Frankenstein

Noth­ing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feel­ings have been worked up by a quick suc­ces­sion of events, the dead calm­ness of inac­tion and cer­tain­ty which fol­lows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Jus­tine died, she rest­ed, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart which noth­ing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wan­dered like an evil spir­it, for I had com­mit­ted deeds of mis­chief beyond descrip­tion hor­ri­ble, and more, much more (I per­suad­ed myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart over­flowed with kind­ness and the love of virtue. I had begun life with benev­o­lent inten­tions and thirst­ed for the moment when I should put them in prac­tice and make myself use­ful to my fel­low beings. Now all was blast­ed; instead of that seren­i­ty of con­science which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-sat­is­fac­tion, and from thence to gath­er promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hur­ried me away to a hell of intense tor­tures such as no lan­guage can describe. 

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had per­haps nev­er entire­ly recov­ered from the first shock it had sus­tained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or com­pla­cen­cy was tor­ture to me; soli­tude was my only consolation—deep, dark, death­like solitude. 

My father observed with pain the alter­ation per­cep­ti­ble in my dis­po­si­tion and habits and endeav­oured by argu­ments deduced from the feel­ings of his serene con­science and guilt­less life to inspire me with for­ti­tude and awak­en in me the courage to dis­pel the dark cloud which brood­ed over me. “Do you think, Vic­tor,” said he, “that I do not suf­fer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother”—tears came into his eyes as he spoke—“but is it not a duty to the sur­vivors that we should refrain from aug­ment­ing their unhap­pi­ness by an appear­ance of immod­er­ate grief? It is also a duty owed to your­self, for exces­sive sor­row pre­vents improve­ment or enjoy­ment, or even the dis­charge of dai­ly use­ful­ness, with­out which no man is fit for society.” 

This advice, although good, was total­ly inap­plic­a­ble to my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief and con­sole my friends if remorse had not min­gled its bit­ter­ness, and ter­ror its alarm, with my oth­er sen­sa­tions. Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair and endeav­our to hide myself from his view. 

About this time we retired to our house at Bel­rive. This change was par­tic­u­lar­ly agree­able to me. The shut­ting of the gates reg­u­lar­ly at ten o’clock and the impos­si­bil­i­ty of remain­ing on the lake after that hour had ren­dered our res­i­dence with­in the walls of Gene­va very irk­some to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the fam­i­ly had retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. Some­times, with my sails set, I was car­ried by the wind; and some­times, after row­ing into the mid­dle of the lake, I left the boat to pur­sue its own course and gave way to my own mis­er­able reflec­tions. I was often tempt­ed, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unqui­et thing that wan­dered rest­less in a scene so beau­ti­ful and heavenly—if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and inter­rupt­ed croak­ing was heard only when I approached the shore—often, I say, I was tempt­ed to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my calami­ties for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the hero­ic and suf­fer­ing Eliz­a­beth, whom I ten­der­ly loved, and whose exis­tence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my father and sur­viv­ing broth­er; should I by my base deser­tion leave them exposed and unpro­tect­ed to the mal­ice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them? 

At these moments I wept bit­ter­ly and wished that peace would revis­it my mind only that I might afford them con­so­la­tion and hap­pi­ness. But that could not be. Remorse extin­guished every hope. I had been the author of unal­ter­able evils, and I lived in dai­ly fear lest the mon­ster whom I had cre­at­ed should per­pe­trate some new wicked­ness. I had an obscure feel­ing that all was not over and that he would still com­mit some sig­nal crime, which by its enor­mi­ty should almost efface the rec­ol­lec­tion of the past. There was always scope for fear so long as any­thing I loved remained behind. My abhor­rence of this fiend can­not be con­ceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardent­ly wished to extin­guish that life which I had so thought­less­ly bestowed. When I reflect­ed on his crimes and mal­ice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of mod­er­a­tion. I would have made a pil­grim­age to the high­est peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have pre­cip­i­tat­ed him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhor­rence on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine. 

Our house was the house of mourn­ing. My father’s health was deeply shak­en by the hor­ror of the recent events. Eliz­a­beth was sad and despond­ing; she no longer took delight in her ordi­nary occu­pa­tions; all plea­sure seemed to her sac­ri­lege toward the dead; eter­nal woe and tears she then thought was the just trib­ute she should pay to inno­cence so blast­ed and destroyed. She was no longer that hap­py crea­ture who in ear­li­er youth wan­dered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecsta­sy of our future prospects. The first of those sor­rows which are sent to wean us from the earth had vis­it­ed her, and its dim­ming influ­ence quenched her dear­est smiles. 

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the mis­er­able death of Jus­tine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injus­tice that I read in books or heard from oth­ers as tales of ancient days or imag­i­nary evils; at least they were remote and more famil­iar to rea­son than to the imag­i­na­tion; but now mis­ery has come home, and men appear to me as mon­sters thirst­ing for each other’s blood. Yet I am cer­tain­ly unjust. Every­body believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have com­mit­ted the crime for which she suf­fered, assured­ly she would have been the most depraved of human crea­tures. For the sake of a few jew­els, to have mur­dered the son of her bene­fac­tor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not con­sent to the death of any human being, but cer­tain­ly I should have thought such a crea­ture unfit to remain in the soci­ety of men. But she was inno­cent. I know, I feel she was inno­cent; you are of the same opin­ion, and that con­firms me. Alas! Vic­tor, when false­hood can look so like the truth, who can assure them­selves of cer­tain hap­pi­ness? I feel as if I were walk­ing on the edge of a precipice, towards which thou­sands are crowd­ing and endeav­our­ing to plunge me into the abyss. William and Jus­tine were assas­si­nat­ed, and the mur­der­er escapes; he walks about the world free, and per­haps respect­ed. But even if I were con­demned to suf­fer on the scaf­fold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch.” 

I lis­tened to this dis­course with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true mur­der­er. Eliz­a­beth read my anguish in my coun­te­nance, and kind­ly tak­ing my hand, said, “My dear­est friend, you must calm your­self. These events have affect­ed me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expres­sion of despair, and some­times of revenge, in your coun­te­nance that makes me trem­ble. Dear Vic­tor, ban­ish these dark pas­sions. Remem­ber the friends around you, who cen­tre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the pow­er of ren­der­ing you hap­py? Ah! While we love, while we are true to each oth­er, here in this land of peace and beau­ty, your native coun­try, we may reap every tran­quil blessing—what can dis­turb our peace?” 

And could not such words from her whom I fond­ly prized before every oth­er gift of for­tune suf­fice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in ter­ror, lest at that very moment the destroy­er had been near to rob me of her. 

Thus not the ten­der­ness of friend­ship, nor the beau­ty of earth, nor of heav­en, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were inef­fec­tu­al. I was encom­passed by a cloud which no ben­e­fi­cial influ­ence could pen­e­trate. The wound­ed deer drag­ging its faint­ing limbs to some untrod­den brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me. 

Some­times I could cope with the sullen despair that over­whelmed me, but some­times the whirl­wind pas­sions of my soul drove me to seek, by bod­i­ly exer­cise and by change of place, some relief from my intol­er­a­ble sen­sa­tions. It was dur­ing an access of this kind that I sud­den­ly left my home, and bend­ing my steps towards the near Alpine val­leys, sought in the mag­nif­i­cence, the eter­ni­ty of such scenes, to for­get myself and my ephemer­al, because human, sor­rows. My wan­der­ings were direct­ed towards the val­ley of Chamounix. I had vis­it­ed it fre­quent­ly dur­ing my boy­hood. Six years had passed since then: I was a wreck, but nought had changed in those sav­age and endur­ing scenes. 

I per­formed the first part of my jour­ney on horse­back. I after­wards hired a mule, as the more sure-foot­ed and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weath­er was fine; it was about the mid­dle of the month of August, near­ly two months after the death of Jus­tine, that mis­er­able epoch from which I dat­ed all my woe. The weight upon my spir­it was sen­si­bly light­ened as I plunged yet deep­er in the ravine of Arve. The immense moun­tains and precipices that over­hung me on every side, the sound of the riv­er rag­ing among the rocks, and the dash­ing of the water­falls around spoke of a pow­er mighty as Omnipotence—and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had cre­at­ed and ruled the ele­ments, here dis­played in their most ter­rif­ic guise. Still, as I ascend­ed high­er, the val­ley assumed a more mag­nif­i­cent and aston­ish­ing char­ac­ter. Ruined cas­tles hang­ing on the precipices of piny moun­tains, the impetu­ous Arve, and cot­tages every here and there peep­ing forth from among the trees formed a scene of sin­gu­lar beau­ty. But it was aug­ment­ed and ren­dered sub­lime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shin­ing pyra­mids and domes tow­ered above all, as belong­ing to anoth­er earth, the habi­ta­tions of anoth­er race of beings. 

I passed the bridge of Pélissier, where the ravine, which the riv­er forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the moun­tain that over­hangs it. Soon after, I entered the val­ley of Chamounix. This val­ley is more won­der­ful and sub­lime, but not so beau­ti­ful and pic­turesque as that of Ser­vox, through which I had just passed. The high and snowy moun­tains were its imme­di­ate bound­aries, but I saw no more ruined cas­tles and fer­tile fields. Immense glac­i­ers approached the road; I heard the rum­bling thun­der of the falling avalanche and marked the smoke of its pas­sage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and mag­nif­i­cent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the sur­round­ing aigu­illes, and its tremen­dous dôme over­looked the valley. 

A tin­gling long-lost sense of plea­sure often came across me dur­ing this jour­ney. Some turn in the road, some new object sud­den­ly per­ceived and recog­nised, remind­ed me of days gone by, and were asso­ci­at­ed with the light­heart­ed gai­ety of boy­hood. The very winds whis­pered in sooth­ing accents, and mater­nal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kind­ly influ­ence ceased to act—I found myself fet­tered again to grief and indulging in all the mis­ery of reflec­tion. Then I spurred on my ani­mal, striv­ing so to for­get the world, my fears, and more than all, myself—or, in a more des­per­ate fash­ion, I alight­ed and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by hor­ror and despair. 

At length I arrived at the vil­lage of Chamounix. Exhaus­tion suc­ceed­ed to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the win­dow watch­ing the pal­lid light­nings that played above Mont Blanc and lis­ten­ing to the rush­ing of the Arve, which pur­sued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds act­ed as a lul­la­by to my too keen sen­sa­tions; when I placed my head upon my pil­low, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giv­er of oblivion.