Frankenstein's Bride (7 page)

S I X

I WAS NOT AT THE NEXT MEETING between Victor and Maria, for the very next day came a message from my sister Arabella, desiring
me to return home immediately, for my father was very ill. And so I galloped back to Nottingham at all speed, through mud
and ice, to find my father gravely affected by a congestion of the lungs. Mercifully this abated and he turned the corner,
though his recovery was slow. He was better, though still weak, six weeks later when the Christmas festivities began.

There was much visiting to and fro between neighbors, and some twenty at our table for the Christmas feast. During this time,
as my father recovered his health, it was incumbent on me to play the head of the family and keeper of the estate. Thus I
was fully occupied with many things, from the tenants' quarter-day payments to escorting my sisters hither and yon.

It was at a ball ten miles off, whence I had gone wearily in a carriage, that my sister Arabella consented to be the wife
of our neighbor's son, Dudley Hight, a good fellow (though I thought him dull) trained for the law. And just after the New
Year my younger sister Anna threatened to marry the curate of our parish church and was dispatched hastily to Northumberland
with my father's sister, who had joined us for the festivities and was returning there.

Between suitors, desirable and undesirable, broken hedges, rents, leases, parties, hunting and the entertainment of friends
and kin I was held, pleasantly, in Nottingham until the middle of January, though London, my studies—and David Hathaway—called.
Truth to tell, I discovered my only real desire to return to London was to rejoin Mrs. Downey for I found I missed her presence,
her nice looks and charming companionship, and began to wonder if Nottingham might not have been even more enjoyable had she
been there. I could open my heart and mind to her even more freely than I could to my family and I imagined her daughter,
little Flora, child of the bad air and adulterated foodstuffs of the city, benefiting from all we had in Nottingham. These
thoughts even interrupted my sleep as I imagined my charming landlady in the place I loved most in all the world.

Meanwhile my comfortable country life went on—had to go on, for tomorrow I must see Mr. Such-and-Such about the wood, next
day we would hunt, the day after that there was a visit, the day after the bailiff would come about planting, and so it went
on.

It was a letter from my friend Hugo Feltham which dug me from my rut and brought me speedily back to London. This letter,
delivered by a muddy cart from the village, arrived one day just as I had come in from the fields for my breakfast. I read
it standing before the fire, warming my bones, while Arabella cut slices of beef for my father. We had gone up in the world
but still kept to the old country habit of good beer, good meat and good bread for breakfast, taken after the house had been
up and doing for many hours: even a lady who did not come down for breakfast was held to be sick, a man who failed to arrive
was taken to be on his deathbed and past praying for.

I was surprised to receive a letter from Hugo, no lover of pen and paper. I have known him ride ten miles to communicate a
message in person rather than send a letter or note. Consequently, when I opened the letter I knew some serious matter was
afoot.

“My dearest Jonathan,” the letter read, “I have been hesitating for some time whether to write to you. But Lucy urges me to
do so and we both agree you must be told what is happening as regards our valued friend Victor, whom I know we both love.
Alas, all is not well with him. I am no penman, as you know, Jonathan, so I must put the matter bluntly—Victor is in love
with Miss Maria Clementi. He haunts the theatre after her performances; he buys her gifts which, apparently, she receives;
he visits her frequently at Russell Square. Poor Elizabeth has twice been dispatched to us by Victor, who tries to conceal
what he is doing, but Elizabeth is undeceived and just now she has been here, with us at Old Hall, for a week. She has now
resolved to return to London to be with her husband, however distressing his behavior. Lucy and I have offered what help we
can and have said that if she finds her situation intolerable she must come again to us. I am detained here for the present
and think you could be useful in this matter. In short, I ask you to go to Victor and attempt to find out the nature of his
relations with Miss Clementi and tell him of the distress he is causing his wife. My dear old Jonathan, you know this is not
the kind of task one man lightly hands to another, but for the sake of poor Elizabeth Frankenstein, and Victor himself also—will
you assist?”

I was shocked by this message, after a moment I was still more shocked by my own stupidity. It should have been plain to me,
witnessing Victor's agitation when Maria threatened to give up her lessons with him and his violent behavior at Russell Square
later, that I was not observing a scientist but a man in the throes of passion for a woman. Such was my respect for Victor's
intellectual gifts I had been blind to conduct which, in anyone else, I would have seen plainly as amorous folly.

Then, I reflected what a dreadful task lay ahead of me. I should have to appeal to Victor to give up Maria for the sake of
his wife and child, not to mention for the sake of his own reputation. Then most probably there would be an interview with
Mrs. Jacoby, and Heaven only knew how that little causerie would turn out. The vision was so afflicting, I believe, standing
by the fireplace, I may have sworn aloud. At any rate Arabella uttered a startled sound and my father uttered a warning “Hmph!”

But Hugo had appealed to me, no doubt at Lucy's instigation, and I had no choice but to tackle this unpleasant duty. No point
in delaying—I packed rapidly, said my farewells and took the London Road, which was mercifully dry for the time of year. I
thus reached London by nightfall of the same day and, having made arrangements for the return of my horse to Nottingham, set
off straight away for the theatre where Maria was appearing. I thought that if matters were as described in Hugo's letter,
I might well find Victor there.

The house was packed. By bullying and bribing I managed to find a place standing at the back of the theatre and so saw, through
a crowd of heads, the last act of
Hera's Revenge
. It did not fall short of the traditions of the London stage at the time, which is to say it was trumpery and trivial as
a prize at a fair. Nevertheless, as the curtain went up on the slender, lonely figure of Maria Clementi, hands clasped in
front of her, playing Jove's young lover Constantia and singing a pretty song expressing her love for the god, the audience,
unable to contain itself (and lacking that restraint which these days we prefer to observe), stood, shouted, and cried out
in delight. There were calls of “Brava, brava.” Having completed her song, Maria began to dance. That vision will never leave
me—a gold-clad form, gossamer-light yet strong as a young aspen—white arms raised above a beautifully poised head, garlanded
with flowers—her grace, her purity, her loveliness. How the men standing about me at the back of the theatre cheered and groaned.
It was easy to see how Victor Frankenstein, like so many others, could feel passion for Maria. Who would not?

The dance ended and some black-faced dancers came on, for little dramatic reason, naming themselves African Sal and Dusty
Bob and began some silly dance from the plantations, he in ragged trousers, she in a print dress with a rag tied round her
head. Then came the implausible arrival of Jove, who appeared on the scene to court Constantia dressed as a golden ram (if
sense were lacking in the piece the costumes and scenery were outstanding). With the entrance of his jealous wife Hera, rightly
suspecting his plan to seduce Constantia, a duet began between the pair.

At this point I realized that, Victor, who was not in the theatre as far as I could see, might have elected to arrive before
the end of the performance and gone directly to join what I was sure would be a mighty crowd behind the scenes. So I began
pushing my way from the theatre, causing more protest, even, than when I had pushed my way in. Just before I left I turned
to see a new backdrop, an English landscape with meadows and sheep. Against it stood Jove, Hera and a full chorus, all singing.
In front of them was Maria, in her golden shift, a coronet of flowers in her hair, singing like a bird, with no harshness,
yet clearly audible against the chorus of other singers. It was a pretty spectacle.

I went into the alley beside the theatre and found the stage door. As the result of a bribe and a claim of acquaintanceship
with Miss Maria Clementi, I was ushered behind the scenes and in to a crowded greenroom. I spotted a marquis, an ambassador
and many other dignitaries. There were ladies of fashion with plumes in their hair and officers in uniform just come from
their duties. In one corner a parrot screamed in a golden cage and in another two large hounds sat perfectly still, looking
a great deal more dignified than the people around them. But there was no sign of Victor. My eyes sought, and found, Mrs.
Jacoby. She wore a black silk dress. Then Maria entered with other members of the cast—the crowd opened to receive her, then
closed again. I thought, wrongly, as it turned out, that if I could get to Mrs. Jacoby I might have a private word with her
about whatever state of affairs existed between Frankenstein and Maria. But, push as I might against shoulders clad in silk,
red tunics or black wool, I could get no closer than the second rank of worshippers.

Whatever my suspicions of Mrs. Jacoby I was forced to admire her composure and competence. She was, after all, Maria's voice.
For many years now she had had to judge what Maria wanted to say, and should or should not say. In that sense she had been
a true support to the young woman. She now stood beside her, dealing with myriad comments and enquiries. I heard her say,
“Miss Clementi finds this role taxing, but less so than the more sombre role of Dido in Purcell's
Dido and Aeneas
, in which part you have no doubt seen her. Miss Clementi thanks your lordship for his most kind comments. Miss Clementi exercises
at a barre, as dancers do in Russia, for one hour each day.”

At one point she caught my eye, and, I think, controlled a startled expression at seeing me. I inclined my head but saw no
purpose in staying longer; it would have been impossible to get a word, so I forced my way from the throng, feeling more respect
for Mrs. Jacoby and more pity for Maria who, each night, whether in London, Paris, Rome or Vienna, must have to face first
the demands of performance and then the demands of her admirers.

I left by the stage door and entered the alley beside the wall of the theatre, which was blocked at its end by a high wall.
As I left the door and was turning to walk towards the street, I observed from the corner of my eye a movement in the darkness
at the far end of the alley, by the wall, some ten or twelve feet away from me. Suddenly a hulking figure rose up from the
ground where evidently it had been crouching. The man was enormous, almost a giant, clad in some long dark coat. All I could
see was the whiteness of a face and long, unkempt, dark hair. I stared, appalled and expecting a plea for money or an attack,
but neither came. The man, who had inclined his head towards me almost as if studying me, then once more sank slowly to the
ground, again becoming invisible, part of the darkness. Having feared attack, I now conceived of some sick and starving wretch,
too weak to beg, seeking only a quiet place to sleep. I found a coin in my pocket and flung it towards him. There was a scrabbling
at the alley's end and a growling mumble, which might have been thanks.

I found a conveyance for hire and asked to be taken to Victor's house in Cheyne Walk. I wanted to get this business behind
me and it was still early enough to find the household awake.

It was on the way here that I began wondering if, by some curious coincidence, that sad, huge figure in the alley was the
same man I had seen on the quay in Chelsea. There could surely not be two such monstrous figures in London. But if it had
been the same man, this time he had seemed less intimidating, more pitiable. My main thoughts, however, were of my visit.
I was anxious to get to Victor's house before he and Elizabeth retired, yet dreaded the conversation which would ensue after
I reproached him with his conduct towards his wife. Men do not like to charge others in this way, knowing most have been tempted
to make curs of themselves over women, and a good many have fallen.

At Cheyne Walk I heard Elizabeth Frankenstein had retired and Victor was at his club. I had kept the carriage waiting so it
was to this club, the Chesterfield in Dover Street, that I now went, feeling by this time quite fatigued. Indeed, I had been
half-minded to go home to bed on finding Victor out, but there was something in the face of Victor's manservant when he opened
up to me and told me his master was away at his club that silently appealed to me to concern myself in this matter. Servants
know all that passes in a household and this man I swear, was telling me, silently, that something was amiss at Cheyne Walk.
At any rate, he seemed relieved when I had told him I would go and find his master at his club.

It was past ten when I descended into Dover Street. Few were abroad. I walked past the linkmen on the steps and entered the
club's dignified portals. The club's porter was sitting in his wooden box in the hall. He directed me to the library where,
he said, I would find Victor, I walked through some cold, marble-floored passageways and entered the dark, vaulted room which
was the club's library. A few candles in the sconces burned here and there but the room was largely dark, book-lined walls
making it seem even more sombre. Victor was alone in the room, hunched over the fire like a man who would never get warm.
Even as I walked up to him I could see a change. Never a fat man, he had become thinner. His nose stood out between more emphatic
cheekbones, his eyes were sunken. Far from the flamboyant adulterer I had somehow expected, here was a wretched figure hiding
away from home, but with nowhere else to go.