The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein

by Peter Ackroyd

  “Oh, yes. I am not of a nervous disposition. I am perfectly happy to take part.”

  It was agreed between us that, over the next two or three days, each of us would prepare a tale of terror which would then be read aloud. I retired to my room, that night, in a state of some perplexity. I had one tale that would fill them with horror, strike them to the root, but how could I narrate the history of the last months without my heart beating violently as a testament to its truth? I would seem to them an accursed thing, a manic or an outcast-it would not matter which. No, it could not be done. So at breakfast on the following morning I excused myself from the collective task. “I am not a poet,” I told Bysshe. “I am not a writer of tales. I am a mere mechanic and experimenter. I cannot divine the secrets of the soul.”

  “You criticise yourself unjustly,” he replied. “The great experimenters are poets in their way. They are travellers in unknown realms. They explore the limits of the world.”

  “But not in words, Bysshe. That is where I will fail.”

  Mary had been listening intently. “I have the words,” she said. “I have thought of a story. I remained in the drawing room last night, after you had retired, when all at once it came to me as an idea far more powerful than any reverie. A sequence of images rose up before me, unbidden-”

  “I know that sensation,” Bysshe said.

  “In the first of them some pale student of unhallowed arts was kneeling beside a man stretched out, but yet it was not a man at all-”

  At this moment Byron entered the room. “Have I missed the cutlets?” he asked Lizzie, who was standing behind Mary’s chair. “Be a good girl and rescue one for me from the kitchen.” He sat down beside Bysshe. “Where is the good Dr. Polidori?”

  “He has not risen,” I replied. “Fred tells me that he heard him snoring.”

  “Only if he put his ear to the door, I suspect. Fred is incorrigible.”

  At that instant Polidori came into the room. His shirt was crumpled and his waistcoat undone. “You have not washed your face, Polidori,” Byron said in greeting. “Good day to you.”

  “I am late, I’m afraid. I spent half the night in thought.”

  “Thought of what?” Bysshe asked him.

  “Of a horror.” He looked at me for a moment.

  “This is for our feast of stories, I take it?” Mary was also looking at me strangely.

  “I think it may be too dreadful to be told.”

  “Oh?”

  “Have you ever been in the process of thought-or even of a dream-when a face emerges in front of you? A frightful face. Full of terror and malevolence. And at the sight of that face all your most secret and intense fears spring up-the fear of death, the fear of what might happen after death, the fear of fear itself, all those sensations converge upon this malignant face.”

  “That is all?” Byron asked him.

  “No. Not all. I have a story.”

  “Go on.”

  “I call it ‘The Vampire.’”

  “You have a good beginning,” Byron said. “But do you have a middle and an end?”

  “I have set it along the romantic coastline of Whitby. Does anyone know of it?”

  “There was a synod there,” Mary said. “The abbess Hilda.”

  “Precisely so. The abbey church is perched upon steep cliffs. The rocks below are treacherous, the foam of the beating sea striking high up the stone sides of the cliffs. I have seen it. There, one dark night at the end of the last century, a schooner was making its perilous way among the rough waves. There was a tempest raging, and every dwelling in Whitby was bolted with the windows barred and locked. So no one saw the vessel coming closer and closer to the rocks. Then one great wave lifted the boat higher than before; it reared up on the turbulent sea, and then with a sigh of agony it settled on the rocks at the base of the cliff. There it was suspended, shivering like some wounded thing.

  “At the break of day, after the tempest had subsided, the cry of shipwreck went up. The inhabitants of Whitby gathered eagerly on the clifftops and looked down upon their prize; some ropes were lowered and the young men of the town clambered down upon the deck of the broken and beleaguered vessel. There was no crew to be found. There was no captain, or purser, or first mate. The ship was deserted. They reported only one remarkable find. Four coffins had been lashed to the main deck with strong ropes and twine. They had been fastened so securely that they had survived the storm and the shipwreck. Truly this was a ship of the dead. The coffins were taken on a pilot boat to the little harbour, where they were laid in a row upon the shore-”

  “Enough!” Byron cried out. “You are all substance and no style. It is too wearisome.”

  I sensed that Polidori was enraged, yet he remained to all outward appearance quite composed. I had laughed, and he gave me a look of such malevolence that I should have been warned. “When one of the coffins was opened,” he went on, “there was a voice crying out, ‘What more do you want from us?’”

  At this moment Bysshe shrieked and ran out of the room. Mary followed him in consternation. She called out to us for assistance, and, on entering the room, we found Bysshe stretched out on the carpet in a dead faint. With much presence of mind Polidori, bringing in a jug from the breakfast table, poured ale over his face. This revived him a little. “I have a restorative,” Polidori then said to Mary. “Pray give me your handkerchief.” He fetched a small case from his room and, taking out a bottle of green liquid, applied the contents to the handkerchief. He put it against Bysshe’s nose; to our great surprise Bysshe then sneezed, and sat upright. “I am sorry to have caused such commotion,” he said. “The truth is-I had an experience very similar to that which Polidori has just told us!” He raised himself from the carpet, and grasped Mary’s hand. “Shall we go back to the dining room?” he asked us calmly enough. “I am quite recovered.” We resumed our seats and Bysshe, his composure fully restored, told us his story.

  “I was in my last year at Eton, living in Dr. Bethel’s house. The name will mean nothing to you, but I mention it here in a desire to be accurate. One evening in one of my restless wanderings I left the school and the town far behind, and found myself walking by the river in the vicinity of Datchet. I came upon a small boathouse here, that had an open gallery on two sides-it was a most curious construction, of which I still have a vivid recollection. It was quite deserted, and the boat itself was gone; I assumed therefore that the owner had decided to embark upon an evening voyage, and I sat down in the gallery to enjoy the silence and seclusion of this restful spot. Who knows what dreams took hold of me? I only know that, in this portion of my life, I delighted in wild fancies and ideas that were only half-formed. My mind was the sky through which clouds passed. Then, after some time taken up in this idle but inexpressibly delightful pursuit, I heard the splash of oars in the water. I sprang up from the gallery and went down to the bank; the sound of the craft came nearer, and I put my hand above my eyes to see it more clearly as it made its way past a small island in the middle of the river. It was a white boat, as purely white as any I had ever seen. Its rower had turned away, looking upstream; he seemed absent-mindedly to move the oars, as the boat drifted gently towards the bank. And then he turned to face me. It was my own image, my double, my second self, staring at me. It opened its mouth, and its words were, ‘How long do you intend to remain content?’ I swooned upon the bank. When I awoke the boat, and its occupant, had gone. The boathouse had vanished. I was lying beside an utterly unoccupied part of the river. So, you see, I shrieked when I heard the words from the coffin in Whitby. It reminded me so forcibly of that moment in my life.”

  “You have never told me this before,” Mary said.

  “I have never told anyone. I do not know why I am telling you all now. It was the surprise of it, I suppose.”

  “Well now, you see,” Byron said, “how our own stories are more interesting than the German tales.” He went over to Bysshe. “That is the most interesting case of the doppelganger I have
ever heard. Do you recall if, at the moment it was most alert, you felt weak?”

  “I was close to fainting. And then I fell.”

  “Precisely. The double image always saps the strength of its source. No doubt it will appear to you again, Shelley. It may offer you advice or counsel. Do not listen to it. It is sure to deceive you.”

  “It has no shadow,” Mary added. “At least that is what I have read.”

  “Be sure not to confuse it with your husband.” Byron was laughing. “There would be the devil of a row.”

  “Who is to say what is true and what is false?” she replied.

  “Mary was about to describe her story to us,” I said. “It was concerned with the unhallowed arts. Am I correct, Mary?”

  “No. I will say no more about it. I will brood upon it, Victor. I will nourish it secretly, until it is ready to enter the world.” She got up from the table, and walked over to the window. “These storms will never cease.”

  “You can sit beneath the awning on the balcony,” Bysshe replied to her. “Then the rain will be delightful. You will see it nourishing the earth. The garden here will be replenished.”

  At that moment Polidori leaned over to me and said, in a low voice, “I meant to tell you yesterday. But there was no proper occasion. I have discovered the words for you.”

  I knew at once his meaning, but I did not know his intent. “The words for the golem?”

  “I have been in correspondence with my old master in Prague. He did not wish to write them down but I persuaded him that, in the interest of science, it would be a noble gesture. It is here.” From his waistcoat he took out a slip of paper. I placed it in the inside pocket of my jacket. I did not wish to look at it. Not yet.

  20

  A FEW MORNINGS LATER, Mary confessed to an alarming sensation in her stomach; she complained of a great ache accompanied by a tingling pain. Bysshe and Byron had not yet appeared, so Polidori and I sat alone with her in the dining room. She could not eat, and sat on a small sofa by the window. “There is a blockage somewhere,” Polidori told her. “The fluids are hindered. Will you allow me to help you?”

  “By all means,” she replied. “Lord Byron has told me of your magnetising.”

  “May I sit opposite to you? Here.” He moved a chair from the breakfast table, and brought it over to her. “Now, will you allow yourself to become quite inert? Let your arms hang by your sides. Let your head fall. Good. You are now relaxed?”

  “Am I allowed to speak?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes. I am relaxed.”

  Polidori drew his chair close to Mary, so that their knees touched. Then he leaned over and took her arm. “I am applying a gentle friction,” he said. “Do you feel anything as yet?”

  “No. Not yet. Yes. Now I do. I sense a warmth in the shape of a circle. A small coin.”

  “Now, Mary, I am not being indelicate. I wish you to put your knees between mine so that we are in a manner locked together. Will you do that?”

  “As long as my husband does not see us.”

  “Shelley approves of my work already. Fear nothing. Where exactly is the pain?”

  “Here. Just above the abdomen.”

  “That is the site of the hypochondriac organ. I do not need to put my hands there. I will place them on your temples. They are well named. If you will be so kind as to lower your head. Just so.” He put his fingers to the sides of her head, and began a series of stroking movements. “What do you feel now?”

  “There is a warmth in my big toe. On my right foot.”

  “Well now. Visualise that warmth moving upwards through your body. See it as a fire. It will burn away the impurities as it progresses.” I was about to speak, but with a look Polidori urged me to keep my silence. “The body,” he said to her, “is made up of little magnetic centres comprising the great magnet of the human frame.” He looked at me for confirmation.

  “So the electrical fluid is beginning to flow freely through me? Is that it?”

  “Precisely so. Do you not feel, Mary, the warmth of the current?”

  “Oh, yes.” She sighed. “The pain is dissolving.”

  “It will soon pass altogether.”

  “I must sleep,” she said. “I want to sleep.” She rose from the chair and, without looking at us, left the room.

  Polidori looked at me, almost slyly. “She is drawn to magnetic slumber,” he said. “All of them feel the need to sleep.”

  “I believe, Polidori, that you are on the wrong path. Magnetic slumber is not the cause. It is the effect. The consequence of far larger powers.”

  “I do not understand you.”

  “There are forces of which you know nothing.”

  “Then I will be obliged if you inform me of them.”

  “It is premature, Polidori.”

  I believe that, from this time forward, he decided to pursue me with all the subtlety and cunning at his command. He became the hunter, I his quarry.

  “At any rate, Frankenstein, will you allow me to indicate the pulses in your own body?”

  “If you wish it,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Most certainly.”

  When Byron came down to breakfast he found Polidori leaning over me with his hands upon my thighs. “We used to do that at Harrow,” he said, apparently not in the least surprised.

  “I am instructing Frankenstein in the mysteries of magnetism.”

  “Is that so? I thought you were about to bugger him. Where are the kidneys?” Byron surveyed some dishes laid out on a side-table. “And answer came there none.” He piled some smoked bacon upon a plate, and carried it over to the table. “Where shall we travel today? Where in this region will we beat a path? Tell us, Frankenstein.”

  “Well, my lord, we might climb. We have mountains.” In the presence of Byron it was impossible for Polidori to continue his instruction, so I moved over to the window.

  “I think not.” I had forgotten, for a moment, his deformed foot. He had never alluded to it, but I believe that it was a source of embarrassment to him. I knew, too, that deformed persons are often born with strong passions. “Now that we are beside the lake, we must use the lake. Water is my element. Did you know that I once swam across the Hellespont?”

  “There is a small castle further along the shore,” I told him. “You might care to visit it. It was once a fortress and a prison.”

  “Like the famous Chateau de Chillon?”

  “Not so striking,” I said. “But it is picturesque. It is rumoured to be haunted.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Polidori asked Byron.

  “I deny nothing. But I doubt everything. We must encounter these ghosts, gentlemen. Shelley will faint.”

  “Mary will support him,” Polidori said.

  “Yes,” Byron replied. “She is the stronger of the two, I think. It is a question of the hen fucking the cock.” I was shocked by his language, but took care not to show it. “Depend upon it, that girl has steel within her.”

  “She has the electric force within her,” Polidori said. “I have just calmed her with it.”

  “Did you stroke her thighs?”

  “I applied some friction to her skin.”

  Byron was about to say something else, but broke off as Bysshe entered the room dishevelled and dazed from sleep. “Well, Shelley,” Byron said to him, “good morning to you. We are going on an expedition to a prison. What is this place called, Frankenstein?”

  “The Chateau de Marmion. It belonged to a family of that name. I do not know who owns it now.”

  “We will leave our cards, at any rate. Eat up, Shelley, I long to be gone.”

  I retired to a small alcove, where I was hidden from them by a screen that divided the breakfast table from some scattered chairs and tables on which newspapers and journals were piled. Shelley soon left the table, confessing that he needed a chamber pot, so that Byron and Polidori were alone together. I began to read an essay on the merits of the Clapham sect, and disregarde
d the murmur of their voices. But then I began to listen to them. “She has two faults unpardonable in a woman,” Byron was saying. “She can read and she can write.”

  I could not hear Polidori’s muttered reply.

  “Forgive me,” Byron said to him. “I am as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop.” It seemed that they were not aware of my presence.

  “You seem convivial enough,” Polidori replied.

  “I do my best to conceal my feelings. I do not want them to be wasted on anyone other than myself.”

  “You are very magnanimous.”

  “I have my silent rages, though, when to the world I seem indifferent. You know that.”

  “Oh, yes. I have witnessed your contortions. You go a very bright red. But some of your rages, my lord, are not so silent. Do you recall that evening in the Haymarket, when you struck that man down?”

  “My dear Polidori, I always have screams and insults at my command. Did you know that I can cry at will? Watch. I will show you.” There was a silence for a few seconds.

  “Bravo,” Polidori cried out. “They look like the genuine thing.”

  “They are the genuine thing. I just need a reason for them.”

  I did not catch the next few words between them: I think that Byron had gone over to a side-table and poured more coffee. When he came back he must have been standing, for his voice became more distinct. “You know, when I was a child, I could not bear to read out loud any poetry without disgust. Now I am unaccountably attached to the habit.”