Peter Ackroyd - The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein

In the evening before the funeral the storm came. Thick clouds covered the mountains, and obscured their summits with lowering grey mist. Small patches of sunlight touched the ground and, when the wind stirred, the leaves of the trees quivered like violins. When the lightning hit the mountainside, it was like a rod beating the ground. The fire came from various regions of the sky; the thunder changed direction, too, and seemed to be travelling beneath the mountains. Then no mountains were visible. The air was heavy with expectation, with the perfume of the lightning upon it. But I saw, on the grass commons, a young girl playing with two small dogs. I wished Elizabeth back again then, to see this with me. If I could bring her alive again, I would! My unspoken thought chimed with the lightning flash in a moment of identity.

WHEN THE BELLS OF THE LITTLE CHURCH at Chamonix rang, as she was laid within the soil, they seemed to reverberate among the rocks and snow. I was once more filled with a sensation of childhood-that, somehow, the bells were inside the mountain pealing through its depths.

After the funeral, which was attended by most of the villagers of Chamonix, I could not rest. I could not stay still. And so I returned to the mountains. I began climbing upwards through the forests of fir trees that flanked the lower reaches, struggling to keep my foothold among the rocks and roots that continually impeded my ascent; there were small streams here, too, falling precipitately from the glaciers on the upper reaches, but eventually I found the winding track used by the peasants of the region. I wanted to climb higher and still higher, to stand upon l’Aiguille du Midi. I could hear the cry of a marmotte somewhere close by, and in its piercing call I realised the loneliness of my position. If I fell here, and died, my body would soon be covered in ice and snow; it might endure for many generations as a relic of my time, as the modern experiments in freezing suggest that it would not decompose.

The air was thinner here, and I could sense the blood pulsing through my body. It was a glorious sensation, to feel the force of life, but in this vast solitude with the currents of the world circling about me it also induced a feeling akin to terror-to be aware of the power of existence, and at the same time to understand its frailty. I lay down on the frozen earth but I had no sensation of cold. I called out to the marmotte with an imitation of its cry. The creature responded with a more plaintive note, as if he were unsure of the greeting. I called again, with the utmost certainty that all life is one, and the marmotte replied with a thrilling sound of recognition.

AFTER THE DEATH OF ELIZABETH my father seemed to weary of his own life; he grew old very rapidly, and took no more interest in the export business he had created over many years. He refused to go back to Geneva, and locked himself away in his study at Chamonix where he sat from dawn to twilight looking out of the window at the mountains. He joined me at dinner in the evenings, but there was little conversation. There were times, however, when he spoke from a full and overburdened heart. “You are a student of the sciences,” he said to me one evening. “Can you tell me why the meanest creature possesses life, and Elizabeth has no life at all?”

“It is not a perpetual gift, Father.”

“This moth,” he said, “is filled with life. Do you see how it circles around the candle flame? Do you believe that it enjoys its existence?”

“It seems to dance, Father. All living creatures must exert their energy.”

“Yet this life, this enjoyment, cannot last.”

“The moth does not know of death.”

“So it believes itself to be immortal?”

“The concept of immortality does not occur. It is. That is enough. It does not live in time.”

“This power of existence that it possesses-could it be found?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there some essence, some vital spark?”

“That is not a question I can answer, Father. It has been the subject of much debate, but with no very satisfactory conclusion.”

“So we do not know what life is.”

“It cannot be defined. No.”

“What is the use of all your sciences and studies if the essential thing is not understood?”

“We can only proceed from the known to the unknown.”

“But when the unknown is so great-”

“It excites my efforts even more, Father.” The moth was still fluttering around the candle, and I caught it in my cupped hands; I could feel its pale wings beating against the skin of my palms, and I experienced a sensation of sudden elation. “I am in pursuit of that spirit of life.”

“And what do your professors at Oxford think of it?”

“Oh, they do not know of it.” Instantly I regretted my quick reply.

“It is a secret pursuit, then?”

“Not secret. Many other men are engaged upon it. We work independently towards the same goal.”

“This is a good century in which to live, is it?”

“Of course.” I opened my hands, and the moth fluttered uncertainly into the dusky air. “There will be great discoveries. We will uncover the secrets of the electrical fluid. We will build great cathedrals of voltaic batteries so that we can re-create the lightning.”

“And create life?”

“Who knows? Who can tell? It may come too late for me.”

“You have always been very determined, Victor. I believe that you will always succeed in whatever task you set for yourself. What do you wish for?”

“I wish to bring Elizabeth back into life.”

He bowed his head, but he was alerted suddenly by a faint rumble in the mountains behind us. “Avalanche,” he said. “Now if you could master those, Victor, you would be celebrated.” And then he sighed.

A FEW WEEKS AFTER THE FUNERAL he contracted influenza, and weakened daily. It was a lesson to me in the governance of the body by the mind. The life force was mental and spiritual as well as physical, and as soon as my father despaired of life his vital powers began to fail. He would not take to his bed but remained in the armchair in his study. He had such an affection for his books that I believe he did not want to leave them. He never spoke of the business that he had entrusted to his confidential clerk, M. Fabre. Indeed, he never spoke of anything coherently or for very long. “Use the money to advantage,” he said to me one evening, at a time when I believed him to be asleep. “Use it for good.” I was his sole heir, and quite aware of the financial responsibilities that would devolve upon me. “Whatever is human, you can accomplish.” Then he lapsed back into silence.

I was sitting beside him when he died. I had been reading to him from Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, a novel which I had always intended to study with all the more enthusiasm since it had been extolled to me by Bysshe. My father had an excellent knowledge of German, but I am not sure that he understood or was even listening to my words; I simply wished to reassure him of my presence. Suddenly he opened his eyes. “It is not that Werther loved too much,” he said. “He lived too long.” And then he slipped away.

I had expected some change at the moment of death, some sense of departure, but not of the kind I witnessed. It was as if his life had never been; it was as if he had reverted to some previous state, before life had infused him. He had gone back. I felt his pulse, and the side of his neck, but all had gone.

SO ANOTHER FRANKENSTEIN WAS BURIED in the hill behind the little church at Chamonix; I was the only mourner of my immediate family, but I was followed to the grave by the servants of the household as well as the employees of my father’s business and by the same villagers who had attended Elizabeth’s funeral. I wept freely-but perhaps I was weeping for myself.