Frankenstein's Bride (31 page)

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true
murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was
unhappy, but hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides
but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within me which
nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear
herself away. “I wish,” cried she, “that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of misery.”

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said
in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend; may heaven, in
its bounty, bless and preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make
others so.”

And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence failed to move the judges from their settled conviction
in the criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And when I received their
cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might
proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She perished on the scaffold as a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my
doing! And my father's woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands!
Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these are not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations
shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each
vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances,
who would fill the air with blessings and spend his life in serving you—he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond
his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded
to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the
graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.

C H A PT E R 9

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 endeavored 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 endeavor 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 forever.
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 endeavoring 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 center 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 Pelissier, 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 dome 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 recognized, 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.