Frankenstein's Bride (41 page)

Preparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were received, and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as
well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father,
although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. Through my father's exertions a part of the inheritance of
Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It
was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside
the beautiful lake near which it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and
a dagger constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and by these means gained a greater degree of
tranquility. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb
my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed for its solemnization
drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanor contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfill my wishes
and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful
secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed and in the bustle
of preparation only recognized in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my father's, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence
our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind
favorable; all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along; the sun was
hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side
of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant banks of Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful
Mont Blanc and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavor to emulate her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks,
we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost insurmountable
barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth. “You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If you knew what I have suffered and what I may yet endure,
you would endeavor to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this one day at least permits me to enjoy.”

“Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth; “there is, I hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively
joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that
is opened before us, but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along and how the clouds, which
sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting. Look
also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the
bottom. What a divine day! How happy and serene all nature appears!”

Thus Elizabeth endeavored to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was
fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to distraction and reverie.

The sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance and observed its path through the chasms of the higher and the
glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms
its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the range of mountain above mountain
by which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity, sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled
the water and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful
scent of flowers and hay. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore I felt those cares and
fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to me forever.

C H A PT E R 2 3

IT WAS EIGHT O'CLOCK when we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired
to the inn and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their
black outlines.

The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the
heavens and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays,
while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to
rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.

I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I
was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me, but
I resolved that I would sell my life dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or that of my adversary was
extinguished. Elizabeth

observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence, but there was something in my glance which communicated
terror to her, and trembling, she asked, “What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?”

“Oh! Peace, peace, my love,” replied I; “this night, and all will be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.”

I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would
be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to
the situation of my enemy.

She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house and inspecting every corner that might
afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance
had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the
room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of
every muscle and fiber was suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs.
This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the room.

Great God!

Why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She
was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features half covered
by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure—her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal
bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas! Life is obstinate and clings closest where

it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.

When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror, but
the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room
where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture
in which I had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her face and
neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardor, but the deadly languor and coldness
of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous
mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips. While I still hung over her in
the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic
on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation
of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of
the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the
window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and running with the swiftness
of lightning, plunged into the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the
track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions

believing it to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties
going in different directions among the woods and vines.

I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the house, but my head whirled round, my steps were like
those of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with
the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered
round the room as if to seek something that I had lost.

After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women
weeping around; I hung over it and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no distinct idea presented itself to my mind,
but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered, in
a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife;
even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now
might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action.
I started up and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavorable, and the rain fell in torrents.

However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row and took an oar myself,
for I had always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the
excess of agitation that I endured rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw

down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw scenes which
were familiar to me in my happier time and which I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now but
a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the
waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind
as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds might lower, but nothing could appear to me as it had done
the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever been so miserable as I was;
so frightful an event is single in the history of man.

But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have
reached their acme, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched
away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration.

I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent
and venerable old man! His eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight—his Elizabeth, his more
than daughter, whom he doted on with all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having few affections,
clings more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and doomed him
to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; the springs of existence suddenly
gave way; he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms.

What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and

chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me.

Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth, but I awoke
and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation
and was then released from my prison. For they had called me mad, and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell
had been my habitation.

Liberty, however, had been a useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge.
As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause—the monster whom I had created, the miserable
daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction.

I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my
grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head.

Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this
purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town and told him that I had an accusation
to make, that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension
of the murderer.

The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness. “Be assured, sir,” said he, “no pains or exertions on my part shall
be spared to discover the villain.”

“I thank you,” replied I; “listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I
should fear you would not credit it were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story
is too connected to be

mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.” My manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had
formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose quieted my agony and for an interval
reconciled me to life. I now related my history briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy and
never deviating into invective or exclamation.

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw
him sometimes shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance.

When I had concluded my narration I said, “This is the being whom I accuse and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon
you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not
revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion.”

This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind
of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence,
the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, “I would willingly afford you every aid in your
pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow
an animal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some
months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered or what region
he may now inhabit.”

“I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted

like the chamois and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts; you do not credit my narrative and do not
intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is his desert.”

As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated. “You are mistaken,” said he. “I will exert myself, and
if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear,
from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable; and thus, while every proper
measure is pursued, you should make up your mind to disappointment.”

“That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it
to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable when I reflect that the
murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand; I have but one resource, and I devote
myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction.”

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty
fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far
other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavored to
soothe me as a nurse does a child and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.

“Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!

Cease; you know not what it is you say.”

I broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on some other mode of action.