Fred Saberhagen - The Frankenstein Papers

It was not long before several of the more susceptible women had collapsed to the floor, amid a chorus of moans and groans. I thought these sounds were expressive, but scarcely of pain or suffering. Those who had fallen were apparently undergoing some kind of seizures, that produced spasmodic movements of the torso, actions of the limbs, and contortions of the facial features. Meanwhile their male partners only redoubled their, efforts at magnetization.

The attendants—I believe almost a dozen of them, mostly young men, were in action now—were all extremely busy, and the young man who had been in attendance upon us had departed for greener pastures. They diligently stimulated, or soothed, all who appeared to be in need of their ministrations, according to whether the crisis in the particular case appeared to have passed or not. Several of the most severely afflicted women were carried away bodily to another chamber where, I was given to understand later, magnetic force in an even more concentrated form is industriously applied.

My tall friend and I now glanced at each other, with some misgivings about the course our own interview with the great man was likely to take. But we waited and were quiet in our own little anteroom, while gradually the tumult in the other rooms subsided. In perhaps a quarter of an hour, Mesmer himself, looking tired, came in to join us, drawing the curtains closed after him so that we should have privacy. He is a rather kindly-looking man, not exhibiting any of Cagliostro's evident force of personality, at least not at the first meeting. With him Mesmer was carrying a large glass jar decorated with gold leaf, and nearly filled with a clear liquid. He told us that it was magnetized water. At the bottom of the jar, a polished metal bar, much shorter than the one he had earlier been carrying, was immersed.

He put the jar down on a small table, and we exchanged greetings.

"And which one of you, gentlemen, is to be my patient?"

My companion arose with silent dignity, and removed his carnival mask.

If Mesmer was shocked by what he saw then, he did not betray it. He asked calmly, "And what, Monsieur, would you like me to attempt to do for you?"

"I wish to remember my name."

"I see." For a few moments Mesmer calmly assessed the giant before him. "And how long has your name been forgotten?"

"Three and a half years now—perhaps longer."

"And before that… but never mind. You are not French?"

"I am not."

Mesmer paused, as though expecting some further explanation. But when none came, he was not disconcerted. "Very well, we shall see what we can do."

Our host bade us both be seated, and I thought from his manner that he was beginning to take a keen interest in the problem we had brought him. Next the magnetic practitioner summoned an attendant, and gave orders that a few items be brought. When the man returned with these, he was dismissed, after being commanded to make sure that we were not disturbed.

My friend and I sat in comfortable chairs—there was one large enough to fit him—while Mesmer in his lilac robe stood before us, looking an almost ghostly figure in the light of a single candle on a small table. All the blinds were closed, and the atmosphere began to be oppressive. Mesmer spoke in a low, monotonous voice of the planets, and how they provoke tides in the psychic aether as well as in the sea; also of tides in the body, and of animal magnetism. After having to endure Cagliostro's shameless lies, I found this soothing discourse curiously credible. It was warm in the room, and the candle was so placed that it was easy for me to stare at the bright flame against darkness. My eyelids lowered; I admit I was on the verge of dozing off.

Mesmer's gentle touch upon my arm roused me from the light sleep into which I had just begun to fall. He did not appear surprised or irritated that I had dozed, but gestured, indicating that I should look at my companion. To my surprise I saw that his chin was bowed upon his great chest, and he appeared to be actually asleep.

"Can you hear me?" Mesmer asked the sleeper, standing directly in front of him and speaking slowly and distinctly.

"I can." The response was slow in coming, and sepulchral in tone, but the words were clear. I stared at my friend. He still appeared to be asleep.

"What is your name?"

There was no immediate answer. But my companion raised his head, grimacing, like one in the throes of nightmare. His eyes opened, unseeing, and closed again. It was as if he were sleepwalking.

Mesmer persisted. "You have told me that French is not your native language."

"I have—that is true."

"What is your native tongue, then? English?"

I could have attested that that was not so; but at the moment I thought it wiser to say nothing.

When his patient did not answer, Mesmer ordered briskly: "Tell us something in your native language."

Again my friend evinced signs of agitation, but remained silent.

"Is it German?"

"No. No."

"What tongue did you speak as a child?"

There was no answer.

Mesmer made gestures with both hands. The perspiration glistened on his brow. The huge form in the chair before him appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper into slumber.

The questioning persisted, with the strain of it now evident upon both parties; until at last the poor fellow shrieked out something , a short phrase, and collapsed, to lie sobbing in a heap upon the floor. The sight was to me as pitiful as it was unexpected, and I could only gaze in amazement.

Now abandoning all efforts to extract information, Mesmer crouched beside the fallen figure of his patient, and concentrated his efforts on soothing and awakening him. In this he was able to achieve success with what seemed to me remarkable speed. My friend looked around him, blinking his eyes, and asked in a calm voice what had happened and why he was sitting on the floor. He listened to my puzzled attempts at explanation, and though he still did not remember, nodded as if the whole matter were not as unprecedented as it seemed to me.

A short while later we were leaving Mesmer's establishment, having been provided with much to think about. The man himself saw us to the door and even out into the street, urging my friend with apparent sincerity to come back for another session in a few days.

In the street I observed, among the throngs of revelers, certain figures whose presence I took as evidence that we were being followed. Saville's people, I thought. Now they certainly know that we are here.

I mentioned this to my friend, who was now greatly recovered, and he commented: "It's a French-sounding name, Saville. He may well have some family connections here, as well as paid agents."

When we had regained our lodging, after apparently having been successful in shaking off our followers, the two of us discussed what the words might have been that he had blurted out while in the state of controlled sleep that had somehow been induced by Mesmer.

My friend looked worried. "I don't remember saying anything. What language did I speak in? French? German?"

"Neither of those_I think. Nor was it English. It sounded like nothing I've ever heard. Unless_" Struck by a new thought, I stared at him.

"Well?"

"It might have been…"

"What?"

"Well, now that I come to think back on it, the phrase you spoke might have been in German. Something like Grosser Karl ."

" Big Karl ?" He whispered the words; I could see immediately that the name meant something to him.

I had heard of a certain Big Karl in Ingolstadt, though he is not mentioned anywhere in Walton's book.

My companion said, "I've heard them—Saville, Frankenstein, Clerval, all of them, talking about someone with that name. Someone who used to be Frankenstein's assistant in some way. I've never seen him, to my knowledge, but… and those are the words I spoke when I was pressed to reveal my name?"