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FRED WAS WAITING UP FOR ME. “There is a fu
“Smell?”
“Of drink, and tobacco, and something else, and something else, all mixed.”
“I have been in a tavern,” I said. I took off my coat and jacket, and put them on a chair in the hallway.
“Mr. Frankenstein in a tavern. Whatever next?”
“Mr. Frankenstein in bed.”
“I was warned against taverns,” he said, “when I was a boy. They are too low. You were not robbed, sir, were you?”
“No, Fred, I was not robbed. I was cheated. Porter is threepence a pint. But I was not robbed.”
“Porter was the ruin of my father, sir. It was not the donkey that killed him. It was the drink. He never was sober after the dustcart came by.”
“What had the dustcart to do with it?”
“He shared a drink with the dustman. He was a regular toper, he was. Never knew which side of the street he was on.”
“I have come to the conclusion, Fred, that all Londoners drink.”
“They can be very cheerful, sir.” He sighed. “They like the flowing bowl.”
“You are a poet, Fred.”
He laughed and was about to leave the room, when he spun around and very deftly kicked himself. “I almost forgot, sir. There is a letter for you. It came on the northern coach, so I gave the messenger sixpence.”
“He did not carry it all the way, Fred. Never mind. Pass it to me, if you please.”
He retreated into the hall and came back with a packet that, as I saw, had been franked by an official in Lancaster. It was from Daniel Westbrook. I hoped that it might have come from Bysshe who, despite my anger at his behaviour, was still often in my thoughts. But the clumsy writing of the address told me otherwise. The letter itself was superscribed Chestnut Cottage, Keswick.
My dear Frankenstein,
Forgive me for not writing to you sooner but I have had a deal of business to sort. Neither Mr. Shelley (or, should I say, my brother-in-law) nor Harriet have any head for such matters, so I was obliged to negotiate their lease of the cottage from a Cumberland farmer who was more hard-headed than a London stock jobber. He insisted on counting the flowers in the garden, in the event that we might uproot one of them! Harriet seems very happy, and sparkles with delight whenever we go for one of our walks by the lake or by the mountainside. She is obviously suited to married life, and looks after her husband with the utmost delicacy and attention: she makes sure that he is always neat and clean in his appearance (sometimes to his a
Last week we visited Mr. Southey, who has a grand house in the neighbourhood known as Greta Hall. You must know of Mr. Southey through his co
I believe that even Mr. Wordsworth was impressed by Mr. Shelley’s ardour, and saw in his excitement some reflection of his own younger self. He confessed to us that the years had buried him in a “mound of cares,” as he put it, but that as a young man he had dreamed dreams and seen visions. “I wish you well,” he said to Mr. Shelley as he took his leave. “I am not insensible to the cravings of youthful ambition.”
So ended our meeting with the Lake poet. There is much more to tell you, but it will be best delivered to you on my return to London. Harriet sends her greetings to you. Mr. Shelley has just shouted down the stairs and asked if you remember the Ancient Druids of Poland Street? I confess I have no idea what he means. I must sign my name now, or I will write on indefinitely.
Faithfully yours, Daniel Westbrook.
I folded the letter and placed it on the side-table beside my chair. For some reason I felt close to tears. Perhaps it was a reminder to me of the life I used to lead, before my immersion in dangerous experiment; perhaps it represented to me the pleasures of married life and of human intercourse. I realised, too, that I still missed the presence of Bysshe. His was the one true companionship I had ever formed-my one friend and ally in this world, where there is so much harm and darkness.
Fred came into the room, bearing a smoking dish. “I have a cure for the porter,” he said.
“I am not to be cured.”
“Saloop, sir. The steam would wake a corpse.”
“High praise.” I took the bowl of liquid from him; it was milky grey in colour, and had a rough texture. “Is this one of your London dishes?”
“As cockney as a chimney-sweep, sir. Milk and sugar and sassyfrass.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about, Fred.”
“Uncle Bill sells it on the Haymarket. He owns an urn.”
“I am pleased to hear it. I take it that I drink it?” He nodded, with immense satisfaction. I tasted the brew, which had the aroma and the flavour of vanilla. It was curiously soothing. “Your Uncle Bill must be a popular man.”
“He is tolerably well liked, sir. The urchins follow him for the smell alone.”
The drink must also have been a great soporific, since I retired to bed as soon as I had finished it and slept soundly until dawn. When I woke it was with a sense of impending and urgent duty. I knew what I had to do. I sat upright in my bed, and stared straight ahead. I have an unfortunate habit of gnawing at my fingernails, when I contemplate a problem, and this I proceeded to do. My converse with the resurrection men on the previous night, and my bargain with them, had effectively begun a new phase of my existence. There were still a few hours in which I could turn back from the consequences of my actions-a few brief hours in which I might make my peace with men and God-but I was so blinded by the prospect of success and glory that I used them for quite other purposes.