"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 [3.65 - page breaks after 'ob-']
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, upon examination, they
found that the clothes were not wet, and even that [3.66] the body was not then cold. They instantly
carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and endeavoured, but
in vain, to restore it to life. He appeared to be a handsome young man, about
five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been strangled; for there was
no sign of any violence, except the black mark of fingers on his neck.
The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but when
the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my brother,
and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my
eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed
me with a keen eye, and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my
manner.
The son confirmed his father's [3.67 - page breaks after 'ac-'] 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 [3.68] town for an apothecary, but life was quite
gone.
Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed, that,
with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very
probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to return
nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that
it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it was likely,
that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour
ignorant of the distance of the town of ---- from the place where I had
deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I
should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it might
be observed [3.69] 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, [3.70] that faintly reminds me of the
anguish of recognition. The trial, the presence of the magistrate and
witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of
Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath;
and, throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my
murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest
Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other
victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, my
friend, my benefactor—"
The human frame could no longer support the agonizing suffering that I endured,
and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.
A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death: my
ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer
[3.71] 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 [3.72] 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. [3.73] 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 sympathizing in sights of
misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in
English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard
during my sufferings:
"Are you better now, Sir?" said she.
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I
believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry
that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror."
"For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe
that it were better for you if you were dead, [3.74] for I fancy it will go hard with you; but
you will be hung when the next sessions come on. However, that's none of my
business, I am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe
conscience, it were well if every body did the same."
I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to
a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt languid, and unable
to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me
as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never
presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.
As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a
darkness pressed around me: no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle
voice of love; no dear hand supported me.[3.75] The physician came and prescribed medicines,
and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in
the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of
the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman
who would gain his fee?
These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr.
Kirwin had shewn me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room
in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was
he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see
me; for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human
creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of
a murderer. He came, therefore, [3.76 - page breaks after 'some-'] sometimes to see that I was not neglected;
but his visits were short, and at long intervals.
One day, when I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half
open, and my cheeks livid like those in death, I was overcome by gloom and
misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than remain miserably pent
up only to be let loose in a world replete with wretchedness. At one time I
considered whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty
of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts,
when the door of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin
entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair
close to mine, and addressed me in French—
"I fear that this place is very [3.77 - page breaks after 'shock-']
shocking to you; can I do any thing to make you more
comfortable?"
"I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on
the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of
receiving."
"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of
little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But
you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence
can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge."
"That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange
events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I
am and have been, can death be any evil to me?"
"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing
than the strange chances that have lately [3.78 - page breaks after 'occur-']
occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore,
renowned for its hospitality: seized immediately, and charged with murder.
The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend,
murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend
across your path."
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I
endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise
at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr.
Kirwin hastened to say—
"It was not until a day or two after your illness that I
thought of examining your dress, that I might discover some trace by which I
could send to your relations an account of your misfortune [3.79] 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 [3.80] 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 [3.81] 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 [3.82] 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 fulfill it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of
Henry."
We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious
state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that could insure
tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my
father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my
health.
[3.83]
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
fulfill 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 [3.84] 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 [3.85 - page breaks after 'cri-']
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere, and
allowed to return to my native country. I did not participate in these
feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The
cup of life was poisoned for ever; and although the sun shone upon me, as upon
the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful
darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon
me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry,
languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the long
black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery clouded eyes of the
monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of [3.86]
Geneva, which I should soon
visit—of Elizabeth, and Ernest; but
these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for
happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or
longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more the blue lake and
rapid Rhone, that had been so
dear to me in early childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in
which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted, but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At
these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed; and
it required unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing
some dreadful act of violence.
I remember, as I quitted the prison, [3.87] I heard one of the men say, "He may be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a bad
conscience." These words struck me. A bad conscience! yes, surely I
had one. William, Justine, and
Clerval, had died through my infernal machinations;
"And whose death," cried I, "is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not remain in this wretched
country; take me where I may forget myself, my existence, and all the
world."
My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having taken leave of
Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was relieved from a heavy
weight, when the packet sailed with a fair wind from Ireland, and I had quitted
for ever the country which had been to me the scene of so much misery.
It was midnight. My father slept in [3.88] the cabin; and I lay on the deck, looking at
the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness
that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy, when I
reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful
dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested
shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I
was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and
dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I
repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing with
my family in Geneva, the death
of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered shuddering at the
mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the [3.89 - page breaks after 'crea-']
creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night during which he
first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings
pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom of taking every
night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this drug only that
I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life.
Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now took a double
dose, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from
thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me.
Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of night-mare; I felt the fiend's
grasp in my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rung in
my ears. My father, who was [3.90]
watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me, and pointed to the port
of Holyhead, which we were now entering.to give an account of
yourself.