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. |
