attack, so shortly after the murder of his wife and child, was of course known. Now I told the company, “Miss
Maria Clementi, the singer, whom you may know is able to sing but is otherwise completely mute, was present at the time of
the attack on my friend Victor Frankenstein. Many doctors have tried to restore her power of speech and failed, so as a last
resort it was thought a mesmerist should be asked if he could help her. Thus she might be able to tell us what she saw when
Mr. Frankenstein was attacked.”

“Dangerous games,” Dudley Hight observed from his chair-predictably, perhaps. Stout-hearted squire that he was, he was more
concerned with his land and the doings in the locality than the strange affairs of the city.

“Well, then,” said Cordelia. “Did he report on a meeting between himself and Miss Clementi? What was the outcome?”

I left the window and went to sit with the party by the fire. I was not altogether happy about speaking. Flora was among us,
frowning over her cross-stitch, and I am not one who thinks it a duty to present children with unpleasant facts at an early
age in order to harden them. I had decided earlier not to go to London but to write instead to Wheeler. Yet I now began to
recognize I was tempted as a man recognizes he has a sickness in the blood.

I said only, “The outcome was not a good one. Wheeler believes he will make no further attempts to discover Miss Clementi's
voice,” and that, in spite of many curious questions, was all I said.

That night I wrote to Wheeler advising him to visit Maria no more. I would see him, I said, when I came next to London.

The rain poured down next day and the next, but the morning after that dawned fresh and blue. In the evening there would be
a ball at a neighbor's to which even I looked forward. I rose early and was about to set out to our coalfields for an early
interview with the overseer there when a maid came with a letter into the stable yard, where I was waiting for my horse to
be saddled. With sinking heart I recognized that flourishing, ornate hand and the pale blue ink. I had resisted going to London.
What fresh horrors had Wheeler to impart from a distance? Any faint hope I had that the news might be reassuring was destroyed
as soon as I read the opening sentences:

“Mr. Goodall—I expect you will by now have received my last letter
in which I told you I feared to go further with Miss Clementi.
I mentioned also that I had warned Mr. Mortimer it might be
dangerous to do so, but, alas, far from heeding my advice he has
ignored it completely and has embarked on a course which alarms
me greatly. Events move fast. I need your advice and, perhaps,
practical help in the matter.

“Mr. Mortimer and his associate, the young man of whom I
told you—it appears he is Mr. John Nottcutt, nephew of the Duke
of North Shields (and the biggest libertine at large, in my opinion
and that of many others)—have hatched a plot together. They
have arranged for March 4th a demonstration of mesmerism with
Miss Clementi at the Royal Society in front of a host of invited
dignitaries, both scientists and other notables. I have said over
and over I dread going on with Miss Clementi without good safeguards.
Now—imagine my horror of proceeding without such
safeguards and before a large audience of people.

“You might say, Mr. Goodall—then Wheeler, do not do so. But
consider my position as sympathetically as you can, I beg you. I
am a man without means other than what I can earn by my powers.
I depend on the favor of others. Mr. Nottcutt is the eldest son
of the brother of a Duke. The Duke himself is in poor health. If I
refuse I run the risk of earning the enmity of the future head of
one of the most powerful families in the land (and Mr. Nottcutt,
let us be clear, is not one to take lightly the smallest slight). I live
by the patronage of such men. I fear to offend them, I much need
now the counsel and perhaps the support of a gentleman such as
yourself, more able than I am to engage with Mr. Nottcutt on
equal terms, more capable, to put it bluntly, of taking the force of
his wrath and weathering it.