This Dark Endeavor

  I heard Konrad chuckle.

  “Yes,” I admitted, “and it very nearly crushed my hand!”

  “No,” said my father, “it was not designed to crush the hand, just hold on to it. Forever.”

  I looked at him, shocked. “Truly?”

  “When I discovered this secret passage as a young man, no one had descended the stairs for more than two hundred years. And the last person to do so was still here. What remained of him, anyway. The bones of his forearm dangled from the door. The rest of his ruined body had fallen into the shaft.”

  “We wondered if we’d seen … a finger bone down there,” Elizabeth said.

  “No doubt I missed a bit,” said Father.

  “Who was it?” Konrad asked.

  Father shook his head. “Judging by his clothing, a servant—unlucky enough to have discovered the secret passage.”

  “But who built all this?” I asked.

  “Ah,” said Father. “That would be your ancestor Wilhelm Frankenstein. By all accounts he was a brilliant man, and a very wealthy one. Some three hundred years ago, when he constructed the château, he created the Biblioteka Obscura.”

  “Biblioteka Obscura,” Elizabeth said, and then translated the Latin. “Dark Library. Why was it kept in darkness?”

  “He was an alchemist. And during his lifetime its practice was often outlawed. He was obsessed with the transmutation of matter, especially turning base metals into gold.”

  I had heard of such a thing. Imagine the riches, the power!

  “Did he succeed?” I demanded.

  Father laughed. “No, Victor. It cannot be done.”

  I persisted. “But maybe that explains why he was so wealthy.”

  There was something almost rueful in Father’s smile. “It makes a fine story, but it is nonsense.” He waved his hand at the shelves. “You must understand that these books were written centuries ago. They are primitive attempts to explain the world. There are some shards of learning in them, but compared to our modern knowledge they are like childish dreams.”

  “Didn’t the alchemists also make medicines?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes, or at least tried to,” Father said. “Some believed they could master all elements and create elixirs that would make people live forever. And some, including our fine ancestor, turned their attentions to matters even more fantastical.”

  “Like what?” Konrad asked.

  “Conversing with spirits. Raising ghosts.”

  A chill swept through my body. “Wilhelm Frankenstein practiced witchcraft?”

  “They burned witches back then,” Elizabeth murmured.

  “There is no such thing as witchcraft,” Father said firmly. “But the Church of Rome condemned virtually each and every one of these books. I think you can see why the library was kept in darkness.”

  “He was never caught, was he?” I asked.

  Father shook his head. “But one day, in his forty-third year, without telling anyone where he was going, he mounted a horse and rode away from the château. He left behind his wife and children, and was never seen again.”

  “That is … quite chilling,” said Elizabeth, looking from Konrad to me.

  “Our family history is colorful, is it not?” said Father humorously.

  My gaze returned once more to the bookshelves, glowing in the torchlight. “May we look at them some more?”

  “No.”

  I was startled, for his voice had lost its affectionate joviality and become hard.

  “But, Father,” I objected, “you yourself have said that the pursuit of knowledge is a grand thing.”

  “This is not knowledge,” he said. “It is a corruption of knowledge. And these books are not to be read.”

  “Then, why do you keep them?” I asked defiantly. “Why not just burn them?”

  For a moment his brow furrowed angrily, then softened. “I keep them, dear, arrogant Victor, because they are artifacts of an ignorant, wicked past—and it is a good thing not to forget our past mistakes. To keep us humble. To keep us vigilant. You see, my boy?”

  “Yes, Father,” I said, but I was not sure I did. It seemed impossible to me that all this ink could contain nothing but lies.

  “Now come away from this dark place,” he told the three of us. “It’s best if you do not speak of it to anyone—especially your little brothers. The stairs are perilous enough, and you already know the hazards of the door.” He looked at us gravely. “And make me a promise that I will not find you here again.”

  “I promise,” the three of us said, almost in exact unison. Though I was not so sure I could resist the strange allure of these books.

  “Excellent. And, Victor,” he added with a wry grin, “wonderful to see you on your feet again. Now, if I’m not mistaken, it is nearly time for us to prepare dinner for the servants.”

  “Surely that’s enough now,” I muttered, tossing another peeled potato into the heaping bowl.

  “A few more, I think,” Konrad said, still diligently peeling. He glanced over at Ernest, who was sitting beside us at the long table, his brow furrowed with concentration as he worked away at a potato. He in no way resembled Konrad and me. He took after our mother, with fair hair, and large, blue eyes.

  “Remember, push the knife away from yourself,” Konrad said gently. “You don’t want to cut your hand. Good. That’s it.”

  Ernest beamed at Konrad’s praise; the boy practically hero-worshipped him.

  I added yet another potato to the bowl and looked about the crowded kitchen. Mother and Elizabeth were preparing the ham and chatting happily with some of the maids. Mother was much adored by all of the servants. She was younger than Father by nearly twenty years, and very beautiful, with thick blond hair, a high forehead, and frank, gentle eyes. I couldn’t remember her ever speaking sharply to any of our staff.

  At the far end of the table, Father chopped parsnips and carrots for the roasting pan, and talked to Schultz, his butler of twenty-five years, who was currently sipping our finest sherry while my father worked.

  Our home was a most peculiar one.

  The city of Geneva was a republic. We had no king or queen or prince to rule over us. We were governed by the General Council, which our male citizens elected. We had servants, as all wealthy families did, but they were the best paid in Geneva, and were given ample free time. Otherwise, as Father said, they would have been little better than slaves. Just because they did not have our advantages of wealth and education, Father said, that did not make them lesser.

  Both Mother and Father were considered exceedingly liberal by many people.

  Liberal meant open-minded.

  Liberal meant making dinner every Sunday night for our own servants.

  “It’s terrible, sir, this situation in France,” Schultz was saying to my father.

  “The terror these mobs are spreading is despicable,” Father agreed.

  “Do you still think the revolution so good a thing now, sir?” Schultz asked in his frank way, and I could see all of the other servants in the kitchen pause and look over, curious and nervous both, waiting for their master’s reply. In France the king and queen had been beheaded, and landowners were now dragged from their beds in the middle of the night, arrested and executed—all in the name of the revolution. I watched Father, too, wondering how far his liberality would extend.

  “I am still hopeful,” he said calmly, “that the French will establish a peaceful republic like ours, which recognizes that all men were created equal.”

  “And all women, too,” said Mother, then added tartly: “Equal to men, that is.”

  “Ah!” Father said with a good-natured grin. “And that, too, may come in time, liebling.”

  “It would come sooner,” Mother said, “if the education of girls was not designed to turn them into meek, weak-minded creatures who waste their true potential.”

  “Not in this house,” said Elizabeth.

  Father smiled at her. “Thank you, my dear.”
br />   Mother came and affectionately kissed the top of Father’s graying head. “No, this house is indeed the exception to the rule.”

  Father was one of the four magistrates of our republic. His expertise was the law—but there was no subject under the sun that didn’t win his interest. Indeed, so great was his respect for learning that he had resigned many of his public duties and business dealings so that he could devote himself to our education. The château was his schoolhouse, his own children his pupils—and that included Elizabeth, too.

  Every day Elizabeth took her place between Konrad and me in the library to receive our lessons in Greek, Latin, literature, science, and politics from Father and Mother and whatever tutors they thought fit to teach us.

  And there was one other student in our eccentric classroom: Henry Clerval.

  Henry was exceedingly clever, and my father won the permission of Henry’s father to allow our friend to be tutored in our home. He was an only child, and his mother had died some years ago. As his merchant father was often away on business for weeks, or even months, at a time, Henry spent many of his days—and nights, too—at our home, and we considered him practically one of the family.

  I only wished he were here right now to help me peel potatoes.

  No other family I knew did this. I admired my parents’ high-minded ideals, but was this bizarre Sunday ritual really necessary? Sometimes I wondered if our servants felt entirely comfortable with it. Some of them, the older ones especially, seemed a bit ill at ease, even faintly grumpy, at seeing us take over their kitchen. And often they’d start lending a hand when they saw us bumbling about or doing something wrong.

  For my own part, I did not look forward to Sunday nights. I would much rather have had my meal made for me, and served upstairs. But Konrad had never confessed such unworthy feelings, so I would not reveal mine.

  A pudgy, starfish-shaped hand suddenly reached up onto the kitchen table and dragged off a handful of peelings. I looked down to see little William cramming them gleefully into his mouth.

  “William, stop!” Konrad said, snatching away the remaining scraps. “You can’t eat those!”

  Instantly, William began to wail. “Tay-toe! Toe!”

  I put down my knife and knelt to comfort our littlest brother.

  “Willy, you’ve got to wait till they’re cooked. They’re yummier that way. Much, much yummier.”

  William gave a brave sniff. “Yummier.”

  “That’s right,” I said, giving him a hug. His plump arms squeezed tight around my neck. I was tremendously fond of Willy. He’d just learned how to take his first steps, and was a complete terror. He was loud, often annoying, and loved being the center of attention, like me, so I had a soft spot for him. And amazingly he seemed to prefer me to Konrad. I wondered how long that would last.

  “He’s teething,” Mother said from across the room. “He probably just wants something to chew.”

  I saw a clean wooden spoon on the table and passed it to William. With touching gratitude he grabbed it, and promptly shoved it deep into his mouth. A look of utter bliss crossed his face.

  “Works like a treat,” I said.

  “How’s your foot, young sir?” one of our new stable hands asked me.

  “I am recovered, thank you,” I replied.

  “That play of yours was something,” he said.

  “You enjoyed my villainy, did you?” I asked, pleased—and hoping for more praise. Many of the servants had watched the play from the back rows.

  He nodded. “Oh, yes.”

  “That swordplay at the end took a long time to master. No doubt you saw that spectacular roundhouse swing I did at the end.”

  “Please don’t encourage him,” said Elizabeth, with a roll of her eyes, “or he’ll want to reenact the entire scene for us again.”

  “I liked the pretend parts,” the stable hand said, “but the way young master Konrad rescued you at the end, that was real heroics.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, looking back at my potato. “It certainly was.”

  “How did you do it, sir?” the stable hand asked my brother in utter admiration. “I couldn’t have done it for gold, not with my fear of heights.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t so high, Marc,” Konrad told him with a chuckle. He knew the fellow’s name—of course. Konrad always knew all of the servants by name. “And how are you finding Bellerive?”

  “The countryside’s very fine,” said Marc.

  “When you have a chance, you should take one of the horses up into the foothills, and admire the view of Geneva and the Jura Mountains.”

  “I will, sir, thank you.”

  One of the reasons I disliked these dinners was that Konrad was so much better at them than I was. When we all finally sat down at the table, with masters and servants united into one very large and unusual family, my twin brother effortlessly struck up conversations with everyone. I wished I had his gift.

  He asked Maria, our housekeeper, how her nephew’s broken arm was healing. He asked Philippe, the groom, how Prancer, our pregnant mare, was faring. And before long the servants were telling their own stories, which I truly did love to hear, for their lives were so unlike my own. Kurt, our footman, had once been a soldier and had fought a bloody battle and lost several toes; Marie-Claire, my mother’s maid, had served an evil duchess in France who would beat her with her slipper if the cake tasted stale.

  Afterward we helped the servants clean the dishes and pots and pans, and I marveled at the work they did for us each and every day.

  And I was very glad we did this but once a week.

  Floating on the lake, gazing up at the clear night sky: perfection. It was Tuesday after dinner. Henry, Elizabeth, Konrad, and I were drifting on the lake in a rowboat, lying back on cushions. It was one of our favorite pastimes.

  We’d grown up so near the water that it was like a second home to us. Konrad and I had learned to sail not long after we’d learned to walk. So assured were our skills that our parents never worried when we spent time on Lake Geneva. That night we had reason to celebrate, for Henry was to stay with us an entire month. His father had just embarked on a lengthy business trip, and our parents had happily invited Henry to stay with us for the duration.

  “I wonder why Wilhelm Frankenstein suddenly left like that,” he said, after we’d finished our tale of the Dark Library. “It has the makings of a wonderful play.” When Henry was excited, he reminded me even more of some strange pale bird. His blond head flicked quickly from person to person, his eyes very bright, his fingers sometimes fluttering for emphasis like he might take flight at any moment.

  “Maybe he was bewitched,” Elizabeth said. “Driven mad by all he’d learned!”

  “Intriguing,” said Henry with an approving nod.

  “More likely he met with some misfortune on the road,” Konrad said.

  “Brigands who murdered him and bundled his body off the mountain,” suggested Henry eagerly. “I like brigands. They make for an excellent plot.”

  “Or perhaps,” I said, “he truly discovered the secret of eternal life and went off to begin afresh.”

  “Oh, that is good,” said Henry. “I like that very much as well.” He patted his pocket for a pen and bit of paper and sighed when he found neither.

  For a moment we were all silent, enjoying the gentle rocking of the boat, and the scented air.

  “Look, another shooting star!” Konrad pointed out.

  “God’s creation is very vast,” Elizabeth murmured, staring at the night sky.

  “Father doesn’t believe in God,” I said. “He says it is an outmoded—”

  “I know very well what he says,” Elizabeth interrupted. “An outmoded system of belief that has controlled and abused people, and that will wizen away under the glare of science. How original you are, Victor, to mimic your father.”

  “You’re wiser than he, of course,” I said.

  “You two, please,” sighed Konrad.

  Elizabeth glared
at me. “I’m not saying I’m wiser. I am saying he is wrong.”

  “Oh-ho!” I said, looking forward to a quarrel.

  “Can’t we talk about Wilhelm Frankenstein some more?” Henry said. “I really do think his story has the makings of—”

  But Elizabeth wasn’t about to be thrown off the scent.

  “Victor, I doubt you’re truly an atheist, and if you are, it’s only because your father taught you to be.”

  “And you are a Catholic because your mother taught you to be. And some nuns, too!”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I have considered it carefully, and find no other possible explanation for”—she waved her hand at the night sky, and the lake, and us—“all of this!”

  “There is no proof of God,” I said, quoting Father.

  “There is knowing, and there is believing,” said Elizabeth. “They are two different things. Knowing requires facts. Believing requires faith. If there were proof of God’s existence, it wouldn’t be a faith, would it.”

  This puzzled me for a moment. “I simply don’t see the point,” I said. “Faith seems worthless to me, then. One might have faith in any fancy. Singing flowers or—”

  “Worthless?” cried Elizabeth. “My faith has given me sustenance for many years!”

  “Victor, enough,” said Konrad. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth can take care of herself,” I said. “She’s no delicate blossom.”

  “Certainly not,” she retorted. “But in the future I will only argue with my intellectual equals.”

  “I’m considering pushing you into the lake,” I said, beginning to stand.

  “I’d like to see you try,” said Elizabeth, with a flare of the wildcat in her face.

  “Please, please, don’t dare him,” said Henry, gripping the sides of the rocking boat in alarm. “Victor always does dares. Remember what happened last time?”

  “We nearly capsized,” Konrad recalled, as a bit of water splashed over the side.

  “Getting wet upsets me,” said Henry. “Victor, do sit down.”

  I narrowed my eyes at Elizabeth; she narrowed hers back.

  “I’ve read,” said Henry, “that if you stare long enough at the heavens, your future will become clear. Have you tried it, Victor?”