The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose1 before I could continue my journey. My father’s care and attentions were indefatigable2, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable3 ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred5 the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive6 among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial7 mechanism8. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse9. I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel10 in their groans11. How they would, each and all, abhor4 me and hunt me from the world did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me!
My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by various arguments to banish12 my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation13 of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility14 of pride.
“Alas15! My father,” said I, “how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch16 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 imprisonment17, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium18, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence19.
I avoided explanation and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion20 that I should be supposed mad, and this in itself would forever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation21 and make fear and unnatural22 horror the inmates23 of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided24 the fatal secret. Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved the burden of my mysterious woe26. Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, “My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat27 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 deranged28, 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 obliterate29 the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland and never alluded31 to them or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes.
As time passed away I became more calm; misery32 had her dwelling33 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 curbed34 the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice. A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:
My dear Friend,
It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably35, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense36; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance37 and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity39.
Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable40 a year ago, even perhaps augmented41 by time. I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you, but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet. Explanation! You may possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread42 and yet be pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone43 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 infancy44. 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 conjure45 you by our mutual46 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 solitude47 from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations48. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate49 of your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle50, by the word “honour,” all hope of that love and happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested51 an affection for you, may increase your miseries52 tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.
Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health, and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion53 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 determined54 to consummate55 his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious56 I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished57, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I possessed58 a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of remorse59 and guilt60 which would pursue me until death.
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some softened61 feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable62; 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 postponed63 it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge.
He had vowed64 TO BE WITH ME ON MY WEDDING-NIGHT, yet he did not consider that threat as binding65 him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the enunciation67 of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate66 union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my father’s happiness, my adversary68’s designs against my life should not retard69 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 remains70 for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate71 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 confide25 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 allude30 to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply.”
In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld72 my emaciated73 frame and feverish74 cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity75 that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of compassion76 made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity77 possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent78. I neither spoke79 nor looked at anyone, 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 soothe80 me when transported by passion and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor82. She wept with me and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate83 and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent.
“Have you, then, some other attachment84?”
“None on earth. I love Elizabeth and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed85; 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, omnipotent86 as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible87, 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 contented88 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 banished89 myself forever from my native country and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim.
As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice90 or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed91 my feelings by an appearance of hilarity92 that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the everwatchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid93 contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible94 happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream and leave no trace but deep and everlasting95 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 preyed96 there and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. Through my father’s exertions97 a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to Villa98 Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful lake near which it stood.
In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger99 constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice100, and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion101, not to be regarded as worthy102 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 tranquil38 demeanour contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy103, and a presentiment104 of evil pervaded105 her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed and in the bustle106 of preparation only recognized in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my father’s, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable107; all smiled on our nuptial108 embarkation109.
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 canopy110 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, surmounting111 all, the beautiful Mont Blanc and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate112 her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty113 Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader114 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 distress115 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 prospect116 that is opened before us, but I will not listen to such a sinister117 voice. Observe how fast we move along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the dome118 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 pebble119 that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! How happy and serene120 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 distraction121 and reverie.
The sun sank lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance and observed its path through the chasms122 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 spire81 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, sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled123 the water and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted124 the most delightful125 scent126 of flowers and hay. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to me forever.
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1
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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deranged
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| adj.疯狂的 | |
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obliterate
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| v.擦去，涂抹，去掉...痕迹，消失，除去 | |
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allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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61
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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63
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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64
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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67
enunciation
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| n.清晰的发音；表明，宣言；口齿 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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retard
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| n.阻止，延迟；vt.妨碍，延迟，使减速 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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71
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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72
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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73
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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74
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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77
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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79
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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80
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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81
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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82
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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83
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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84
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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85
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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88
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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89
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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92
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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94
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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99
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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100
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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101
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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102
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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103
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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104
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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105
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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107
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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108
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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109
embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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110
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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111
surmounting
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| 战胜( surmount的现在分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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112
emulate
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| v.努力赶上或超越，与…竞争；效仿 | |
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113
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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114
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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115
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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116
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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117
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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118
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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119
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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120
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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121
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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122
chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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123
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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124
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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126
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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