The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in expectation
of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my
ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He
continued—
“You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone
can do; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse.”
The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had
died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and,
as he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within
me.
“I do refuse it,” I replied; “and no torture shall ever extort a consent
from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall
never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself,
whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered
you; you may torture me, but I will never consent.”
“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and, instead of threatening,
I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable;
am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear
me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity
man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could
precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the
work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let
him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and, instead of injury,
I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his
acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable
barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject
slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will
cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator,
do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your
destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you curse
the hour of your birth.”
A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into
contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he
calmed himself, and proceeded—
“I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not
reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If any being felt emotions
of benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an
hundred fold; for that one creature’s sake, I would make peace with the
whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be
realized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself: the gratification is
small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is
true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that
account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be
happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel.
Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one
benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing;
do not deny me my request!”
I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of
my consent; but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His
tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of
fine sensations; and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of
happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of
feeling, and continued—
“If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us
again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that
of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid, to glut my appetite;
acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will
be of the same nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare.
We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on
man, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful
and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the
wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I
now see compassion in your eyes: let me seize the favourable moment, and
persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire.”
“You propose,” replied I, “to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell
in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only
companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,
persevere in this exile? You will return, and again seek their kindness,
and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be
renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of
destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot
consent.”
“How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my
representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints?
I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me,
that, with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of
man, and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil
passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy; my life will
flow quietly away, and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my
maker.”
His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, and
sometimes felt a wish to console him; but when I looked upon him, when I
saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my
feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle
these sensations; I thought, that as I could not sympathize with him, I
had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which
was yet in my power to bestow.
“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not already shewn a
degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not
even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a
wider scope for your revenge?”
“How is this? I thought I had moved your compassion, and yet you still
refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can soften my heart, and
render me harmless. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice
must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my
crimes, and I shall become a thing, of whose existence every one will be
ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor;
and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an
equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being, and become
linked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am now
excluded.”
I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the various
arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues
which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the
subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which
his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were
not omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in the ice
caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of
inaccessible precipices, was a being possessing faculties it would be
vain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection, I concluded, that
the justice due both to him and my fellow-creatures demanded of me that
I should comply with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said—
“I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,
and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall
deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile.”
“I swear,” he cried, “by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, that if
you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me again.
Depart to your home, and commence your labours: I shall watch their
progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are
ready I shall appear.”
Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in
my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than
the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost him among the undulations of
the sea of ice.
His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the verge of
the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent
towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my
heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the
little paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced,
perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of
the day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came to the
half-way resting-place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars
shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines
rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the
ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange
thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and, clasping my hands in agony, I
exclaimed, “Oh! stars, and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock
me: if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as
nought; but if not, depart, depart and leave me in darkness.”
These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot describe to you how
the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened
to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to
consume me.
Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; but my
presence, so haggard and strange, hardly calmed the fears of my family,
who had waited the whole night in anxious expectation of my return.
The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention of my father in
coming had been to divert my mind, and to restore me to my lost
tranquillity; but the medicine had been fatal. And, unable to account
for the excess of misery I appeared to suffer, he hastened to return
home, hoping the quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees
alleviate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might spring.
For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the gentle
affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to draw me from the
depth of my despair. The promise I had made to the dæmon weighed upon my
mind, like Dante’s iron cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites. All
pleasures of earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that
thought only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder, that
sometimes a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw continually
about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on me incessant
torture, that often extorted screams and bitter groans?
By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I entered again into
the every-day scene of life, if not with interest, at least with some
degree of tranquillity.
END OF VOL. II.
FRANKENSTEIN;
OR,
THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
London:
_PRINTED FOR_
LACKINGTON, HUGHES, HARDING, MAVOR, & JONES,
FINSBURY SQUARE.
1818.
* * * * *
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?——
Paradise Lost.
CHAPTER I.
Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and
I could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the
vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my
repugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not
compose a female without again devoting several months to profound study
and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries having been
made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material to
my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father’s consent to
visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay,
and could not resolve to interrupt my returning tranquillity. My health,
which had hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when
unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My
father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards
the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy, which
every now and then would return by fits, and with a devouring blackness
overcast the approaching sunshine. At these moments I took refuge in the
most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little
boat, watching the clouds, and listening to the rippling of the waves,
silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to
restore me to some degree of composure; and, on my return, I met the
salutations of my friends with a readier smile and a more cheerful
heart.
It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father, calling
me aside, thus addressed me:—
“I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former
pleasures, and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still
unhappy, and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in
conjecture as to the cause of this; but yesterday an idea struck me, and
if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point
would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all.”
I trembled violently at this exordium, and my father continued—
“I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage
with your cousin as the tie of our domestic comfort, and the stay of my
declining years. You were attached to each other from your earliest
infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and tastes,
entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of man,
that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan may have
entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without
any wish that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with
another whom you may love; and, considering yourself as bound in honour
to your cousin, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you
appear to feel.”
“My dear father, re-assure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and
sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my
warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects are
entirely bound up in the expectation of our union.”
“The expression of your sentiments on this subject, my dear Victor,
gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you
feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast
a gloom over us. But it is this gloom, which appears to have taken so
strong a hold of your mind, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me,
therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnization of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us from
that every-day tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You are
younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent
fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future
plans of honour and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose,
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on
your part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words
with candour, and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and
sincerity.”
I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some time incapable
of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of
thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion. Alas! to me the
idea of an immediate union with my cousin was one of horror and dismay.
I was bound by a solemn promise, which I had not yet fulfilled, and
dared not break; or, if I did, what manifold miseries might not impend
over me and my devoted family! Could I enter into a festival with this
deadly weight yet hanging round my neck, and bowing me to the ground. I
must perform my engagement, and let the monster depart with his mate,
before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union from which I
expected peace.
I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to
England, or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers
of that country, whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable
use to me in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the
desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory: besides, any
variation was agreeable to me, and I was delighted with the idea of
spending a year or two in change of scene and variety of occupation, in
absence from my family; during which period some event might happen
which would restore me to them in peace and happiness: my promise might
be fulfilled, and the monster have departed; or some accident might
occur to destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for ever.
These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to
visit England; but, concealing the true reasons of this request, I
clothed my desires under the guise of wishing to travel and see the
world before I sat down for life within the walls of my native town.
I urged my entreaty with earnestness, and my father was easily induced
to comply; for a more indulgent and less dictatorial parent did not
exist upon earth. Our plan was soon arranged. I should travel to
Strasburgh, where Clerval would join me. Some short time would be spent
in the towns of Holland, and our principal stay would be in England. We
should return by France; and it was agreed that the tour should occupy
the space of two years.
My father pleased himself with the reflection, that my union with
Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return to Geneva. “These
two years,” said he, “will pass swiftly, and it will be the last delay
that will oppose itself to your happiness. And, indeed, I earnestly
desire that period to arrive, when we shall all be united, and neither
hopes or fears arise to disturb our domestic calm.”
“I am content,” I replied, “with your arrangement. By that time we shall
both have become wiser, and I hope happier, than we at present are.” I
sighed; but my father kindly forbore to question me further concerning
the cause of my dejection. He hoped that new scenes, and the amusement
of travelling, would restore my tranquillity.
I now made arrangements for my journey; but one feeling haunted me,
which filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should
leave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy, and
unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my
departure. But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go; and
would he not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in
itself, but soothing, inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.
I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of this
might happen. But through the whole period during which I was the slave
of my creature, I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of the
moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend
would follow me, and exempt my family from the danger of his
machinations.
It was in the latter end of August that I departed, to pass two years of
exile. Elizabeth approved of the reasons of my departure, and only
regretted that she had not the same opportunities of enlarging her
experience, and cultivating her understanding. She wept, however, as she
bade me farewell, and entreated me to return happy and tranquil. “We
all,” said she, “depend upon you; and if you are miserable, what must be
our feelings?”
I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly
knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around. I
remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on
it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with
me: for I resolved to fulfil my promise while abroad, and return, if
possible, a free man. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through
many beautiful and majestic scenes; but my eyes were fixed and
unobserving. I could only think of the bourne of my travels, and the
work which was to occupy me whilst they endured.
After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed
many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for
Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He was
alive to every new scene; joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting
sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise, and recommence a new day. He
pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape, and the
appearances of the sky. “This is what it is to live;” he cried, “now I
enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you
desponding and sorrowful?” In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts,
and neither saw the descent of the evening star, nor the golden sun-rise
reflected in the Rhine.—And you, my friend, would be far more amused
with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an eye of
feeling and delight, than to listen to my reflections. I, a miserable
wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment.
We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to
Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage,
we passed by many willowy islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We
staid a day at Manheim, and, on the fifth from our departure from
Strasburgh, arrived at Mayence. The course of the Rhine below Mayence
becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly, and winds
between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many
ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black
woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a
singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills,
ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark Rhine
rushing beneath; and, on the sudden turn of a promontory, flourishing
vineyards, with green sloping banks, and a meandering river, and
populous towns, occupy the scene.
We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song of the
labourers, as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and
my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased.
I lay at the bottom of the boat, and, as I gazed on the cloudless blue
sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a
stranger. And if these were my sensations, who can describe those of
Henry? He felt as if he had been transported to Fairy-land, and enjoyed
a happiness seldom tasted by man. “I have seen,” he said, “the most
beautiful scenes of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne
and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the
water, casting black and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy
and mournful appearance, were it not for the most verdant islands that
relieve the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake agitated
by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water, and gave you an
idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean, and the waves
dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his
mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche, and where their dying voices
are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have
seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud: but this country,
Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of
Switzerland are more majestic and strange; but there is a charm in the
banks of this divine river, that I never before saw equalled. Look at
that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the island,
almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that
group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village
half-hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that
inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man, than
those who pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the
mountains of our own country.”
Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record your words,
and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He
was a being formed in the “very poetry of nature.” His wild and
enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart.
His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of
that devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded teach us to
look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not
sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature,
which others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:
—— ——“The sounding cataract
Haunted _him_ like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to him
An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.”
And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for
ever? Has this mind so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and
magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life
of its creator; has this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my
memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming
with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your
unhappy friend.
Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight
tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,
overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will
proceed with my tale.
Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to
post the remainder of our way; for the wind was contrary, and the stream
of the river was too gentle to aid us.
Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery; but
we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to
England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that
I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames
presented a new scene; they were flat, but fertile, and almost every
town was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort,
and remembered the Spanish armada; Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich,
places which I had heard of even in my country.
At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s towering
above all, and the Tower famed in English history.
CHAPTER II.
London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several
months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the
intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time;
but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied with
the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of
my promise, and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction
that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural
philosophers.
If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,
it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come
over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the
information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was
so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could
fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry
soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But
busy uninteresting joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw
an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow-men; this
barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine; and to reflect
on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish.
But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive,
and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of
manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of
instruction and amusement. He was for ever busy; and the only check to
his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mien. I tried to conceal
this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures
natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by
any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him,
alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began
to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to
me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the
head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and
every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and
my heart to palpitate.
After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person
in Scotland, who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned
the beauties of his native country, and asked us if those were not
sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north
as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this
invitation; and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again
mountains and streams, and all the wondrous works with which Nature
adorns her chosen dwelling-places.
We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now
February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the
north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not
intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor,
Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the
completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed my chemical
instruments, and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my
labours in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.
We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a few days at
Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us
mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of
stately deer, were all novelties to us.
From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds
were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted
there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I.
had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after
the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of
parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king, and his
companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Gower, his queen, and
son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city, which they
might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a
dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these
feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the
city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The
colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost
magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows
of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,
which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes,
embosomed among aged trees.
I enjoyed this scene; and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the
memory of the past, and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for
peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my
mind; and if I was ever overcome by _ennui_, the sight of what is
beautiful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in
the productions of man, could always interest my heart, and communicate
elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered
my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit, what I shall
soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to
others, and abhorrent to myself.
We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs,
and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most
animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were
often prolonged by the successive objects that presented themselves. We
visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden, and the field on which that
patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and
miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and
self-sacrifice, of which these sights were the monuments and the
remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains, and look
around me with a free and lofty spirit; but the iron had eaten into my
flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.
We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next
place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village
resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but every
thing is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant
white Alps, which always attend on the piny mountains of my native
country. We visited the wondrous cave, and the little cabinets of
natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same manner
as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me
tremble, when pronounced by Henry; and I hastened to quit Matlock, with
which that terrible scene was thus associated.
From Derby still journeying northward, we passed two months in
Cumberland and Westmoreland. I could now almost fancy myself among the
Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the
northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky
streams, were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some
acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The
delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than mine; his mind
expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature
greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself to
have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. “I could pass my
life here,” said he to me; “and among these mountains I should scarcely
regret Switzerland and the Rhine.”
But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes much pain
amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and
when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit
that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again
engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.
We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and
Westmoreland, and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants,
when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached,
and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had
now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the
dæmon’s disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland, and wreak his
vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me, and tormented me at
every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and
peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience: if they were
delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when
they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I
hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the
fiend followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my
companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for
a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the
fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great
crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had
indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of
crime.
I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might
have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so
well as Oxford; for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing
to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its
romantic castle, and its environs, the most delightful in the world,
Arthur’s Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated
him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But
I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.
We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrews, and
along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But
I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers, or enter into their
feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and
accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
alone. “Do you,” said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this be our
rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my
motions, I entreat you: leave me to peace and solitude for a short time;
and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more
congenial to your own temper.”
Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to
remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. “I had rather be with you,”
he said, “in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom
I do not know: hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again
feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence.”
Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of
Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the
monster followed me, and would discover himself to me when I should have
finished, that he might receive his companion.
With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands, and fixed on
one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene labours. It was a place
fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose high sides
were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely
affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its
inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy
limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when
they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured
from the main land, which was about five miles distant.
On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of
these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two
rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable
penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the
door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some
furniture, and took possession; an incident which would, doubtless, have
occasioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers been
benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and
unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I
gave; so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.
In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening,
when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea, to
listen to the waves as they roared, and dashed at my feet. It was a
monotonous, yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was
far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are
covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the
plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and, when troubled
by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant, when
compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.
In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived; but,
as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and
irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my
laboratory for several days; and at other times I toiled day and night
in order to complete my work. It was indeed a filthy process in which I
was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy
had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently
fixed on the sequel of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of
my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often
sickened at the work of my hands.
Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a
solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the
actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew
restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor.
Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them
lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold.
I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when
alone he should come to claim his companion.
In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably
advanced. I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager
hope, which I dared not trust myself to question, but which was
intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil, that made my heart sicken
in my bosom.
CHAPTER III.
I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was
just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment,
and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should
leave my labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an
unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to
me, which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three
years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend
whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart, and filled it for
ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being,
of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten
thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own
sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood
of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in
all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might
refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might
even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own
deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it
came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with
disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and
he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being
deserted by one of his own species.
Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new
world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the
dæmon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be
propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of the
species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I a right,
for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations?
I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I
had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats: but now, for the
first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to
think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness
had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price perhaps of the
existence of the whole human race.
I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on looking up, I saw,
by the light of the moon, the dæmon at the casement. A ghastly grin
wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task
which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he
had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide
and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the
fulfilment of my promise.
As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of
malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my
promise of creating another like to him, and, trembling with passion,
tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me
destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for
happiness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.
I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own
heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I
sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the
gloom, and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible
reveries.
Several hours past, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it
was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed
under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the
water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as
the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was
hardly conscious of its extreme profundity until my ear was suddenly
arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed
close to my house.
In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one
endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a
presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who
dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the
sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you
in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the
spot.
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door
opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he
approached me, and said, in a smothered voice—
“You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you
intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and
misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the
Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its hills. I
have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts
of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger;
do you dare destroy my hopes?”
“Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like
yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness.”
“Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself
unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe
yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day
will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your
master;—obey!”
“The hour of my weakness is past, and the period of your power is
arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but
they confirm me in a resolution of not creating you a companion in vice.
Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a dæmon, whose delight
is in death and wretchedness. Begone! I am firm, and your words will
only exasperate my rage.”
The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in
the impotence of anger. “Shall each man,” cried he, “find a wife for his
bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of
affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man, you may
hate; but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the
bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are
you to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You
can blast my other passions; but revenge remains—revenge, henceforth
dearer than light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant and
tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; for I
am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a
snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the
injuries you inflict.”
“Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I
have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath
words. Leave me; I am inexorable.”
“It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night.”
I started forward, and exclaimed, “Villain! before you sign my
death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.”
I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted the house with
precipitation: in a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across
the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves.
All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage
to pursue the murderer of my peace, and precipitate him into the ocean.
I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination
conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not
followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered
him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the main land. I
shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his
insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words—“_I will be
with you on your wedding-night._” That then was the period fixed for the
fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy
and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet
when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth,—of her tears and endless
sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from
her,—tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my
eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter
struggle.
The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings
became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage
sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of
the last night’s contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I
almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my
fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole
across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock,
wearily it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If
I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most loved
die under the grasp of a dæmon whom I had myself created.
I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it
loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun
rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep
sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were
agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into
which I now sunk refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I
belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect
upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the
fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream,
yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.
The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my
appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a
fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet;
it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to
join him. He said that nearly a year had elapsed since we had quitted
Switzerland, and France was yet unvisited. He entreated me, therefore,
to leave my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth, in a week from that
time, when we might arrange the plan of our future proceedings. This
letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my
island at the expiration of two days.
Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I
shuddered to reflect: I must pack my chemical instruments; and for that
purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious
work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of which was sickening
to me. The next morning, at day-break, I summoned sufficient courage,
and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished
creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost
felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to
collect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I
conveyed the instruments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought
not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of
the peasants, and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great
quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined to throw them into
the sea that very night; and in the mean time I sat upon the beach,
employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus.
Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place
in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the dæmon. I had
before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with
whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film
had been taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw
clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur
to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not
reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in
my own mind, that to create another like the fiend I had first made
would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness; and I
banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different
conclusion.
Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting
my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the
shore. The scene was perfectly solitary: a few boats were returning
towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the
commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any
encounter with my fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had
before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took
advantage of the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea; I
listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the
spot. The sky became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by
the north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me, and
filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my
stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched
myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, every thing was
obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through
the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly.
I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I
found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high,
and the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I
found that the wind was north-east, and must have driven me far from the
coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but
quickly found that if I again made the attempt the boat would be
instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to
drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror.
I had no compass with me, and was so little acquainted with the
geography of this part of the world that the sun was of little benefit
to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the
tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters
that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours,
and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other
sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that
flew before the wind only to be replaced by others: I looked upon the
sea, it was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your task is already
fulfilled!” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; and
sunk into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now, when
the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to
reflect on it.
Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the
horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became
free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick,
and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high
land towards the south.
Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured
for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of
warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.
How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we
have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail
with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land.
It had a wild and rocky appearance; but as I approached nearer, I easily
perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and
found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilized
man. I eagerly traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple
which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was
in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the
town as a place where I could most easily procure nourishment.
Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived
a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding
with joy at my unexpected escape.
As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several
people crowded towards the spot. They seemed very much surprised at my
appearance; but, instead of offering me any assistance, whispered
together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me
a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they
spoke English; and I therefore addressed them in that language: “My good
friends,” said I, “will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this
town, and inform me where I am?”
“You will know that soon enough,” replied a man with a gruff voice. “May
be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste; but
you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you.”
I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a
stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and
angry countenances of his companions. “Why do you answer me so roughly?”
I replied: “surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive
strangers so inhospitably.”
“I do not know,” said the man, “what the custom of the English may be;
but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains.”
While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly
increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which
annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn;
but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose
from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking
man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Come, Sir, you
must follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s, to give an account of yourself.”
“Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a
free country?”
“Aye, Sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate; and
you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found
murdered here last night.”
This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I was
innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I followed my
conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in the town.
I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger; but, being surrounded by a
crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical
debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little
did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm
me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death.
I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory
of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to
my recollection.
CHAPTER IV.
I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old
benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however,
with some degree of severity; and then, turning towards my conductors,
he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.
About half a dozen men came forward; and one being selected by the
magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before
with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o’clock,
they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put
in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen;
they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a
creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the
fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he
was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something,
and fell all his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist
him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen
on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first
supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person who had been
drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, upon examination,
they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not
then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near
the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. He
appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age.
He had apparently been strangled; for there was no sign of any violence,
except the black mark of fingers on his neck.
The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but
when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of
my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a
mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support.
The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew an
unfavourable augury from my manner.
The son confirmed his father’s account: but when Daniel Nugent was
called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion,
he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the
shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was
the same boat in which I had just landed.
A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the
door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an
hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat,
with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the
corpse was afterwards found.
Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the
body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed
it; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite
gone.
Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed,
that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it
was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been
obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.
Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from
another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the
shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the
town of —— from the place where I had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken
into the room where the body lay for interment that it might be observed
what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was
probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the
mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by
the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help
being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during
this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with
several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the
body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of
the affair.
I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin.
How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched
with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without
shuddering and agony, that faintly reminds me of the anguish of the
recognition. The trial, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses,
passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of
Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing
myself on the body, I exclaimed, “Have my murderous machinations
deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already
destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, my
friend, my benefactor”——
The human frame could no longer support the agonizing suffering that I
endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.
A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death:
my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the
murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated
my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was
tormented; and, at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already
grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately,
as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my
gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other
witnesses.
Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I
not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming
children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and
youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and
the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials
was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the
turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture.
But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking
from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by
gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.
It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around,
and saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me.
She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize
that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and
the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:
“Are you better now, Sir?” said she.
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror.”
“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you; but you will be hung
when the next sessions come on. However, that’s none of my business, I
am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe
conscience, it were well if every body did the same.”
I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a
speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt
languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series
of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality.
As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew
feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The
physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them
for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second.
Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who
would gain his fee?
These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had
shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to
be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had
provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me;
for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every
human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see
that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and at long
intervals.
One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my
eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death, I was overcome
by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than
remain miserably pent up only to be let loose in a world replete with
wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare
myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door of my
apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed
sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me
in French—
“I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any thing to
make you more comfortable?”
“I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole
earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.”
“I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to
one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can
easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge.”
“That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become
the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have
been, can death be any evil to me?”
“Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange
chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising
accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality: seized
immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented
to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a
manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path.”
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this
retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the
knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to
say—
“It was not until a day or two after your illness that I thought of
examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which I could
send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I
found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from
its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva:
nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.—But
you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any
kind.”
“This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event:
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament.”
“Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; “and
some one, a friend, is come to visit you.”
I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and
cried out in agony—
“Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake, do not let him
enter!”
Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in
rather a severe tone—
“I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father
would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance.”
“My father!” cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure. “Is my father, indeed, come? How kind, how
very kind. But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?”
My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried—
“Are you then safe—and Elizabeth—and Ernest?”
My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured,
by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode
of cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!” said
he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of
the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to
pursue you. And poor Clerval—”
The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.
“Alas! yes, my father,” replied I; “some destiny of the most horrible
kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should
have died on the coffin of Henry.”
We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that
could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the
appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.
As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for
ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into
which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous
relapse. Alas! why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life?
It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a
close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and
relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust;
and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then
the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present
to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless,
wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer
in its ruins.
The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months
in prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a
relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the
county-town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with
every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was
spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was
not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand
jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney
Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found, and a fortnight
after my removal I was liberated from prison.
My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere, and allowed to return to my native country. I did not
participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; and
although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I
saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they
were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs
nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them;
sometimes it was the watery clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw
them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of
Geneva, which I should soon visit—of Elizabeth, and Ernest; but these
words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish
for happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved
cousin; or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early
childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which a
prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted, but by paroxysms of anguish and
despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.
I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the men say, “He may
be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a bad conscience.” These
words struck me. A bad conscience! yes, surely I had one. William,
Justine, and Clerval, had died through my infernal machinations; “And
whose death,” cried I, “is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not
remain in this wretched country; take me where I may forget myself, my
existence, and all the world.”
My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having taken leave of
Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was relieved from a
heavy weight, when the packet sailed with a fair wind from Ireland, and
I had quitted for ever the country which had been to me the scene of so
much misery.