The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein (9 page)

“Dr. Hunter was a great observer of the body, Mr. Frankenstein. He made it his profession.”

“So I have read.”

“His surgical work was second to none. My father has known him to remove a bladder stone in less than three minutes.”

“Truly?”

“And the patient did not die.” Armitage concentrated once more upon his plate, where he was now very deliberately mopping up the crumbs with a portion of bread soaked in wine. “My father still has the stone.”

“The patient did not want it?”

“No. Dr. Hunter called it treasure-trove.”

“But what happened to the eyes?”

“I told you. The patient was still alive. Much to his surprise.”

“Not his. The other eyes that were preserved in water. I presume that they were taken from the bodies of the less fortunate.”

Armitage stared at me with the same curiously dispassionate gaze. “If the patient has died in the operating theatre, then to whom does he belong?” I said nothing, believing that I had already said too much. “Dr. Hunter took the view that, having been entrusted into his care, the body was his responsibility. It became, in a sense, his property.”

“I would not disagree.”

“Excellent. I am speaking to you now in the utmost harmony of good companionship. These facts are not widely
known beyond the confines of the medical schools.” My mouth had become dry, and I swallowed a glassful of the wine. “Dr. Hunter believed that the limbs and organs of the deceased patient were of more value to his students than to the soil in which they would otherwise lie. There was a young man, one of Dr. Hunter’s assistants, who had a particular interest in the spleen. So—” Armitage stopped, and surprised me with a broad smile. “As we say in Cheapside, Mr. Frankenstein, it passed under the counter.”

“And your father had a particular interest in eyes?”

“He had always possessed perfect eyesight. It was remarked of him at a very early age. He became interested in the subject, as boys do. I do not know if you have in your country the travelling telescope?” I shook my head. “They are set up in the thoroughfare, and for a small sum you can purchase their use for five minutes. There was always one in the Strand. As a boy, my father loved it. So by degrees he became interested in the relationship between the lens and the eye. Do you know that the eye has its own lens, as permeable as a gas bubble?”

“I was aware of it.”

“It is covered by an exceedingly thin and fine film of transparent substance that my father has named the orb tissue.”

“Your father is an experimentalist, then?”

“I do not know if that is the word, Mr. Frankenstein.” Armitage poured us both another glass of wine. “I will tell you another secret. There were occasions when the patient did not die, of course. That was a source of great satisfaction to Dr. Hunter. But it posed another problem.”

“Of what nature?”

“Scarcity, sir.”

“I believe I understand you. Scarcity of corpses. The readies.”

“It is not a subject that normally arises in conversation. But it was a constant topic among Dr. Hunter and his assistants.”

“How did it resolve itself?”

“You have heard of the resurrectionists, I suppose?”

“Only by report.”

“They are not much mentioned in the public prints these days. But they operate still.”

I was acquainted with the activities of these grave-robbers, or “resurrection men” as they were more generally known. There had been occasional reports of their activity even in Oxford, but there had been no sensations. They were more active in London, where they dug up the fresh bodies of the lately dead and sold them for large sums to the medical schools. “Dr. Hunter was obliged to use their services?”

Armitage nodded. “Reluctantly. He told my father that if these purloined bodies helped to restore life to others, then he could not wholly regret their use.”

“Life for death is a good bargain.”

“You would be welcome on Cheapside, Mr. Frankenstein. My father agreed with you, and helped to negotiate with the men of the resurrectionist profession. He came to know them very well. He said that not one of them was ever sober.”

“You say that they work still?”

“Of course. It is a family trade. They frequent certain inns, where they can be persuaded to—” He raised his hand to his lips, in a gesture of drinking. “Unfortunately there was a trial of one of them, for the theft of a silver crucifix from one of the bodies. He blabbed out the name of Dr. Hunter.”

“And then?”

“It passed over quickly enough. But there was a pamphlet with his name linked to the vampire. You have heard of this entity, Mr. Frankenstein?”

“It is a Magyar superstition. Of no interest.”

“I am glad to hear it. It concerned Dr. Hunter at the time, but his work carried him forward.”

“His work was his life.”

“Yes, indeed. You are very perceptive, if I may say so.” He took some more wine. “You said that you were studying the workings of human life. May I ask what particular aspect interests you?”

I believe that I hesitated for a moment. “I am concerned with the structure of all animals endued with life.”

“To what purpose?”

“I mean to discover the source of that life.”

“But this would include the human frame?”

“I am determined to proceed by degrees, Mr. Armitage.”

“In such a vast undertaking, that is proper. I believe that only a young man could conceive such a scheme. It is tremendous. I would very much like to introduce you to my father.”

“Certainly. I would like to see his eyes.”

He laughed aloud at this, and clapped me upon the back again as if I were the best fellow in the world. “And so you shall. But beware. His look is very keen.”

BY THE TIME I ARRIVED IN GENEVA
I was sore and weary; the journey across France had been a difficult one, made infinitely more uncomfortable by the heavy rain that started as soon as the coach had left Paris. Only my eagerness to see my sister kept up my spirits. My father’s house was in the Rue de Purgatoire, just below the cathedral; he had purchased it many years previously, for his business dealings in the city, and I knew the neighbourhood very well. A local boy acted as my porter, and I hurried ahead through the familiar steep streets above the lake.

I was met by a house of silence. Eventually, after my repeated knocking, a young maidservant came to the door. I did not recognise her, and the slow-witted girl did not seem to know that there was such a thing as the son of the household. By dint of my long explanations, in her native dialect, reluctantly she allowed me to enter the house. Perhaps she discerned some resemblance between myself and Elizabeth. I learned from her that my sister was staying in a sanatorium in Versoix, a small town by the shore of the lake, and that my father had taken a villa there to be near her. It was too late to think of travelling and, in my exhaustion, I chose a bedchamber almost at random before sinking into a profound sleep.

The next morning I set out on foot to Versoix. It was no more than two or three miles along the shore, and I took advantage
of the fine weather to savour my return to my native land. It was pleasant to recall the quietness and good nature of my countrymen, especially after the surliness of the English, and of course the landscape of the mountains was infinitely superior to that of Oxford where the vaporous Thames and Cherwell are the only distinctive features. I was reflecting on these matters when, within the hour, I had reached my destination.

Versoix rests above the lake on a small natural plateau, and the grounds of the sanatorium stretch down to the water; it has always been a health-giving spot, and there have been found here the remains of a Roman shrine to Mercury. The local people believe that the god still lingers, but I ascribe the vital fullness of the air to the electrical discharges from the mountains. The atmosphere of the region is full of spirit.

I made my way to the gates of the sanatorium, where I gained admission on the strength of my name: the honour of the family of Frankenstein is widely known. I had never entered such an institution before, and indeed I believe this to have been one of the first of its kind erected according to enlightened principles of public health. I was taken to my sister’s room, which proving empty, I was directed towards the shores of the lake. I was told that it was here that Elizabeth liked to sit and sew.

I hardly recognised her. She had become so gaunt and thin that she seemed too weak to rise and greet me. “I am pleased to see you, Victor. I had hoped you would come.” There was such resignation, in her slowness and uncertainty, that I might have wept. Her voice, too, had changed; it had become higher and more plaintive.

“How could I not come? I left as soon as I heard from Papa.”

“Papa worries too much.”

“He is concerned.”

She smiled so serenely that it might have been an expression of defeat. “I often thought of you in England. You seemed so far—”

I went up to her, and kissed her on the forehead. “But now you are home.” Once more she tried to rise from her bench.

“Sit, Elizabeth. Do not tire yourself.”

“I am always tired. I am accustomed to it. Is this not a beautiful place?” We were beside the lake, on a small peninsula of grass and trees; one of the frequent winds had stirred, and the surface of the water was troubled. I took her shawl, which she had placed beside her on the wicker bench, and covered her shoulders. “I enjoy the wind, Victor. It makes me feel that I am part of the world.” Her eyes had grown more prominent, in her sickness; she seemed to look at me with a new quality of intentness.

“What are you sewing?”

“It is for you. A Geneva purse.” This was the name given to the small, elaborately tapestried purses that the merchants of the region employed. “I am stitching the image of Papa into it. It will be a keepsake for you during your travels.”

“I would prefer to keep an image of you, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I am not as I was.” She looked over the lake towards the mountains. “At least I will not grow old.”

“Please do not say—”

She looked at me again intently. In her emaciated face I thought I could see some vision of the old age she would not reach. “I am not afraid of the truth, Victor. My sun is low in the sky. I know it.”

“You will recover here. They have remedies for your malady.”

“It is called consumption of the lungs. It is a good word. I am being consumed.” I was about to say some word of consolation, but she put up her hand. “No. I am prepared for it. I count it the greatest good fortune that I can sit here beside our beloved lake. You know it speaks to me?” She had a sudden bout of coughing, anguished and prolonged. I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her, but I believe that she did not wish for consolation. “It is cheerful enough. It reminds me of all the happiness I have known. It tells me of your great adventures in England.”

“What else?”

“It speaks to me of peace.”

“Elizabeth.” I bowed my head.

“No need for tears, Victor. I am quite happy. Sometimes I sit here at night—”

“Do the doctors permit it?”

“I slip away. They allow us to sleep undisturbed, and I always return before the break of day. So I sit here in the darkness and look over the water. Some of the boats carry oil-lamps, and at night they are like little pieces of glowing fire floating before me. It is very exhilarating. I often think death must be like that—gazing at distant lights. Oh, here comes Papa.”

Our father was walking over the lawn towards us. He was formally dressed, with a dark green frock-coat and cravat, but his rapid stride suggested his unease. “Victor, you should have called upon me.”

“I arrived in Geneva late last night, Papa. There was no time. Did you not get the letter I sent from Oxford?”

“I have received nothing.” I knew that he was greatly
agitated by the sight of Elizabeth: it was clear to me that her condition was declining day by day. “I have not been attending to business in Geneva. Have you eaten today, Elizabeth?”

“Some bread steeped in milk, Papa.”

“You must eat.” He put his hands upon her head, as if he were trying to bestow some blessing upon her. “You must grow stronger. Did you sleep well?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Food and rest. Food and rest.” He bent down, and rearranged the shawl around her shoulders. “The wind comes directly from the mountains, Elizabeth. May I suggest that you return to your room?”

“The doctors extol the advantages of the open air, Papa.”

“That is all very well. But do you see them sitting by the lake? I feel the chill myself. Victor, help me with your sister.”

“I am quite able to walk, Papa.”

“Of course you are, Elizabeth. We will walk beside you. Victor, will you take your sister’s arm?” When she rose from the wicker bench, I realised that she was very frail; she seemed to sway slightly in the wind, and for a moment I thought that she had lost her balance. She leaned against me and laughed: it was as if she were laughing at her own incapacity.

There was a slight incline towards the sanatorium, and she grasped my arm as we slowly climbed the gravel path that led away from the lake. Our father walked on the grass beside us, his head lowered in contemplation, but when we reached the door of the building he went ahead of us. He told me afterwards that he had wished to speak to one of Elizabeth’s doctors, away from her presence; and so I escorted her back to her room.