The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein (16 page)

FRED WAS WAITING UP FOR ME
. “There is a funny smell in the room,” he said as soon as I entered.

“Smell?”

“Of drink, and tobacco, and something else, and something else, all mixed.”

“I have been in a tavern,” I said. I took off my coat and jacket, and put them on a chair in the hallway.

“Mr. Frankenstein in a tavern. Whatever next?”

“Mr. Frankenstein in bed.”

“I was warned against taverns,” he said, “when I was a boy. They are too low. You were not robbed, sir, were you?”

“No, Fred, I was not robbed. I was cheated. Porter is threepence a pint. But I was not robbed.”

“Porter was the ruin of my father, sir. It was not the donkey that killed him. It was the drink. He never was sober after the dustcart came by.”

“What had the dustcart to do with it?”

“He shared a drink with the dustman. He was a regular toper, he was. Never knew which side of the street he was on.”

“I have come to the conclusion, Fred, that all Londoners drink.”

“They can be very cheerful, sir.” He sighed. “They like the flowing bowl.”

“You are a poet, Fred.”

He laughed and was about to leave the room, when he spun
around and very deftly kicked himself. “I almost forgot, sir. There is a letter for you. It came on the northern coach, so I gave the messenger sixpence.”

“He did not carry it all the way, Fred. Never mind. Pass it to me, if you please.”

He retreated into the hall and came back with a packet that, as I saw, had been franked by an official in Lancaster. It was from Daniel Westbrook. I hoped that it might have come from Bysshe who, despite my anger at his behaviour, was still often in my thoughts. But the clumsy writing of the address told me otherwise. The letter itself was superscribed
Chestnut Cottage, Keswick
.

My dear Frankenstein
,

    
Forgive me for not writing to you sooner but I have had a deal of business to sort. Neither Mr. Shelley (or, should I say, my brother-in-law) nor Harriet have any head for such matters, so I was obliged to negotiate their lease of the cottage from a Cumberland farmer who was more hard-headed than a London stock jobber. He insisted on counting the flowers in the garden, in the event that we might uproot one of them! Harriet seems very happy, and sparkles with delight whenever we go for one of our walks by the lake or by the mountainside. She is obviously suited to married life, and looks after her husband with the utmost delicacy and attention: she makes sure that he is always neat and clean in his appearance (sometimes to his annoyance, I must admit) and tries to bargain with the villagers for our simple necessities. Mr. Shelley shuts himself away for some of the day, in the upstairs bedroom, where Harriet says that he is composing; I can sometimes
hear him reciting verses, which I imagine to be his own. Then he goes on long rambles through the local country, when he prefers to be alone. I am sure that he loves and cherishes Harriet, but the ways of aristocrats are new to me! We sit together in the evenings, and he reads to us from the volume that has most lately taken his fancy. He has been studying Mr. Godwin’s treatise on Necessity, and yesterday evening he recited to us the philosopher’s belief that in the life of every being there is a chain of events which began in the distant ages that preceded his birth and continued in regular procession through the whole period of his existence. It is called necessitarianism, a long word for a difficult matter. I am sure I have not spelled it properly. In consequence of which, according to Mr. Godwin, it is impossible for us to act in any instance otherwise than we have acted. That is too fatalistic for my taste, but Mr. Shelley believes it to be the case. Harriet agrees with him
.

Last week we visited Mr. Southey, who has a grand house in the neighbourhood known as Greta Hall. You must know of Mr. Southey through his connection with the Intelligencer. Quite by chance one of the Lake poets, whom Mr. Shelley reveres, was also there. Mr. Wordsworth’s name was known even to me—who am, as you know, no great judge of poetry—and he received a proper amount of veneration and respect from us all. I believe that he relished the opportunity of conversing with his young admirer. Mr. Shelley recited some of his own verses and Mr. Wordsworth deemed them to be, as he put it, “very acceptable.” They talked on the subject of poetry and morality, as Harriet and I listened enthralled. Never have I seen such a large measure of genius crammed into one room! Mr. Wordsworth begged to differ when Mr. Shelley grew warm on the subject of kings and oppression, in which I would very willingly have joined, but the older man
preserved his demeanour. I believe that he is a native of this area, but he seems a good deal more cultivated than anyone else I have encountered here. His accent is not at all rough. He has a long sloping nose, and a delicate firmness of expression about the mouth; his eyes are luminous in the extreme, and he evinced a great gentility of manner towards Harriet and Mrs. Southey
.

I believe that even Mr. Wordsworth was impressed by Mr. Shelley’s ardour, and saw in his excitement some reflection of his own younger self. He confessed to us that the years had buried him in a “mound of cares,” as he put it, but that as a young man he had dreamed dreams and seen visions. “I wish you well,” he said to Mr. Shelley as he took his leave. “I am not insensible to the cravings of youthful ambition.”

So ended our meeting with the Lake poet. There is much more to tell you, but it will be best delivered to you on my return to London. Harriet sends her greetings to you. Mr. Shelley has just shouted down the stairs and asked if you remember the Ancient Druids of Poland Street? I confess I have no idea what he means. I must sign my name now, or I will write on indefinitely
.

Faithfully yours, Daniel Westbrook
.

I folded the letter and placed it on the side-table beside my chair. For some reason I felt close to tears. Perhaps it was a reminder to me of the life I used to lead, before my immersion in dangerous experiment; perhaps it represented to me the pleasures of married life and of human intercourse. I realised, too, that I still missed the presence of Bysshe. His was the one true companionship I had ever formed—my one friend and ally in this world, where there is so much harm and darkness.

Fred came into the room, bearing a smoking dish. “I have a cure for the porter,” he said.

“I am not to be cured.”

“Saloop, sir. The steam would wake a corpse.”

“High praise.” I took the bowl of liquid from him; it was milky grey in colour, and had a rough texture. “Is this one of your London dishes?”

“As cockney as a chimney-sweep, sir. Milk and sugar and sassyfrass.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Fred.”

“Uncle Bill sells it on the Haymarket. He owns an urn.”

“I am pleased to hear it. I take it that I drink it?” He nodded, with immense satisfaction. I tasted the brew, which had the aroma and the flavour of vanilla. It was curiously soothing. “Your Uncle Bill must be a popular man.”

“He is tolerably well liked, sir. The urchins follow him for the smell alone.”

The drink must also have been a great soporific, since I retired to bed as soon as I had finished it and slept soundly until dawn. When I woke it was with a sense of impending and urgent duty. I knew what I had to do. I sat upright in my bed, and stared straight ahead. I have an unfortunate habit of gnawing at my fingernails, when I contemplate a problem, and this I proceeded to do. My converse with the resurrection men on the previous night, and my bargain with them, had effectively begun a new phase of my existence. There were still a few hours in which I could turn back from the consequences of my actions—a few brief hours in which I might make my peace with men and God—but I was so blinded by the prospect of success and glory that I used them for quite other purposes.

I took a cab to Limehouse, and began to prepare my workshop for its visitors. Within two nights I would have in my possession two bodies, freshly expired, and I could begin to charge them with life. I inspected the electrical columns that Hayman had constructed for me, and could see no flaw in their design. The pure flow of the power would advance un impeded into my subjects. I did not yet know what results to expect, since I had never before had in my possession such resources. I knew only that I was upon the threshold of a new world of science. One way or another, it would happen. Did I still yearn for my old life of pure contemplation and study, of youthful visions in the Alpine air? I was not sure of this.

ON THAT FRIDAY EVENING
I waited eagerly for the arrival of the resurrection men. I stood outside upon the wharf, and watched the water as the tide came in; it was early autumn now and a mild breeze ruffled the surface. The declining sun lit up the banks of cloud moving from the west, and the radiance spread outwards like a halo. I went back inside, and busied myself about the final preparations of the electrical columns. I had placed them in the space between two low wooden tables lying side by side; there was a plentiful supply of voltaic batteries upon the floor, at the head and foot of each of the tables. I had calculated that the power would be enough to animate two corpses, and so I had devised an elaborate procedure of moving quickly from one subject to the other. I would in any case prepare them both at the same time, with the metal straps and coils attached to their anatomies. Of course I had no
conception of what might occur in the course of the electrical charging: I had taken the precaution of having a blunderbuss, primed and loaded, in a corner of the workshop.

As night fell I took a lamp, and walked onto the landing stage. I could hear the lapping of the water against the wooden posts, and there was a splash somewhere in the middle of the river. A thin mist was creeping in from the east, and I prayed that it might deepen so that my visitors would be shrouded from the sight of anyone lingering upon the bank. I put the lamp up to my face. After a few moments I heard the sound of oars, and the steady progress of a boat low in the water; I held out the lamp, and moved it from side to side as a signal. The oars came closer, and in the dim fitful light I saw the dark outline of a boat coming towards the stage. Two men were rowing, and a third sat at the stern on watch.

They made no sound or gesture of recognition, but stayed fixed to their tasks. In less than a minute they had come up by the landing. I called out to them but they motioned me to stay silent. The man at the stern, whom I recognised to be Miller, threw me a rope; I tied the boat to a mooring post beside me. Miller then jumped out, and put his hand across my mouth. “Mum,” he whispered. I could smell the drink upon his breath. The two others clambered out from the side of the boat, and then began to unload two hempen sacks. They dragged them across the planking, and I followed them within.

I closed the door, and put the oil-lamp on the table. “I must see them before I pay you.”

“Don’t you trust us, Mr. Frankenstein?” Boothroyd took out a flask from the pocket of his coat, and swigged from it.

“A proper tradesman surveys his goods,” I said.

He laughed at that, but then in the glimmering light he noticed the electrical machines. “What infernal thing is this?”

“It is an engine. The engine of my work.”

“The devil’s work, is it?”

“It is nothing to do with the devil. I can assure you of that.”

“Well, it is all one to me.”

Then Miller took out a knife, and cut the cords that bound the tops of the sacks. An arm fell from one of them and, taking hold of it, he pulled out the rest. It was an adult male, as I had requested, but one who had suffered some injury to his chest. It had caved in, and the ribs were broken. “This one is damaged,” I said.

“Perfect specimens are hard to find. But look at this one.” Boothroyd then took the body from the second sack. It was of a young male in a very good state of repair and preservation; he looked as if he had died quite suddenly, and there was an expression of ghastly terror upon his face.