Frankenstein's Bride (5 page)

I answered, smiling, “Then, addressing you as a brother might, Mrs. Downey, I think you should find some.”

She sighed, let her sewing fall into her lap and gazed at me earnestly, frowning. “Well then,” she said, “and risking your
disapproval, I will say I do not altogether trust Miss Clementi's mute tongue.”

“You heard of the occasion when her dress caught fire and she was still not able to speak or cry out,” I pointed out.

“I did,” she agreed, and here her tone took on the tone of a lawyer, perhaps that of her late husband, “but you will not deny
I'm sure that a sudden shock may strike some people dumb, just as some people instinctively shout and cry out. Nevertheless,
that is not what perturbs me. I merely wonder if she is willfully dumb; if she does not understand our language and does not
wish that to be known; if indeed, she is truly mute.”

“That may be so,” I said, “but if by chance she could speak, but will not, is that any reason for your anxiety—which I much
appreciate—on my account?”

“There are no reasons I can express,” she told me. “I feel only you may be entering deep waters.”

“Men enter deep waters in pursuit of knowledge and truth,” I replied—too lightly, too arrogantly, I now know. “If we all stayed
perpetually in the shallows, near the shore, few discoveries would be made.”

My landlady picked up her sewing again, but only looked at it with a puzzled frown. She said, to the little red dress she
was making, rather than to me, “I am a little surprised by what you told me of Mr. Frankenstein spending such a long time
on his knees in the church after you had all attended the service. Some twenty minutes I think you said he spent alone in
the church.”

“An unusual criticism to make of a man,” I responded, “that he spent too long praying in a church.”

“Not a criticism,” she said, “but to me that indicates a heavy conscience.”

“Oh!” I think I exclaimed, and I believe I threw myself back in my chair impatiently, as if I were truly arguing with one
of my sisters. “How you women twist a man's behavior—put in a bad light anything which removes itself from the narrow well-trodden
track. What you not know you fear. While we men must live to extend the boundaries, explore, discover—”

Cordelia replied, with restraint, “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Goodall. I am sorry if my comments have offended you.” And she
began to sew again, diligently this time, and, noting that my further attempts at conversation were not well met, I took myself
off to bed.

I own, and I am ashamed to admit it now, that I entertained the half-pleased thought that what my dear Mrs. Cordelia Downey
most feared about my future meeting with Miss Clementi was the effect the other lady's beauty and charm might have on me—that
though, in sport, we referred to each other as brother and sister, the delightful Mrs. Downey was, in fact, jealous! Fool
that I was, retiring in vanity to my bed! Jealous or no, Mrs. Downey's impression that involvement with Victor Frankenstein
and Maria Clementi might prove dangerous to me was to prove all too true.

As I write this memoir I sometimes forget how young we all were at the time. Neither Hugo, Victor nor I had yet reached thirty;
Cordelia was twenty-eight and Maria Clementi only twenty-four. Not only were we young (though old enough to know better, I
admit), but we were still tainted with the spirit of the Bastille and all the new thought which had swept over Europe since.
Crowns and kingdoms and all established order had toppled during the Napoleonic era. Scepter and crown had come tumbling down
so why should we not throw overboard all we did not like and make our world anew, in the light of pure reason? Why could we
not discover more, understand more and change the world according to our new-found knowledge? Let us, we thought, treat our
world like an old house—tear down the ancient hangings, brush away the cobwebs, fling wide the windows, allow in the pure
air of truth and knowledge. That was the thinking, I believe, which led me to ignore Mrs. Downey's warnings. She was no philosophical
reasoner, no student of her times or any other, merely a young woman of some natural intelligence and more greatness of heart,
sobered early by a marriage not altogether happy, followed by widowhood, and the care of a young daughter. I, a man with a
good fortune and good health, had met little hardship in my life; she, younger than myself, had been made cautious by bereavement
and rearing a young child in straitened circumstance—that was the difference between us.

F O U R

AND SO CAME THE AFTERNOON in mid-October when, following a message from Victor, I set out for Chelsea to meet Maria Clementi
for the first time. (This was not the occasion I mentioned earlier, when I encountered that frightening ogreish man.)

I walked from Gray's Inn Road on a pleasant bright autumn afternoon. As I got down to Chelsea the tide was coming in, lapping
at the mud, shingle and stone of the shore. Craft of every kind had come upriver with the tide—there were barges, wher-ries,
even a great sailing ship springing and bounding upriver, wind filling its sails. In those days no walk could have been more
pleasant. On one side lay the river, unbanked, with all its interest, on the other, the fields and market gardens.

I was excited at the thought of joining Victor in his attempt to solve the mystery of Miss Clementi's muteness. I rejoiced
at the prospect of the wider learning which might be open to us as a result of this experience. For a scholar there is no
joy to equal that of joining his mind with that of another like mind, with the intention of widening the boundaries of knowledge.
Nor, I must confess, as I mounted the steps of Victor's imposing house in Cheyne Walk, was I altogether reluctant to make
the acquaintance of that ornament of the stage, Maria Clementi.

Victor himself answered my knock. He let me in, his fine eyes alive with excitement and interest. I had been punctual, Maria
Clementi more than punctual. “She's here,” Victor told me and led me with his lithe, agile step through the hall, lofty and
tiled in marble, up a handsome curved staircase to a small drawing-room with tall windows looking out over the road and the
river.

Maria was seated in a low brocaded chair close to where a fire burned brightly in its ornate marble fireplace. She was small
and very dark with a head of black curls worn quite short, almost
à
la victime
or
à la guillotine
, as the women of the French Revolution named their mannish hair arrangements, though she had a small knot of curls simply
dressed with red ribbons on top of her head. The tendrils framed her face, half-covering small, pretty ears. She had very
dark eyes, framed with thick, dark lashes, an oval face, small straight nose and a charming, rosy mouth, curved now in a smile.
She wore a simple bonnet in pale grey and a loose woolen dress in the same color, a lace fichu lying over her shoulders and
tied in a knot over her bosom. Had it not been for a posture indicating, even in repose, the strong musculature and physical
control of a dancer, one might have taken her for any charming young married woman of the middle class.

Maria's eyes were cast down as I entered but she raised them to me as we were introduced. This gaze had an effect on me very
different from what I expected. The eyes of Maria, as I have said, were huge, dark and very lovely. I expected her look to
seduce me, win me. I had looked forward, with some enjoyment, to the effect of first meeting the eyes of Maria Clementi. Yet,
as our glances met, I felt first—awe. There is what we call a “speaking look” where the eyes alone convey their possessor's
meaning and mood. This “speaking look” is more common in women, creatures of sentiment, than in men, whose gaze is more direct
and thoughtful. Maria's eyes were the opposite of “speaking.” They were silent, as her own tongue. To look into them was to
gaze into the black waters of one of those bottomless tarns of the North. One fears; one half wishes to throw oneself into
those still expressionless depths; one attempts to see through the dark waters—and sees nothing. As I made greetings I wondered
if the silence imposed on Maria by her dumbness had created this great, fathomless calm in her slate-colored eyes.

As I gazed, half-mesmerized, into Maria Clementi's eyes the awe I had felt at once began to verge on fear. I knew I wished
to look forever, to come closer, look again, and never cease to look.

Victor interrupted, mercifully, by proposing to introduce me to Maria's companion, Mrs. Jacoby. On hearing her name, this
lady stood up from the window seat and came across the room to greet me. She was a woman of about forty years old, of medium
height, erect in her bearing, with a direct look and what I believe ladies call a practical bonnet. She bore the stamp of
a soldier's wife who has followed her husband on many a campaign, set up house in many a place, made do in all manner of hardships
and difficulties. Her forthright blue eyes met mine, perfectly civilly but saying to me, as to all the world, I believe. “No
nonsense from you, if you please.” As soon as I had bowed to her and murmured I was happy to meet her, she went back to her
seat, leaving the three of us, Victor, Maria and myself, by the fire.

We all sat down, Maria in her former chair, Victor opposite her on the other side of the fireplace; I took a third chair between
them. I had no idea how Victor had conducted his previous interview or how he meant to proceed, so I broke the silence, rather
awkwardly, by commenting on the pleasant afternoon and saying I had walked to Chelsea from my lodgings. I spoke slowly, as
if addressing a foreigner, and felt a little foolish for doing so. Maria bent her head to me, heeded me as if she understood,
and when I had finished gave me a small, charming smile.

Victor, rather to my astonishment, then asked her in German if she would care to stand up and walk to the door. Maria merely
gazed at him, biting her lip, seeming to be trying to understand him. Whereupon Victor addressed her in French, again asking
her if she would go to the door. And Maria, smiling, stood up—and went to the door. She turned there, still smiling, asking,
it would seem, for Victor's approval, which he, with a smile of great satisfaction, gave. And then he spoke to her in other
languages, many of which I did not know myself, plainly asking her to do various things. In no case, except when he asked
her in Italian to go to the window (which instruction he had to repeat various times before she could understand him), did
she stir from her chair and do so. As this went on she gazed at him, I thought, with increasing weariness.

After this, Victor turned to me and asked, “Curious, is it not, that Miss Clementi knows French, evidently, and some Italian
and English, but no other languages?”

I nodded, a little embarrassed. Maria was with us and could understand us, yet we discussed her as if she were not present,
as often happens with children or the very old or ill. This seemed stranger still when the subject was a young woman in her
right mind, merely dumb. I asked, “Have you spoken in various languages to Miss Clementi before?” And he said that he had
not. I then spoke to Miss Clementi, asking her if she had known French since childhood or had learned it later in her life.
She shrugged prettily, indicating she did not know—or perhaps could not understand what I was asking. Mrs. Jacoby then spoke
up from her window seat. “Miss Clementi sings in all languages,” she said.

“But parrot-fashion,” Victor said. “For apparently she understands only French and English.” Then to Maria he proposed, “Well
then, Miss Clementi, shall we try our exercises?”

He then launched into a series of consonants, as if encouraging a child to speak, “B-b-b-b, D-d-d-d, M-m-m-m.” He urged Maria,
as one would a child, to copy him. But, lips parted and showing every sign of effort in trying to do as he asked, she had
no success. She made no sound at all. All I heard were pitiful exhalations of breath—and sometimes a sigh—a sad contrast to
that voice I had heard at the theatre, soaring high, in the duet of Polly Peachum and Captain Macheath:

I would love you all the day
All day long we'd kiss and play.

If with me you'd fondly stray,
Over the hills and far away . . .

There was nothing of that carefree spirit now. Maria was distressed. Victor then broke off, saying nothing but looking at
her reprovingly; while she became confused and a little ashamed.

Then, “Again,” he urged. “Let us try again.” They began again, the demonstration becoming more painful but just as futile.
I knew some method would have to be developed if Maria were to find her speaking voice, and that some toil, even agony might
be involved if the method were to succeed. Nevertheless Maria's increasing distress was not pleasant to see. I abandoned the
painful scene by the fire and crossed to the window to speak to Mrs. Jacoby, reasoning that she might, even without knowing
it herself, possess some clue to the secret of Maria's locked tongue. Victor had embarked on vowels, “A-e-i-o-u,” he pronounced.
“Come, Maria—try—try.” But she made no sound.

“So far there's been no success at all that you can see, Mrs. Jacoby?” I asked.

She shook her head and replied steadily. “We had much hoped—after Maria's time away, resting and working on the exercises—”
Her voice trailed away.

“The exercises being what is happening now?”

“And some others connected with breathing,” she told me.

“It's very mysterious,” I said. “There is nothing organically wrong with Miss Clementi and she sings so beautifully—yet cannot
speak. Tell me, Mrs. Jacoby, does she never, never make any sound—cry out, sob aloud, groan, laugh? Perhaps she talks in her
sleep, or makes some sound—” And I noted as I spoke the last words that Mrs. Jacoby looked at me more attentively. There was
a long silence between us. She was summing me up, as she might have summed up a subaltern newly arrived in her husband's regiment.
Then she said, “Can you swear to keep a secret?” I responded that I was unwilling to swear to keep any secret when I did not
know what it was.

“Well, then,” she said wryly, “you will never know, will you?” And at this point my curiosity so much got the better of me
that I said, “If what you tell me is not a guilty secret, and will harm no one, then—I swear not to tell it.”

“Fair enough,” she said, with something of the decisiveness of the battlefield in her tone, “then I'll tell you. I have never
heard Maria Clementi speak one word or make a sound—except at night. Then I have heard her, in nightmare, calling out, crying
out in fear.”

“Have you told anyone of this?” I asked her.

“Never,” she replied. “Earlier she seemed content enough to be dumb—but lately she appears increasingly distressed by her
position.”

I asked her, “You have not told Mr. Frankenstein of these cry-ings out, in nightmare?”

She shook her head. By now I was puzzled.

“Remember—you have promised,” she warned me.

“But Mr. Frankenstein should know this.” I reproached her. “Why do you not tell him?”

She did not reply because at that moment Victor stood and said, amiably enough, in our direction, “I think we have had enough
for today. Miss Clementi must not get too tired. I know she is to perform tonight in
Acis and Galatea
. Mrs. Jacoby, if you return next week Mr. Goodall and I will have had the opportunity to discuss the matter and devise some
new plans.”

And thus the first consultation, if that is what I should call it, ended. Maria, I thought, looked pale. In parting, she pressed
my hand gently, while Mrs. Jacoby expressed goodwill and hoped she would see me at Cheyne Walk the following week.

After they left Victor bit his lip, looking anxious and thoughtful. “Let us sit down,” he said. “Some wine?”

I refused this and we sat down to talk. Frowning he said, “All this is most baffling. I know she can speak. I am certain of
it, I know. Sometimes I feel Miss Clementi is defying me to help her. Her efforts to produce a voice appear great, but I do
not think they are great enough. I fear she may be deceiving me. As an actress, she is fully capable of miming a struggle
to speak. I must—must—discover the key to open that door—or break it down.” He sighed vigorously, then said impatiently, “I
really do not understand. In all the literature there is no comparable case. And, my dear Jonathan, if only we could succeed,
what might we not find out about the structure of our language and its connection with the workings of the mind?” He smacked
his fist into his palm and I think if he had been another man he would have started swearing and cursing.

I felt some guilt at suppressing the information Mrs. Jacoby had given me, that Maria cried out in her sleep, but I had given
my word, and could see no way of breaking it. Worse, it was my impression that Mrs. Jacoby had not only made me swear to keep
the secret in general but specifically to keep it from Victor. This seemed absurd—why should not the whole world know Maria
Clementi had some voice and particularly why should not Victor, who was dedicated to helping her? However, there was nothing
I could do.

“You have established that Miss Clementi has knowledge of two languages but no others,” I said. “That is interesting. We may
assume her understanding of speech is like that of any other person. She knows these tongues she has encountered, or learned.
But tell me, what is her past? Where does she come from? Who are her parents?”

“Very little is known of her,” Victor said. “She, of course, can tell people nothing of herself. But it would seem she was
found by the man who is still her impresario—whatever that may mean—in Ireland some four years ago and was taken by him to
the manager of Drury Lane, the famous Mr. Robert Elliston. He took her up with enthusiasm and began her career.”

“And is Maria Clementi truly her name?”

“I believe it was invented by her manager, the impresario Mr. Gabriel Mortimer, in discussion with Mr. Elliston,” Victor told
me. “I suppose no one knows her real name.”

“Except herself, and she cannot tell us,” I responded.

“What a strange, sad time she must have had of it, poor Miss Clementi.”

“She is a most beautiful and gifted creature,” Victor said. “Unique. Extraordinary. Compensation enough.”

I could not answer him.

Naturally I asked Victor if Maria was able to communicate her thoughts in writing but in those days fewer could read and write
than in these more enlightened times, so it was no surprise when Victor informed me that Maria was scarcely literate. I suggested
to Victor, therefore, that the restoration of Miss Clementi's voice would not be harmed by learning to read and write. The
study of words in their written form might help to concentrate her mind and will on speaking them out loud. And even if this
was not the effect, then at least she would have the benefit of expressing herself more freely in writing. Victor showed little
enthusiasm for this scheme.