Bride of Frankenstein

Ho w beautifully dramatic.

The crudest savage exhibition of nature at her worst without. . .

And we three,

we elegant three within.

l should like to think that an irate Jehovah

was pointing those arro ws of lightning directly at my head,

the unbo wed head of George Gordon Lord Byron,

England's greatest sinner.

But l cannot flatter myself to that extent.

Possibly those thunders are for our dear Shelley,

heaven's applause for England's greatest poet.

What of my Mary?

She is an angel.

You think so.

You hear?

Come, Mary. Come and watch the storm.

You kno w ho w lightning alarms me.

Shelley, darling, will you please light these candles for me?

Oh, Mary, darling.

Astonishing creature.

l, Lord Byron?

Frightened of thunder, fearful of the dark,

and yet you have written a tale

that sent my blood into icy creeps.

Look at her, Shelley.

Can you believe that bland and lovely bro w conceived of Frankenstein,

a monster created from cadavers out of rifled graves?

lsn't it astonishing?

l don't kno w why you should think so.

What do you expect?

Such an audience needs something stronger

than a pretty little love story.

So, why shouldn't l write of monsters?

No wonder Murray has refused to publish the book.

He says his reading public would be too shocked.

lt will be published, l think.

Then, darling, you will have much to ans wer for.

The publishers did not see that my purpose was to write a moral lesson

of the punishment that befell a mortal man who dared to emulate God.

Well, whatever your purpose may have been, my dear,

l take great relish in savoring each separate horror.

l roll them over on my tongue.

Don't, Lord Byron. Don't remind me of it tonight.

What a setting in that churchyard, to begin with.

The sobbing women, the first clod of earth on the coffin.

That was a pretty chill.

Frankenstein and the dwarf

stealing the body out of its new-made grave,

cutting the hanged man down from the gallows,

where he swung creaking in the wind.

The cunning of Frankenstein in his mountain laboratory,

taking dead men apart and building up a human monster,

so fearful and so horribIe,

that only a half-crazed brain could have devised.

And then the murders...

The little child drowned.

Henry Frankenstein himself

thrown from the top of the burning mill

by the very monster he had created.

And it was these fragile white fingers that penned the nightmare.

Oh ! You've made me prick myself, Byron.

lt's bleeding.

There, there.

l do think it a shame, Mary, to end your story quite so suddenly.

That wasn't the end at all.

Would you like to hear what happened after that?

l feel like telling it.

lt's the perfect night for mystery and horror.

The air itself is filled with monsters.

l'm all ears.

While heaven blasts the night without, open up your pits of hell.

Well, then, imagine yourself standing by the wreckage of the mill.

The fire is dying do wn.

Soon the bare skeleton of the building will be visible,

the gaunt rafters against the sky.

Well, l must say, that's the best fire l ever sa w in all me life!

What are you crying for?

lt's terrible.

l kno w it's terrible, but after all them murders,

and poor Mr. Henry being brought home to die,

l'm glad to see the monster roasted to death before my very eyes.

lt's too good for him.

lt's all the Devil's work,

and you better cross yourself quick, Marta, before he gets you.

Come along, come along. lt's all over.

Get back to your homes. Go to sleep.

Whoo!

There it goes again ! lt ain't burned out at all. There's more yet.

lsn't the monster dead yet?

lt's high time every decent man and wife was in bed.

That's his insides, caught at last.

lnsides is al ways the last to be consumed.

Move on. You've had enough excitement for one night.

This strange man you call a monster is dead.

"Monster," indeed.

You may thank your lucky stars

they sent for me to safeguard life and property.

Why didn't you safeguard those what lies dro wned and murdered?

Come no w. We want no rioting. No riots.

Who's rioting?

Move on, move on.

Good night, all, and pleasant dreams.

Ah, pleasant dreams, yourself. (SPlTTlNG)

Thinks he's everybody, just because he's the burgomaster. (SCOFFlNG)

Poor Mr. Henry.

He was to have been married today

to that lovely girl, Elizabeth.

Cover him up.

Someone must break the ne ws to the poor girl.

Ride as fast as you can to the castle

and tell the old Baron Frankenstein we are bringing his son home.

Oh, dear.

Oh, shut up.

Come home, Hans. The monster is dead no w.

Nothing could be left alive in that furnace.

Why do you stay here?

l want to see with me o wn eyes.

Oh, Hans, he must be dead.

And dead or alive, nothing can bring our little Maria back to us.

lf l can see his blackened bones,

l can sleep at night.

Come back, Hans!

You will be burned yourself!

Maria dro wned to death and you burned up.

What should l do then?

No!

Ah !

Hans! Hans, where are you?

Hans! Are you all right?

l hear you. Here.

Give me your hand, Hans.

Here.

Oh, heaven, what is this?

Henry.

Tell me.

Oh, milady, ho w can we tell you?

Bring him in.

Albert!

What do you want?

lt's alive! The monster. . . lt's alive!

Oh, shut up, you old fool.

l sa w it.

lt ain't turned to no skeleton at all.

lt lived right through the fire.

Go bite your tongue off. We don't believe in ghosts.

Nobody'll believe me.

All right. l wash my hands of it.

Let 'em all be murdered in their beds, for all of me. Hmph !

Speak to me, Henry.

Oh, milady, he'll never speak again.

l was foretold of this.

l was told be ware my wedding night.

Ahhh !

Oh ! Look! Milady! He's alive!

Henry, darling !

Elizabeth.

Oh, what a terrible wedding night!

You can go to bed no w, Mary.

You'll soon be better, Henry.

l feel almost myself again.

As soon as you're strong enough, we'll go a way

and forget all this horrible experience.

Forget?

lf only l could forget, but it's never out of my mind.

l've been cursed for delving into the mysteries of life.

Perhaps death is sacred, and l've profaned it.

For what a wonderful vision it was!

l dreamed of being the first to give to the world

the secret that God is so jealous of.

The formula for life.

Think of the po wer to create a man.

And l did. l did it! l created a man. And who kno ws?

ln time l could have trained him to do my will.

l could have bred a race.

l might even have found the secret of eternal life.

Henry, don't say those things. Don't think them.

lt's blasphemous and wicked.

We are not meant to kno w those things.

lt may be that l'm intended to kno w the secret of life.

lt may be part of the divine plan.

No. No! lt's the Devil that prompts you.

lt's death, not life, that is in it all and at the end of it all.

Listen, Henry.

While you have been lying here, tossing in your delirium,

l couldn't sleep.

And when you raved of your insane desire

to create living men from the dust of the dead,

a strange apparition has seemed to appear in the room.

lt comes, a figure like death,

and each time it comes more clearly, nearer.

lt seems to be reaching out for you

as if it would take you a way from me!

There it is! Look! There!

l see nothing, Elizabeth. Where?

There's nothing there.