Frankenstein's Bride (37 page)

—
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.

C H A PT E R 1 9

LONDON WAS OUR PRESENT point of rest; we determined to remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval
desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time, but this was with me a secondary object;
I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise and quickly
availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But
a blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information they might give me on
the subject in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with
the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But
busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and
my fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with
those names filled my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference
of manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object
he had long had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various languages,
and in the views he had taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of European colonization and
trade. In Britain only could he further the execution of his plan. He was forever busy, and the only check to his enjoyments
was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures
natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to
accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials necessary
for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every thought
that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and
my heart to palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva.
He mentioned the beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong
our journey as far north as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I, although I
abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen
dwelling-places.

We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now February. We accordingly determined to commence our
journey towards the north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow the great road
to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this
tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my
labors in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new
scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer were all novelties to us.

From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events that
had been transacted there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I had collected his forces. This
city had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of Parliament and liberty.
The memory of that unfortunate king and his companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave
a peculiar interest to every part of the city which they might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found
a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the
appearance of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient and picturesque;
the streets are almost magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure, is spread
forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed
among aged trees.

I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory of the past and the anticipation of the future.
I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome
by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man
could always interest my heart and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my
soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity,
pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs and endeavoring to identify every spot which might
relate to the most animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the successive
objects that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden and the field on which that patriot fell.
For a moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and self
sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments and the remembrances. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains and
look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless,
into my miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The country in the neighborhood of
this village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but everything is on a lower scale, and the green
hills want the crown of distant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the
wondrous cave and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same manner as in the
collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit Matlock,
with which that terrible scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in Cumberland and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself
among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes,
and the dashing of the rocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost
contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval was proportion-ably greater than mine; his mind expanded in the
company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself
to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. “I could pass my life here,” said he to me; “and among these mountains
I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine.”

But he found that a traveler's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the
stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something
new, which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants
when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was
not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the daemon's disappointment. He might
remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment from
which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience; if they were delayed
I was miserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father,
I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend followed me and might expedite my remissness
by murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed him as his
shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness
of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval
did not like it so well as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity
of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's
Well, and the Pentland Hills compensated him for the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient
to arrive at the termination of my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend
expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humor
expected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. “Do you,” said I,
“enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat
you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial
to your own temper.”

Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. “I had
rather be with you,” he said, “in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know; hasten, then,
my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence.”

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not
doubt but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive
his companion. With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as
the scene of my labors. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were continually
beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants,
which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread,
when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles
distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained
but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were
unplas-tered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession, an
incident which would doubtless have occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want
and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which
I gave, so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.

In this retreat I devoted the morning to labor; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach
of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought
of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its
cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when troubled by the winds,
their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.

In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but as I proceeded in my labor, it became every day more
horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other
times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During
my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently fixed
on the consummation of my labor, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood,
and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call
my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment
I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter
the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when alone he
should come to claim his companion.