Frankenstein

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 self-vio­lence 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 dæmon 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 reread 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 any­one, 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 ever-watch­ful 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 Salêve, the pleas­ant banks of Mon­talè­gre, 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 sank 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, sank 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 sank 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.