Chapter 18

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.

Day after day, week after week, passed after my return to Geneva, and I could not summon the courage to begin my work again. I feared the disappointed fiend’s revenge, yet I could not overcome my disgust at the task he had imposed on me. I realized that creating a female would require several more months of deep study and painstaking investigation. I had heard that an English philosopher had made some discoveries that were important to my success. Sometimes I thought of asking my father’s permission to visit England for this purpose. But I clung to every excuse for delay and shrank from taking the first step. The need to begin the task immediately had started to seem less urgent to me. A change had indeed come over me. My health, which had been declining, had now greatly improved. My spirits rose accordingly, except when the memory of my unhappy promise weighed on me. My father was pleased to see this change. He began to consider how best to remove the remains of my melancholy. It still returned in spells, now and then, casting a consuming darkness over the approaching sunshine. At such times, I sought complete solitude. I spent whole days alone on the lake in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the rippling waves. I was silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun almost always restored some of my calm. When I returned, I greeted 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,

After I returned from one of these walks, my father took me aside and spoke to 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 am glad to see, my dear son, that you are enjoying your old pleasures and seem to be yourself again. And yet you are still unhappy and still avoid our company. For some time, I could only guess at the reason. But yesterday an idea occurred to me. If I am right, I beg you to tell me. Keeping quiet about it would be useless and would bring three times as much misery upon us all.”

I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued—

I trembled violently at his opening words, 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.”

“I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage to our dear Elizabeth. I hoped it would hold our family together and support me in my old age. You have cared for each other since earliest infancy. You studied together and seemed perfectly suited to each other in temperament and tastes. But human judgment is so blind. What I thought would best help my plan may have completely ruined it. Perhaps you think of her as your sister, with no wish to make her your wife. You may even have met someone else you love. You may feel bound by honor to Elizabeth, and this conflict may be causing the intense misery you seem 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.”

“My dear father, please don't worry. I love my cousin deeply and sincerely. No other woman has inspired the same deep admiration and affection in me as Elizabeth. All my hopes and plans for the future depend on my expectation that we will marry.”

“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.”

“Your thoughts on this subject, my dear Victor, give me more pleasure than I have felt in some time. If you feel this way, we will surely be happy, however much current events may cast a shadow over us. But this gloom seems to have taken such a strong hold on your mind that I want to dispel it. So tell me, would you object to getting married immediately? We have suffered misfortune, and recent events have disrupted the everyday peace suited to my age and poor health. You are younger and have a comfortable fortune. So I do not think an early marriage would interfere with any honorable and useful plans you may have for the future. But please do not think I want to dictate what will make you happy. Nor would a delay on your part cause me any serious worry. Take my words in good faith and, I beg you, answer me openly and sincerely.”

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 listened to my father in silence and could not reply for some time. Many thoughts raced through my mind as I tried to reach a decision. Alas! The thought of marrying my Elizabeth immediately filled me with horror and dismay. I had made a solemn promise that I had not yet fulfilled, and I dared not break it. If I did, what terrible miseries might await me and my devoted family! Could I celebrate while this deadly weight still hung around my neck and bowed me to the ground? I had to keep my promise and let the monster leave with his mate. Only then could I enjoy marrying Elizabeth, a union from which I hoped to find 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.

I also remembered that I had to travel to England or exchange many letters with its philosophers. Their knowledge and discoveries were essential to my present undertaking. Writing to them would be slow and unsatisfactory. Besides, I could not bear the thought of doing my hateful work in my father’s house while living closely among those I loved. I knew that a thousand terrible accidents might happen. Even the slightest would reveal a story that would horrify everyone close to me. I also knew I would often lose all self-control. I would be unable to hide the torment I felt while carrying out my unearthly work. I had to stay away from everyone I loved while I was doing it. Once begun, the work would soon be finished, and I could return to my family in peace and happiness. Once I had kept my promise, the monster would leave forever. Or so I fondly imagined, some accident might happen in the meantime that would destroy him and end my slavery forever.

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.

These feelings shaped my answer to my father. I told him I wanted to visit England, but concealed my true reasons. I presented my wish in a way that aroused no suspicion. At the same time, I pressed my request so earnestly that my father readily agreed. For so long, I had been consumed by a melancholy that resembled madness in its intensity and effects. So he was glad to see that I could take pleasure in the idea of such a journey. He hoped that a change of scene and varied amusements would restore me completely to myself before I returned.

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?

I could choose how long to be away. The plan was for a few months, or a year at most. My father had kindly taken one precaution to ensure I had a companion. Without telling me beforehand, he and Elizabeth had arranged for Clerval to join me at Strasburgh. This interfered with the solitude I wanted for carrying out my task. But my friend’s presence could not hinder me at the start of my journey. Indeed, I was glad to be spared many hours of lonely, maddening reflection. Henry might even protect me from my enemy’s intrusion. If I were alone, wouldn’t my enemy sometimes force his hateful presence on me? Wouldn’t he come to remind me of my task or watch 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.

So I was bound for England, and it was understood that Elizabeth and I would marry immediately after my return. My father was old and strongly opposed any delay. For myself, I looked forward to one reward for my hated work, one comfort for my unmatched suffering. I hoped that one day, freed from my miserable slavery, I could claim Elizabeth and forget the past in our marriage.

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.

I now made plans for my journey, but one thought haunted me and filled me with fear and anxiety. While I was away, my friends would not know their enemy existed. They would be defenseless against his attacks, and my departure might make him even angrier. But he had promised to follow me wherever I went. Would he not come with me to England? The thought was dreadful in itself, but it also comforted me because it meant my friends would be safe. I was agonized by the possibility that the opposite might happen. But throughout the time I was my creature's slave, I let myself be ruled by the impulses of the moment. And I now felt strongly that the fiend would follow me and spare my family from the danger of his schemes.

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.

It was late September when I left my native country again. The journey had been my own idea, so Elizabeth agreed to it. But she was deeply troubled by the thought of my suffering misery and grief away from her. She had made sure that Clerval would accompany me. Yet a man is blind to a thousand small details that a woman carefully attends to. She longed to urge me to return quickly. But a thousand conflicting emotions left her speechless as she said 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.

I threw myself into the carriage that would take me away. I hardly knew where I was going and cared nothing about what was happening around me. I remembered only to order that my chemical instruments be packed to go with me. The thought of them filled me with bitter anguish. Lost in gloomy thoughts, I passed through many beautiful and majestic landscapes, but my eyes stared without seeing them. I could think only of my destination and the work that would occupy me throughout my journey.

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.

After several days of listless inactivity, during which I traveled many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh. There I waited two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how different we were! He was excited by every new sight. He rejoiced at the beauty of the sunset and was even happier to see the sun rise and begin a new day. He pointed out the changing colors of the landscape and the changing sky. “This is what it means to live,” he cried. “Now I enjoy being alive! But you, my dear Frankenstein, why are you so downcast and sad?” In truth, I was lost in gloomy thoughts. I saw neither the evening star sink nor the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine. And you, my friend, would find Clerval’s journal far more enjoyable than my reflections. He saw the scenery with feeling and delight. I was a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that closed off every path 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 had agreed to travel down the Rhine by boat from Strasburgh to Rotterdam, where we could take a ship to London. During the journey, we passed many islands covered with willows and saw several beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Mannheim and arrived at Mainz five days after leaving Strasburgh. Below Mainz, the Rhine becomes much more picturesque. The river flows swiftly and winds between hills. They are not high, but they are steep and beautifully shaped. We saw many ruined castles on the edges of cliffs, surrounded by dark woods. The castles stood high above us and were impossible to reach. This part of the Rhine has a remarkably varied landscape. In one place, you see rugged hills and ruined castles overlooking enormous cliffs, with the dark Rhine rushing below. Then, suddenly, you round a headland and see flourishing vineyards, green sloping banks, a winding river, and towns full of people.

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.”

We traveled during the grape harvest and heard the workers singing as we glided down the river. Even I was pleased, though I was depressed and constantly troubled by gloomy feelings. I lay at the bottom of the boat and gazed at the cloudless blue sky. I seemed to drink in a peace I had not known for a long time. And if that was how I felt, who can describe Henry’s feelings? He felt as if he had been transported to Fairy-land. He enjoyed a happiness few people ever experience. “I have seen the most beautiful sights in my own country,” he said. “I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri. There, snowy mountains drop almost straight down to the water, casting deep, impenetrable shadows. The scene would look gloomy and mournful if the bright, green islands did not relieve the view. I have seen this lake during a storm, when the wind whipped the water into whirlwinds. It gave me an idea of what a waterspout must be like on the great ocean. The waves crash furiously against the base of the mountain. There, a priest and his mistress were buried by an avalanche. People say their dying voices can still be heard when the night wind falls silent. 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 the banks of this divine river have a charm I have never seen matched. “Look at that castle hanging over the cliff. And look at the one on the island, almost hidden among the leaves of those lovely trees. Now look at that group of workers coming out from among their vines. And there is that village, half hidden in a hollow in the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that lives in and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with humanity. It must be more in harmony with us than the spirits who pile up the glaciers or retreat to the unreachable mountain peaks 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:—

Clerval! Beloved friend! Even now, it delights me to record your words and praise you as you so richly deserve. He was a being formed in the “very poetry of nature.” His sensitive heart tempered his wild and enthusiastic imagination. His soul overflowed with passionate affection. His friendship was so devoted and wondrous that worldly people teach us to expect it only in our imagination. But even human connections could not satisfy his eager mind. Others merely admired the beauty of nature, but he loved it passionately:

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.

And where is he now? Is this gentle and lovely being lost forever? Has his mind perished? It was full of ideas and splendid, fanciful imaginings. It created a world that depended on its creator’s life. Does his mind now exist only in my memory? No, that cannot be. Your beautiful form, so divinely made and radiant, has decayed. But your spirit still visits and comforts 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.

Forgive this outpouring of grief. These inadequate words are only a small tribute to Henry's unmatched worth. But they soothe my heart, which overflows with anguish whenever I remember him. I will continue my story.

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.

Beyond Cologne, we came down to the plains of Holland. We decided to travel the rest of the way by carriage. The wind was against us, and the river’s current was too gentle to help 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.

The journey was no longer as interesting without the beautiful scenery, but we reached Rotterdam in a few days. From there, we sailed to England. I first saw the white cliffs of Britain on a clear morning in late December. The banks of the Thames offered a new sight. They were flat but fertile, and almost every town reminded me of a story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish Armada. We also saw Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich, places I had heard of even in my own country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history.

At last, we saw London’s many steeples. St. Paul’s towered above them all, and we saw the Tower, famous in English history.