Chapter 18
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 shrank from
taking the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity
began to appear less absolute to me. A change indeed had taken
place in me; 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 his exordium, and my father continued--
"I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your
marriage with our dear Elizabeth 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 Elizabeth, this struggle
may occasion the poignant misery which you appear to feel."
"My dear father, reassure 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 of 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 everyday tranquillity
befitting my years and infirmities. You are younger; yet l 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 Elizabeth 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 a 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, I had an insurmountable aversion
to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task in my father's
house while in habits of familiar intercourse with those I loved.
I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest
of which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror.
I was aware also that I should often lose all self-command, all capacity
of hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress
of my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved
while thus employed. Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved,
and I might be restored to my family in peace and happiness.
My promise fulfilled, the monster would depart forever.
Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile occur
to destroy him and put an end to my slavery forever.
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 a guise which excited no suspicion,
while I urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my
father to comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy
that resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to
find that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey,
and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would, before my return,
have restored me entirely to myself.
The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months,
or at most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal
kind precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion.
Without previously communicating with me, he had, in concert
with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasbourg.
This interfered with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of
my task; yet at the commencement of my journey the presence of my
friend could in no way be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that
thus I should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening reflection.
Nay, Henry might stand between me and the intrusion of my foe.
If I were alone, would he not at times force his abhorred presence
on me to remind me of my task or to contemplate its progress?
To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my
union with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return.
My father's age rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself,
there was one reward I promised myself from my detested toils--
one consolation for my unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect
of that day when, enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might
claim Elizabeth and forget the past in my union with her.
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 September that I again quitted my
native country. My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth
therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet at the idea
of my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief.
It had been her care which provided me a companion in Clerval--
and yet a man is blind to a thousand minute circumstances which
call forth a woman's sedulous attention. She longed to bid me
hasten my return; a thousand conflicting emotions rendered her
mute as she bade me a tearful, silent farewell.
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.
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 Strasbourg, 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; "how 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 sunrise 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 in listening 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 Strasbourg to
Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. During this
voyage we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns.
We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure
from Strasbourg, arrived at Mainz. The course of the Rhine
below Mainz 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
believe 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 world-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
Unborrow'd from the eye.
Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey".
And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost
forever? 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.
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