Frankenstein

Chapter 22

The voyage came to an end. We landed and proceeded to Paris.
I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength, and that I must
repose before I could continue my journey. My father's care
and attentions were indefatigable; but he did not know the
origin of my sufferings, and sought erroneous methods to remedy
the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society.
I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! they were my
brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the
most repulsive among them as to creatures of an angelic nature
and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to
share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them,
whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their
groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me, and hunt me
from the world, did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes
which had their source in me!

My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society, and
strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he
thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to
answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me
the futility of pride.

"Alas! my father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human
beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded
if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy
Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge;
she died for it; and I am the cause of this--I murdered her.
William, Justine, and Henry--they all died by my hands."

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the
same assertion; when I thus accused myself he sometimes seemed
to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider
it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness,
some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination,
the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence.
I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual silence
concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that
I should be supposed mad; and this in itself would for ever
have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself
to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with
consternation, and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates
of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for
sympathy, and was silent when I would have given the world to
have confided the fatal secret. Yet still words like those I
have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could
offer no explanation of them; but their truth in part relieved
the burden of my mysterious woe.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of
unbounded wonder, "My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this?
My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again."

"I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the
heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my
truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they
died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my
own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could
not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race."

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas
were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our
conversation and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts.
He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the
scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and never alluded to them,
or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling
in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent
manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the
consciousness of them. By the utmost selfviolence, I curbed
the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to
declare itself to the whole world; and my manners were calmer
and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the
sea of ice.

A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I
received the following letter from Elizabeth:--

"MY DEAR FRIEND,--It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive
a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a
formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a
fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered!
I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted
Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured
as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in
your countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally
void of comfort and tranquillity.

"Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so
miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would
not disturb you at this period when so many misfortunes weigh
upon you; but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous
to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet.

"Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have to
explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered, and
all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it
is possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with this
explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I
dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence,
I have often wished to express to you, but have never had the
courage to begin.

"You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite
plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told
this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event
that would certainly take place. We were affectionate
playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued
friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and
sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other
without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be
our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you,
by our mutual happiness, with simple truth--Do you not love another?

"You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life
at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw
you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the
society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you
might regret our connection, and believe yourself bound in
honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents although they
opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false
reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you, and
that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant
friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as
well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would
render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate of
your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne
down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle,
by the word _honour_, all hope of that love and happiness which
would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so
disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries
tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be
assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love
for you not to be made miserable by this supposition.
Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request,
remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to
interrupt my tranquillity.

"Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or
the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain.
My uncle will send me news of your health; and if I see but one
smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any
other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness.

"ELIZABETH LAVENZA."

"GENEVA, _May 18th, 17--._"


This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten,
the threat of the fiend--"_I_ _will be with you on your
wedding-night!_" Such was my sentence, and on that night would
the daemon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from the
glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my
sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his
crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would
then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I
should be at peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he
were vanquished I should be a free man. Alas! what freedom?
such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred
before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and
he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free.
Such would be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I
possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors of
remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her letter and
some softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper
paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was
already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from
all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster
executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I
considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My
destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner; but if
my torturer should suspect that I postponed it influenced by
his menaces he would surely find other, and perhaps more
dreadful, means of revenge. He had vowed _to be with me on my
wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that threat as binding
him to peace in the meantime; for, as if to show me that he was
not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval
immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved,
therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would
conduce either to hers or my father's happiness, my adversary's
designs against my life should not retard it a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm
and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little
happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day
enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you
alone do I consecrate my life and my endeavours for
contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one;
when revealed to you it will chill your frame with horror, and
then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this
tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage
shall take place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect
confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not
mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I
know you will comply."

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter we
returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm
affection; yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my
emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her
also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly
vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and
soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one
blasted and miserable as I was.

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory
brought madness with it; and when I thought of what had passed
a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt
with rage; sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke nor
looked at any one, but sat motionless, bewildered by the
multitude of miseries that overcame me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her
gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion, and
inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept
with me and for me. When reason returned she would remonstrate
and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! it is well
for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is
no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is
otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my immediate marriage
with Elizabeth. I remained silent.

"Have you, then, some other attachment?"

"None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our
union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it
I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of
my cousin."

"My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have
befallen us; but let us only cling closer to what remains, and
transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet
live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of
affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have
softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be
born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived."

Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance
of the threat returned: nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as
the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost
regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the
words, "I shall be with you on your wedding-night," I should
regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no
evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it; and
I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance,
agreed with my father that, if my cousin would consent, the
ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I
imagined, the seal to my fate.

Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be the
hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have
banished myself for ever from my native country, and wandered
a friendless outcast over the earth, than have consented to
this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers,
the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I
thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that
of a far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from
cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me.
But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity,
that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father,
but hardly deceived the everwatchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth.
She looked forward to our union with placid contentment,
not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had
impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness
might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and leave no trace
but deep and everlasting regret.

Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory visits
were received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up,
as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed
there, and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of
my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of
my tragedy. Through my father's exertions, a part of the
inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the
Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como
belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our
union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza, and spend our first
days of happiness beside the beautiful lake near which it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in
case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and
a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on the watch to
prevent artifice; and by these means gained a greater degree
of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat
appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to
disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my
marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day
fixed for its solemnisation drew nearer and I heard it
continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could
possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed
greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my
wishes and my destiny she was melancholy, and a presentiment of
evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful
secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day.
My father was in the meantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of
preparation, only recognised in the melancholy of his niece
the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my
father's; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should
commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian,
and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was
fair, the wind favourable, all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed
the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was
hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy,
while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side
of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant banks of
Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful
Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain
endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the opposite
banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the
ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost
insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to
enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth: "You are sorrowful, my love.
Ah! if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet
endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and
freedom from despair that this one day at least permits me
to enjoy."

"Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I
hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively
joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented.
Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect
that is opened before us; but I will not listen to such a
sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how the
clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the
dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more
interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are
swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every
pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! how happy
and serene all nature appears!"

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from
all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was
fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it
continually gave place to distraction and reverie.

The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance,
and observed its path through the chasms of the higher, and the
glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the
lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which
forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the
woods that surrounded it, and the range of mountain above
mountain by which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing
rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just
ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the trees
as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most
delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the
horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I felt those
cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to
me for ever.

Chapter 23

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