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.

 Victor stops to rest in Paris and recover his strength. He gets a letter from Elizabeth, asking him if he is in love with someone else. Nope. Not unless by "love" you mean "obsession" and by "someone else" you mean "the monster." He's still boneheadedly oblivious to the fact that the monster is planning to kill Elizabeth, so he decides to get on with the marriage and fight the monster, win or lose, to be free of him one way or the other. Back in Geneva, he tells Elizabeth that he has a terrible secret--but he can't tell her until after they are married. Elizabeth is unfazed, so they get married and head off to a family cottage in the middle of nowhere.

