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“It is not a perpetual gift, Father.”
“This moth,” he said, “is filled with life. Do you see how it circles around the candle flame? Do you believe that it enjoys its existence?”
“It seems to dance, Father. All living creatures must exert their energy.”
“Yet this life, this enjoyment, ca
“The moth does not know of death.”
“So it believes itself to be immortal?”
“The concept of immortality does not occur. It is. That is enough. It does not live in time.”
“This power of existence that it possesses-could it be found?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is there some essence, some vital spark?”
“That is not a question I can answer, Father. It has been the subject of much debate, but with no very satisfactory conclusion.”
“So we do not know what life is.”
“It ca
“What is the use of all your sciences and studies if the essential thing is not understood?”
“We can only proceed from the known to the unknown.”
“But when the unknown is so great-”
“It excites my efforts even more, Father.” The moth was still fluttering around the candle, and I caught it in my cupped hands; I could feel its pale wings beating against the skin of my palms, and I experienced a sensation of sudden elation. “I am in pursuit of that spirit of life.”
“And what do your professors at Oxford think of it?”
“Oh, they do not know of it.” Instantly I regretted my quick reply.
“It is a secret pursuit, then?”
“Not secret. Many other men are engaged upon it. We work independently towards the same goal.”
“This is a good century in which to live, is it?”
“Of course.” I opened my hands, and the moth fluttered uncertainly into the dusky air. “There will be great discoveries. We will uncover the secrets of the electrical fluid. We will build great cathedrals of voltaic batteries so that we can re-create the lightning.”
“And create life?”
“Who knows? Who can tell? It may come too late for me.”
“You have always been very determined, Victor. I believe that you will always succeed in whatever task you set for yourself. What do you wish for?”
“I wish to bring Elizabeth back into life.”
He bowed his head, but he was alerted suddenly by a faint rumble in the mountains behind us. “Avalanche,” he said. “Now if you could master those, Victor, you would be celebrated.” And then he sighed.
A FEW WEEKS AFTER THE FUNERAL he contracted influenza, and weakened daily. It was a lesson to me in the governance of the body by the mind. The life force was mental and spiritual as well as physical, and as soon as my father despaired of life his vital powers began to fail. He would not take to his bed but remained in the armchair in his study. He had such an affection for his books that I believe he did not want to leave them. He never spoke of the business that he had entrusted to his confidential clerk, M. Fabre. Indeed, he never spoke of anything coherently or for very long. “Use the money to advantage,” he said to me one evening, at a time when I believed him to be asleep. “Use it for good.” I was his sole heir, and quite aware of the financial responsibilities that would devolve upon me. “Whatever is human, you can accomplish.” Then he lapsed back into silence.
I was sitting beside him when he died. I had been reading to him from Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther, a novel which I had always intended to study with all the more enthusiasm since it had been extolled to me by Bysshe. My father had an excellent knowledge of German, but I am not sure that he understood or was even listening to my words; I simply wished to reassure him of my presence. Suddenly he opened his eyes. “It is not that Werther loved too much,” he said. “He lived too long.” And then he slipped away.
I had expected some change at the moment of death, some sense of departure, but not of the kind I witnessed. It was as if his life had never been; it was as if he had reverted to some previous state, before life had infused him. He had gone back. I felt his pulse, and the side of his neck, but all had gone.
SO ANOTHER FRANKENSTEIN WAS BURIED in the hill behind the little church at Chamonix; I was the only mourner of my immediate family, but I was followed to the grave by the servants of the household as well as the employees of my father’s business and by the same villagers who had attended Elizabeth’s funeral. I wept freely-but perhaps I was weeping for myself.
I remained in Switzerland for two months, during which period I put my affairs in order and relinquished the administration of the company to M. Fabre who had always been trusted by my father. I had written to the Master of my college in Oxford, explaining the reasons for my delay and asking him for leave of absence until the following term; this was permitted, under the statutes, and I looked forward to returning to my studies with redoubled zeal and ambition. I was now the heir to a large fortune, which I could employ without check or scrutiny, and I had already determined to devote it to my pursuits in the science of life.
I was happy to return for other reasons. I had heard nothing of Bysshe for several months, and I was eager to learn of all his exploits in London. Now I contemplated the notion of renting a commodious house in the city, where he and I could live in close intercourse. I had other schemes, drawn up in my mind’s eye with as much fidelity as if I sat with an architect beside me. I pla
7
WHEN I ARRIVED IN LONDON I rented rooms in Jermyn Street, but took the precaution of having my heavy luggage sent before me to Oxford. I had scarcely swallowed down a plate of beef, in the chop-house next to St. James’s church, when I made my way to Poland Street. The windows of Bysshe’s old lodging were closed, and so I mounted the stairs and rapped upon the door with the ivory cane I had brought with me from Switzerland. A young woman came to the door, nursing a small infant. I was at a loss for words in that instant, and simply stared at her.
“Yes, sir?”
“Mr. Shelley?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is Mr. Shelley here?”
“No one of that name.”
“Percy Bysshe Shelley?”
“No, sir. John Donaldson. His wife, Amelia, which is me. And this is Arthur.” She patted the baby with her free hand.
I must say that I experienced a moment of relief. “Forgive me, Mrs. Donaldson. May I ask if you have lived here long?”
“We came early in the summer, sir. We are from Devon.”
“There was a young man here before you, I believe. He is a friend of mine-”
“Oh. The young party. I did hear something of him from Mr. Lawson above us. A strange party. Very volatile. Is that so?” I nodded. “He vanished, sir. He left one morning. Never seen again. Now you are here-” She retreated into the rooms which I knew so well, and presently returned with a small volume. “If you were to find him, would you give him this?” She handed me the book that I recognised as a copy of Lyrical Ballads. He had often read from it, during our evening conversations. “I found it beneath the settle. It must have fallen. Mr. Donaldson and I have no use for it, sir.”
I gave her a sovereign, which she accepted with many expressions of delight. I considered calling upon Daniel West -brook in Whitechapel for news of Bysshe. Yet the memory of that neighbourhood, dark and dim, dissuaded me. Instead I determined to return to Oxford, where Bysshe might find me if he so wished. I retained my chambers in Jermyn Street, however, as a refuge from the quiet life of the university.