FRANKENSTEIN
CHAPTER XIII
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 shrunk 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 solemnisation 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 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 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, 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 for ever. Or (so my fond fancy
imaged) some accident might meanwhile 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 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 Strasburgh. 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 agonised 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 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 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 Strasburgh 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
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
Fairyland, 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 waterspout 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
Unborrow'd from the eye."[1]
[1] Wordsworth's Tintern
Abbey.
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 the
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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