Chapter 9

Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe.

Nothing is more painful to the human mind than the dead calm of inaction and certainty after a rapid succession of events has stirred the emotions. It leaves the soul with neither hope nor fear. Justine had died and was at rest, while I was still alive. Blood flowed freely through my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart. Nothing could lift it. I could not sleep. I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed acts of harm too horrible to describe. I convinced myself that much, much more was still to come. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and a love of virtue. I had begun life with good intentions. I longed for the moment when I could put them into practice and make myself useful to others. Now everything was ruined. I had once been able to look back on the past with a clear conscience and satisfaction, and find grounds for new hopes. Instead, remorse and guilt seized me and swept me into a hell of intense torture that no words can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude.

This state of mind damaged my health, which perhaps had never fully recovered from the first shock. I avoided other people. Every sound of joy or contentment was torture to me. Solitude was my only comfort. It was deep, dark, and deathlike.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. “Do you think, Victor,” said he, “that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother”—tears came into his eyes as he spoke—“but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society.”

My father was pained to see the change in my mood and habits. Drawing on his peaceful conscience and blameless life, he tried to reason with me. He hoped to give me strength and the courage to dispel the dark cloud hanging over me. “Do you think, Victor,” he said, “that I do not suffer too? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother.” Tears came into his eyes as he spoke. “But don’t we owe it to those who survive not to add to their unhappiness by showing excessive grief? You also owe it to yourself to hold back your grief. Excessive sorrow prevents you from improving yourself, enjoying life, or even being useful in daily life. Without being useful, no one is fit for society.”

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.

Although my father’s advice was good, it did not apply to my situation at all. I would have been the first to hide my grief and comfort my friends. But remorse had added bitterness to my feelings, and terror had filled me with alarm. Now I could only look at my father in despair and try to hide from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten o’clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly—if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shore—often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother; should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?

Around this time, we moved to our house at Belrive. I was especially glad of the change. In Geneva, the gates closed regularly at ten o’clock, and I could not stay on the lake after that hour. This made living within the city walls very frustrating for me. Now I was free. Often, after the rest of the family had gone to bed, I took the boat out and spent hours on the water. Sometimes I set the sails and let the wind carry me. At other times, I rowed to the middle of the lake and let the boat drift. Then I gave myself over to my miserable thoughts. Often, everything around me was peaceful. I was the only restless creature wandering through that beautiful, heavenly scene. The only exceptions were an occasional bat and the frogs, whose harsh, broken croaking I heard only near the shore. In those moments, I was often tempted to plunge into the silent lake. I wanted the waters to close over me and my sorrows forever. But I held back when I thought of the brave and suffering Elizabeth. I loved her dearly, and her life was bound up with mine. I also thought of my father and my surviving brother. Could I abandon them so shamefully and leave them exposed and unprotected against the malice of the fiend I had set loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not over and that he would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear so long as anything I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.

At these moments I wept bitterly. I wished for peace of mind to return, if only so I could comfort them and make them happy. But that was impossible. Remorse destroyed every hope. I had caused evils that could never be undone. I lived in daily fear that the monster I had created would commit some new crime. I had a vague feeling that it was not over. He would commit some terrible crime, so monstrous that it would almost wipe away memories of the past. As long as anyone I loved remained alive, there was always reason to fear. No one can imagine how much I hated this fiend. When I thought of him, I ground my teeth, my eyes grew inflamed, and I desperately wished to end the life I had so thoughtlessly given him. When I thought of his crimes and malice, my hatred and desire for revenge knew no bounds. I would have traveled to the highest peak of the Andes, if I could have thrown him from it. I wished to see him again so I could unleash all my hatred on him and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father’s health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.

Our home was a house of mourning. The horror of recent events had badly shaken my father’s health. Elizabeth was sad and despondent. She no longer enjoyed her usual activities. Every pleasure seemed to her an offense against the dead. She believed endless sorrow and tears were the proper tribute to such innocence, so cruelly destroyed. She was no longer the happy girl who had once wandered with me along the lake. In those younger days, she had spoken joyfully of our future together. The first of the sorrows that draw us away from earthly life had come to her. Its shadow had extinguished her loveliest smiles.

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch.”

“When I think, my dear cousin,” she said, “of Justine Moritz’s miserable death, I no longer see the world and its workings as I once did. Before, I read and heard accounts of wickedness and injustice. I thought they were tales of ancient times or imaginary evils. At least, they seemed remote, things I understood rather than imagined. But now misery has come home, and people seem like monsters thirsting for one another’s blood. “Yet I am certainly being unfair. Everyone believed that poor girl was guilty. If she could have committed the crime for which she suffered, she surely would have been utterly depraved. For a few jewels, she would have murdered her benefactor and friend’s son. She had cared for that child since his birth and seemed to love him as her own! I could not agree to anyone’s death. But I would certainly have thought such a person unfit to remain among other people. “But she was innocent. I know it, I feel it. You believe she was innocent too, and that confirms my belief. Alas, Victor, when lies can look so much like the truth, who can be sure of lasting happiness? I feel as if I were walking along the edge of a cliff. Thousands are crowding toward it, trying to push me into the abyss. William and Justine were murdered, and the murderer has escaped. He walks freely through the world, and perhaps people respect him. But even if I were sentenced to hang for the same crimes, I would not trade places with such a wretch.”

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, “My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing—what can disturb our peace?”

I listened to this conversation in the deepest agony. I had not committed the murder, but I was, in effect, the true murderer. Elizabeth saw my anguish in my face and kindly took my hand. She said, “My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. God knows how deeply these events have affected me. But I am not as miserable as you are. There is despair in your face, and sometimes a desire for revenge, that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, put these dark passions aside. Remember the friends around you, who place all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power to make you happy? Ah! As long as we love and remain true to each other, we may enjoy every peaceful blessing. We are here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country. What can disturb our peace?”

And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.

Could her words not drive away the fiend lurking in my heart? I loved her more than any other gift of fortune. Even as she spoke, I drew close to her, as if terrified that the destroyer was near and might steal her from me at that very moment.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.

Neither the tenderness of friendship nor the beauty of earth or heaven could free my soul from sorrow. Even words of love had no effect. A cloud surrounded me, and nothing that might help me could penetrate it. I was like a wounded deer dragging its weakening limbs into an untouched thicket. There it would gaze at the arrow that had pierced it, and die.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable sensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: I was a wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.

Sometimes I could cope with the gloomy despair that overwhelmed me. But at other times, the storm of emotions within me drove me to seek relief from my unbearable feelings. I sought it through physical activity and a change of place. During one such spell, I suddenly left home and headed toward the nearby Alpine valleys. In the grandeur and timelessness of those scenes, I hoped to forget myself and my sorrows, which were fleeting because they were human. I made my way toward the valley of Chamounix. I had often visited it as a boy. Six years had passed since then. I was a wreck, but nothing had changed in those wild and enduring scenes.

I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine; it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence—and I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.

I traveled the first part of my journey on horseback. Afterward, I hired a mule because it was more surefooted and less likely to be injured on the rugged roads. The weather was fine. It was about the middle of August, nearly two months after Justine's death. I marked that miserable time as the beginning of all my suffering. My spirits lifted noticeably as I went deeper into the ravine of Arve. Huge mountains and cliffs towered over me on every side. The river roared among the rocks, and waterfalls crashed around me. They spoke of a power as mighty as Omnipotence. I no longer feared or bowed before any being less almighty than the one that had created and ruled the elements. Here, the elements appeared in their most terrifying form. As I climbed higher, the valley became even more magnificent and astonishing. Ruined castles clung to the cliffs of pine-covered mountains. The rushing Arve and cottages peeking out among the trees added to the uniquely beautiful scene. But the mighty Alps made it even more beautiful and sublime. Their white, shining peaks and domes towered above everything else. They seemed to belong to another earth, a home for another race of beings.

I passed the bridge of Pélissier, where the ravine, which the river forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dôme overlooked the valley.

I crossed the bridge of Pélissier, and the ravine formed by the river opened before me. I began to climb the mountain above the ravine. Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more awe-inspiring and majestic than the valley of Servox, which I had just passed through. But it is not as beautiful or picturesque. High, snowy mountains bordered the valley, but I no longer saw ruined castles and fertile fields. Huge glaciers came close to the road. I heard the rumbling thunder of a falling avalanche and saw the cloud it left behind. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, rose above the surrounding aiguilles, and its enormous dôme towered over the valley.

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence ceased to act—I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all, myself—or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

During this journey, I often felt a tingling sense of pleasure I had long forgotten. A turn in the road or a familiar sight would remind me of days gone by. These things brought back the carefree joy of boyhood. Even the winds whispered soothingly, and Mother Nature told me to weep no more. But then that gentle influence would fade. I found myself bound to grief again, giving in to all the misery of my thoughts. Then I urged my horse onward, trying to forget the world, my fears, and most of all, myself. Or, in greater desperation, I got down and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.

At last I reached the village of Chamounix. I was exhausted after the extreme strain on my body and mind. For a short time, I stood at the window, watching pale lightning flash above Mont Blanc. I listened to the Arve as it rushed noisily below. Those soothing sounds were like a lullaby to my overstrained senses. When I laid my head on my pillow, sleep crept over me. I felt it coming and blessed the giver of forgetfulness.