Frankenstein

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 solem­ni­sa­tion 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 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 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 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 Mannheim, and on the fifth from our depar­ture from Stras­burgh, 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 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 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 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 catarac­tHaunt­ed him like a pas­sion: the tall rock,The moun­tain, and the deep and gloomy wood,Their colours and their forms, were then to himAn appetite; a feel­ing, and a love,That had no need of a remot­er charm,By thought sup­plied, or any interestUnborrow’d from the eye.[Wordsworth’s “Tin­tern Abbey”.]