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!
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.
"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."
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.
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."
"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."
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.
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 selfviolence,
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.
A few days before we left Paris
on our way to Switzerland, I
received the following letter
from Elizabeth:--
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--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.
"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.
"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.
"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 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.
"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.
"ELIZABETH
LAVENZA."
"GENEVA, _May
18th, 17--._"
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 daemon 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.
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth!
I read and re-read 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.
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 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.
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 any one, but sat motionless,
bewildered by the multitude of
miseries that overcame 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.
Soon after my arrival, my father
spoke of my immediate marriage
with Elizabeth. I remained silent.
"Have you,
then, some other attachment?"
"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."
"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."
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.
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.
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 everwatchful 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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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."
"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 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.
The sun sunk 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, sunk 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 sunk 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. |