Reading Help Frankenstein Ch.10-24
brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand `
` jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney `
` Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight `
` after my removal I was liberated from prison. `
` `
` My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a `
` criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh `
` atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country. I did not `
` participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a `
` palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned forever, and `
` although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I `
` saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by `
` no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes `
` they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark `
` orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes that fringed `
` them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I `
` first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. `
` `
` My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked `
` of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but `
` these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a `
` wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved `
` cousin or longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more `
` the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early `
` childhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a `
` prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and `
` these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and `
` despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the `
` existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance `
` to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence. `
` `
` Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally `
` triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should `
` return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those `
` I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any `
` chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to `
` blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to `
` the existence of the monstrous image which I had endued with the `
` mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to `
` delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a `
` journey, for I was a shattered wreck--the shadow of a human being. My `
` strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day `
` preyed upon my wasted frame. Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland `
` with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best to `
` yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace `
` and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I `
` lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of `
` the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and `
` my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon `
` see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; `
` yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested `
` shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me told me too forcibly `
` that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and `
` dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my `
` creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life--my quiet happiness `
` while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my `
` departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm `
` that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to `
` mind the night in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the `
` train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept `
` bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the `
` custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was `
` by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest `
` necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection `
` of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and `
` soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from `
` thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared `
` me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the `
` fiend's grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it; groans and `
` cries rang in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving `
` my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around, the cloudy `
` sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that `
` a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible, `
` disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which `
` the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible. `
` `
` `
` Chapter 22 `
` `
` 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 forever 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 `
`
` jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney `
` Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight `
` after my removal I was liberated from prison. `
` `
` My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a `
` criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh `
` atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country. I did not `
` participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a `
` palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned forever, and `
` although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I `
` saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by `
` no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes `
` they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark `
` orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes that fringed `
` them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I `
` first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt. `
` `
` My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked `
` of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but `
` these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a `
` wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved `
` cousin or longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more `
` the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early `
` childhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a `
` prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and `
` these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and `
` despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the `
` existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance `
` to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence. `
` `
` Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally `
` triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should `
` return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those `
` I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any `
` chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to `
` blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to `
` the existence of the monstrous image which I had endued with the `
` mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to `
` delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a `
` journey, for I was a shattered wreck--the shadow of a human being. My `
` strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day `
` preyed upon my wasted frame. Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland `
` with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best to `
` yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace `
` and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I `
` lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of `
` the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and `
` my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon `
` see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; `
` yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested `
` shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me told me too forcibly `
` that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and `
` dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my `
` creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life--my quiet happiness `
` while residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my `
` departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm `
` that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to `
` mind the night in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the `
` train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept `
` bitterly. Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the `
` custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was `
` by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest `
` necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection `
` of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and `
` soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from `
` thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared `
` me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the `
` fiend's grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it; groans and `
` cries rang in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving `
` my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around, the cloudy `
` sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that `
` a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible, `
` disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which `
` the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible. `
` `
` `
` Chapter 22 `
` `
` 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 forever 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 `
`