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 for ever. 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
any thing 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 anger 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
ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become grave, and often
conversed of the inconstancy of fortune, and the instability of human
life. “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. Every body 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. Yet 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 endeavouring 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 cousin, 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. Be
calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely
shall be happy: quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the
world, what can disturb our tranquillity?”

She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that she
gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might chase away the
fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the unhappiness
that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I
might naturally feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would
be the best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was from
this cause that he had removed to the country; and, induced by the same
motive, he now proposed that we should all make an excursion to the
valley of Chamounix. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest
never had; and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the
scenery of this place, which had been described to them as so wonderful
and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine. The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a sorrow to be
chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this excursion would certainly
have had the effect intended by my father. As it was, I was somewhat
interested in the scene; it sometimes lulled, although it could not
extinguish my grief. During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In
the morning we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we
gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through which we wound,
and which was formed by the river Arve, whose course we followed, closed
in upon us by degrees; and when the sun had set, we beheld immense
mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the
sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of water-falls
around. The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as we ascended still
higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character.