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 solemnization

of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events

have drawn us from that everyday tranquillity refitting my years

and infirmities. You are younger; yet l 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 forever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident

might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my slavery forever.



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 Strasbourg.

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 agonized 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 Strasbourg, 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; "how 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 Strasbourg 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 Strasbourg, 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 believe 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 world-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 forever?

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.

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