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. |