Frankenstein's Monster (14 page)

“Where is the creature now?” she asked.

For one so lean, Walton had a greedy appetite. While his one hand was still captured in Margaret’s, his other roamed over every plate, picking out the choice parts.

“An hour from here,” he said, his mouth full.

Margaret gasped. “Are we in danger?”

“No, he has fallen into a ravine and can’t escape. I’ve tried shooting him from the top. To jump down and confront him would mean my certain death, and so I wait.”

“For what?” Winterbourne asked.

“For the right plan. While I think, several men guard the ravine. I promised to pay them on my return. I’ll need money to do that, of course.”

“Of course,” Margaret whispered, grateful to contribute to her brother’s quest.

Winterbourne was irritated. To please his wife, he had already discharged the remaining debts that Walton had incurred with his failed Arctic voyage.

“After you capture this poor devil, will you turn him over to the authorities?”

“No, sir. I will kill him, as I pledged my brother I would.”

This alarmed Winterbourne, but he was not sure how to frame his objection. Instead he asked Margaret, “You have another brother?”

“He means Victor Frankenstein, his brother in spirit,” she said impatiently. “The man he rescued on the journey
to the pole, the man who was the thing’s creator. I have explained this to you many times since we’ve been married.”

“So you have. Tell me, Robert,” Winterbourne said to bait him, “how is it that the creator, who should bear the greater blame, is your friend and brother, while the creature, who had no choice in being brought to life, should be your enemy?”

I turned away as Winterbourne told this part of his story, pretending to admire one of the many statues that stood along the white graveled paths.
The creator was more responsible than the creature
. Winterbourne gave me hope that I might confide in him and find sympathetic understanding.

“What did your brother-in-law answer?” I asked.

“That his friend had had only goodness in mind when he unwittingly created pure evil. As soon as he realized it, he abandoned his life of privilege to pursue the thing, just as Walton had done, just as I would do, once
I
had seen it.” Winterbourne looked away. “I confess, Mr. Hartmann, it embarrasses me to repeat his words.”

Returning to his tale, he said that later, during the meal, Margaret cried out, “Robert, your ear!”

Walton brushed back his stringy hair and revealed that the lobe was missing.

“Sliced off in a knife fight,” he explained. “Madrid.”

“With the monster?” Margaret asked.

“Not directly. But he was behind it.”

Winterbourne at last had to admit his brother-in-law was mad. He pushed his uneaten dinner away and said, “Come, Margaret. Your brother has urgent business elsewhere.”

“I cannot leave him. Not again!”

“Your brother’s life is one of”—Winterbourne sought inoffensive words—“of constant motion. He must be free to travel at a second’s notice.”

“I have a splendid idea!” Walton said, slapping his palm
on the table. “Come with me now and see the ending yourself!”

“We will only hold you back.”

“Sir, to you I am a stranger who needs to prove himself, and to you, Margaret”—Walton’s expression twisted—“Margaret, I fear that even you have had misgivings.”

“No, never! Tell him I never doubted him, Gregory!”

“She has always believed in you.”

Both brother and sister became so agitated Winterbourne was reluctant to refuse them. He had a carriage brought round. During the ride, they sat side by side, hands clasped like children, until Walton banged on the coach ceiling for the carriage to stop.

“From here we must walk.”

By the time Winterbourne had taken the driver’s lantern, Walton and Margaret were in the woods, trampling over bushes and rocky ground. At last Walton turned and laid a finger on his lips. He covered the remaining yards alone at a silent creep. Then—

“Where are the guards?” he cried out, dismayed.

Fury overcame him. He grabbed the lantern, ran to the edge of the ravine, and hurled it down to light the blackness below. The glass shattered; sparks swam up to the sky.

“Where are you?” he screamed. Dropping to his knees, he beat at his head. “I never should have left! Why did you ask to meet me, Margaret?”

“My wife has no blame in this,” Winterbourne said sternly.

“No,” she whispered. “I never should have distracted him. He is right. I am at fault. Whatever that thing does from now on rests on my head.”

“I will not let you castigate yourself for Robert’s sake. Having caught the creature, he decided to come to Mainz anyway.”

She would not be consoled.

“I forgive you.” A tight smile thinned Walton’s lips. “See how easily that was said? And how quickly! You won’t feel the torment that I have felt. I forgive you, dear Sister.”

She pressed her fist to her mouth and wept.

The cloud in Walton’s eye lifted for a moment, and he said to Winterbourne, “Take better care of her than I have.” He fled into the woods. Margaret cried the whole journey back and for hours into the night.

After this, she daily grew more concerned about expenses. She insisted on seeing every bill, adding up their accounts over and over, poring over scraps of paper while they were at museums and at the theater. She pointed out how, if they took an extra roll at breakfast and hoarded it for lunch, they would save so much in a week. At first Winterbourne thought she regretted how much her brother’s debts had cost him. Then he realized the truth: she meant to send her brother the savings in order to help him in his quest. Only when the creature was dead and her brother back at her side would her guilt be expiated.

“I sent Robert money monthly after that, for her sake,” Winterbourne added. “He never acknowledges it. He thinks it’s his due. Since we met, his mind has greatly deteriorated. He was mad, yet he spoke with a madman’s logic. His few letters over the years show that even that small measure of logic has disappeared.”

Winterbourne sat on one of the stone benches set along the graveled paths. Whether from cold or restlessness, he leapt up in a moment.

“My poor wife … she was most amiable and affectionate when I first met her, Mr. Hartmann. You would not know her as the same woman. Even though she had just suffered the loss of her husband, Mr. Saville, she was strong willed and did not trouble others with displays of sorrow and tears.
Then, just shortly after our wedding, she no longer seemed to be … herself … although we had married so quickly that I cannot really say what her true self was. Perhaps I should not have married her so hastily. She wanted to marry; she did not want to wait. But perhaps all of this was set loose because she did not let herself grieve long enough for Mr. Saville.”

Winterbourne had begun to pace during his last words, then abruptly set off down one of the paths. I said nothing as I walked at his side, waiting to hear if he would say more. Finally, sighing, he did: “No matter what the cause, my poor wife changed, bit by bit. At first, it seemed like nothing, like pulling a single thread off a jacket, and another—but the next unexpectedly unravels and the jacket begins to fray. Then she reunited with her brother. It was no longer threads unraveling, but someone taking scissors to the same jacket. Never could I have predicted the swiftness or the sharpness of her transformation. I finally had to admit that there would be no reversal in her health.

“I have reconciled myself to our life together, but I cannot reconcile myself to the same life for Lily. As a result, I find myself doing things like promising her the costume ball—even though it cost Margaret endless worry. The poor woman repeatedly asked, Why must it be a masked ball? Costumes are only an added expense. Why must there be eight musicians? Would not four or perhaps three make as loud a noise? And why did some guests have to stay two, three, four nights? That stole extra food from the larder. Could they at least bring their own provisions, say, a few eggs?

“I tell you, Mr. Hartmann, it sounds like a point of humor to hear that my wife was worried about eggs. Her worry leads to tears and unfounded accusations and long weeks of a black mood. If it had been a party on my behalf, I would have
canceled it at the first sign of her distress. But it was for my daughter and I would not go back on my word.

“You may say that, in indulging Lily, I have only denied the mother. But I too clearly see Lily’s future in her mother’s cheerless present, and so I try to give the girl what happiness I can while she is still capable of enjoyment.”

We had reached a corner of the garden. Winterbourne paused and let his gaze sweep from the cliff, past the wind-roughened land, to the great stone square that was the house. He had regained control of his face, and I watched his features keenly. Through his eyes, even the stunted trees must have had nobility; what others might have described as gnarled and bent must have been, to him, courageous and enduring.

These were the same eyes that looked at me.

He gestured that we should continue our walk. The path led to a low wall. Unevenly carved on one side, the reverse revealed a marble bas-relief of the Three Graces. The carving faced the house and was thus protected from the grinding wind. I stopped to admire it: three women of great beauty, each with one arm entwined with another’s, one arm outward, offering the viewer figs, pomegranates, and apples. The faces of the women were tranquil, gentle, and mild—as sweet as their divine gifts.

The Graces were like Lily in their beauty, unlike her in their peace.

“You have no hope for your daughter then?” I asked.

“I pray every day that I am wrong.”

“Your wife and your daughter … You are buffeted from both sides,” I said—poor phrasing of the sympathy I felt. “My appearance was a terrible shock to your wife. I am her nightmare, her brother’s nightmare, hideously enfleshed. And so you’ve suffered with her.”
That
was my concern: how I had unwittingly hurt
him
.

“It was a shock,” he agreed, “but the final blame is mine. If I had known that beneath the delusion lay truth, that someone’s life was being stolen from him day by day, I would have had commitment papers for Walton drawn up long ago. Again, my sincerest apologies.”

I shook my head as if the past ten years had been nothing.

“Please, suffer not on my account,” I said.

“Well, my cigar is spent, Mr. Hartmann,” Winterbourne said, smiling, “and you have still not told me what I may do for you.”

“On another night, perhaps.”

Bowing as I took my leave, I walked toward Tarkenville as if I were staying in town.

Having heard about Walton, it is time to read what he has written. I had taken the handful of letters from Margaret’s desk days ago, meaning to gloat over them when my work here was done. But I am no longer certain that my original intention best serves me.

Margaret has read and reread the pages so often that the folds in the paper are translucent with wear. Walton’s deterioration is clear, as Winterbourne said.