“I would not have missed it for anything.” The gentleman was quite at ease in this narrow and grimy box, and I believed that he would have been at ease anywhere. He was in his early manhood, and had the most beguiling smile; it was as if he understood all the tricks of the world, and saw the comedy of them.
“Forgive me, sir,” Shelley said. “But I think I know your name.”
“Oh, indeed?”
“You are Byron.”
“I was when I last looked.”
I expressed my surprise. “Lord Byron?”
He glanced at me with amusement. “Is there another one?”
The intelligence interested me greatly. I had heard of Lord Byron, of course, but had not read any of his verses. Bysshe had the advantage of me in that respect, and had already spoken to me warmly of the early cantos of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. “I am delighted to meet you, sir,” he said. “I am an admirer.”
“I would repay the compliment, I am sure, if I knew your name.”
“You have just seen me on the stage, I believe.”
“You are the one?”
“The atheist.”
“Shelley? I wondered why a gentleman would come to such a place! So you are Shelley! I have heard a great deal about you from Hogg.”
“You know Tom?”
“He has become a neighbour of mine in Nottinghamshire. He has read me all of your poetry. It delights me. It is pure music.” Then he turned to me with a flattering expression of interest.
“And this,” Shelley said, “is a very dear friend of mine. Victor Frankenstein.”
“Are you also a poet, sir?”
“Oh, no. I am nothing at all.”
“Delighted to hear it. There are too many poets in the world. One is enough. Is that not right, Shelley?”
“Victor is too modest, my lord.”
“Just Byron. I come to my name. Like a dog.”
“Victor is a great inventor.”
“And what do you find?” He had a quick, high-spirited manner of talking. “If it is not too great a secret.”
“I have no secrets, sir. Like Newton I am picking up sea-shells on the shore.”
“Admirable. That is all any of us do. We are dazzled by shape and colour, are we not?” The orchestra had begun to play, as an interval between the acts, and Byron turned back to Bysshe. “Are you tired of yourself yet, Shelley?”
“I could not endure another minute of me.”
“Splendid. So you will both dine with me at Jacob’s. We will raise a glass to atheism, and alarm the waiters.”
We left the theatre and made our way towards the Strand, Byron talking all the way and gesticulating with a finely carved ebony cane. “I have never understood,” he said, “the positive rage for bad drama in London. The cockney public loves nothing more than a thoroughly disgraceful performance by ill-favoured actors. There are so many finer melodramas on the streets of the city. Nothing on the stage bears the slightest comparison with the characters one sees every day in the ordinary business of living. Do you not agree, Mr. Frankenstein, that the events of real life are infinitely more surprising and unusual than anything written down by a scribbler?”
“I have that impression, my lord.”
“Merely Byron.”
“There are incidents in life which would be deemed improbable or even impossible by the ordinary observer.”
“Precisely my point. Why, I could tell you a thousand coincidences and accidents that would be laughed off the boards. Polidori. Are you here? This is a surprise.” He stopped to greet a small sallow-looking young man.
“I had expected to find you drinking in Jacob’s,” the man said.
“You find us going to Jacob’s instead.” He introduced us to Polidori-“Dr. Polidori,” as he named him-and together we walked the few yards to an ancient and dimly lit chop-house where Byron was obviously a frequent and honoured guest. We were installed in a private room on the first floor, where Byron ordered steak barbare. “It is my homage to the French people,” he said. “Napoleon has led them to disaster. We can at least support their cuisine.” It transpired, in the course of conversation, that Polidori was personal physician and attendant to Lord Byron; he had been enrolled at the university of Prague, of which city he was a native, before making his way to the university at Edinburgh. I could not help remarking on the parallel with my own journey from Ingolstadt to Oxford, and he evinced much interest in my studies.
“Victor wishes to create new life,” Bysshe said from the other end of the table.
“Really? I am a student of medicine, too, Mr. Frankenstein. I enrolled at the medical school in Edinburgh. Now I am reading the hermetic philosophers.” There was an element of condescension in his manner that I found disagreeable.
“Polidori,” Byron said, “is a great occultist. He whispers to my liver and makes it well. Now I can drink as deep as I wish.”
The food was then brought in by two elderly waiters, who removed the covers and laid down the sauces in perfect unison. It was evident that they still took pleasure in the performance, rehearsed over many years. Over the meal Byron and Bysshe began to talk of poets and of poetry, while Polidori and I resumed our conversation. “Do you find much among the ancients, Dr. Polidori?”
“Ancient wisdom. What else is there to find? You will not be surprised to learn that Galen is still taught in some of our universities. But I discount him. I am more interested in Paracelsus and in Reuchlin. Do you know his De Arte Cabalistica?” I shook my head. “But you are interested in creating life? Is that not so?”
“By means of the electrical fluid, sir.”
“And have you had success?”
“Of the slightest kind.”
“Precisely. There are other means. In the Corpus Hermeticum, collected by Turnebus, there is the figure of the golem. You are aware of it?”
“Of course. It is the creature of the Kabbalah, made out of dust and red clay. It is awarded life by the invocation of ritual words. I have not given that method any serious attention, Dr. Polidori. The electrical charge is more powerful than words.”
“Have you been to Prague, Mr. Frankenstein?”
“Alas not.”
“In the public records kept in the library, there are many reports of the creature. Reports over the centuries.” He leaned forward, and I could smell wine on his breath. “There is supposed to be one in existence even now.”
“Truly?”
“It is said that a local rabbi created him, and keeps him in confinement.”
I must say that Polidori had engaged my attention with his story. “Of what dimensions is this creature?”
“A little larger than human height, but proportionately much stronger and swifter.”
“And why is this prodigy not known to the world? Surely it would overturn all existing concepts of life and creation?”
“The Jews keep it hidden. I am myself of that faith, so I speak of what I know. They do not wish to be derided as sorcerers or diabolists.”
“And how is this being, this golem, concealed?”
“He lives in awe of the rabbi, his master. The rabbi could destroy him as easily as he created him.”
“That is interesting, Dr. Polidori. Can you explain it to me?”
“He has kept back a residue of the materials that created the golem.” He looked at me intently, as if to ascertain my motive in asking such a question. “He would merely have to return them to the creature, by overt or by hidden means, and then pronounce some ritual words. When they are uttered the golem collapses into dust.”
“Do you know the words?”
“Alas not.”
“Can you discover them for me?”
“You have become agitated, sir. Are you unwell?”
“Not at all. I am excited at the advent of new knowledge. I seek it for its own sake.”
“A true philosopher.”
“I venerate wisdom in any form it is offered, sir. Will you be able-will you be permitted-to ascertain these words?”