The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein

14

“I HAD THE SENSATION THAT I had come out of darkness, but I did not understand the nature of that darkness. Then there was light and warmth, an infinite comfort and delight as if I lay suspended in some voluptuous medium. I believe then that I uttered my first sounds.”

“You sang.”

“Was that singing? The sounds emerged from within my form, as if all the fibres of my being were coming out in harmony for the first time. I was in a state of the utmost excitement. Here.” He touched his genitals without any sense of shame or embarrassment. “And then I saw you. I believe that I knew at once that you were my author, that you had transmitted life into my own frame. I did not experience any sensation of gratitude, however, but one of curiosity. What was this breath and motion with which I was endowed? At that moment the world could show me no greater marvel than my own existence: yet I did not know what it was to exist! I believe that you said something to me-some imprecation, some refusal-yet to me your strange voice seemed to issue from the darkness that I had lately escaped. It was as dark and hollow as an echo. I turned from you. It was not fear. Believe me, I hardly know what fear is. It was wonder. I saw beyond the confines of this place a great river, and a world. I sensed the ocean beyond. I sensed life.

“I recall then plunging into the water, in which I moved as if it were my natural element. I knew-by what means, I cannot say-that I was going in the direction of the open sea, and I exulted in my speed and agility. I did not feel the cold; or rather I did not know the meaning of the cold. The water seemed to be alive, too, and to welcome my presence; it flowed across my limbs, and lifted me onwards. So within a short time I had reached the sea. Then I ducked and dived within its waves in the sheer joy of my nature. But a sailing boat approached me. When I came above the water the men on the vessel showed such signs of terror and of horror that one of them threw himself overboard in an effort to escape me, and from the others issued screams and oaths that persuaded me I was not of their kind. You may ask how I was aware of such things, being only recently thrust into the world; I believe now that the mind is a creative power that gives as much as it receives. Like the power of speech, it came to me unbidden.

“I grew weary of the dim expanse of the ocean, and eventually I made my journey back towards the land. On some instinct I made my way here, returning to the place of my origin. You had gone, I discovered, but all the instruments of your art were around me. You may believe that I destroyed them out of fury and resentment at my making. Not so. I threw them down, and scattered them, from the fear that through their agency I might be sent back-that I might be returned to that state of non-being from which I had come. I took your hat and coat then, to shield my nakedness and desolation from the eyes of others, and tried to find a place apart from human habitation. I came upon a lonely path by the shoreline of the river and I met no one for some miles until, just before dawn, I saw a solitary traveller walking ahead of me. I was moving very rapidly along the path, endowed as I seem to be with great strength and nimbleness, and it was only a few moments before he sensed my presence. I stopped and went down to the water’s edge, so that I might not alarm him further. In your hat and cloak I managed to escape detection, but with quickened step he wandered off the path into a neighbouring field. Some instinct had moved him. I walked on until I came to an area I now know to be the estuary, a place of marsh and pasture that seemed to be a wilderness. But there in the distance, beyond some trees and a deep brook, I glimpsed a light. I approached slowly and saw that it came from a solitary dwelling. There was a thatched barn beside it, a rough stone building with one opening; as I came over to it, having easily overstepped the brook, I felt the need for shelter and repose. Yes, even I must rest. I had grown weary after my journey, and to my relief I found the place empty. There was a ladder that afforded access to a small loft or alcove in which straw had been placed; here I lay down and slept.

“I was awoken by the sound of voices. But you wish me to tell you of my dreams before I continue my story? That is easily performed. I did not dream. I have never dreamed since I came to life in this room. When I heard the voices, outside the barn, I instantly arose. I can still recall the words. ‘There is a hare in the field, Father. See him scudding past the horses there.’ These are the first words I remember comprehending-comprehending not as sounds merely but as stirrings and tokens of the mind. I knew these words somewhere within me. I recognised them, and at once a whole host of analogies and associations flooded through me. The world before me was quite changed. The labourer and his daughter, as I discovered them to be, were monarchs and angels in my eyes: they had led me into a kingdom of light, where the words opened the very portals of reality. I stayed in that resting place for most of the day, listening to their quiet conversations. They did not enter it-they never did enter it-and by degrees I came to consider it as my habitation. You wish to ask me how I live? My wants are simpler than yours. I can survive upon a harsher diet than men who subsist in luxury; I found that I could eat the leaves upon the trees, and drink from the waters of the brook, without the least discomfort. But there was better food. The labourer and his daughter had a store of turnips in a small shed behind their cottage and, in the deep night, I would take them and feast on them as if they were the most dainty fare in the world. I heard soon enough how puzzled they were by the disappearance of their crop, but they blamed it on the rats or on the foxes. I have told you of the power of their words, opening up the world to me little by little. I found that, on listening to them, new words came unbidden to my lips-forming chains and associations that became sentences. The power of language must be deeply innate so that, after my awakening, all the details of its fabric and structure rose up somewhere within me.

“I can bear the intensity of heat and the extremity of cold without the least discomfort or danger, but nevertheless I felt the want of clothing. I had wrapped myself in your black cloak when I lay down to sleep, yet I knew that to make my way among strangers I must be more fully and decently clad. One evening, therefore, I ventured onto the marshes of the estuary in search of a village or small town where such items might be found. By good fortune, and by keeping to the shoreline, I came upon the town of Gravesend. The streets were quite silent and deserted, at that hour of the night, and down one narrow thoroughfare I saw the sign of a tailor and gentleman’s outfitter. I forced the door with no difficulty and there, in the darkness, I equipped myself with all the garments I would need including the fine linen stock with which you see me now endowed. I am a gentleman, am I not?

“I went back to my barn, and lay me down to sleep. I had come to anticipate and enjoy the early rising of the labourer and his daughter; her childish prattle was my music, and I listened eagerly to the slightest and most inconsequential discourse between them. I felt emboldened by my new garments, too, and when I saw them working in the distant fields I entered their little cottage and surveyed the setting of their lives. It was humble enough, with a plain table and chairs, and two easy-chairs beside a stone fireplace; but it was neat and clean, with an indescribable air of comfort. I envisaged what it might mean to share their life with them; but that was as yet out of my power. Then I noticed the shelf of books. Out of curiosity I took one of them down from the shelf, and left the cottage.

“I had come upon a treasure in Robinson Crusoe. I saw words at first through a veil; they were all familiar to me, but they seemed to be written in an unknown language. Yet, as with sound and speech, I felt a world forming itself around me; the power of the words seemed to rise up within my own being, so that I recognised myself in the same moment as I recognised phrases and sentences. I spoke the words out loud, and one seemed to follow another in the utmost harmony; each one seemed complementary to the next, and all joined in the great music of meaning. In my previous state I believe that I must have been an ardent reader, because I took so eagerly to the perusal of the pages before me. I became so enthralled by the adventures of the castaway on the desert island that I did not note the declension of the sun or the emergence of the moon. I read as if for life. And life it was for me-to enter the state of another existence, to look with newly awakened eyes on an unfamiliar landscape, was a form of bliss. I chanted the words of the book again, and I noticed that there had grown a melody in my voice. I was being nurtured by words. I have told you that the mind is a creative power, and I believed in my innocence that I could now learn the instinctive expression of human passion. If I were a natural man, then I must be naturally benevolent.

“From the remarks that the labourer and his daughter passed to one another when they were engaged in their work, I learned that the girl’s mother had died from the ague, a common sickness in this region, and that she was buried in a little churchyard two miles away across the flats, as they called the fields. They worked hard for their bare subsistence, but I learned how to help them. In the deep of the night I would uproot turnips and other bulbs for them, leaving them in the shed from which I had once taken their food. With my great strength, too, I was able to provide them with firewood and dry logs that I left beyond their little garden. They were astonished by these gifts, but I heard the father extol the ‘good spirits’ and ‘sprites’ of the neighbourhood as the possible cause of the bounty.

“The girl of course could receive no proper schooling, but her father tried to instruct her in the basic materials of knowledge. In the evening he must have taught her to read and to write, because in the morning she would recite to him in her clear voice the passages she had learned. Through her agency, indeed, I first became aware of the power of poetry to assuage the troubled spirit and to lift the mind towards thoughts of eternity:

“I confess that I remember no more. Her father used to instruct her, too, in the history of their country-of all the great events that had passed over this estuarial land without disturbing its quietness. I learned then of battles long ago, of the ruins of ancient civilisations, of the Romans and the Saxons and the Normans who sailed along the great river. I shared the girl’s wonder, too, at the stories of Creation, of Adam and Eve, of the angel with the flaming sword. It was her father’s intention to read to her the chapters in the Bible so that she might be fully acquainted with what he described to her as the holiest book in the world. I admit that I held it in the same reverence, after listening to the first sentences he recited to her, and I looked forward eagerly to the next day’s lesson.

“I would have been content, I think, to have spent my time thus; I wandered at night among the flat lands of the estuary, singing to the wind and holding communion with the earth. I lay upon the ground and whispered the words, and perceptions, I had learned. I was as free as the sun, and as lonely as the sun. Where rose the tide and the billowing waters of the river, there was my home; where dwelled the owls and the foxes, there were my friends and roamers of the night. There is a pleasure in the pathless and solitary fields; there is a rapture in the lonely shore. I sat quite still and observed the heavens revolving above my head, and wondered if they were the origin of my being. Or had I come from the creeping waters of the river? Or from the mild earth that nurtured all the plants and flowers of the world? When at first light a wood pigeon came before me, I took part in its existence and pecked upon the ground; when a gull flew above my head I shared its soaring form; when I watched an otter upon the bank, I could feel the sleekness of its limbs. In all creatures now I felt the force of one life, a life I shared, of which the principles were energy and joy.

“I might have continued in this blessed state, if I had not become aware of my true being. You look away, do you? I had no memory of what I was, and yet my instinct for speech and my understanding of words assured me that I had existed here before in some altered shape. Then I recalled the papers that I had taken from your desk, and put at random in the capacious pockets of your cloak. I had had no use for them before. But now that I had discovered within myself the gift of understanding, I could look upon them with different eyes. You know well enough that I found your journal of the weeks that had preceded my creation, and of the odious circumstances in which I was found and delivered to you. Here they are, the proof of your handiwork. You saved me from the blank of death without my knowing that I had died; you lifted me out of the grave and led me once more into the light and the air where new springs of thought and feeling have emerged in me. Do you believe me to be grateful? I now know that I was a young man with the marks of consumption upon me: I believe that you mention me to have been a student of medicine in a London hospital. I had a sister, had I not, who cared for me until I died? Oh, if only my death had endured for ever! For I soon learned that to live again is to be frightful to all those who beheld me. My renewed form is a more odious type of yours, more loathsome even from the resemblance. I soon learned, too, that I would have to hide myself and cover my face from every living eye-to start if I heard a human step, and seek out some dark and silent corner. How do you think I learned these lessons?

“I was taught them in the most searing and shameful manner. I had grown so accustomed to the voices of father and daughter that I almost believed myself to be a part of their little society; I fully imagined a time when I would be accepted by them, and might even be welcomed into their cottage as a friend and guest. Then, one morning, I heard her father discoursing upon the effect of the moon on the tides-and of the high tide some years before that had completely covered the fields of the vicinity.

“‘Oh,’ I said aloud, ‘the moon is a great enchanter.’

“I scarcely knew that I had spoken so openly, and I was greeted with silence. ‘Who is in there?’ the father called out, with something like fear in his voice. ‘Come out!’

“‘He has a pretty voice,’ the daughter said. ‘Please come out, sir.’

“‘I fear,’ I replied, ‘that my person may not be pleasing to you.’

“‘We do not see many strangers,’ she said. ‘But we are not afraid.’

“I heard her step closer to the barn, and instinctively I shrank back into a corner. Then I saw her shape outlined against the opening.

“It took a moment for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom-but then she saw me. I have never seen such a look of horror and fear upon any other face. She uttered a confused sound, and then fell upon the floor of the barn. Her father called out her name-it was Jane-and rushed towards her. He caught sight of me at once. ‘Great God! What are you?’ The look of anguish and terror upon his face is one that I shall never forget.

“He took his daughter up in his arms and, with the strength born out of fear, he ran quickly from me across the fields. They had fled from me as from an abhorred thing. I, who had deemed myself worthy of human companionship, was for them a creature of horror and nightmare. I went over to the place where she had fallen, and violently stamped upon the earth; then I fell upon my knees, and beat the ground with my fists. I may have howled, or shrieked, I do not remember. But my thoughts were of rage and revenge-against the father and daughter, against the human species, and against you my creator!

“I do not know how long I remained in my condition of blank despair. I understood then I could never hope for human sympathy, but I had not harmed the smallest creature on the earth. Where had I offended? I sat in my desolation, until I was roused by the sound of horses and of voices. I have a preternatural sense of hearing-you must know that-and they were still far off. But they were coming closer.

“I sensed that the horses were restless as they approached me, and I fled from the barn as if I had committed some great and heinous crime. I took flight across the land, behind the cottage, so that they could not see me on their approach; and I hid myself within a small watercourse that had become dry. At that moment I despised all things that lived-all things that died-but I stayed trembling in my cover. I could have confronted them all, men and horses, but I could not put to the test once more the sensations of horror that I excited in others. I saw them approach the cottage; there were eight of them, three of them with muskets, together with the farmer. He pointed towards the barn where I had sheltered. One of them shouted something, in warning or defiance, and they very slowly came up to it with their guns primed. Of course I was nowhere to be found. Then they turned back and went towards the cottage; they encircled it, and the farmer entered only to emerge a few moments later. It was clear that they debated amongst each other, and after a few minutes they moved out in pairs over the surrounding countryside. I lowered myself into the dry course, so that I had fallen below the level of the flat landscape. Two of them came close to me. I heard them talking. One of them exclaimed about a ‘fiend’ or ‘monster.’ There was some reference to ancient legends of the locality, and to the presence of a thing known to them as Moldwark. But it was clear that their knowledge was slight and imprecise. They passed by my hiding place and rejoined the others beside the cottage. There was a discussion between them, and then they all departed.

“I waited until darkness fell, and then I went back. My shame and dismay had once more given way to anger. How could I be described as ‘fiend’ or ‘monster’? I move, I exist, I stir within my prison.

“I took logs and branches, piling them high within the interior of the little cottage; a fierce wind came up from the sea, and drove away the clouds that had obscured the stars. It filled me with purpose, and I lighted the dry branches of a tree; in my unappeasable rage I began to dance around the cottage, watching all the time the great orb of the moon on the western horizon. Then with a loud shout of triumph I fired the dwelling. The flames were soon lifted by the wind until they had taken hold of the whole, and within a short time the cottage was reduced to a smoking ruin. I had achieved my purpose.

“I went back inside the shell, lay down upon the blackened floor, and fell asleep. I awoke with a fresh access of energy-yes, this is the sensation I must put to you. The effect of heat, in any form, is to restore and revivify me. I have learned now to anticipate storm and lightning. I know them to be near, from the scent in my nostrils, and my whole being is excited by their approach. I am made strong by the lightning flash and, when I studied your own notes on the process of my rebirth, I understood the reason. You had divined the electric principles of the human body, and I can testify to their power. I courted the lightning and the thunder, and exulted in the storms that blew over the estuary. Some vast principle of power animates infinity.

“As I read your notes, too, I became wholly absorbed in the narrative of my own discovery. There was some mention of the men who brought me to you, and who exchanged me for money. I had become interested in them. You referred to a public house called the Fortune of War in Smithfield, which I believed that I would be able to find in the great labyrinth of this city. I realised now that before I ventured from the estuary I had to muffle myself as completely as I was able. So I clothed myself. By covering my form with your great cloak, and then by unwinding my stock and fastening it across my face, I was assured that only my eyes and forehead could be seen. In this guise I hoped to avoid detection. By great good fortune this was a time of freezing fog, and the majority of the citizens had covered their mouths and nostrils with scarves or handkerchiefs to protect themselves from the vapour. So I could wander unnoticed through the crowd, except for the delicate apprehension of those closest to me that I was not quite-how can I put it-of the customary sort.

“In this guise I made my way one evening towards Smithfield, and asked for directions to the hospital there. You know the area well, do you not? The public house was a few yards from the entrance and as I approached it I could hear the mayhem of voices and of oaths coming from the interior. So I waited on the corner, just beyond the entrance. I was waiting for three men. It was raining that night but the cool drops hardly reached me. I am a powerful source of heat, and the water is dispersed. There were many who hurried past me, but not one of them looked up at me. A dark stranger, on a dark night, is to be avoided.

“Many people came and went from the inn, but they came out singly or in pairs; some of them reeled out into the night, some of them slouched in the rain, some of them ran across the cobbled stones of Smithfield. I was so intent upon my purpose that I did not grow tired of waiting. Eventually three men came out into the night. One of them gave a violent kick to his companion, as if he had been his dog. I knew then that these were the three men whom I sought. I followed them down a small thoroughfare, keeping my distance from them; they turned a corner, where they stopped and fell into a fierce argument concerning the division of some money. No doubt this would be the proceeds from one of their graveyard robberies. I stood against the wall, on the other side, and then spoke very softly.

“‘Gentlemen, where is my sister?’

“‘Who is that?’

“‘One of your friends. I will ask you again. Where is my sister?’

“Then I turned the corner and stood in front of them.

“I think one of them may have had a glimmer of recognition. ‘What in the buggery are you?’

“‘You know very well.’ I unwrapped the stock, and showed them my face.

“One of them yelled, and made to run down the alley. Before he could move I took him by the arm and held him firm.

“‘You see,’ I said, ‘the dead can move very quickly. Now where is my sister?’

“One of them, the oldest, was in a state of fear so excessive that he could not speak. The other stared at me with an expression of exquisite alarm. I shook him roughly, and I suppose that I fractured a bone in his arm; he gave out a yell.

“‘That is not the least injury I will inflict upon you,’ I said, ‘if you do not give me the location of my sister. You must remember it. You took my body from there and conveyed it over the water to Mr. Frankenstein. You bartered me for guineas. Where is she?’

“‘By Broken Dock. In Bermondsey.’ He seemed too confused, or alarmed, to continue; so I shook him again. ‘She lives in the last tenement on the left as you approach the river. On the third floor. A toy-maker.’

“‘What is her name?’

“‘Annie. Annie Keat.’

“I squeezed his arm tighter, so that once more he yelled in pain. ‘And mine?’

“‘Jack.’

“I released him from my grasp. Once his companions realised that they were free, they turned and ran down the alley. I stood there for a moment, watching them flee, and then I fastened the stock across my face and returned to Smithfield.

“Like some distant echo I recalled the name of Jack Keat; it might have been revealed to me in the low rolling of the thunder, or the instant of the lightning flash, so subdued and sudden that I scarcely grasped it.

“It was too late now to call upon my sister. So I returned to the estuary, by means of the river, and laid myself down in the blackened ruin of the cottage. No one had come back to that place, and I believe that no one ever will. It has been marked down in the vicinity as a spot of darkness.

“I endured a few days of repose and silent thought. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed to the ground; on these occasions I had rather have been a stone than what I am. Is it not better to die than to live and not be loved? I yearned for extinction. Can any being die twice? So I encountered tempests without the hope of their blasting me. The light revived me. The sun revived me. I longed and prayed for utter oblivion, but my despair was stronger than my prayers. I cannot die. I must endure. That is my destiny. That which I am, I am. I am no longer Jack Keat, but something deeper and darker than any individual doom.

“After some days and nights had passed I resolved to visit my sister. I again took the precaution of wrapping myself well, and swam one evening from the estuary to Bermondsey and Broken Dock; I could escape detection only by travelling at night, when a dark shape in the river provokes no interest whatever. As I climbed the stairs, the water fell from me; I took the hat-your hat-from the pocket of the cloak and placed it on my head. Then once more I wound the stock about my face. The villain had told me the location of the tenement: it was a ruinous building close to the side of the wooden dock, and sharing its general air of dilapidation. There were some stubs of candlelight in one or two of the rooms, and some shreds of linen or cloth had been draped across the windows. I stared up at the window on the third floor on which there glimmered some fitful illumination, as if an oil-lamp had been placed in a far corner. That room had been the scene of my death. I glimpsed my sister’s figure, and watched her as she moved back and forth across the room; she seemed restless, as if my presence had unnerved her. When she came over to the window and looked out, I moved into the shadows. I could see her only dimly in the half-light, but she seemed to me then the most beautiful creature in the world; there was something indefinably familiar in her bearing, as if I could recall her bowing over me in my last sickness. I have no real memory of that time, but it is as if I have. After a few moments apparently lost in thought she moved away, and the light was extinguished.

“I crossed the threshold, and entered a dim hallway that seemed like the phantom of something half-remembered. To the dead, does the real world appear to be wraith-like, populated by ghosts? There were two doors on the third landing, and as a matter of instinct I turned towards the left one. It seemed that my physical body had some memory of the past buried within it. I hesitated before the door; how could I present myself to my sister, without terrifying her perhaps beyond reason? I had an earnest desire to talk to her, but she could hardly view the appearance of her dead brother with equanimity. I put my ear to the door, and could hear sounds of movement. On a sudden instinct I tapped and whispered, ‘Annie!’

“‘Who is there?’

“‘Annie!’

“‘I know that voice. Who are you?’

“My fear of frightening her now returned, and I hurried down the stairs into the street. I concealed myself when the window was opened, and she leaned out. ‘Annie!’ I called again.

“She closed the window. Then, a few moments later, she came out into the street with a shawl but no bonnet; her long hair fell across her shoulders, and she seemed to be in a state of some excitement or distress. Still she could not see me, as I had retreated at once into a doorway which hid me from view; when I peeped out from my vantage I saw her hurrying down to the riverside, looking about her. I followed her, at a distance, but I could no longer curb my desire to talk to her; so I advanced slowly towards her. ‘Annie, do not be afraid. You can come to no possible harm. No. Do not look around.’

“‘That voice-’

“‘Do you know me?’

“‘If I were dreaming, I would know you.’

“‘This is not a dream. Do you remember your brother?’

“‘Oh, God. What are you?’ She turned and, on seeing me, screamed out. ‘My God! Out of the grave!’

“In a frenzy of fear she ran towards the bank of the river; she did not stop or even hesitate, but in her terror she threw herself into the water. I stood for a moment, utterly horrified and helpless at her reaction to me. Then I flung myself into the river and swam towards her. The Thames is deep at this point, and the current of the ebbing tide had already carried her a little way. In a moment I was beside her and I lifted her out of the water; but she gave no sign of movement. I took her back to the shore, and laid her down upon the cobbles. There was no life in her. She had died-of panic fear, of immersion, I did not know the cause. I knew only that I was responsible for her death. I, who had sought her out as a companion or as a friend, was her murderer. I howled upon the bank, prostrated over her body in a state of abject grief. But then I heard the sound of running footsteps, and of shouts. In my extremity I still possessed the instinct of self-preservation, and I dived into the water.

“I believed that I had not been seen, under the cover of darkness, and I made my way back to the estuary.

“I have read somewhere that suffering shares the nature of infinity; that it is permanent, obscure and dark. Such has been my experience. I was a being so repugnant that my own sister cast away her life in an effort to escape me. I had hoped that, pardoning my outward form, she would come to cherish me for the excellent qualities that I was capable of unfolding. This was a fond hope. She had run from me screaming in terror. I cannot cry. Do you have an explanation for that? I have no tears. I presume that the heat of my birth has blasted me. Yet if I could not weep, I could still lament. I cursed the day when I regained life, and I cursed you with a bitterness for which there is no expression. Yet I expressed it in a different fashion. I sought you out. I found your lodging. At first I considered myself to be your executioner, but there is a bond between us which no human force may break; I stayed my hand. I watched instead for those dearest to you, and chose one who like my sister was young and innocent of any wrong. You know the rest.”