Chapter 49: January 26, 1896, A Peaceful Day in Oxford |
Day 2 of our Oxford visit.
Marie and I ventured into the city at dawn. By sunrise, we had already traversed several hundred meters on foot. We were blessed with a clear day—rare, golden sunlight bathed the ground, a stark contrast to London’s perpetual gloom.
The fierce winds of the previous night had subsided, giving way to unusually mild winter weather. In the streets, sparrows darted about, their beaks filled with wildflower seeds, evidently visitors from the suburban meadows. Such a sight was a rarity in London.
Though we stood out as strangers on these streets, the quiet morning meant no passersby cast suspicious glances our way.
Alice’s letter of introduction still rested in my pocket, but I had no intention of using it today. Meeting Lord Henry Liddell ranked merely second among our reasons for visiting Oxford.
Our brief morning stroll concluded at Christ Church Cathedral.
I had planned to explore more sites, but upon entering the cathedral, Marie was transformed by reverence. Though always quiet, I could sense her deliberate effort to silence even her breath in this sacred space.
Brilliant sunlight filtered through the stained glass, fracturing into prismatic rays that descended upon Marie’s form. She responded by folding her hands in solemn prayer.
I couldn’t bring myself to disturb her silent communion, so I settled onto a cathedral bench. And thus our morning itinerary came to a premature end.
No, I suppose I’m no different.
A black veil cascaded down Marie’s shoulders as she prayed. Her silhouette embodied a paradoxical beauty—a blasphemous aesthetic. Faced with such a sight, even Nietzsche would surely concede the existence of both God and devil.
Meanwhile, Arthur, Frankenstein, and I remain bastard children of the arrogant Lucifer. We who dared disrespect God and attempt to recreate His divine power.
Yet Marie, resurrected by our unholy hands, now offered prayers not to icons or crosses, but to mere glass windows. How simultaneously humble and sacrilegious—and how merciful God must be.
Though no theologian myself, I found my mind wandering through theological mazes—a sure sign I was drifting toward sleep.
With these contemplations, my head began to nod, and I succumbed to slumber.
“Master?”
Marie’s voice instantly roused me. An uncomfortable habit from my military days prevented me from falling into deep sleep.
“You’re awake. Have you finished your devotions?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
When she apologized, I shook my head dismissively.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly noon.”
“Then, though somewhat early, let’s have lunch.”
We departed the cathedral and strolled toward the riverbank.
A small boat tethered to a stake swayed gently in the current of the narrow river. Tenacious ivy had managed to climb up the very stake securing the vessel.
The restaurant we entered was a quaint bistro with just two tables gracing its exterior. True to its name, the menu presented by the chef was entirely in French.
“Is this pork?” Marie asked, pointing at the text.
“Indeed.”
Marie had managed to decipher one word that vaguely resembled English, but the rest remained impenetrable to her. In truth, her valiant efforts were in vain.
What we held was merely a wine list masquerading as a menu.
The only culinary decision to be made was between “bird” or “pig.”
Bird? What an absurdly vague designation. Like grouping pigs and cows under the bland label of “livestock.” Driven by curiosity—and Marie following my example—I selected the bird.
“Your appetizer,” announced the chef, unceremoniously placing a bowl of potato potage before us. The notion of an appetizer in such a modest bistro was amusing enough, but that it was merely potage was more comical still. I silently lowered my expectations for what was to come.
After consuming half the bowl, I turned my gaze to the riverside.
From the riverbank adjacent to our table wafted the crisp, clean scent of winter water—neither unpleasant nor overpowering—a refreshing aroma I had long forgotten amid London’s perpetual miasma. Just as I contemplated how long it would take to enjoy a cigarette, the chef emerged bearing our main course.
At last, the mystery of the “bird” would be revealed.
“Grouse salmis with Périgueux sauce,” he proclaimed.
I had anticipated a humble roasted sparrow or perhaps boiled duck, but this introduction was unexpectedly grandiose. As for the taste—it was, predictably, less than authentic.
This establishment had embraced all things French from its name to its menu, yet when it came to actual preparation, some curious strain of patriotism had evidently taken hold, sending it veering wildly off course. What might once have aspired to be French cuisine had thoroughly transformed into proper English fare.
In simpler terms: each bite necessitated a gulp of water to wash it down.
I found myself draining three consecutive glasses of water and even a glass of red wine to manage a piece of meat that was hardly substantial in size.
“How is it?” Marie inquired.
“Sweet,” I replied with a grimace. Marie, blessed with an inability to taste, placidly continued eating.
“Your inability to taste seems rather fortunate at present.”
Though I meant no malice by the remark, I was compelled to order another bowl of potato potage to placate her wounded feelings. Truly, the 19th century deserved its reputation as an era of excess.
All told, the meal was an unmitigated disaster.
If forced to be precise, the establishment warranted the title “restaurant” rather than “bistro,” and while it claimed French inspiration, the cuisine was unmistakably English—in the worst possible sense. Nothing about it was properly executed.
Yet curiously, as our meal concluded, I found myself feeling rather satisfied.
A pleasant warmth of alcohol coursed through my veins, and the sight of clear flowing water after so long in London left me feeling refreshed. The scenery enchanted, the weather cooperated, and though the breeze carried a chill, the sun’s rays provided ample warmth.
How easily the human heart allows itself to be deceived. The proprietor was undoubtedly a charlatan, but I found myself a willing victim to his deception.
As the chef approached to collect our plates, I inquired:
“What is the name of this river?”
“Are you from afar?” he countered.
The chef offered a cryptic non-answer. I nodded politely.
“I’m from London. This is my first visit to Oxford.”
“Ah, then you must be quite familiar with it,” he replied with a knowing smile.
“This is the upper Thames.”
In that moment, I realized the true nature of my nocturnal visitors.
Those abominations dwelling in London’s sewers had migrated upstream along the Thames, reaching as far as Oxford. What I had naively dismissed as a localized London crisis had long since metastasized into a national affliction.
This revelation made the previous night’s events all the more terrifying.
“Is something troubling you, sir?”
“No, nothing… I’m simply surprised to find the upper Thames so pristine.”
“Ah yes! Curious thing—it wasn’t nearly this clear before, but since last year the river has grown progressively cleaner. Remarkable, isn’t it? As though the river rejuvenates itself each morning.”
Indeed, that would explain it.
These loathsome entities were transforming the river to their liking, rendering it unnaturally clear and pure. Yet water too clean sustains no fish. Eventually, when the water becomes so crystalline that no natural life can exist, only human-shaped shadows will glide through its currents.
Banishing this sinister thought, I posed the question that had been troubling me.
“One last inquiry—how much sugar did you incorporate into your sauce? The flavor seems rather different from what I’m accustomed to.”
“Ah! You noticed!”
The oblivious chef beamed with unwarranted pride.
“I substituted saccharin for sugar. Gives the sauce a more pronounced sweetness, wouldn’t you agree?”
I nodded slowly, resigned.
Oh, the glorious pioneering spirit of the English! Never do they compromise with convention. They invariably dismantle tradition, forever charging ahead at the vanguard of questionable progress.
Yet occasionally, I wished they might learn to honor established wisdom. To acknowledge, for instance, that perhaps—just perhaps—French culinary techniques might possess certain merits.
The saccharin revelation haunted me until we departed the establishment. Truly, the 19th century deserved its reputation as an era of gastronomic abominations.
We wandered the streets until sunset, never lingering too long in any one place.
Ladies clutching parasols and tea baskets shivered visibly yet determinedly boarded small vessels to navigate the frigid winter waters. This aristocratic vanity—so rarely glimpsed in London’s hurried streets—now struck me as oddly charming.
Turning a corner, however, we encountered two crowds facing each other in tense standoff across a narrow lane. Neither side yielded ground. Puzzled, I inquired of a passerby about the confrontation.
“Not from around here, are you? Those young men belong to the Newman Society. The elderly clerics opposite are librarians from Pusey House. Though the Oxford Movement ended half a century ago, religion remains Oxford’s most contentious subject. Since those students began calling themselves the Newman Society, a decade of simmering resentment has culminated in… well, this.”
His explanation left me more confused than enlightened.
Knowing nothing of the Oxford Movement, Newman Society, or Pusey House, I comprehended little of the conflict. Yet the spectacle of theological factions glowering at one another in a 19th-century street was a uniquely Oxford tableau—one I’d certainly never witness in London. I committed the satirical scene to memory, a perfect encapsulation of academic pettiness elevated to high drama.
Oxford proved itself a city that captivated endlessly by mere wandering.
Here, pre-18th century traditions were lovingly preserved; there, glimpses of the approaching 20th century unfolded in futuristic tableaux.
I studied Marie’s figure beside me.
With her expressionless face shrouded in gauze, her thoughts remained impenetrable. In truth, she had been the primary purpose of this journey.
Even without Arthur’s prompting, I had intended to take her somewhere distant. Arthur’s suggestion merely redirected our destination to Oxford.
My original intent was compensation—to offer her moments of joy, since she couldn’t freely venture into the world on her own.
The incident with that wretched train had somewhat derailed my plans, but my intentions remained steadfast.
Yet I now realized this excursion had become something special for me as well. Having lived a life governed by urgency and necessity, this marked my first purposeless sojourn beyond London’s boundaries.
Surprisingly, I too had come to savor our aimless wanderings.
We were both traveling novices; to more experienced eyes, our journey might have seemed woefully incomplete. Doubtless we had bypassed countless Oxford treasures worthy of attention.
But having chosen our path, lamenting each missed opportunity ran contrary to my nature. I would accept the consequences of my decisions.
We dined at a modest public house.
I had intended to escort her to a finer establishment, but Marie and I—conspicuously incapable of blending into local society—found ourselves barred at the threshold of more respectable restaurants.
More precisely, Marie’s peculiar and somewhat ominous attire, coupled with the unsettling aura she emanated, likely prompted our rejection.
“What do these people take me for? I can gain entry to London’s Le Hoton with merely a flash of my face!” I bellowed, affecting outrage for Marie’s benefit.
She responded by clutching my lapel, embarrassment evident in her restraining gesture.
We settled for a dingy tavern far beneath my expectations—the sort of establishment offering simple fare: greasy dishes and sizzling meats suitable for basic sustenance.
Marie’s manner of eating was a spectacle best shielded from public view.
We instinctively claimed a secluded corner. Marie pressed herself against the wall, while I positioned myself as a human screen before her.
Weary from our day’s perambulations, we dined in comfortable silence. This being the third time I’d observed her eating, I found myself growing somewhat accustomed to the sight—no longer entirely disturbed by it.
After our meal, Marie offered a quiet confession.
“I never imagined I would walk outside again.”
“You speak as though this is your final opportunity.”
At my words, she lowered her head slightly and murmured:
“Thank you.”
Her shy expression of gratitude struck me like a physical blow.
She had no cause to thank me!
Every action I took was mere atonement. My transgressions against her could never be fully expiated—I simply sought to make amends in whatever small ways I could.
Yet this innocent soul expressed gratitude.
Today had unfolded similarly. Marie had merely followed wherever I led. While I claimed to have chosen my own path, in retrospect, I had simply dragged her along in my wake.
I had stolen her body and her freedom.
And here I was, calling it “compensation” when all I’d done was force her down pathways of my choosing. How staggeringly arrogant and self-serving I had been.
Upon returning to London, I resolved to seek him out once more.
Victor Frankenstein.
If he truly possessed the secrets of creation, he might know better methods than my crude attempts—ways to restore, however partially, the life Marie deserved.
That night, we retired to our separate chambers.
For once, blessed silence reigned—a night unmarred by supernatural disturbances.
The following day found me standing before a private office in Oxford.
Having sent word of my intentions early that morning, I’d secured an audience around noon—a fortunate development, as this might be my final opportunity. To attend Tuesday’s morning lectures, I needed to return to London by nightfall.
────Knock, knock.
I rapped at the door with measured restraint, employing only my wrist in the gesture. The door displayed rich walnut grain—evidence of fine timber meticulously maintained over decades.
“Enter.”
At the summons from within, I pushed open the weathered six-panel door and stepped inside.
An elderly gentleman occupied the immaculately ordered room. Despite his advanced years, he exuded dignity and maintained a posture of unyielding rectitude.
“I must apologize for this unannounced intrusion.”
“Nonsense. A visitor from distant shores is always welcome.”
His greeting struck a precise balance between formality and warmth, revealing carefully regulated emotion. In him, I recognized echoes of another man I knew well.
Viscount Silver Wolf, the Earl of Phil Essex.
Though perhaps not his equal, the elderly gentleman before me possessed a similar weathered resilience, like the ancient door through which I’d just passed.
“Most surprising, however. I scarcely expected to receive a visitor bearing a letter of introduction penned by my daughter during her London studies.”
His gaze shifted toward me, the corners of his eyes tightening almost imperceptibly.
“What business brings you here?”
Henry George Liddell.
This austere theologian, Dean of Christ Church College, Oxford, scrutinized me with penetrating eyes—as if attempting to discern my very nature and the precise nature of my connection to his young daughter.