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.