Frankenstein's Bride (28 page)

C H A PT E R 5

IT WAS ON A DREARY NIGHT of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to
agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay
at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt
out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard,
and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had
endeavored to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His
yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his
teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost
of the same color as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled complexion and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years,
for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired
it with an ardor that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless
horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued
a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had
before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavoring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was
in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking
in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they
became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother
in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my
sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and
yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch—the miserable monster whom
I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened,
and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one
hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging
to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation,
listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to
which I had so miserably given life.

Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as
that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable
of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery;
at others, I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness
of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the
change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white
steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my
asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every
turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled
to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavoring by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind.
I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness
of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:

Like one who, on a lonely road,

Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here
I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other
end of the street. As it drew nearer I observed that it was the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and
on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed
he, “how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!”

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those
scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly,
and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner,
and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune
in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my
father that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him
incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster
in
The Vicar of Wakefield
: ‘I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame
his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge.”

“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”

“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little
upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short and gazing full in my face, “I did not
before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights.”

“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient
rest, as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end and that I am at length free.”

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night.
I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the
creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster,
but I feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused,
and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a specter
to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty, and
my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen
me, but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy
only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain
for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed
my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which
he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.

“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the
cause of all this?”

“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded specter glide into the room; “he
can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness.
But I was not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only
nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my
sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not
have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead
of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored
me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was forever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning
him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination, but the
pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to
some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time
I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared
and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring, and the season contributed
greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in
a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.

“Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study,
as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the
disappointment of which I have been the occasion, but you will forgive me.”

“You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such
good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?”

I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?

“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of color, “I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father
and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have
been and are uneasy at your long silence.”

“Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom
I love and who are so deserving of my love?”

“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for
you; it is from your cousin, I believe.”

C H A PT E R 6

CLERVAL THEN PUT THE FOLLOWING LETTER INTO MY HANDS.

My dearest Cousin,

You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are
not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are forbidden to write—to hold
a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions.
For a long time I have thought that each post would bring this line, and
my persuasions have restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingol-stadt.
I have prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers
of so long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to
perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on your sickbed
has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your wishes
nor minister to them with the care and affection of your poor cousin. Yet that is
over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that
you will confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting.

Get well—and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and
friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he asks but
to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever cloud
his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be to remark the improvement
of our Ernest! He is now sixteen and full of activity and spirit. He is
desirous to be a true Swiss and to enter into foreign service, but we cannot part
with him, at least until his elder brother returns to us. My uncle is not pleased
with the idea of a military career in a distant country, but Ernest never had
your powers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter; his time is
spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he
will become an idler unless we yield the point and permit him to enter on the
profession which he has selected.

Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken place
since you left us. The blue lake and snow-clad mountains—they never change;
and I think our placid home and our contented hearts are regulated by the same
immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my time and amuse me, and
I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none but happy, kind faces around
me. Since you left us, but one change has taken place in our little household.
Do you remember on what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably
you do not; I will relate her history, therefore in a few words. Madame
Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the
third. This girl had always been the favorite of her father, but through a
strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and after the death of M.
Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this, and when Justine was
twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house.
The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and happier
manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround it.
Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the
lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined
and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in
France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of
a servant, a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea
of ignorance and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

Justine, you may remember, was a great favorite of yours; and I recollect you
once remarked that if you were in an ill humor, one glance from Justine could dissipate
it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica—
she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment
for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which
she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most
grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any professions
I never heard one pass her lips, but you could see by her eyes that she almost
adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay and in many respects
inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She
thought her the model of all excellence and endeavored to imitate her phraseology
and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the
most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved
for her.

One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception
of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman
was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favorites was a judgment
from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I
believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly,
a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by
her repentant mother. Poor girl! She wept when she quitted our house; she was
much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning
mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity.
Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety.
The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged
Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused
the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame
Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at
peace for ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning
of this last winter. Justine has just returned to us; and I assure you I love her
tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned
before, her mien and her expression continually remind me of my dear aunt.

I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William.
I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue
eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear
on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little
wives, but Louisa Biron is his favorite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning
the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already
received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman,
John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard,
the rich banker, last autumn. Your favorite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered
several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has
already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a lively
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than
Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favorite with everybody.

I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety returns
upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor,—one line—one word will be a
blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection, and
his many letters; we are sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of your
self; and, I entreat you, write!

Elizabeth Lavenza.

Geneva, March 18, 17—

DEAR, DEAR ELIZABETH!” I exclaimed, when I had read her letter: “I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety
they must feel.” I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly.
In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing this,
I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end
of my labors, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy.
When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous
symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived
that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of
no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing
progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed
my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently
saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one
by one, in my view those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under
his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations
of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn.
I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw
my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never
persuade myself to confide in him that event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail
to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt
encomiums gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n the fellow!” cried he; “why, M. Clerval,
I assure you he has outstripped us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years
ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he
is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.—Ay, ay,” continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering,
“M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M.
Clerval: I was myself when young; but that wears out in a very short time.”

M. Krempe had now commenced a eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying
to me.

Clerval had never sympathized in my tastes for natural science; and his literary pursuits differed wholly from those which
had occupied me. He came to the university with the design of making himself complete master of the oriental languages, and
thus he should open a field for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious career, he
turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit languages
engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now
that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend,
and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the Orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge
of their dialects, for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand
their meaning, and they well repaid my labors. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never
experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm
sun and a garden of roses,—in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. How different
from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed
by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing
spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends. My return had only been
delayed so long, from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of its
inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty
compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry
proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long
inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favorite companion
in the ramble of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength
from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before
secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the better feelings
of my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! how sincerely
you did love me, and endeavor to elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own. A selfish pursuit had cramped and
narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few
years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me
the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine;
the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which
during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavors to throw them off, with an invincible burden.