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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 at 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, on 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. It 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. Kerwin, 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. The examination,
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 agonies 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 characterise that class. The lines of her face
were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see
without sympathising 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!
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 everybody 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 become 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 shown 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 with long intervals.
One day, while 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 desire to remain in a world which
to me was 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
anything 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 tome?"
"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising 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--
"Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that
were on your person were brought me, and I examined them 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 ensure 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 permitted 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.
Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally
triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I
should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the
lives of those I so fondly loved; and to lie in wait for the
murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his
concealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence,
I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the
monstrous Image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul
still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our
departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a
journey: for I was a shattered wreck--the shadow of a human
being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton; and fever
night and day preyed upon my wasted frame.
Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and
impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our
passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed
with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight.
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, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on
to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the
night in 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 swallowed double
my usual quantity 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 nightmare; 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; the dashing waves were
around: the cloudy sky above; the fiend was not here: a sense
of security, a feeling that a truce was established between the
present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future, imparted
to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is
by its structure peculiarly susceptible.
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