Ch. 22: Chapter 18

Chapter 18

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 cataract

Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to him

An appetite; a feeling, and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, or any interest

Unborrow’d from the eye.

[Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”.]

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost

for ever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful

and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the

life of its creator;—has this mind perished? Does it now only exist

in my memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and

beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and

consoles your unhappy friend.

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight

tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,

overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will

proceed with my tale.

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to

post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the stream of

the river was too gentle to aid us.

Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we

arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.

It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw

the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene;

they were flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the

remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish

Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich—places which I had heard

of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s towering

above all, and the Tower famed in English history.