he Beginnings of Electricity Chapter Text
The Beginnings of Electricity
A Penny Dreadful
"Thank you, kind Sir."
"Thank you, Mum."
"Thank you, Sir, you've been most kind."
And she'd pretend to cough up blood, delicately into her linen handkerchief, but it was only the fake blood she'd 'borrowed' from the Grand Guignol Theatre. The pounds and shillings would then fall rapidly into her flower basket. It just made the passersby a little bit more forthcoming, 'twas all. It was better than lifting her skirts for nasty strangers, half-rats drunk, too rough and overly familiar with her, or offering her money for a quick peek or alley job as if what they had was so special she couldn't possibly resist. Come on, swee'ie, give us a look, in gruff whispers. Enterprising petty thief that she was, she'd pick their pockets then and they deserved it, she'd never let the likes of them touch her. Or who could perhaps be the dreaded Whitechapel Ripper. It weren't safe out there for a lady these days. She carried a dagger at her belt for protection, a thing of beauty that she didn't know how she had come to possess; and sometimes, a burly-looking man friend would accompany her, when a little extra convincing was needed for them to hand over money.
"How'd yer fancy wife at home like to read about your doin's in the Fleet Street papers, ye disgustin' creature, ye." she'd hiss, while rifling through their wallets, if they were toffs. Finding the tintype photographs of proper wives, sweet-faced children.
"Who'd believe you, ya dirty little tart."
"Don't' know. Shall we find out?"
And usually, they did not want to find out. She had better be careful; she was beginning to develop quite a reputation for herself, a sort of 'Black Bess of the Road', the noblewoman from West Tipperary dispossessed of her lands (and supposed distant relation), with her gang of highwaymen and freedom fighter rapparees, gleefully robbing Englishmen. Ahorseback in a man's silk top hat (taken as part of recompense) and veil, fitted jacket, her full black skirt and petticoat with riding breeches underneath, elegant gloved hands on the reins, she must have made quite a dashing sight. Convicted of high treason and sentenced to the gallows at Tyburn; on the day of her execution she waved kisses to and blessed her admirers and her countrymen and women.
"That's spittin' in their eye, Bess!"
"God love ya, Bess!" they all cried and cheered; women sobbed.
Legend says that she still rides, still waits at lonely crossroads and returns to distant mountain strongholds, a fleeting shadow disappearing into the trees, her coppery brown hair flying behind her, for her second-in-command and, it was whispered, her lover, Robbie MacAodh.
She spent a night in a stinking jail for affray. Would have been for more if it had not been for the bobby on patrol, a friend of the family, having sympathy for her dear mother, and after having lost her father too. Who knew what the good Lord saw fit to give ya; wasn't her fault she gave birth to a gang a' devils.
"Move along now." he had warned her at the streetlamp near the park. But the girl just could not keep her rotten mouth shut. Nearly as beautiful as her mother had been, until she started cursing him; and he wanted to stop it now, get her back on the right path. Perhaps a cooling off in jail for a night with the reprobates and society's dregs would cure 'er.
"Now go on home an' see yer mither." he had gently urged her when she was released the next morning, his eyes as compassonate as a grandfather. Meek as a lamb this mornin', are we. he'd wanted to say to her, but didn't. She wondered if her mother had contacted him. She didn't know where friends of the family and relatives diverged, and she was now glad.
Her mother had been a great beauty of her day, and her parents' marriage was a stormy one, with loud arguing, slamming of doors, long separations when her father was away to find work, and passionate reconciliations. After almost every reunion there was a new baby. She thought how her mother struggled to take care of them, and that the world would take a lovely young flower of a woman and turn her into a drudge. Brona decided that a life raising a tenement full of squalling brats in poverty was not for her, and with none of the options available to her appealing, she left home at seventeen. As tough as she appeared, she didn't think she could survive there.
She'd heard of an old woman from the moors who made a preventive, a tincture made from the seeds of the Queen Anne's Lace flowers that grew wild along the roadsides, but Brona felt that it was best to avoid the matter entirely.
She only once posed for risqué photographs in fancy underfinery at the request of a very well-to-do gentleman who paid her well for them; he took her to expensive restaurants but she felt she was just a passing amusement for him and it didn't last, but they remained friends. Mr. Dorian Gray, wealthy beyond her imagining, was so preternaturally beautiful that at first she didn't trust him, thought he must certainly be shallow, and he had lovers both men and women, and those beautiful ones who were more fluid of gender. Many fell sway to his powerfully seductive charms, but he was not easily possessed by any for long.
"How old are you?" people would ask him, so taken were they with his remarkable youthfulness and beauty - immutable, yet almost liquid-like.
"A lot older than I look." Dorian would tease.
Sometimes Brona would wickedly quip: "as old as Time Immemorial'. (When she herself would be asked, in the modern, future world, noone could have imagined it to be literal when she would answer that she was a millennial) How very extraordinary, she'd thought, in wonder. To stay forever at the full flower of one's youth and beauty, but yet with the wisdom of the ages. She felt the wisdom to be even more important; beauty meant nothing if it only came with the folly and inexperience that was youth. One lifetime was not enough time to learn; and as such people made the same mistakes over and over again. The time they visited an underground gambling parlour, where there was illegal dogfighting; and the horror of people enjoying the bloodshed and even clamouring for more. No wonder Dorian loved to visit the Royal Botanic Gardens as a respite; she found she now did as well. What a pair of hothouse orchids the two of them made.
But it turned out that in his own way, Dorian was a seeker, just like she was. And what he found wasn't always beautiful; anything but. Dorian was more of a dispassionate, even jaded, observer than she was. Her friendship with him introduced her to a new world; and the assemblage of artists, writers, progressive thinkers and the avant-garde of the day at his drawing room salons stimulated her mind, and she was welcomed as an equal. A poor Irish immigrant girl who'd barely learned to read. Women writers and artists too; and suffragettes. She'd met Beardsley and Oscar Wilde over absinthe at one of Dorian's parties; had the rare pleasure of being introduced to Gustav Klimt in Vienna; Alphonse Mucha in Paris; and viewed from Dorian's bored distance, some of the women in various stages of disrobement at Dorian's pleasure parties did resemble a Gustav Klimt painting. She listened to Debussy, Camille Saint-Saëns and Erik Satie.
She was able to find occasional work as an artist's model after that, a Muse, and so she was grateful. She had tried work in domestic service as a housemaid, as her mother had done, and her mother had recommended her wild, undisciplined daughter. But she hated the routine of it, was late too often, and her salty tongue spitting out streams of curses wasn't appreciated for too long, not appropriate for respectable house, and so she was sacked. Yes Sir, Yes Mum, whatever you say, Mum, or a scrubwoman, that'll be a cold day in Hell. She was glad she'd been sacked; her heart wasn't in it anyway, because she didn't like the idea of waitin' on people she thought were no better than she was. She was becoming active in the Irish Home Rule movement.
In exchange for room and board, she instead found work as a barmaid at The Crowe's Nest pub at the Mariner's Inn, doing chambermaid work and sometimes helping with the cooking. The hours were long, but the wages and tips were good - and the patrons, ordinary souls, were decent and respectful to her for the most part, even sweet. A little too much drink would turn some men into poets. It was there that she met Mr. Chandler. She'd send money home occasionally for her mother, brothers and sisters, but once she left the fold, she found she had become an outsider, even resented to a degree. But she could not be someone she wasn't. She had found a happiness; an equilibrium.
Not only did she continue to polish her English, and hold on tightly to her cherished Gaelic, but she also learned French, and, because of her association as an artist's model sitting for one of the pre-Raphaelite painters she met at Dorian Grey's home, some Italian. Perhaps her favorite language outside her own, she especially liked the words of love. But she never forgot her roots. And although she was proud that she still had the talent for spinning off colorful curse words and imprecations, I'll show ye French, pure poetry, too; experience had begun to soften her edges and refine her attitudes. And she kept the beautiful corsets (until she grew tired of the constraints of them and more forward-thinking women stopped wearing them) and the beribboned chemises and fancy drawers.
And it wasn't a lie, not really. More like prescience; because eventually the blood became real and was what got her in the end, as it was incurable, especially for the poor. She drew her paisley shawl tighter around her. She had begun taking laudanum to help suppress her cough, which couldn't cure her but made it a little more bearable, her mind drifting like the slow whorls of smoke in an opium den. She hummed a tune. Flowers in Spring and Summer, evergreens and holly tied with red ribbons in Winter, an orange in the toe of your stocking at Christmastime.
She tried to comfort the voice she heard by her ear as she slept. She was cold; she felt as though she were lying in a bed of ice. It was a man's voice, most definitely, but not her Da come with the angels to receive her at the Pearly Gates, as he had been there when she was born. She knew what with all she'd done in her life she probably deserved to be in the other place. If her poor father had lived to see what'd become of her, God rest his soul, he'd have burst in to wherever she was, no matter his foe, and dragged her all the way back to Belfast; and then when he got her home, it would have been the only time he would have ever slapped her or called her a miserable little whore. But they were left poorer than ever after he died.
But this man now spoke to her of love and sensuality, and recited to her from of the poetry of the Romantics, some she would not have recognized if he hadn't told her so, that may have been his own writings. An Invite, to Eternity by John Clare; she would marry this man sight unseen. A thousand times, yes.
'Song for the Little Sparrow' at the Grand Guignol
His voice was gentle and soulful, the words he spoke eloquent and poetic, just like she'd heard at the theatre. How could a man with a voice like his not be beautiful, no matter what his outward appearance. She hadn't cared for the handsome but wooden leading man, or the sweet but simple ingenue's story. She only wondered who it was from behind the scenes who shone the limelight, and lit the gas footlights that came on all at once in a loud puff of smoke at the edge of the stage, perfectly timed with the opening of the curtain and boom of the orchestra, like a magician, that had so charmed and captivated her that she gasped, then moved her to tears. She thought she caught a glimse of him. She wished she could have shared a glass of champagne with him at the interval. The soul of a lover. She would sing words of love to him too if she could. When her soul flew back to her, and she knew it soon would, she would kiss away his wounds, protect him from harm. Anyone laid a finger on 'im would find themselves laid out, personally. If he could love an unfortunate woman such as herself.
There was another voice as well, but not as near and insistent as this one, more in the background, and some discord associated with it. She was becoming impatient and frustrated that she could not move her arms and legs yet, her fingers, or to speak, as much as she was trying to. My dear heart, she wanted to call out to him.
Notes on Electromagnetic Theory and Galvanism by V. Frankenstein, MD, Ch.M.
1 December 1891
Patient: Brona Croft, female, age unknown
Cause of death: Pneumonia, tuberculous - 'consumption'
His work was improving. Third time's the charm. Aside from the ashen look of her complexion, she was still serenely beautiful, like a pre-Raphaelite painting, with her long wavy titian hair. Like the Rossetti in Dorian Gray's private collection. La Donna Serena. D'une Beauté Sereine. Or perhaps the Waterhouse; and most definitely the Millais.
In her mid-to-late twenties, possibly slightly older, it was impossible to say for certain. Old enough to have learned a few valuable life lessons, but taken before the harshness of her circumstances could truly harden her. The American, Chandler, had called on him about her, concerned for her; he was surprisingly tender towards her. In almost the same condition as she was when he'd found her, lying in her bed very near death and he hadn't let her linger. He spoke to her in gentle tones; telling her that she was only stepping through a doorway, nothing more. Time was of the essence.
Gorgeous Secrets
What was this vital force of life, what was it made of, and where did it go after death? Living beings were not merely simple automata. Religions would call it the soul, which would continue on to an incorporeal, transcendent afterlife; and he was a scientist, but a scientist with the heart of a poet. It was a subject that had tantalised him since the time he was a child and felt the pain of first loss, his beloved dog Bradshaw; then later his mother, and then his father. How difficult it had been to accept, the absolute and inexorable finality of it, so much so that he had devoted his entire life to the pursuit of it. Even thoughts of women couldn't distract him from his studies.
He did have one close friendship, surprisingly deep, he remembered fondly - his old college roommate and chem lab partner. An intense, driven and beautiful young man of English and Indian descent; Bengali Hindu. Both gifted and alone, they gravitated to one another and Victor found that he could discuss these concepts and ideas with Henry quite easily, and they did, endlessly, especially late nights over the hookah. He softly chuckled at the thought.
The chemistry lab was located in a stone, octagonal-shaped building adjoining the University's Museum of Natural History, modeled after the large, open kitchen of a monastic abbey from medieval times; quite beautiful and one of the first of its kind anywhere. It was exciting to be at the vanguard of something. Looking back on it, Henry was possibly the most brilliant chemist he had ever known, with potential of note even then; Victor had learned much from him; they had learned much from each other. At least he liked to think that the exchange had been mutual.
At school holidays, he found that he almost did not want to go home without him, as Henry would accompany him to the railway station. As time went on, they sought out each other's company more and more; did everything together, went everywhere together, took their meals together in the dining hall or at a restaurant, a favorite curry house, if they could scrape together enough funds between them, and sometimes, slept together. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
Henry was very affectionate; and they eventually became roomates. Closer than brothers. In fact, that was Henry's term of affection for Victor, brother. Romantic, he supposed, but immature - a rite of passage almost - intimacies that they would surely leave behind once they graduated school and assumed the adult responsibilities that were required of them; chose wives. He did have to admit that he found both sexes attractive, but they were not really 'that way', he didn't think, 'the Oscar Wilde sort'. They'd most likely keep in touch after university, write to each other on holidays; catch up and inquire about wives and children, careers, and that would have been all.
It had been over five years since Victor had last seen him, and aside from one or two letters, he had not kept in touch with Henry, why he knew not, perhaps that always convenient obsessive devotion to work. Still, he'd followed Henry's career with interest, sharing in the pride of his successes and accolades as he read about them in the newspapers, medical journals and the alumni newsletter, if only from afar. But now, he found that he needed him.
Madness, Poetry, Passion and Rage
Dr. Frankenstein's first creation seemed to be pleased enough.
"What if she detests me? My face. . ." he worried. "I fear I love her already, you see." His voice quavered slightly.
"All men's eternal dilemma, I can assure you." Dr. Victor Frankenstein tried to reassure him jokingly, but what would he know of it. He'd been so involved with his research that he hadn't the time for it, or wouldn't let himself have time for it. But despite the outward professionalism of a physician, he still felt a sense of awe, was not immune to it.
His eyes started to appear in her focus; the color of fire. Then the pale white skin of his face, the long scar running down one side. The nearly black red of his lips, as if stained by black wine, the dark lank hair that was missing on the scarred side of his face, or perhaps did not now grow on the damaged area at all. He wore a long dark navy-blue greatcoat with the caped collar turned up tall, like those worn by coachmen or watchmen, or perhaps the military; a sailor's watchcoat. But his eyes blazed with a passion that she had only ever dreamt of - for the experience of life, for self-expression, for love. That was all that mattered to her. She thought him beautiful. He resembled what would come to be known in the not-too-distant future as a silent film star, a romantic figure. She would make sketches of him, if he would agree to it. She had been an artist in her own right. He had never thought of himself as interesting or beautiful enough that anyone would want to sketch or paint his likeness. She did not need the dullness of symmetry or perfection; nor convention. His strength, both the physical and that of his character, his dignity and the quiet fieriness of his presence, shone through and made all that insignificant by comparison. All the other lineaments of his face; his fine jaw, the cleft in his chin, his eyes and the downcast shadows his lashes made, the way one corner of his lips turned up when he smiled, were beautiful. Love only sees the beauty of the beloved, without equal. If he could love a fortunate woman such as herself.
"Robbie." the name was on her lips, but she did not yet know why or who.
The reverse was also true; no amount of outer beauty could mask for a black heart and cruel, selfish temperament, and turned the beauty to ugly.
Speaking of the future, she could envision him as a gentleman farmer in the Shires or the southwest of France, still writing poetry and reading his books. The lovely Miss Ives she saw walking with the Lupus Dei, the Wolf of God - embodied in, of all things, a cowboy from the American Southwest, known there as Old Lobo. For a cowboy to come back in the next life as a persecuted wolf at the height of the government-sponsored bounty program meant to eradicate them from the face of this Earth, so that he was constantly on the run, was the height of terrible poetic justice, she thought, after ranchers and wolvers had devised so many diabolical methods for destroying them, tortures worse than any in a penny dreadful, such as ropes thrown around their necks and then pulling them in opposite directions from the saddle, or doused with gasoline and burned alive, hamstringing them and setting hounds on them, and deliberately introduced disease. Nobody said the angels didn't have a sense of irony, but it was probably more meant to be a cosmic lesson to be learned. But for it to be Ethan Chandler, whom she knew firsthand to be a plain-spoken, kind and decent being, surprised her. Thrown to the 'wolves', so to speak. Maybe that was the lesson. But who knew what he had to atone for in his past. Misunderstood by humans, perhaps even rivaled, for millennia, but touched by God and put on this Earth by Him in his deserved and equal place. Miss Ives could probably help him. She had no idea how she came to have this knowledge, how in this new life she was now somewhat clairvoyant.
"She could never detest you." Brona managed to whisper, smiling up at them. She actually felt quite giddy as she slowly sat up.
What could be more human? She'd seen people at their most vile, cruel, and grasping; and what was worse, completely unremorseful for it. Their Creator made them flawed, but also capable of goodness and profound love. Incidit in Scyllam cupiens vitare Charybdim. He stumbles into Scylla, who wishes to escape Charybdis. She adored him. Darling poet, I'll kiss your hand gladly and proudly, devotedly at any of Dorian Gray's soirées and anywhere else.
"I must say I'm feeling rather lightheaded." she said.
She became aware of a blanket being wrapped round her shoulders, to cover her nakedness and keep her warm, and they both helped support her as she unsteadily rose to her feet.
She spied an orange on the planked wooden table; a plate, some cheese, thinly sliced ham and bread, a knife. Water was boiling for tea.
"I was just about to have something." he said. "Will you join me please."
She realized she was hungry. She nodded.
As he peeled the orange, the aromatic oils filled the air between them. The tart, sweet scent and bright color roused her senses. It reminded her of walking in an orange grove, the white, wax-textured blossoms and their heavy fragrance, one of the most memorable things she had ever experienced. He handed her a section with a large but exceedingly gentle hand, brought it to her mouth. She bit into it and the sweetness burst in her mouth. It tasted wonderful. He smiled at her reaction.
It surprised her that he, in his rustic existence, did not hunt and ate little meat, especially with all of the extravagance she had come to see in the world. That a man of his stature and size could subsist on roots, nuts and berries alone. He said that he had no wish to harm the creatures of the benevolent forest that had protected and sustained him when none else would.
He would not allow another to flounder as he had, the sudden, traumatic assault to his senses and confusion his rebirth had been, left alone with noone, no words, to guide him. He would be kind. His bride must be another immortal or made to become immortal; mortal women would wither away and die, leaving him lonely again.
At The Grande Guignol, he'd watched the hateful Simon with Maud, from behind what now seemed like a confessional screen. Not in a voyeuristic sense, but bitter with envy and grief, because it was something he so desperately missed and desired himself, an intimate companion, a woman. Simon, while handsome, after a sort, could be arrogant and cruel, shouting orders and calling Maud around like a dog. He didn't know why she put up with him. She was nice enough on her own, quite kind even, but when Simon was around, she did not stand up for him. But with a wretched countenance such as his, he felt he would be forever banished to loneliness, celibate as a priest. The violent way his own beloved had been taken from him. All that had been long gone and buried, until Frankenstein, in his infinte self-absorption, chose to revive his misery for him. He insisted that Frankenstein make things right. If not, he'd snap necks like twigs until he came round to the idea.
"Do you know of orange groves?" she asked, suddenly.
"Yes."
He was delighted. But he'd made many missteps, and he'd learned to hold back the intensity of his ardour and depth of his feelings, and his superior physical strength, so as not to frighten.
"Do not fear me." he said.
"My dear man." she began to explain. She was descended from a long line of women who did not fear, but instilled it. "What is your name?"
He thought for a moment. His creator apparently hadn't seen fit to bother; and he only had the one that the well-meaning Vincent in his decency had given him, Caliban. His sweet-tempered younger brother Proteus had chosen his own name, and so should he. There was much that he regretted. One more befitting of his true nature. Perhaps it was too grandiose of him, but so be it.
"John." he answered. "John Clare."
There was a brass and iron bed with a patina dulled and tarnished with age, but still beautiful, in a corner of the upper loft of the abode, which she assumed must be for her sleeping arrangements; with muslin curtains hung from above in a makeshift canopy, draped around it and tied back. With the panels drawn, it would be warm and private. The effect was beautiful; and she was touched by the thought he had put into it. Looking closer, one of her lace nightdresses from her room at the Mariner's Inn lay across it. She remembered she had worked as a barmaid there, in exchange for her room and board. Her favorite, it had pale blue satin ribbon threaded through the drawstring neckline. A trunk with some of her things was retrieved from there as well, and stood near the bed. His simple bed was near the stone hearth downstairs. His many books lined the shelves. She appreciated that he had not leered at her in her nakedness nor try to touch her in any untoward way; but that he did not seem unfamiliar with a woman.
She had the sweet femininity of Maud, the refined beauty, sensitivity and spirituality, and appreciation for poetry as Miss Ives, the earthy sensuality of Lily, and with unique qualities all her own. As formidable as Evelyn and Hecate Poole put together. Her coppery brown hair fell nearly to her waist when it was down, or when partially held back by an iridescent, mother-of-pearl hair comb; and she had long, slender limbs.
All the dreams he'd had of what his mate would be like, and Brona did not correspond to much of them. But then, the real, flesh-and-blood woman who emerged from her electrified bath exceeded all his expectations, rendered his preconceived ideas irrelevant, forgotten. He had been transfixed by the wonder it, of bringing her back to life, as she stood there, wet and trembling; as if he had witnessed the Birth of Venus, fully-formed, from the sea, or of the Creation of Eve. She was her own woman; and nobody would ever describe her as demure, or docile. She wasn't perfect, but perfect for him. And such beauty had she! Would she still remember him?
As promised, as soon as he had his intended bride, and she had time to consider and agree to his proposal, they quit all association with Dr. Frankenstein. The antipathy between them only provoked John, and John's presence seemed to drain their creator of strength, weakening him by the day. It was for the best that they leave it behind them. They would now begin their courtship, get to know one another again, enjoy the pleasures of intimate physical union, and perhaps marriage after twelve months and a day. She was free to go at any time if she were unhappy, if he did not make her happy.
What was it that had driven Dr. Frankenstein so, and did he not bear any responsibility for or obligation to his creation, almost as for a child, of guidance and tutelage? It wasn't for the glory, or pride or ambition, at least entirely, but the desire for knowledge that was never satisfied, and irrespective of outcome. But the results of his experiments were living, breathing, sentient beings! John did not need to seek the validation of his creator. Perhaps in time both he and Dr. Frankenstein would come to terms; but until then, he should see that they had been given, although a painful one at times, a gift, a new life. None were so blessed as they.
She considered again John's proposal; that the outcome was not fixed intrigued her as adventure. What had they to lose? She took his face in both her hands, looked deeply into his eyes, and kissed him. An Invite, to Eternity by John Clare; yes, she would marry this man. A thousand times, yes.
They pooled whatever money they had between them for a small plot of land on the edge of the boreal woodland, the weather too cold and severe for mortals, which John had cleared to build this small house made of fieldstones and logs. He had a wonderful talent as a stonemason. He replaced every tree he cut. He said the work had been beneficial to him and helped his mind. He was so good at it, she wondered if this had been his means of employment in Germany or Switzerland, where he was originally from; if some of the memories of his former life were returning to him, as hers had.
"I hope you'll find everything to your liking." he said. "Let me know if there is anything else you need."
"I appreciate all the trouble you've gone to, Mr. Clare, very much." she said.
"I...I had a wife, a family, you see...before..." his voice faltered.
"Oh!"
She wasn't quite sure how to respond to this. He hadn't elaborated on the circumstances, whether for good or ill, said not another word about it; and she did not wish to pry. Was his wife no longer living, died in some horrible way? Or had she remarried, after believing him to be dead? Would he now want to try to find his family? How had he arrived to Dr. Frankenstein's hands; had he been lost at sea? Drowned? Found among the other of the flotsam of the river, herself included? Did he even remember everything, after his rebirth? Did his rebirth put him now on another plane of existence, his previous life unreachable? Had he been a rich man? Poor? Death makes equals of us all. Perhaps he'd tell her more in time. And who was she? The paintings done of her, though beautiful, were not really her, were always another's impression of her. It all was too much for her to bear, made her head hurt.
"Everything is fine, more than fine." she said.
"Very well then." he smiled.
Let her get some rest now. he thought. She must be overwhelmed by it all.
And so they would live, away from the humanity that had been so cruel to him. But they would still have to maintain limited contact with mortals; to shop for supplies, for the oranges he enjoyed, or just for something fun such as music and dancing, and as a measure of time. Brona's link to them would help smooth the way for him. With their short lifespans, succeeding generations of mortals would not know of or remember the two of them, as long as they kept to themselves and lived quietly; and for any who did and spoke of it, their stories would surely be dismisssed as folk tale and myth, with the high priority mortals placed on perfect reason. They could not comprehend immortality. For the most part, they were followers, and being seen as different from the group was abhorrent to them. This very same trait could occassionally be dangerously unpredictable, however, and quickly turn them into an angry mob. Her own family back in Ireland wasn't even aware that she had passed away, and none the wiser when she visited. She had wanted to spare them that grief. And there would always be a small minority of kindly, open-minded and trustworthy individuals such as Vincent Brand, and wouldn't we like to see them from time to time, my darling? Did he remember how much joy it gave him to give a gift to Maud and to see her delight? But to be sure, she would consult her ancestors about a protective charm to cast about the house and woodland, to keep out errant children who could carry home tall tales, thieves, and those with evil intent. It would not affect the wildlife, who could still come and go at will; and who they would enjoy watching from their windows every morning and evening as they had their tea.
When she retired to bed for the night and drew the muslin panels closed, she was pleasantly surprised to find they had been painted with scenes on the inside, as in theatrical backdrops; with flowering apple trees and rolling grassy hills; a deep blue-green fir forest; the cloud-piercing ragged peaks of the Mont Blanc massif in the French Alps and the glacier, La Mer de Glace, a suspended-in-time turquoise Sea of Ice. Dotted below it, in the valley at the great mountain's feet, were the impressions of the church spire and chalets with illuminated windows, which she recognized as the charming village of Chamonix. And above it all, a celestial sun, moon, and stars against a cerulean evening sky.
This is where our creator made us, she could almost hear John say.
The Return of an Old Friend, Dr. Hridayesh (Henry) Jekyll
He walked down the street near the River Thames docklands, checking his note again to make sure he had the address correct, aware of the stares of some he passed, the slur 'blackie' muttered by a few of the more bold among them. He continued along, impassively, purposefully, head high. Turn right on Lamb Street in Aldgate, No. 20, Flat No. 3.
A window opened from several floors above him, and an old woman emptied the contents of the previous night's chamber pot from it, barely missing him as he ducked quickly.
"We don't need no wogs here. Back to Calcutta with the lot of you, I say."
How many times must he hear theses things, endure these things? He hadn't even been born in Calcutta. Shut up, you ignorant woman, he'd wanted to yell back up at her, throttle the old bitch, but held it in.
He climbed the two flights of stairs, past the peeling paint and the sounds of squalling infants, knocked on the door urgently. "Victor." he called, and knocked again. "Victor!"
Dr. Frankenstein tentatively opened the door. He did not look at all well.
"You look terrible, my brother."
"Come in, my dear old friend."