ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING I set off by myself to the small cemetery of Chamonix where my sister and father were buried. They had been placed in the same grave, with Frankenstein etched on the marble tomb. I bowed my head in sorrow, but I could not help but consider the peacefulness of death. It was akin to innocence. All around me was the whiteness of the mountains, with Mont Blanc towering among them; the light of the sun struck their pinnacles, and the brightness became intense-almost intolerable. I closed my eyes for a moment. In that moment death, and the light, came together.
I came back from the cemetery with my faith renewed in the power of the sublime. I was filled with a sense of purpose. I would return to London, and test the electrical fluid. I would alleviate the suffering of the creature by returning it to nonentity.
“We are going back,” I said to Fred as soon as I entered the house.
“To the villa?” He looked downcast.
“No. To London.”
I saw him later doing a little jig in the garden.
THE JOURNEY WAS SLOW and laborious. By the end of the first week, we were thoroughly exhausted. Then we faced the rigours of the sea, where we lay becalmed for two days before a friendly wind sent us towards England. I had never been more thankful, when we passed the Nore and began our short voyage up the Thames. The flat lands of the estuary lay around us on both shores, and of course I looked with keen attention towards the region where I believed the creature to live. But all seemed waste and wild. The contrast with the Alpine region from which we had come could not be more marked: there was no grandeur here, no sublimity, only weariness and gloom. Perhaps that is why the creature, immured in the marshes, had tired of life.
We passed Limehouse, and I could see the workshop pale in the twilight.
The tide was coming in, and we floated with it towards London Bridge. On our arrival in Jermyn Street Fred unpacked the baggage and prepared for me a bowl of sassafras which, he said, was a restorative after travelling. I must say that I felt the welcome relief of the hot milk, but my peace was suddenly disturbed by a sharp exclamation from him. “What!” he shouted. “What do you want?” Then he threw one of my boots into a corner. “A mouse!” he said. “It has crept here while we were away!” He went over to the corner and peered down onto the floor. “I have killed it.”
“Well, throw it out of the window.”
“I do not like to touch it.”
“You are happy to murder it. But you are afraid to touch it. What is the matter with you?”
“I do not like the thought of dead things coming alive, sir. It might seem dead, but what if it were to wriggle in my hands?”
I opened the window and looked out into the night. I could smell the coal and charcoal from the domestic fires. Then I went over to the corner, picked up the mouse, and threw it down into the street. “There now. All your terror has gone. Would you prepare my bed?”
ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING I was about to set off for Limehouse, eager to test my new theory concerning the electrical charge, when Fred announced a visitor. Polidori entered the room, visibly excited, and flung himself down in a chair without invitation. “You are surprised to see me, Frankenstein? I hoped to find you here. You did not return to the villa, so I guessed that you had gone back. I could stand it no longer. Byron has become insufferable, and the poor Shelleys seem to follow his bidding in everything. I got back last night.” He was speaking in a disjointed manner. “You know that Byron is a danger?”
“I have my doubts about him.”
“Doubts? Certainties. He has seduced one of the girls in the neighbourhood of the villa, and the people there are ready to lynch him. His temper has become unbearable. He screams at the servants, and has abused Shelley to his face.”
“In what way?”
“He called him a doodler and an unknown scribbler.”
“And how did Shelley respond?”
“He went pale. Then he turned away and walked out of the room. I could take no more of it, Frankenstein. I left without warning, in case Byron should try and prevent me. When I last saw him he was on one of his drunken sprees, wandering in the garden and slashing at the trees with his cane.”
“Your laudanum would have calmed him.”
“You cannot give an opiate to a madman. It fuels his madness.”
“You think him insane?”
“Deranged. Degraded. Whatever word you wish.”
“No, Polidori. Madness is silent and secret. Don’t you think so? This ebullition of temper is the sign of an oversensitive constitution. Nothing more.”
“Whatever the cause of his lordship’s frenzy, I do not wish to witness it. So I have come back.”
“Do you have lodgings?”
“No.” He looked at me almost defiantly.
“Where are you going to stay?”
“I was hoping, Frankenstein, that I might stay with you.”
I could think of no convenient excuse for the moment. “Here?”
“This is where you live, is it not? I know that you have room to spare.”
In the course of that day, then, the bold and resourceful Polidori moved into Jermyn Street. There was a small room at the back that, he said, fitted him admirably. When I broke the news to Fred, he merely rolled his eyes.
“The doctor will be welcome, will he not?” I asked him.
“Oh yes, sir. Ever so welcome. I hope he eats cutlets.”
WHEN POLIDORI WAS SETTLED, I told him that I was obliged to return to my work. He nodded. He seemed to require no further explanation. So at twilight I travelled east to Limehouse. I had locked and bolted the workshop, to prevent the intrusion of neighbours, and I had barred the windows to forestall inquisitive eyes. So everything had remained untouched. I began at once to charge the electrical columns, and I was pleased to see them glow with new life. Within a few hours I was able to begin my experiments in altering the direction of the electrical fluid; I observed, for example, that by changing the position of the metallic plates and circuits that surrounded the columns, there was some momentary deflection in the fluid. I continued this work late into the night, but I could achieve nothing further. I needed greater force than any I could yet summon. I surmised, too, that I needed to discover another source of electrical attraction that would bend the fluid to its will. All this lay ahead of me.
I decided to walk back to Jermyn Street, hoping to clear my head in the quiet hour before dawn. Yet a strong wind had risen. As I walked through the streets, every falling leaf seemed to cast its shadow as it was dashed to the ground by the wind. I could see my own shadow, too, against the brickwork. It was bent forward, hastening onwards as if it had an existence of its own. And then once more he was walking beside me. He said nothing to me, but matched me pace for pace. “I have kept my promise,” he said at last in that clear sweet voice I had come to know so well. “You see. I will always be closer to you than you can imagine.” He stood still, and waited until I had taken a few steps further down the street. When I turned around, he had gone.
WHEN I ARRIVED in Jermyn Street, I was surprised to find Polidori in my study.
“My apologies, Victor. I wandered to your room quite by chance. I am in a wandering vein.” He seemed uneasy.
“You may wander where you will. I have no secrets.”
“Truly?” He looked at me warily, and not without a trace of malice.