Frankenstein

Chapter 19

Lon­don was our present point of rest; we deter­mined to remain sev­er­al months in this won­der­ful and cel­e­brat­ed city. Cler­val desired the inter­course of the men of genius and tal­ent who flour­ished at this time, but this was with me a sec­ondary object; I was prin­ci­pal­ly occu­pied with the means of obtain­ing the infor­ma­tion nec­es­sary for the com­ple­tion of my promise and quick­ly availed myself of the let­ters of intro­duc­tion that I had brought with me, addressed to the most dis­tin­guished nat­ur­al philosophers. 

If this jour­ney had tak­en place dur­ing my days of study and hap­pi­ness, it would have afford­ed me inex­press­ible plea­sure. But a blight had come over my exis­tence, and I only vis­it­ed these peo­ple for the sake of the infor­ma­tion they might give me on the sub­ject in which my inter­est was so ter­ri­bly pro­found. Com­pa­ny was irk­some to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heav­en and earth; the voice of Hen­ry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a tran­si­to­ry peace. But busy, unin­ter­est­ing, joy­ous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insur­mount­able bar­ri­er placed between me and my fel­low men; this bar­ri­er was sealed with the blood of William and Jus­tine, and to reflect on the events con­nect­ed with those names filled my soul with anguish. 

But in Cler­val I saw the image of my for­mer self; he was inquis­i­tive and anx­ious to gain expe­ri­ence and instruc­tion. The dif­fer­ence of man­ners which he observed was to him an inex­haustible source of instruc­tion and amuse­ment. He was also pur­su­ing an object he had long had in view. His design was to vis­it India, in the belief that he had in his knowl­edge of its var­i­ous lan­guages, and in the views he had tak­en of its soci­ety, the means of mate­ri­al­ly assist­ing the progress of Euro­pean col­o­niza­tion and trade. In Britain only could he fur­ther the exe­cu­tion of his plan. He was for ever busy, and the only check to his enjoy­ments was my sor­row­ful and deject­ed mind. I tried to con­ceal this as much as pos­si­ble, that I might not debar him from the plea­sures nat­ur­al to one who was enter­ing on a new scene of life, undis­turbed by any care or bit­ter rec­ol­lec­tion. I often refused to accom­pa­ny him, alleg­ing anoth­er engage­ment, that I might remain alone. I now also began to col­lect the mate­ri­als nec­es­sary for my new cre­ation, and this was to me like the tor­ture of sin­gle drops of water con­tin­u­al­ly falling on the head. Every thought that was devot­ed to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allu­sion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate. 

After pass­ing some months in Lon­don, we received a let­ter from a per­son in Scot­land who had for­mer­ly been our vis­i­tor at Gene­va. He men­tioned the beau­ties of his native coun­try and asked us if those were not suf­fi­cient allure­ments to induce us to pro­long our jour­ney as far north as Perth, where he resided. Cler­val eager­ly desired to accept this invi­ta­tion, and I, although I abhorred soci­ety, wished to view again moun­tains and streams and all the won­drous works with which Nature adorns her cho­sen dwelling-places. 

We had arrived in Eng­land at the begin­ning of Octo­ber, and it was now Feb­ru­ary. We accord­ing­ly deter­mined to com­mence our jour­ney towards the north at the expi­ra­tion of anoth­er month. In this expe­di­tion we did not intend to fol­low the great road to Edin­burgh, but to vis­it Wind­sor, Oxford, Mat­lock, and the Cum­ber­land lakes, resolv­ing to arrive at the com­ple­tion of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chem­i­cal instru­ments and the mate­ri­als I had col­lect­ed, resolv­ing to fin­ish my labours in some obscure nook in the north­ern high­lands of Scotland. 

We quit­ted Lon­don on the 27th of March and remained a few days at Wind­sor, ram­bling in its beau­ti­ful for­est. This was a new scene to us moun­taineers; the majes­tic oaks, the quan­ti­ty of game, and the herds of state­ly deer were all nov­el­ties to us. 

From thence we pro­ceed­ed to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds were filled with the remem­brance of the events that had been trans­act­ed there more than a cen­tu­ry and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had col­lect­ed his forces. This city had remained faith­ful to him, after the whole nation had for­sak­en his cause to join the stan­dard of Par­lia­ment and lib­er­ty. The mem­o­ry of that unfor­tu­nate king and his com­pan­ions, the ami­able Falk­land, the inso­lent Gor­ing, his queen, and son, gave a pecu­liar inter­est to every part of the city which they might be sup­posed to have inhab­it­ed. The spir­it of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delight­ed to trace its foot­steps. If these feel­ings had not found an imag­i­nary grat­i­fi­ca­tion, the appear­ance of the city had yet in itself suf­fi­cient beau­ty to obtain our admi­ra­tion. The col­leges are ancient and pic­turesque; the streets are almost mag­nif­i­cent; and the love­ly Isis, which flows beside it through mead­ows of exquis­ite ver­dure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majes­tic assem­blage of tow­ers, and spires, and domes, embo­somed among aged trees. 

I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoy­ment was embit­tered both by the mem­o­ry of the past and the antic­i­pa­tion of the future. I was formed for peace­ful hap­pi­ness. Dur­ing my youth­ful days dis­con­tent nev­er vis­it­ed my mind, and if I was ever over­come by ennui, the sight of what is beau­ti­ful in nature or the study of what is excel­lent and sub­lime in the pro­duc­tions of man could always inter­est my heart and com­mu­ni­cate elas­tic­i­ty to my spir­its. But I am a blast­ed tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should sur­vive to exhib­it what I shall soon cease to be—a mis­er­able spec­ta­cle of wrecked human­i­ty, pitiable to oth­ers and intol­er­a­ble to myself. 

We passed a con­sid­er­able peri­od at Oxford, ram­bling among its envi­rons and endeav­our­ing to iden­ti­fy every spot which might relate to the most ani­mat­ing epoch of Eng­lish his­to­ry. Our lit­tle voy­ages of dis­cov­ery were often pro­longed by the suc­ces­sive objects that pre­sent­ed them­selves. We vis­it­ed the tomb of the illus­tri­ous Ham­p­den and the field on which that patri­ot fell. For a moment my soul was ele­vat­ed from its debas­ing and mis­er­able fears to con­tem­plate the divine ideas of lib­er­ty and self-sac­ri­fice of which these sights were the mon­u­ments and the remem­brancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains and look around me with a free and lofty spir­it, but the iron had eat­en into my flesh, and I sank again, trem­bling and hope­less, into my mis­er­able self. 

We left Oxford with regret and pro­ceed­ed to Mat­lock, which was our next place of rest. The coun­try in the neigh­bour­hood of this vil­lage resem­bled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzer­land; but every­thing is on a low­er scale, and the green hills want the crown of dis­tant white Alps which always attend on the piny moun­tains of my native coun­try. We vis­it­ed the won­drous cave and the lit­tle cab­i­nets of nat­ur­al his­to­ry, where the curiosi­ties are dis­posed in the same man­ner as in the col­lec­tions at Ser­vox and Chamounix. The lat­ter name made me trem­ble when pro­nounced by Hen­ry, and I has­tened to quit Mat­lock, with which that ter­ri­ble scene was thus associated. 

From Der­by, still jour­ney­ing north­wards, we passed two months in Cum­ber­land and West­mor­land. I could now almost fan­cy myself among the Swiss moun­tains. The lit­tle patch­es of snow which yet lin­gered on the north­ern sides of the moun­tains, the lakes, and the dash­ing of the rocky streams were all famil­iar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquain­tances, who almost con­trived to cheat me into hap­pi­ness. The delight of Cler­val was pro­por­tion­ably greater than mine; his mind expand­ed in the com­pa­ny of men of tal­ent, and he found in his own nature greater capac­i­ties and resources than he could have imag­ined him­self to have pos­sessed while he asso­ci­at­ed with his infe­ri­ors. “I could pass my life here,” said he to me; “and among these moun­tains I should scarce­ly regret Switzer­land and the Rhine.” 

But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoy­ments. His feel­ings are for ever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds him­self oblig­ed to quit that on which he rests in plea­sure for some­thing new, which again engages his atten­tion, and which also he for­sakes for oth­er novelties. 

We had scarce­ly vis­it­ed the var­i­ous lakes of Cum­ber­land and West­mor­land and con­ceived an affec­tion for some of the inhab­i­tants when the peri­od of our appoint­ment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to trav­el on. For my own part I was not sor­ry. I had now neglect­ed my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the dæmon’s dis­ap­point­ment. He might remain in Switzer­land and wreak his vengeance on my rel­a­tives. This idea pur­sued me and tor­ment­ed me at every moment from which I might oth­er­wise have snatched repose and peace. I wait­ed for my let­ters with fever­ish impa­tience; if they were delayed I was mis­er­able and over­come by a thou­sand fears; and when they arrived and I saw the super­scrip­tion of Eliz­a­beth or my father, I hard­ly dared to read and ascer­tain my fate. Some­times I thought that the fiend fol­lowed me and might expe­dite my remiss­ness by mur­der­ing my com­pan­ion. When these thoughts pos­sessed me, I would not quit Hen­ry for a moment, but fol­lowed him as his shad­ow, to pro­tect him from the fan­cied rage of his destroy­er. I felt as if I had com­mit­ted some great crime, the con­scious­ness of which haunt­ed me. I was guilt­less, but I had indeed drawn down a hor­ri­ble curse upon my head, as mor­tal as that of crime. 

I vis­it­ed Edin­burgh with lan­guid eyes and mind; and yet that city might have inter­est­ed the most unfor­tu­nate being. Cler­val did not like it so well as Oxford, for the antiq­ui­ty of the lat­ter city was more pleas­ing to him. But the beau­ty and reg­u­lar­i­ty of the new town of Edin­burgh, its roman­tic cas­tle and its envi­rons, the most delight­ful in the world, Arthur’s Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pent­land Hills, com­pen­sat­ed him for the change and filled him with cheer­ful­ness and admi­ra­tion. But I was impa­tient to arrive at the ter­mi­na­tion of my journey. 

We left Edin­burgh in a week, pass­ing through Coupar, St. Andrew’s, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expect­ed us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into their feel­ings or plans with the good humour expect­ed from a guest; and accord­ing­ly I told Cler­val that I wished to make the tour of Scot­land alone. “Do you,” said I, “enjoy your­self, and let this be our ren­dezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not inter­fere with my motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and soli­tude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more con­ge­nial to your own temper.” 

Hen­ry wished to dis­suade me, but see­ing me bent on this plan, ceased to remon­strate. He entreat­ed me to write often. “I had rather be with you,” he said, “in your soli­tary ram­bles, than with these Scotch peo­ple, whom I do not know; has­ten, then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself some­what at home, which I can­not do in your absence.” 

Hav­ing part­ed from my friend, I deter­mined to vis­it some remote spot of Scot­land and fin­ish my work in soli­tude. I did not doubt but that the mon­ster fol­lowed me and would dis­cov­er him­self to me when I should have fin­ished, that he might receive his companion. 

With this res­o­lu­tion I tra­versed the north­ern high­lands and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fit­ted for such a work, being hard­ly more than a rock whose high sides were con­tin­u­al­ly beat­en upon by the waves. The soil was bar­ren, scarce­ly afford­ing pas­ture for a few mis­er­able cows, and oat­meal for its inhab­i­tants, which con­sist­ed of five per­sons, whose gaunt and scrag­gy limbs gave tokens of their mis­er­able fare. Veg­eta­bles and bread, when they indulged in such lux­u­ries, and even fresh water, was to be pro­cured from the main­land, which was about five miles distant. 

On the whole island there were but three mis­er­able huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It con­tained but two rooms, and these exhib­it­ed all the squalid­ness of the most mis­er­able penury. The thatch had fall­en in, the walls were unplas­tered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some fur­ni­ture, and took pos­ses­sion, an inci­dent which would doubt­less have occa­sioned some sur­prise had not all the sens­es of the cot­tagers been benumbed by want and squalid pover­ty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmo­lest­ed, hard­ly thanked for the pit­tance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suf­fer­ing blunt even the coars­est sen­sa­tions of men. 

In this retreat I devot­ed the morn­ing to labour; but in the evening, when the weath­er per­mit­ted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea to lis­ten to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monot­o­nous yet ever-chang­ing scene. I thought of Switzer­land; it was far dif­fer­ent from this des­o­late and appalling land­scape. Its hills are cov­ered with vines, and its cot­tages are scat­tered thick­ly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gen­tle sky, and when trou­bled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a live­ly infant when com­pared to the roar­ings of the giant ocean. 

In this man­ner I dis­trib­uted my occu­pa­tions when I first arrived, but as I pro­ceed­ed in my labour, it became every day more hor­ri­ble and irk­some to me. Some­times I could not pre­vail on myself to enter my lab­o­ra­to­ry for sev­er­al days, and at oth­er times I toiled day and night in order to com­plete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. Dur­ing my first exper­i­ment, a kind of enthu­si­as­tic fren­zy had blind­ed me to the hor­ror of my employ­ment; my mind was intent­ly fixed on the con­sum­ma­tion of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the hor­ror of my pro­ceed­ings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sick­ened at the work of my hands. 

Thus sit­u­at­ed, employed in the most detestable occu­pa­tion, immersed in a soli­tude where noth­ing could for an instant call my atten­tion from the actu­al scene in which I was engaged, my spir­its became unequal; I grew rest­less and ner­vous. Every moment I feared to meet my per­se­cu­tor. Some­times I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fear­ing to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much dread­ed to behold. I feared to wan­der from the sight of my fel­low crea­tures lest when alone he should come to claim his companion. 

In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already con­sid­er­ably advanced. I looked towards its com­ple­tion with a tremu­lous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to ques­tion but which was inter­mixed with obscure fore­bod­ings of evil that made my heart sick­en in my bosom.