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 chateau, 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 chateau. 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.”
Mother came and affectionately kissed the top of Father’s graying head. “No, this house is indeed the exception to the rule.”
