Peter Ackroyd - The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein

“Victor wishes to create new life,” Bysshe said from the other end of the table.

“Really? I am a student of medicine, too, Mr. Frankenstein. I enrolled at the medical school in Edinburgh. Now I am reading the hermetic philosophers.” There was an element of condescension in his manner that I found disagreeable.

“Polidori,” Byron said, “is a great occultist. He whispers to my liver and makes it well. Now I can drink as deep as I wish.”

The food was then brought in by two elderly waiters, who removed the covers and laid down the sauces in perfect unison. It was evident that they still took pleasure in the performance, rehearsed over many years. Over the meal Byron and Bysshe began to talk of poets and of poetry, while Polidori and I resumed our conversation. “Do you find much among the ancients, Dr. Polidori?”

“Ancient wisdom. What else is there to find? You will not be surprised to learn that Galen is still taught in some of our universities. But I discount him. I am more interested in Paracelsus and in Reuchlin. Do you know his De Arte Cabalistica?” I shook my head. “But you are interested in creating life? Is that not so?”

“By means of the electrical fluid, sir.”

“And have you had success?”

“Of the slightest kind.”

“Precisely. There are other means. In the Corpus Hermeticum, collected by Turnebus, there is the figure of the golem. You are aware of it?”

“Of course. It is the creature of the Kabbalah, made out of dust and red clay. It is awarded life by the invocation of ritual words. I have not given that method any serious attention, Dr. Polidori. The electrical charge is more powerful than words.”

“Have you been to Prague, Mr. Frankenstein?”

“Alas not.”

“In the public records kept in the library, there are many reports of the creature. Reports over the centuries.” He leaned forward, and I could smell wine on his breath. “There is supposed to be one in existence even now.”

“Truly?”

“It is said that a local rabbi created him, and keeps him in confinement.”

I must say that Polidori had engaged my attention with his story. “Of what dimensions is this creature?”

“A little larger than human height, but proportionately much stronger and swifter.”

“And why is this prodigy not known to the world? Surely it would overturn all existing concepts of life and creation?”

“The Jews keep it hidden. I am myself of that faith, so I speak of what I know. They do not wish to be derided as sorcerers or diabolists.”

“And how is this being, this golem, concealed?”

“He lives in awe of the rabbi, his master. The rabbi could destroy him as easily as he created him.”

“That is interesting, Dr. Polidori. Can you explain it to me?”

“He has kept back a residue of the materials that created the golem.” He looked at me intently, as if to ascertain my motive in asking such a question. “He would merely have to return them to the creature, by overt or by hidden means, and then pronounce some ritual words. When they are uttered the golem collapses into dust.”

“Do you know the words?”

“Alas not.”

“Can you discover them for me?”

“You have become agitated, sir. Are you unwell?”

“Not at all. I am excited at the advent of new knowledge. I seek it for its own sake.”

“A true philosopher.”

“I venerate wisdom in any form it is offered, sir. Will you be able-will you be permitted-to ascertain these words?”

“It is possible. I maintain a correspondence with scholars in Prague.”

“That would be a great boon to me.”

“Why so?”

“As I said, I seek for knowledge.”

At this moment Byron proposed a toast-not to atheism, as he had suggested in the theatre, but to the Luddite frame-breakers who had “made their protest against the society of the machine.” Bysshe joined the toast enthusiastically, and hailed the spirit of revolution that had manifested itself in the North.

“It is a damn tiresome exercise to quote a man’s words back to him,” Byron said. “But as soon as Tom Hogg read them to me, Shelley, I wanted to embrace you.” He remained standing, and in a loud clear voice recited:

“From the dust of creeds outworn,

From the tyrant’s banner torn,

Gathering round me, onward borne,

There was mingled many a cry-

Freedom! Hope! Death! Victory!”

Bysshe joined in the last line, and raised his glass again with an “hoorah!” that brought one of the waiters back into the room.

“Is everything satisfactory?” he asked Polidori.

“They are saluting the future, Edmund.”

“Then they have better sight than I have, sir.”

“They are poets.”

“I wish them luck then, sir.” The waiter retreated with a bow, having decided that his services were not at that moment required.

“And now, gentlemen,” Byron announced, “let us drink to cunt.”

Bysshe seemed startled by the proposal; he was of a more delicate temperament than Lord Byron, and had always shrunk from any coarseness of expression. But he raised his glass, and drank the wine with evident relish.

“You are employed by Lord Byron?” I asked Polidori.

“His lordship feeds me. In return I prepare compounds for his general health. At the moment I am urging him to lose some of his fatness.”

“He seems fleshy. But no more.”

“Have you seen his mother? He has inherited a tendency. It is better to thwart it now.”

“What methods do you employ?”

“Purgatives. I hasten the passage of food through the body. And purgatives burn off the fatty tissue.”

It seemed a novel form of medicine to me, but I was more intrigued than ever by Polidori himself. “How do you find the English people?” I asked him.

“My Lord Byron being the exception?”

“If you say so.”

“I like them well enough to live among them. And you?”

“They are great experimenters. They take nothing for granted.”

I was about to expand upon this theme, when he put his hand upon my arm. “I have noticed, Mr. Frankenstein, that you have a slight nervous tremor below your left cheekbone. What is troubling you?”

“Nothing in particular troubles me.”

“You are not being frank with me. You have become an Englishman.” He laughed. “No matter. I will question you no further. Perhaps it is an affair of the heart. Perhaps it is tremor cordis.”

“My heart is intact, sir.”

“Yet I can help the uneasiness in that nerve. I suppose you have tried tincture of opium?”

“I have been given it. When I was in a fever.”

“I have something better. I have my own especial preparation of powder, to be mixed with the opiate.”

“Do you dispense it to him?” I looked at Byron, who was deep in talk with Bysshe. I heard him utter the phrase, “a modern Prometheus.”

“Of course. He calls it his Muse.”

“And this tremor, as you call it, will cease?”

“Without a doubt. On the instant.”

“I will be indebted to you, Dr. Polidori.”

“I will be helping the cause of experimental philosophy. You will return to your work with renewed vigour and fresh perception.”

“It is as powerful as that?”

“It works marvels.”

It seemed likely that Bysshe and Byron would talk into the night, but I was already weary and needed rest. I took my leave of them after a few minutes but, before departing, I noted down my address for Polidori who thereupon promised to visit me on the following day.

Stepping into the Strand I recalled Byron’s words concerning the true dramas of urban life-how many of these huddled men and women, shrouded now in a fog, would be affected by the events I had unleashed into the world? Since the creature had the power to hurt, and to kill, how many would be directly or indirectly touched by his evil? In a great city many are at risk.