Peter Ackroyd - The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein

“Where else am I to come, if I seek for a companion?”

I was overcome at once by a sense of misery and foreboding. “I had not expected to see you. Not after-”

“Marlow?” He put his hand up to his face, in a gesture of self-abasement. “I had rather be a piece of clay than what I am. Anything without sensation.”

“You feel sorrow then? And regret?”

“I do not know what I feel. I know only what I do not feel. Yes. Once I felt joy. In the first expression of my new life I felt wonder and gratitude. I was free. I looked upon the world with fresh perception of its glory. I was newborn, and in that state I felt the bliss of all creation. The hope and bliss have fled. This thing has crept into my heart, weighing me down to the dust.”

“Guilt for your crimes.”

“If you say so.”

“You have murdered two young women, for no other reason than that they were in my company.”

He turned from me, and walked back towards the window. “I wish that I had joined them.”

“Do you mean that you wish to die?”

“Look at me. Do you see me clearly? Why would I wish to live?”

“Let me understand you better.”

“I find no rest in the darkest night, or comfort in the brightest day. Is not death easy in comparison? Is it not to be desired?”

“You wish to break this pact we have? This pact of life?”

“So that I might be no more. So that I might abide in darkness and blackness and empty space.”

I bowed my head, thinking of what he might have been and what he really had become. And was there also some blame to be attached to me?

“Of all creatures, I should not be saved from death.”

“If you wish to end, then surely you could hurl yourself from the summit of a high mountain or envelop yourself in flame?”

“You know better than that. You have told me yourself. He who has died once can never die again. I have lain beneath the surface of the river, and my lungs have filled with water, yet I could not succumb. I have thrown myself from a cliff into the wild sea, but I have emerged unharmed. So I come back to you. The source. The origin of my woe.” He turned back to face me. “I know that you have repaired the electrical machines.”

“You once tried to destroy them.”

“Now they may be my deliverance.”

“How so?”

“I have been considering my plight. I do not know the precise means by which you restored me to life, but I have speculated. I have spent days and nights in meditation. I am aware of the galvanic force of the electrical fluid. That must have been your method, in some form or another. Surely you can alter the fluid accordingly and reverse the process of animation? Surely you can counteract the force?”

It astonished me that the creature had arrived at conclusions similar to my own; it was as if there were a connection between us that surpassed the ordinary powers of sympathy. It surprised and delighted me, too, that he seemed now to embrace the prospect of his own destruction. There would be no reason to deceive him with promises of a female partner. “I can work to that end,” I replied. “I can study and experiment.”

“Do not be long.”

“I will work with expedition, when I have returned to England, but you will need to be patient. You still live on the estuary?”

“In my little hut? Yes. No one comes near me.”

“Will you go back there, while I persevere in my studies?”

“Where else may I rest my head? I am a pale roamer through the night, but in the night and darkness I will remain.”

“I will find you.”

“No. I will know when you are ready. I will be there.” With these words, he left me. He went over to the window and leapt onto the balcony before vanishing into the quiet night.

I COULD NOT SLEEP. When I guessed that the others had retired I went downstairs and let myself into the garden. I was reflecting upon the creature’s words, when someone sat beside me. It was Mary. “I wish you were not leaving us, Victor. I need your company.”

“You have the others.”

“What? Byron? Polidori? They are too concerned with their own selves to consider me.” She was silent for a moment. “I am fearful for Bysshe, Victor. He has become too excitable. Too fanciful. Recall his hysterics at breakfast. When I first knew him, such behaviour would have been unthinkable. Don’t you agree? Something is weakening him. You may think that it is his marriage to me.” She went on quickly. “I do not think so.”

“It never occurred to me at all, Mary.”

“And this is also odd. He never mentioned the story of his double before. Something is preying on his mind. He is be coming light-headed with anxiety. With some fear. Or premonition, perhaps.”

“Of his fate?”

“Yes. Precisely that.”

I knew then that she feared his early death; she believed that Bysshe was acting strangely because he had some sense of his own demise. Why else had he become so interested in seances and ghosts and ghost stories? I tried to reassure her. “Surely he is excited by his travels,” I told her. “And, more especially, by the company of Byron. Bysshe has never lived in such proximity to another poet. It will affect him.”

“Do you think so? I would wish that to be true.”

“He is a delicate organism, Mary. One small touch-”

“Yes. I know. But there is something else. I also fear a disaster! Over the past month I have experienced the strongest sensations of nervous apprehension. I have believed misfortune to be close to us.”

“Do not say so.” I put my hand upon her arm. “I have noticed a change in Bysshe, too. But I think you are wrong, Mary. It is not fear. It is frustration. Unsatisfied yearning. He deems himself to be a good poet-”

“A great one.”

“I grant that. But his work is known to very few. He has no audience to delight. Not yet. In the company of Byron, whose volumes sell in their thousands, is there any wonder that he should seem ill at ease? That he should have fits of extravagant behaviour? It would be more wonder if he did not.”

“I had thought of that. But Bysshe has no worldly temper, Victor. He is all fire and air. There is no earth in him. No jealousy.”

“I was not speaking of jealousy. I know that he is not an envious man. But, you see, his words are not being received. He writes of love and liberty, but no one hears him. You can see how that would exasperate him. To be understood by so few.”

“Yes, I do see that. Perhaps you are right, Victor. It may be that his friendship with Byron does him no good. His lordship is in many ways quite thoughtless. Have you noticed that? He treats Polidori as if he were a manservant. And Polidori resents it. He resents it bitterly. I would not be at all surprised if they did soon part company.”

“And what of you and Bysshe?”

She seemed horrified. “We are not about to part!”

“No. I mean, where will you go next? If you are not happy in the villa.”

“There is some talk of Italy. Oh, I am so weary of travelling, Victor. I long for England. I long to set up a household with Bysshe. And my father. A small house in Camden would suit.” There was a sudden movement between the trees, and a rustle among the fallen leaves. She stood up and peered into the darkness. “I hate rats,” she said. “Do you mind if we return to the house?”

ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING I left them. I travelled with Fred in a hired chaise to Chamonix, high among the mountains. We observed the rocks and glaciers, we climbed the passes. I pointed out to Fred a great waterfall. “Do you see,” I said to him, “how the wind carries it away from the rocks? The fine spray of its descent passes before the mountain like a mist.”