Free The Casebook of Victor Frankenstein by Peter Ackroyd Page B

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