prompt:
Chapter: I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was
just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment,
and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should
leave my labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an
unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to
me, which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three
years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend
whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart, and filled it for
ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being,
of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten
thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own
sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood
of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in
all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might
refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might
even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own
deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorence for it when it
came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with
disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and
he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being
deserted by one of his own species.

Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new
world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the
daemon thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be
propagated upon the earth, who might make the very existence of the
species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I a right,
for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations?
I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I
had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats: but now, for the
first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to
think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose selfishness
had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price perhaps of the
existence of the whole human race.

I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on looking up, I saw,
by the light of the moon, the daemon at the casement. A ghastly grin
wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task
which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he
had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide
and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the
fulfilment of my promise.

As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of
malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my
promise of creating another like to him, and, trembling with passion,
tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The wretch saw me
destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for
happiness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.

I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own
heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I
sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the
gloom, and relieve me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible
reveries.

Several hours past, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it
was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed
under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the
water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as
the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was
hardly conscious of its extreme profundity until my ear was suddenly
arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person landed
close to my house.

In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one
endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a
presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who
dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the
sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you
in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the
spot.

Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door
opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he
approached me, and said, in a smothered voice--

"You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you
intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and
misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the
Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its hills. I
have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts
of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger;
do you dare destroy my hopes?"

"Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like
yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness."

"Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself
unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe
yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day
will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your
master;--obey!"

"The hour of my weakness is past, and the period of your power is
arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but
they confirm me in a resolution of not creating you a companion in vice.
Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight
is in death and wretchedness. Begone! I am firm, and your words will
only exasperate my rage."

The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in
the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his
bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of
affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man, you may
hate; but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the
bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are
you to be happy, while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You
can blast my other passions; but revenge remains--revenge, henceforth
dearer than light or food! I may die; but first you, my tyrant and
tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; for I
am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a
snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the
injuries you inflict."

"Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I
have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath
words. Leave me; I am inexorable."

"It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night."

I started forward, and exclaimed, "Villain! before you sign my
death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe."

I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted the house with
precipitation: in a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across
the waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves.

All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage
to pursue the murderer of my peace, and precipitate him into the ocean.
I walked up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination
conjured up a thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not
followed him, and closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered
him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the main land. I
shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his
insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words--"_I will be
with you on your wedding-night._" That then was the period fixed for the
fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and at once satisfy
and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet
when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth,--of her tears and endless
sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from
her,--tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my
eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter
struggle.

The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings
became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage
sinks into the depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of
the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I
almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my
fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole
across me. I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock,
wearily it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If
I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most loved
die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created.

I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it
loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun
rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep
sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were
agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into
which I now sunk refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I
belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect
upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the
fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they appeared like a dream,
yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.

The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my
appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a
fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet;
it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to
join him. He said that nearly a year had elapsed since we had quitted
Switzerland, and France was yet unvisited. He entreated me, therefore,
to leave my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth, in a week from that
time, when we might arrange the plan of our future proceedings. This
letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my
island at the expiration of two days.

Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I
shuddered to reflect: I must pack my chemical instruments; and for that
purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious
work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of which was sickening
to me. The next morning, at day-break, I summoned sufficient courage,
and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished
creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost
felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to
collect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I
conveyed the instruments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought
not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of
the peasants, and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great
quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined to throw them into
the sea that very night; and in the mean time I sat upon the beach,
employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus.

Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place
in my feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon. I had
before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with
whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film
had been taken from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw
clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur
to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not
reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in
my own mind, that to create another like the fiend I had first made
would be an act of the basest and most atrocious selfishness; and I
banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a different
conclusion.

Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting
my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the
shore. The scene was perfectly solitary: a few boats were returning
towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the
commission of a dreadful crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any
encounter with my fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had
before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took
advantage of the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into the sea; I
listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then sailed away from the
spot. The sky became clouded; but the air was pure, although chilled by
the north-east breeze that was then rising. But it refreshed me, and
filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my
stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched
myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, every thing was
obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel cut through
the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly.

I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I
found that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high,
and the waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I
found that the wind was north-east, and must have driven me far from the
coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but
quickly found that if I again made the attempt the boat would be
instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to
drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror.
I had no compass with me, and was so little acquainted with the
geography of this part of the world that the sun was of little benefit
to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the
tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters
that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours,
and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other
sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that
flew before the wind only to be replaced by others: I looked upon the
sea, it was to be my grave. "Fiend," I exclaimed, "your task is already
fulfilled!" I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; and
sunk into a reverie, so despairing and frightful, that even now, when
the scene is on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to
reflect on it.

Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the
horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became
free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick,
and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high
land towards the south.

Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured
for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of
warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we
have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail
with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land.
It had a wild and rocky appearance; but as I approached nearer, I easily
perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and
found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilized
man. I eagerly traced the windings of the land, and hailed a steeple
which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was
in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the
town as a place where I could most easily procure nourishment.
Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived
a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding
with joy at my unexpected escape.

As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several
people crowded towards the spot. They seemed very much surprised at my
appearance; but, instead of offering me any assistance, whispered
together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me
a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they
spoke English; and I therefore addressed them in that language: "My good
friends," said I, "will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this
town, and inform me where I am?"

"You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a gruff voice. "May
be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste; but
you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you."

I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a
stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and
angry countenances of his companions. "Why do you answer me so roughly?"
I replied: "surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive
strangers so inhospitably."

"I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be;
but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains."

While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly
increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which
annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me. I inquired the way to the inn;
but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose
from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking
man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Come, Sir, you
must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's, to give an account of yourself."

"Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a
free country?"

"Aye, Sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate; and
you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found
murdered here last night."

This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I was
innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I followed my
conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in the town.
I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger; but, being surrounded by a
crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical
debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little
did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm
me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death.

I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory
of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to
my recollection.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: It is night. Frankenstein sits in his laboratory, contemplating the possible effects of this second experiment. He becomes increasingly horrified by his task and finds himself tormented by a number of questions: will this second creature be even more malignant than the first. Will she, unlike her mate, refuse to quit the company of man. Will they ultimately despise each other's hideousness as a mirror of their own. Frankenstein is repulsed by the thought that the two monsters might beget children and thereby create a new race that could ultimately destroy all humanity. Victor decides that unleashing such a scourge upon mankind would be of the utmost selfishness. He glances up at the window to see the creature grinning at him from behind the glass. As the monster looks on, Frankenstein tears the half-finished creation to pieces. The creature howls in fury and despair, and then disappears. Several hours later, the creature visits Victor while he is sitting in his laboratory lost in dreary contemplation. The creature reproaches him with having broken his promise, and asks if all his hardship and suffering has been for naught. When Frankenstein vows never to create another being like him, the creature calls him his "slave" and reminds him: "You are my creator, but I am your master. Seeing that Frankenstein will not be moved by threats, the creature swears that he will have his revenge upon his creator; he leaves him with a chilling promise: "I will be with you on your wedding-night. Frankenstein passes a sleepless night; he weeps at the thought of how great Elizabeth's grief would be if her lover were to be murdered. He resolves not to fall before his enemy without a struggle. A letter arrives from Henry, begging his friend to join him in Perth, so that they might proceed southward together. Victor decides to meet him in two days time. While disposing of the remnants of his second creation, Victor is overcome with disgust; he feels as though he has desecrated living human flesh. He resolves to dispose of the remains at sea. At about two in the morning, Victor boards a small skiff and pilots it far away from shore. He disposes of the remains, and sails onward; he soon grows tired, however, and falls asleep in the bottom of the boat. Upon awakening, Victor is terrified to find that his fragile ship has drifted into treacherous water. He thinks of how his death would leave his family at the mercy of the creature; the thought is torture to him, and he is nearly driven mad by it. Despite his misery, Victor still clings to life: he rejoices when he is out of danger, and manages to arrive safely on Irish shores. A crowd of people observes his approach with suspicion; they rain verbal abuse upon him and cry that he is a villain. A bewildered Frankenstein is told that he must go see the magistrate, as he is suspected of being responsible for the death of a man who was found murdered the previous night.


prompt:
Chapter: I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old
benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however,
with some degree of severity; and then, turning towards my conductors,
he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.

About half a dozen men came forward; and one being selected by the
magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before
with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock,
they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put
in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen;
they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a
creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the
fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he
was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something,
and fell all his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist
him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen
on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first
supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person who had been
drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, upon examination,
they found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not
then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near
the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. He
appeared to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age.
He had apparently been strangled; for there was no sign of any violence,
except the black mark of fingers on his neck.

The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but
when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of
my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a
mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support.
The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew an
unfavourable augury from my manner.

The son confirmed his father's account: but when Daniel Nugent was
called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion,
he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the
shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was
the same boat in which I had just landed.

A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the
door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an
hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat,
with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the
corpse was afterwards found.

Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the
body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed
it; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite
gone.

Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed,
that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it
was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been
obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.
Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from
another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the
shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the
town of ---- from the place where I had deposited the corpse.

Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken
into the room where the body lay for interment that it might be observed
what effect the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was
probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when the
mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by
the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help
being struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during
this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with
several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time that the
body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of
the affair.

I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin.
How can I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched
with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment without
shuddering and agony, that faintly reminds me of the anguish of the
recognition. The trial, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses,
passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of
Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing
myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous machinations
deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already
destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, my
friend, my benefactor"----

The human frame could no longer support the agonizing suffering that I
endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.

A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death:
my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the
murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated
my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was
tormented; and, at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already
grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately,
as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my
gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other
witnesses.

Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I
not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming
children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and
youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and
the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials
was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the
turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture.

But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking
from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by
gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.
It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around,
and saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly.

This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me.
She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize
that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and
the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:

"Are you better now, Sir?" said she.

I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror."

"For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you; but you will be hung
when the next sessions come on. However, that's none of my business, I
am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe
conscience, it were well if every body did the same."

I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a
speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt
languid, and unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series
of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it
were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality.

As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew
feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one was near me who soothed
me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The
physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared them
for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second.
Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who
would gain his fee?

These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had
shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to
be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had
provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me;
for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every
human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see
that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and at long
intervals.

One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my
eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death, I was overcome
by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than
remain miserably pent up only to be let loose in a world replete with
wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare
myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door of my
apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed
sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me
in French--

"I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any thing to
make you more comfortable?"

"I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole
earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving."

"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to
one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can
easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge."

"That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become
the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have
been, can death be any evil to me?"

"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange
chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising
accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality: seized
immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented
to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a
manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path."

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this
retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the
knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to
say--

"It was not until a day or two after your illness that I thought of
examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which I could
send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I
found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from
its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva:
nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter.--But
you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any
kind."

"This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event:
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament."

"Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; "and
some one, a friend, is come to visit you."

I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and
cried out in agony--

"Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do not let him
enter!"

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in
rather a severe tone--

"I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father
would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance."

"My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure. "Is my father, indeed, come? How kind, how
very kind. But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?"

My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.

Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried--

"Are you then safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?"

My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured,
by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode
of cheerfulness. "What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said
he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of
the room. "You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to
pursue you. And poor Clerval--"

The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.

"Alas! yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most horrible
kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should
have died on the coffin of Henry."

We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that
could insure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the
appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.

As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for
ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into
which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous
relapse. Alas! why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life?
It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a
close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and
relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust;
and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then
the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present
to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless,
wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer
in its ruins.

The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months
in prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a
relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the
county-town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with
every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was
spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was
not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand
jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney
Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found, and a fortnight
after my removal I was liberated from prison.

My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere, and allowed to return to my native country. I did not
participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; and
although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I
saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they
were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs
nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them;
sometimes it was the watery clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw
them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.

My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of
Geneva, which I should soon visit--of Elizabeth, and Ernest; but these
words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish
for happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved
cousin; or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early
childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which a
prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted, but by paroxysms of anguish and
despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.

I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the men say, "He may
be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a bad conscience." These
words struck me. A bad conscience! yes, surely I had one. William,
Justine, and Clerval, had died through my infernal machinations; "And
whose death," cried I, "is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not
remain in this wretched country; take me where I may forget myself, my
existence, and all the world."

My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having taken leave of
Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was relieved from a
heavy weight, when the packet sailed with a fair wind from Ireland, and
I had quitted for ever the country which had been to me the scene of so
much misery.

It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and I lay on the deck,
looking at the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I
hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat
with a feverish joy, when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The
past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in
which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland,
and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was
deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I
repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing
with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for
Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering at the mad enthusiasm that hurried
me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the
night during which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of
thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.

Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom of taking
every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this
drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the
preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various
misfortunes, I now took a double dose, and soon slept profoundly. But
sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams
presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was
possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck,
and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in my ears. My
father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me,
and pointed to the port of Holyhead, which we were now entering.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor is brought before the magistrate, and several witnesses testify against him. A crew of local fishermen found the victim, a young man of about twenty-five years of age. When Victor hears that the victim was strangled, he trembles with anxiety; this, he knows, is his creature's preferred modus operandi. Seeing Frankenstein's agitation, Mr. Kirwin, the magistrate, suggest that Victor be shown the body, so that the tribunal might judge his reaction. Frankenstein is well composed as they conduct him toward the room in which the body has been laid; he has an unassailable alibi for the time that the body was found. When he walks into the chamber, he is overcome with horror: the lifeless form of Henry Clerval lies before him. Frankenstein throws himself upon the body, and becomes almost mad with grief and guilt; he is carried from the room in convulsions. For two months, Victor lies in a delirium of fever and confusion. He cries out that he is a murderer, and begs his attendants to aid him in apprehending the monster. He often imagines that he feels the hands of the monster closing about his neck, and starts from his bed in an agony of terror. Victor longs for death, and finds his ability to survive such an epidemic of tragedies bitterly ironic. He concludes that he was, after all, "doomed to live. When Victor finally emerges from his delirium, he finds that a grim-faced old woman has been attending upon his sickbed. She tells him that he will be sorely punished for the murder that he has committed, and would be better off dead; she seems to take pleasure in her own hatefulness and cruelty. The physician who is sent to examine Victor is equally careless and unfeeling. Victor bitterly reflects that now only the executioner is concerned with his well-being. Frankenstein learns that Mr. Kirwin alone has shown him great kindness during his sickness; it is he who provided Victor with his sickroom and doctor. The magistrate visits him and expresses confidence that he will be cleared of all responsibility for the murder. He tells Victor that "a friend" has come to see him; thinking that it is the monster, Victor begs to have him sent away. Mr. Kirwin, much taken aback by this outburst, sternly informs him that the visitor is his father; at this, Victor is overjoyed. He immediately asks after the safety of Elizabeth and Ernest, and the elder Frankenstein assures him they are all well. At the mention of Clerval, Victor weeps and exclaims that a horrid destiny hangs over his head. His father's presence is "like that of a good angel" for Victor; slowly, he begins to regain his health. He often wishes that he were dead, but imagines that it is some dark force that keeps him alive, so that his evil destiny might be fulfilled. Though Victor is cleared of all criminal charges, as "the cup of life poisoned forever. His father tries in vain to cheer him, but Victor suffers from an insuperable melancholy. He is under constant observation, so as to keep him from taking his own life. At length, Victor determines to triumph over "selfish despair," so that he might return to Geneva to protect his remaining family. Though the elder Frankenstein wishes to postpone the journey until his son has recovered from his melancholy, Victor will not be dissuaded. He cannot sleep without the aid of laudanum , and is frequently tormented by nightmares in which his creature strangles him.


prompt:
Chapter: We had resolved not to go to London, but to cross the country to
Portsmouth, and thence to embark for Havre. I preferred this plan
principally because I dreaded to see again those places in which I had
enjoyed a few moments of tranquillity with my beloved Clerval. I thought
with horror of seeing again those persons whom we had been accustomed to
visit together, and who might make inquiries concerning an event, the
very remembrance of which made me again feel the pang I endured when I
gazed on his lifeless form in the inn at ----.

As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded to the again
seeing me restored to health and peace of mind. His tenderness and
attentions were unremitting; my grief and gloom was obstinate, but he
would not 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 caused by
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 feeling that I
should be supposed mad, and this for ever chained my tongue, when I
would have given the whole world to have confided the fatal secret.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded
wonder, "What do you mean, Victor? are you mad? 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
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.

We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly proceeded to Paris,
where my father had some business which detained us a few weeks. In this
city, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:--

       *       *       *       *       *

"_To_ VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN.

"MY DEAREST 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 devoid 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 I have no more to
do than to sign myself your affectionate cousin. 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
connexion, 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 cousin, 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 cruelest 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 interested an
affection for you, may increase your miseries ten-fold, 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 it to-morrow, 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 was 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, pennyless, 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 paradisaical
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 mean time; for, as if to shew 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 her's
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 concentered
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. My cousin 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 on what had passed, a real insanity
possessed me; sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage, sometimes
low and despondent. I neither spoke or looked, 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 my
cousin. 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 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 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.

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. A house was purchased for
us near Cologny, by which we should enjoy the pleasures of the country,
and yet be so near Geneva as to see my father every day; who would
still reside within the walls, for the benefit of Ernest, that he might
follow his studies at the schools.

In the mean time 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 solemnization 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 the following day. My father was in the mean
time overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only observed 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 pass the
afternoon and night at Evian, and return to Cologny the next morning. As
the day was fair, and the wind favourable, we resolved to go by water.

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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Victor and his father are forced to stop in Paris, as Victor has grown too weak to continue the journey. The elder Frankenstein urges him to take solace in society. Victor, however, cannot bring himself to comply: the company of people is abhorrent to him. Though he is full of a great and indiscriminate love for humanity, feeling them to be "creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism," he does not feel himself worthy of sharing in their intercourse. He has created a being who delights in bloodshed, and thus deserves only abhorrence and hatred. Victor tells his father that he is the true engineer of all the catastrophes that have befallen them, but Alphonse attributes his confession to delirium. When his father begs him not to say such dreadful things, Victor replies that he would gladly have died in their place, but that he could not sacrifice all humankind to save those whom he loved. At length, Frankenstein is able to control his desire to declare his guilt to the world. He receives a letter from Elizabeth, who says that she is longing to see him. She expresses regret that he has suffered so terribly, and tells him that if his unhappiness is related in any way to their impending marriage, she will gracefully leave him to the arms of another. Victor is reminded of the creature's threat to be with him on his wedding night. He decides that if the creature succeeds in murdering him, he will at last be at peace; if, on the other hand, he triumphs, he will be able to enjoy both freedom and life with Elizabeth. As Frankenstein wants desperately to please both Elizabeth and his father, he decides that he will not delay the marriage any longer than is necessary: after all, the creature has demonstrated, by the murder of Clerval, that he will not be kept from violence before the fateful wedding. At Geneva, he finds Elizabeth much changed by all that is happened. She has lost the vivacity of her youth, but Victor regards her, in her new compassion and gentleness, as an even more fitting companion "for one so blasted and miserable" as he. He often feels that he will succumb to madness; at these times, only Elizabeth can soothe him. Frankenstein promises her that he will reveal the reason for his misery on the day after their wedding. His father urges him to let go of his unhappiness. Though their circle has grown small, it will be bound more closely together by mutual misfortune, and, in time "new objects of affection" will be born to replace what has been lost. Victor and Elizabeth look forward to their union with both pleasure and apprehension. The necessary preparations are made, and the couple determines to honeymoon on the shores of Lake Como, in Italy. Victor takes a number of precautions to protect both himself and his beloved; he becomes accustomed to carrying pistols and daggers about his person wherever he goes. As the wedding-day approaches, the threat seems to be almost a delusion; Victor allows himself to believe that the marriage will actually take place, and that he will at last know happiness. Elizabeth seems cheerful, but is seized with melancholy on the day that the wedding is to take place. Victor now regards her sadness as a presentiment of evil, and imagines that she was apprehensive to discover the reason for his misery. All is perfect on their wedding day. It is to be the last happy day in Victor's life. As they land on the shores of Como, both Elizabeth and Victor are overcome by a sense of inexplicable foreboding.


prompt:
Chapter: It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the
shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn, and
contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured
in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.

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

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

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful
silence; at length she said, "What is it that agitates you, my dear
Victor? What is it you fear?"

"Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I, "this night, and all will be
safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful."

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

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

Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the
destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth. She was
there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging
down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair.
Every where I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless arms and relaxed
form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this, and
live? Alas! life is obstinate, and clings closest where it is most
hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fainted.

When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn;
their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but the horror of
others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that
oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of
Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She
had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and
now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across
her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards
her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deathly languor and coldness
of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be
the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the
fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from
her lips.

While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look
up. The windows of the room had before been darkened; and I felt a kind
of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the
chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of
horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most
hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed
to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my
wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom,
shot; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the
swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the
spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats;
nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned
hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form
conjured by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the
country, parties going in different directions among the woods and
vines.

I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film covered my eyes, and
my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I lay on a
bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the
room, as if to seek something that I had lost.

At length I remembered that my father would anxiously expect the return
of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must return alone. This reflection
brought tears into my eyes, and I wept for a long time; but my thoughts
rambled to various subjects, reflecting on my misfortunes, and their
cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of
William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of
my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends
were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be
writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This
idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and
resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but
the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it
was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I
hired men to row, and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced
relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing
misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered
me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and, leaning my head
upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up,
I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which
I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now
but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain
had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they
had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth.
Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.
The sun might shine, or the clouds might lour; but nothing could appear
to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every
hope of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as I
was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man.

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

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

What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and
darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed,
I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the
friends of my youth; but awoke, and found myself in a dungeon.
Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my
miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they
had called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a solitary
cell had been my habitation.

But liberty had been a useless gift to me had I not, as I awakened to
reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past
misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the
monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad
into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage
when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have
him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed
head.

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

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

"I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I
have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should fear you
would not credit it, were there not something in truth which, however
wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken
for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus
addressed him, was impressive, but calm; I had formed in my own heart a
resolution to pursue my destroyer to death; and this purpose quieted my
agony, and provisionally reconciled me to life. I now related my history
briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with
accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation.

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

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

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

"I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; and if he
has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois,
and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do
not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the
punishment which is his desert."

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

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

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

"Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease;
you know not what it is you say."

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

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Night has fallen by the time Victor and Elizabeth land on the shores of Como. The wind rises with sudden violence, and Frankenstein becomes increasingly anxious: he is certain that either he or his creature will die tonight. Elizabeth, seeing his agitation, implores him to tell her what it is he fears. Though he attempts to console her, he cannot bring himself to reply to her question; he says only that it is a dreadful night. Hoping to spare Elizabeth from the sight of the monster, Victor asks her to retire to her bedchamber. She complies, and Victor stalks the corridors of their villa, searching for any trace of the monster. At length, he hears a dreadful scream; too late, Victor realizes the enormity of his mistake. Upon entering the bedroom, he finds Elizabeth lying strangled upon the bed, her clothes and hair in a state of disarray; the print of the monster's fingers are still fresh upon her neck. Unable to tolerate the shock, he collapses. When he revives, he finds himself surrounded by the people of the inn; he escapes from them to the room in which Elizabeth's corpse is lying. He falls upon her body and takes it in his arms. Wracked by indescribable grief, he looks up to see the monster grinning at him through the windowpane. Victor fires his pistol, but the creature eludes him. Frankenstein alerts the other guests of the murderer's presence, and they try in vain to apprehend him. Though he longs to aid them in their search, he is feeble as a result of his shock and misery; he is carried, barely conscious, to his bed. Realizing that he does not know whether his father and brother are safe, Victor gathers all of his strength and travels to Geneva. On the journey, he reflects that he has lost all hope of future happiness; no being in all creation is so miserable as he. Though both Alphonse and Ernest are safe when Victor arrives, the former soon perishes upon hearing of the death of Elizabeth. Victor has no memory of the time that immediately followed the death of his father; he later learned that he was kept in a miserable asylum, having been declared mad. Upon his release, all Victor is obsessed by thoughts of taking revenge upon his creature. He visits a magistrate to ask for the help of the law in apprehending the creature. Though the official listens attentively, it is clear that he only half-believes Frankenstein's wild tale. He tells Victor, quite reasonably, that it would be nearly impossible to pursue a superhuman being of the kind he has described. Frankenstein is enraged, and vows that he will devote himself to the creature's destruction. He recognizes his lust for vengeance as a vice but says that, in his current state of wretchedness, it is "the devouring and only passion of his soul.