“The waters of the lake were higher then,” the caretaker said to me.
“I think,” I told her, “that this was a sluice gate for the bodies of the condemned.”
“Alive or dead,” he said. “The living were bound with ropes.”
“He tells me that they were dropped into the water.”
“Then this is the condemned hold.” She looked at me steadily. “Abandon hope.”
“I think,” I replied, “that we should join the others.”
We climbed the stone staircase, to find Byron and Bysshe arguing over the proper name for the manacles that fastened the prisoners to the wall. “Gyve is a verb,” Bysshe was saying.
“It is a noun,” Byron replied. “They are called gyves.” He turned to Mary. “You have been in the lower reaches?”
“I feel as if I am sleepwalking,” she said. “Sleepwalking among the dead.”
“Then we must revive you. Why not retire with Frankenstein to the upper mansion? There will surely be wine for you.”
I asked the caretaker if we might rest in the living quarters, for a short while, and he willingly assented: no doubt he was anticipating another louis. He brought us two glasses of the sweet wine of the region, and we sat by a window overlooking the vineyards of the estate. “I cannot say I like this place,” Mary said. “In fact I have a distaste for it.”
“Byron revels in it.”
“Oh, he has a passion for excitement. He would visit Hell itself, just for the sensation of being there.”
“He may have no choice in the matter.”
“I am surprised at you, Victor.”
“I am sorry. To speak of a friend in that way.”
“No. Not that. I did not know that you believed in Hell.”
“As far as I can see, Mary, Hell is all around us. We live in a fiery world.”
Byron and Bysshe came into the room, followed by Polidori. “What was that about fire?” Byron asked me. “We have need of one here. Can one be lit?”
“It would have been cold enough in those dungeons.” Bysshe had gone over to the window. “And there is another storm coming. Thank God we are off the lake.”
There was a sudden flash, followed by a roll of thunder. Byron called out for wine, and showed every sign of joyful anticipation. The gathering storm clouds darkened the room in which we were sitting and the young caretaker, after kindling a fire, lit several candles in sundry old corners giving an effect of what Mary called “ghastly gleaming.”
“I have an idea,” Byron said. “We must take advantage of this gloom, as Mary thinks it. We must hold a seance.”
“Here?” Polidori asked him.
“It is the best place in the world. Shelley has no doubt concluded that there are ghosts in the dungeon.”
“I do not exactly think that.”
“Where better to raise the spirits?”
“The Swiss are a practical people,” I said to him. “They do not harbour ghosts.”
“All lakes are haunted, Frankenstein. Large bodies of water attract lost souls.”
“They may not wish to be called,” Mary said.
“They will be in fighting form then. Ready for a tussle with the living. Do not be alarmed, Mary. I always have a firearm in my pocket. We will sit at this table in the corner. Bring over the chairs, Polidori.”
Byron then pulled the heavy velvet curtains over all the windows, so that the tremulous light of the candles became more intense. The storm was raging outside, as if all the elements were in contention.
“You are acting,” Bysshe said, “as if you were the stage-manager of chaos.”
“I know it. I was born for my own ruin. We need one more chair, Polidori.”
So we sat around the table, our hands spread in a circle with our fingers touching. The table was in a dark corner of the room, but it was favoured by the heat of the fire.
I felt ill at ease from the beginning, not least because of the intensity of my companions. I had expected Byron to be a sceptic in all spiritual matters, but he took part with all the excitement of a fervent devotee. I had long suspected that the English, despite their air of business and practicality, were a wholly credulous and superstitious nation. Why else do they love the tales of horror, as they call them? We all waited in darkness as Byron attempted to address “the spirits.” After he had finished his conjuration I thought I heard something move beneath the table. Mary heard it, too, and glanced at me. Byron spoke aloud once more, and then there was a hiss. I felt something crawling upon my feet. I screamed aloud, and then this-thing-leapt upon me. All was confusion. Polidori lit another candle, by the light of which his face was a mask of terror, and then he pointed at my lap. “A cat!” he said. “We have disturbed the cat sleeping beneath the table!”
Bysshe sat through the proceedings with the strangest expression of apprehension upon his face. Mary was looking at him, no doubt recalling his reaction to Polidori’s tale. But he did not relapse into the same state. He began to laugh, a quiet convulsive laughter that racked his entire frame. She went over to him and put her arm around him. “I am calm,” he said. “Nothing whatever the matter.”
Polidori opened the curtains. “I can see,” he said, “some faint patches of blue coming over the mountains. The storm is abating.”
“Great God, I hope not.” Byron rose to his feet. “I live in storms.”
I believe that it was at this moment that I decided I would leave my companions. I had warned them already that at some point I would make my way to the family estate at Chamonix. I wished to visit the graves of my father and my sister, unseen by me since the time of their deaths; but in truth I also craved solitude and silence. The endless chatter of this journey had wearied me. When I announced my decision that evening, on our return to the villa, Mary looked at me with something like resentment-I believe that she envied my departure to the Alpine regions of frost and snow. Bysshe urged me to stay, remonstrating with me in the most flattering terms of friendship, but I was not to be moved even by his persuasions. Byron said nothing, obviously considering my decision to be of little or no consequence to him. I had in fact conceived a certain dislike for his lordship. He gave the impression of being a great predator, both spiritually and morally, who would feed on one’s substance before casually casting one aside. He was a born actor, also, who at all times took pleasure in his performance. Such men are dangerous.
I retired to my room, where Fred had put out my sleeping clothes, and lay down to rest. I must have slept for an hour or so, when I was awoken by a tapping at my window.
21
THE CREATURE WAS STARING at me. With his usual agility and speed he must have climbed up to the balcony before my room, and was now waiting for me to unlock the casement. I hesitated, and he knocked quite violently upon the window. Fearing his discovery, I allowed him to enter. Now he stood before me, looking at me with what seemed to be an expression of infinite pity. “Why are you here?” I asked him.
“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.”