Peter Ackroyd - The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein

“Oh, I am not as I was.” She looked over the lake towards the mountains. “At least I will not grow old.”

“Please do not say-”

She looked at me again intently. In her emaciated face I thought I could see some vision of the old age she would not reach. “I am not afraid of the truth, Victor. My sun is low in the sky. I know it.”

“You will recover here. They have remedies for your malady.”

“It is called consumption of the lungs. It is a good word. I am being consumed.” I was about to say some word of consolation, but she put up her hand. “No. I am prepared for it. I count it the greatest good fortune that I can sit here beside our beloved lake. You know it speaks to me?” She had a sudden bout of coughing, anguished and prolonged. I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her, but I believe that she did not wish for consolation. “It is cheerful enough. It reminds me of all the happiness I have known. It tells me of your great adventures in England.”

“What else?”

“It speaks to me of peace.”

“ Elizabeth.” I bowed my head.

“No need for tears, Victor. I am quite happy. Sometimes I sit here at night-”

“Do the doctors permit it?”

“I slip away. They allow us to sleep undisturbed, and I always return before the break of day. So I sit here in the darkness and look over the water. Some of the boats carry oil-lamps, and at night they are like little pieces of glowing fire floating before me. It is very exhilarating. I often think death must be like that-gazing at distant lights. Oh, here comes Papa.”

Our father was walking over the lawn towards us. He was formally dressed, with a dark green frock-coat and cravat, but his rapid stride suggested his unease. “Victor, you should have called upon me.”

“I arrived in Geneva late last night, Papa. There was no time. Did you not get the letter I sent from Oxford?”

“I have received nothing.” I knew that he was greatly agitated by the sight of Elizabeth: it was clear to me that her condition was declining day by day. “I have not been attending to business in Geneva. Have you eaten today, Elizabeth?”

“Some bread steeped in milk, Papa.”

“You must eat.” He put his hands upon her head, as if he were trying to bestow some blessing upon her. “You must grow stronger. Did you sleep well?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Food and rest. Food and rest.” He bent down, and rearranged the shawl around her shoulders. “The wind comes directly from the mountains, Elizabeth. May I suggest that you return to your room?”

“The doctors extol the advantages of the open air, Papa.”

“That is all very well. But do you see them sitting by the lake? I feel the chill myself. Victor, help me with your sister.”

“I am quite able to walk, Papa.”

“Of course you are, Elizabeth. We will walk beside you. Victor, will you take your sister’s arm?” When she rose from the wicker bench, I realised that she was very frail; she seemed to sway slightly in the wind, and for a moment I thought that she had lost her balance. She leaned against me and laughed: it was as if she were laughing at her own incapacity.

There was a slight incline towards the sanatorium, and she grasped my arm as we slowly climbed the gravel path that led away from the lake. Our father walked on the grass beside us, his head lowered in contemplation, but when we reached the door of the building he went ahead of us. He told me afterwards that he had wished to speak to one of Elizabeth ’s doctors, away from her presence; and so I escorted her back to her room.

“Papa is very sad,” she said. “I rely upon you to comfort him.”

“How should I do that?”

“I am not sure.”

“I cannot stay here, Elizabeth. I cannot live in Geneva.”

“I know that. This is no place for you. You have always been fired by ambition.”

“I cannot apologise for that.”

“I expect no such thing. It is laudable. I have always been proud of you, Victor. I have watched you with admiration ever since you were a small boy. Do you remember how you showed me the chicken’s life in the hen’s egg? You had observed it. You made yourself the master of anything you wished to know.” Elizabeth became more animated as she spoke, as if she were reliving the days before her illness. “You pestered people with questions for which they had no answers. Why did clouds change their shape? Why did the cut worm divide into two lives? Why did the leaves change colour in the autumn?” She broke off. “Excel in your studies, Victor. Become a great personage.”

Papa came into the room with a young man who greeted Elizabeth in the most informal manner possible. I took him to be one of her doctors, but I did not like him. “ Elizabeth,” he said, “is the most patient subject. She has been cupped and blistered without the least complaint.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Papa replied. “And she is eating well?”

“She keeps up her strength. We have nothing but the highest hopes.”

This seemed to me to be a little piece of theatre contrived for Elizabeth ’s sake, but her expression of weariness convinced me that she had not been impressed by it. “I think we should leave you now,” I said. “You are tired.”

“Yes,” Papa said. “She must rest. Rest is the cure.”

“May I admit to being tired?” She glanced at the doctor, who had been observing her keenly.

“Of course. Don’t forget there is a recital on the pianoforte before supper. We will be listening to Mozart.”

“I do not like to listen to music any more.”

My father embraced her before we left, once more urging her to eat well and to sleep. I doubted that she would obey his instructions. She was too far out of the world to care for such things. As soon as we had left her, his eyes filled with tears. I had never seen him cry before. “She cannot live,” he said. “The doctor knows it.”

“Surely there is some hope?”

“None whatever. The doctors have said that there can be no remission. The consumption has taken over her lungs.”

“But doctors can be mistaken.”

“Did you hear her breathing? The doctor told me that last night her mouth was filled with arterial blood.”

“What shall we do?”

“We shall wait. What else is there to do?”

“The sun will no longer warm her.”

“What was that?” I had spoken too softly for him to hear me.

“This is a hard time, Papa.”

“It will become harder. We must cherish your sister.”

ELIZABETH ’S DEATH OCCURRED two days later. She was found in the morning, sitting in a chair by her bed. It was said that she had suffered no pain, but how that was determined I do not know. My father insisted that she be buried in the little graveyard at Chamonix, the village where the family house was situated. So Elizabeth was placed in a lead coffin, and together with her we travelled on the winding road out of Geneva towards the mountains. I do not need to state that this was a melancholy journey. All I recall of it now was the scent of sweet logs burning that accompanied us for part of the way.

When we reached our old home, I longed to see once more the pure whiteness of the snow, which no one on earth had touched. From the window of my room I could see Mont Blanc, and the summit known to us as l’Aguille du Midi; the snow upon the upper reaches was brilliantly illuminated by the sun, while the rest of the mountain was still caught in shadow with the grey snow and the slopes of the trees cascading into the valley. There was nothing there to limit the range of the gaze. I could see pockets of stone which no light had ever reached, the paths of rivers that would never flow, the rocks hewn into strange shapes by forces I could not fathom, all draped in eternal quiet. It was the quiet that Elizabeth had now entered. But then loud birdsong called me back to earth.