Chapter 22

The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I could continue my journey. My father’s care and attentions were indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world, did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me!

The voyage ended. We landed and went on to Paris. I soon realized that I had exhausted myself and needed to rest before continuing my journey. My father never tired of caring for me. But he did not know the cause of my suffering, and he tried the wrong ways to cure an incurable illness. He wanted me to seek pleasure in the company of others. I hated the sight of other people. Oh, no, I did not hate them! They were my brothers and sisters, my fellow beings. I felt drawn even to the most repulsive among them, as if they were angelic creatures, heavenly in their very design. But I felt I had no right to join their company. I had set an enemy loose among them who delighted in spilling their blood and reveling in their cries. If they knew my unholy acts and the crimes I had brought about, every one of them would hate me and hunt me from the world!

My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.

At last, my father gave in to my wish to avoid other people. He tried in various ways to reason me out of my despair. Sometimes he thought I was deeply ashamed of having to answer a murder charge. He tried to show me that pride was pointless.

“Alas! My father,” said I, “how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this—I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry—they all died by my hands.”

“Oh, Father,” I said, “how little you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would be degraded if a wretch like me felt pride. Poor, unhappy Justine was as innocent as I was, and she faced the same charge. She died for it, and I am the cause of her death. I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry all died by my hands.”

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be supposed mad, and this in itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved the burden of my mysterious woe.

During my imprisonment, my father had often heard me make the same claim. When I accused myself like this, he sometimes seemed to want an explanation. At other times, he seemed to think my accusation was the result of delirium. He thought that some such idea had come to me during my illness and that I still remembered it as I recovered. I avoided explaining and never spoke of the wretch I had created. I was convinced that people would think me mad, and that alone would have kept me silent forever. But I also could not bring myself to reveal a secret that would horrify anyone who heard it and fill their heart with fear and unnatural horror. So I held back my desperate longing for sympathy and stayed silent, though I would have given the world to share that fatal secret. Yet words like those I have recorded still burst out of me uncontrollably. I could not explain them, but their truth partly relieved the burden of my mysterious sorrow.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, “My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again.”

At this, my father looked utterly astonished and said, “My dearest Victor, what foolishness is this? My dear son, please never say such a thing again.”

“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race.”

“I am not mad!” I cried fiercely. “The sun and the heavens have seen what I have done and can testify that I am telling the truth. I am the murderer of those innocent victims. They died because of my actions. A thousand times, I would have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to save their lives. But I could not, Father, I truly could not sacrifice the whole human race.”

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland and never alluded to them or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes.

The end of my speech convinced my father that my thoughts were disturbed. He immediately changed the subject and tried to turn my thoughts elsewhere. He wanted to erase the memory of what had happened in Ireland as much as possible. He never mentioned those events or allowed me to speak of my misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice.

As time passed, I grew calmer. Misery still lived in my heart, but I no longer spoke so incoherently about my crimes. Knowing what I had done was enough. With the greatest effort, I held back the powerful voice of my misery, which sometimes wanted to tell the whole world. I behaved more calmly and composedly than I had since my journey to the sea of ice.

A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:

A few days before we left Paris for Switzerland, I received this letter from Elizabeth:

“It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity.

“I was delighted to receive a letter from my uncle, sent from Paris. You are no longer so far away, and I hope to see you in less than two weeks. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect you to look even more ill than when you left Geneva. This winter has been miserable, as I have been tortured by anxious waiting. Yet I hope to see peace in your face and find that your heart is not entirely without comfort and calm.

“Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet.

“Yet I fear you still have the same feelings that made you so miserable a year ago. Perhaps those feelings have grown stronger with time. I would not want to trouble you now, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you. But a conversation I had with my uncle before he left makes some explanation necessary before we meet.

Explanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet be pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to begin.

An explanation! You may ask, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really ask this, my questions are answered and all my doubts are gone. But you are far away, and you may both dread and welcome this explanation. Since that is possible, I dare not put off writing any longer. While you have been away, I have often wanted to tell you what follows. But I have never had the courage to begin.

“You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual happiness, with simple truth—Do you not love another?

“You know well, Victor, that our parents have hoped we would marry ever since we were infants. They told us this when we were young and taught us to expect it to happen. We were affectionate playmates as children. As we grew older, I believe we became dear and valued friends. But brothers and sisters often love each other deeply without wanting a more intimate relationship. Could the same be true of us? Tell me, dearest Victor. For the sake of our mutual happiness, I beg you to answer me honestly: Do you love someone else?

“You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word honour, all hope of that love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.

“You have traveled and spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt. My friend, I confess that when I saw you so unhappy last autumn, I could not help wondering something. You were seeking solitude and avoiding everyone. I wondered whether you regretted our relationship and felt bound by honor to fulfill your parents’ wishes, even though those wishes went against your own desires. But that reasoning is false. I confess, my friend, that I love you. In my happy dreams of the future, you have always been my friend and companion. But I want your happiness as well as my own. So I must tell you that our marriage would make me miserable forever unless you freely chose it. Even now I weep at the thought of what you may be doing. Burdened by the cruelest misfortunes, you may use the word honour to stifle all hope of love and happiness. Only love and happiness could restore you to yourself. My affection for you is entirely unselfish, yet I may stand in the way of your wishes. If so, I may make your misery ten times worse. Ah, Victor, you can be sure that your cousin and childhood playmate loves you too sincerely not to be miserable at the thought. Be happy, my friend. If you grant me this one request, rest assured that nothing on earth will be able to disturb my peace.

“Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness.

“Do not let this letter upset you. Do not reply tomorrow, or the next day, or even before you come, if replying would cause you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health. If I see just one smile on your lips when we meet, because of this or any other effort of mine, I will need no other happiness.

“Elizabeth Lavenza.

“Elizabeth Lavenza.

This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of the fiend—“I will be with you on your wedding-night!” Such was my sentence, and on that night would the dæmon employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.

This letter reminded me of something I had forgotten, the fiend’s threat: “I will be with you on your wedding-night!” That was my sentence. On that night, the demon would use every means to destroy me. He would tear me away from the glimpse of happiness that promised to ease some of my suffering. He had decided to complete his crimes by killing me that night. Well, so be it. A deadly struggle would surely follow. If he won, I would be at peace, and his power over me would end. If he lost, I would be a free man. But what kind of freedom? The kind a peasant enjoys after his family has been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burned, and his land destroyed. He is left homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. That would be my freedom, except that I still had a treasure in my Elizabeth. Alas, against that treasure were the horrors of remorse and guilt that would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed to be with me on my wedding-night, yet he did not consider that threat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my father’s happiness, my adversary’s designs against my life should not retard it a single hour.

Sweet, beloved Elizabeth! I read her letter again and again. Tender feelings crept into my heart, daring to whisper dreams of love and joy in paradise. But the apple had already been eaten, and the angel had raised his arm to drive me from all hope. Still, I would die to make her happy. If the monster carried out his threat, death was certain. Yet I wondered whether marrying would bring my fate sooner. My destruction might indeed come a few months earlier. But if my tormentor suspected I had postponed the wedding because of his threats, he would surely seek other revenge. His revenge might be even more dreadful. He had vowed to be with me on my wedding-night. Yet he did not consider that threat a promise to keep the peace until then. He had murdered Clerval immediately after making his threats, as if to show me his thirst for blood was not yet satisfied. So I made a decision. If marrying my cousin at once would make her or my father happy, my enemy’s plans to kill me would not delay the wedding by a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and affectionate. “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “little happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place, for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply.”

In this state of mind, I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and affectionate. “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “that little happiness remains for us on earth. Yet any happiness I may one day enjoy is centered in you. Put aside your groundless fears. I devote my life and my efforts to find contentment to you alone. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one. When I reveal it to you, you will tremble with horror. Then, far from being surprised by my misery, you will only wonder how I survived what I have endured. I will tell you this tale of misery and terror the day after our marriage. For, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect trust between us. But until then, I beg you not to mention it or hint at it. I ask this most earnestly, and I know you will do as I ask.”

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was.

About a week after Elizabeth’s letter arrived, we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me warmly. But tears filled her eyes when she saw how thin I was and how feverish my cheeks looked. I saw a change in her too. She was thinner and had lost much of the heavenly liveliness that had once charmed me. But her gentleness and compassionate looks made her a more fitting companion for someone as ruined and miserable as I was.

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.

The peace I now enjoyed did not last. Memories brought madness with them. When I thought about what had happened, I truly went insane. Sometimes I was furious and burned with rage. At other times, I was low and despairing. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone. I sat motionless, bewildered by the many miseries that overwhelmed me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

Only Elizabeth could draw me out of these states. Her gentle voice calmed me when I was overcome by emotion. When I was numb, she stirred human feelings in me. She wept with me and for me. When I could think clearly again, she would reason with me and try to help me accept my suffering. Ah, it is good for the unfortunate to accept their suffering, but the guilty can find no peace. The agony of remorse poisons the comfort one can sometimes find in giving in to overwhelming grief.

Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent.

Soon after I arrived, my father spoke about my marrying Elizabeth right away. I said nothing.

“Have you, then, some other attachment?”

“Then, are you in love with someone else?”

“None on earth. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin.”

“None at all. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our marriage with delight. So let us set the day. On that day, I will devote myself, in life or death, to my cousin’s happiness.”

“My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us, but let us only cling closer to what remains and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live. Our circle will be small but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived.”

“My dear Victor, do not speak that way. We have suffered terrible losses, but let us hold closer to what remains. Let us give the love we felt for those we have lost to those who are still alive. Our circle will be small, but affection and shared sorrow will bind us closely together. And when time has softened your despair, new loved ones will be born for us to care for. They will take the place of those we have been so cruelly deprived of.”

Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words “I shall be with you on your wedding-night,” I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.

These were my father’s lessons. But the memory of the threat came back to me. The fiend had seemed all-powerful in his bloody deeds, so you can hardly wonder that I almost thought him invincible. When he said, “I shall be with you on your wedding-night,” I thought the fate he threatened was unavoidable. But death was no evil to me when weighed against the loss of Elizabeth. So, looking contented and even cheerful, I agreed with my father that the ceremony should take place in ten days, if my cousin consented. In this way, I imagined, I would seal my fate.

Great God! If for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself for ever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim.

Great God! If I had thought for a moment what my devilish enemy might be planning, I would never have agreed to this miserable marriage. I would rather have left my homeland forever and wandered the earth as a friendless outcast. But the monster had blinded me to his real intentions, as if he had magical powers. I thought I had prepared only for my own death, but I had hastened the death of someone far dearer to me.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.

As our wedding day drew nearer, my heart sank. I did not know whether this came from cowardice or a sense of foreboding. But I hid my feelings behind a cheerful manner that brought smiles and joy to my father's face. Elizabeth, however, was always more watchful and perceptive, and I hardly deceived her. She looked forward to our marriage with calm contentment, though she also felt a little fear. Past misfortunes had made her fear that their happiness, now so certain and real, might soon vanish like a dream. It might leave nothing behind but deep and lasting regret.

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.

Preparations were made for the event, visitors came to offer congratulations, and everything looked cheerful. I hid the anxiety that consumed me as best I could. I seemed eager to join in my father’s plans, although they might only decorate my tragedy. Thanks to my father’s efforts, the Austrian government had restored part of Elizabeth’s inheritance to her. She owned a small property on the shores of Como. We agreed to go to Villa Lavenza immediately after our marriage. We would spend our first happy days beside the beautiful lake near the villa.

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 tranquillity. 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 solemnisation drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.

In the meantime, I took every precaution to defend myself in case the fiend attacked me openly. I always carried pistols and a dagger, and I stayed alert for any trickery. These precautions gave me greater peace of mind. Indeed, as the time approached, the threat seemed more like a delusion, unworthy of disturbing my peace. Meanwhile, the happiness I hoped for in my marriage seemed more certain as the wedding day drew nearer. Everyone kept speaking of the wedding as an event that no accident could possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil 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 recognised in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.

Elizabeth seemed happy. My calm manner did much to put her mind at ease. But on the day that was to fulfill my wishes and my destiny, she was sad and filled with a sense of coming evil. Perhaps she was also thinking of the dreadful secret I had promised to reveal to her the next day. Meanwhile, my father was overjoyed. In the bustle of preparation, he saw his niece’s sadness as nothing more than a bride’s shyness.

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 favourable; all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.

After the ceremony, a large party gathered at my father’s house. But we had agreed that Elizabeth and I would begin our journey by water. We would spend the night at Evian and continue our voyage the next day. The weather was fine, and the wind was favorable. Everything smiled on the start of our wedding journey.

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 Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalègre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour 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.

Those were the last moments of my life when I felt happy. We traveled quickly along the lake. The sun was hot, but a kind of canopy sheltered us from its rays as we enjoyed the beautiful scenery. At times, we saw Mont Salêve and the pleasant shores of Montalègre on one side of the lake. In the distance, the beautiful Mont Blanc rose above them all. Around it stood snowy mountains that tried in vain to rival it. At other times, we traveled along the opposite shore and saw the mighty Jura. Its dark side stood against the ambition of anyone who would leave their native country. It was also an almost impassable barrier to any invader who wished to enslave that country.

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 endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this one day at least permits me to enjoy.”

I took Elizabeth’s hand. “You are sad, my love. Ah! If you knew what I have suffered and what I may still endure, you would try to let me enjoy the peace and freedom from despair that this one day at least offers me.”

“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!”

“Be happy, my dear Victor,” Elizabeth replied. “I hope there is nothing to upset you. Even if my face does not show great joy, please know that my heart is content. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the future before us, but I will not listen to such a gloomy voice. Look how quickly we are moving along. The clouds sometimes hide the dome of Mont Blanc and sometimes rise above it, making this beautiful scene even more interesting. Look also at the countless fish swimming in the clear water. We can see every pebble on the bottom. What a wonderful day! How happy and peaceful all nature seems!”

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured 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.

In this way, Elizabeth tried to turn both our thoughts away from sad subjects. But her mood kept changing. For a few moments, joy shone in her eyes, but it always gave way to distraction and daydreaming.

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 sun sank lower in the sky. We passed the river Drance and watched its course through the high hills’ chasms and the lower hills’ valleys. Here, the Alps come closer to the lake. We approached the ring of mountains that forms the lake’s eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone beneath the surrounding woods and the layers of mountains towering above it.

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 for ever.

Until sunset, the wind had carried us along with amazing speed. Then it died down to a light breeze. As we approached the shore, the soft air gently rippled the water and stirred the trees. It carried the delightful scent of flowers and hay from the shore. The sun sank below the horizon as we landed. As I stepped onto the shore, I felt my cares and fears return. Soon they would grip me and cling to me forever.