Nothing
is
more
painful
to
the
human
mind
than,
after
the
feelings
have
been
worked
up
by
a
quick
succession
of
events,
the
dead
calmness
of
inaction
and
certainty
which
follows
and
deprives
the
soul
both
of
hope
and
fear.
Justine
died,
she
rested,
and
I
was
alive.
The
blood flowed
freely
in
my veins,
but
a
weight
of
despair
and
remorse
pressed
on
my
heart
which
nothing
could
remove.
Sleep
fled
from
my eyes; I
wandered
like
an
evil
spirit,
for
I had committed
deeds
of
mischief
beyond
description
horrible,
and
more,
much
more
(I
persuaded
myself)
was
yet
behind.
Yet
my
heart
overflowed
with
kindness
and
the
love
of
virtue. I had begun
life
with
benevolent
intentions
and
thirsted
for
the
moment
when
I
should
put
them
in
practice
and
make
myself
useful
to
my
fellow
beings.
Now
all
was
blasted;
instead
of
that
serenity
of
conscience
which
allowed
me
to
look
back
upon
the
past
with
self-satisfaction,
and
from
thence
to
gather
promise
of
new
hopes, I
was
seized
by
remorse
and
the
sense
of
guilt,
which
hurried
me
away
to
a
hell
of
intense
tortures
such
as
no
language
can
describe.
This
state
of
mind
preyed
upon
my health,
which
had
perhaps
never
entirely
recovered
from
the
first
shock
it
had sustained. I
shunned
the
face
of
man;
all
sound
of
joy
or
complacency
was
torture
to
me;
solitude
was
my
only
consolation—deep, dark, deathlike solitude. My father
observed
with
pain
the
alteration
perceptible
in
my
disposition
and
habits
and
endeavoured
by
arguments
deduced
from
the
feelings
of
his
serene
conscience
and
guiltless
life
to
inspire
me
with
fortitude
and
awaken
in
me
the
courage
to
dispel
the
dark
cloud
which
brooded
over
me. "Do
you
think, Victor," said he, "that I
do
not
suffer
also?
No
one
could
love
a
child
more
than
I
loved
your
brother"—tears came
into
his
eyes
as
he
spoke—"but
is
it
not
a
duty
to
the
survivors
that
we
should
refrain
from
augmenting
their
unhappiness
by
an
appearance
of
immoderate
grief?
It
is
also
a
duty
owed
to
yourself,
for
excessive
sorrow
prevents
improvement
or
enjoyment,
or
even
the
discharge
of
daily
usefulness,
without
which
no
man
is
fit
for
society."
This
advice, although good,
was
totally inapplicable
to
my case; I
should
have
been
the
first
to
hide
my
grief
and
console
my
friends
if
remorse
had
not
mingled
its
bitterness,
and
terror
its
alarm,
with
my
other
sensations.
Now
I
could
only
answer
my father
with
a
look
of
despair
and
endeavour
to
hide
myself
from
his
view.
About
this
time
we
retired
to
our
house
at
Belrive.
This
change
was
particularly
agreeable
to
me.
The
shutting
of
the
gates regularly
at
ten
o'clock
and
the
impossibility
of
remaining
on
the
lake
after
that
hour
had rendered
our
residence
within
the
walls
of
Geneva
very
irksome
to
me. I
was
now
free. Often,
after
the
rest
of
the
family
had retired
for
the
night, I
took
the
boat
and
passed
many
hours
upon
the
water. Sometimes,
with
my
sails
set, I
was
carried
by
the
wind;
and
sometimes,
after
rowing
into
the
middle
of
the
lake, I left
the
boat
to
pursue
its
own
course
and
gave
way
to
my
own
miserable
reflections. I
was
often
tempted,
when
all
was
at
peace
around
me,
and
I
the
only
unquiet
thing
that
wandered
restless
in
a
scene
so
beautiful
and
heavenly—if I
except
some
bat,
or
the
frogs,
whose
harsh
and
interrupted croaking
was
heard
only
when
I approached
the
shore—often, I say, I
was
tempted
to
plunge
into
the
silent
lake,
that
the
waters
might
close
over
me
and
my
calamities
forever.
But
I
was
restrained,
when
I
thought
of
the
heroic
and
suffering Elizabeth,
whom
I
tenderly
loved,
and
whose
existence
was
bound
up
in
mine. I
thought
also
of
my father
and
surviving
brother;
should
I
by
my base
desertion
leave
them
exposed
and
unprotected
to
the
malice
of
the
fiend
whom
I had
let
loose
among
them?
At
these
moments
I wept bitterly
and
wished
that
peace
would
revisit
my
mind
only
that
I
might
afford
them
consolation
and
happiness.
But
that
could
not
be.
Remorse
extinguished
every
hope. I had been
the
author
of
unalterable evils,
and
I
lived
in
daily
fear
lest
the
monster
whom
I had
created
should
perpetrate
some
new
wickedness. I had
an
obscure
feeling
that
all
was
not
over
and
that
he
would
still
commit
some
signal
crime,
which
by
its
enormity
should
almost
efface
the
recollection
of
the
past.
There
was
always
scope
for
fear
so
long
as
anything
I
loved
remained
behind. My abhorrence
of
this
fiend
cannot
be
conceived.
When
I
thought
of
him
I
gnashed
my teeth, my
eyes
became inflamed,
and
I
ardently
wished
to
extinguish
that
life
which
I had
so
thoughtlessly bestowed.
When
I
reflected
on
his
crimes
and
malice, my
hatred
and
revenge
burst
all
bounds
of
moderation. I
would
have
made
a
pilgrimage
to
the
highest
peak
of
the
Andes,
could
I
when
there
have
precipitated
him
to
their
base. I
wished
to
see
him
again,
that
I
might
wreak
the
utmost
extent
of
abhorrence
on
his
head
and
avenge
the
deaths
of
William
and
Justine.
Our
house
was
the
house
of
mourning. My father's
health
was
deeply
shaken
by
the
horror
of
the
recent
events.
Elizabeth
was
sad
and
desponding;
she
no
longer
took
delight
in
her
ordinary
occupations;
all
pleasure
seemed
to
her
sacrilege
toward
the
dead;
eternal
woe
and
tears
she
then
thought
was
the
just
tribute
she
should
pay
to
innocence
so
blasted
and
destroyed.
She
was
no
longer
that
happy
creature
who
in
earlier
youth
wandered
with
me
on
the
banks
of
the
lake
and
talked
with
ecstasy
of
our
future
prospects.
The
first
of
those
sorrows
which
are
sent
to
wean
us
from
the
earth
had
visited
her,
and
its
dimming
influence
quenched
her
dearest
smiles. "When I reflect, my
dear
cousin," said she, "on
the
miserable
death
of
Justine
Moritz, I
no
longer
see
the
world
and
its
works
as
they
before
appeared
to
me. Before, I
looked
upon
the
accounts
of
vice
and
injustice
that
I read
in
books
or
heard
from
others
as
tales
of
ancient
days
or
imaginary
evils;
at
least
they
were
remote
and
more
familiar
to
reason
than
to
the
imagination;
but
now
misery
has
come
home,
and
men
appear
to
me
as
monsters
thirsting
for
each
other's blood.
Yet
I
am
certainly unjust. Everybody
believed
that
poor
girl
to
be
guilty;
and
if
she
could
have
committed
the
crime
for
which
she
suffered, assuredly
she
would
have
been
the
most
depraved
of
human
creatures.
For
the
sake
of
a
few
jewels,
to
have
murdered
the
son
of
her
benefactor
and
friend, a
child
whom
she
had
nursed
from
its
birth,
and
appeared
to
love
as
if
it
had been
her
own! I
could
not
consent
to
the
death
of
any
human
being,
but
certainly I
should
have
thought
such
a
creature
unfit
to
remain
in
the
society
of
men.
But
she
was
innocent. I know, I feel
she
was
innocent;
you
are
of
the
same
opinion,
and
that
confirms
me. Alas! Victor,
when
falsehood
can
look
so
like
the
truth,
who
can
assure
themselves
of
certain
happiness? I feel
as
if
I
were
walking
on
the
edge
of
a precipice,
towards
which
thousands
are
crowding
and
endeavouring
to
plunge
me
into
the
abyss.
William
and
Justine
were
assassinated,
and
the
murderer
escapes;
he
walks
about
the
world
free,
and
perhaps
respected.
But
even
if
I
were
condemned
to
suffer
on
the
scaffold
for
the
same
crimes, I
would
not
change
places
with
such
a wretch." I
listened
to
this
discourse
with
the
extremest
agony. I,
not
in
deed,
but
in
effect,
was
the
true murderer.
Elizabeth
read my
anguish
in
my countenance,
and
kindly
taking
my hand, said, "My
dearest
friend,
you
must
calm
yourself.
These
events
have
affected me,
God
knows
how
deeply;
but
I
am
not
so
wretched
as
you
are.
There
is
an
expression
of
despair,
and
sometimes
of
revenge,
in
your
countenance
that
makes
me
tremble.
Dear
Victor,
banish
these
dark passions.
Remember
the
friends
around
you,
who
centre
all
their
hopes
in
you.
Have
we
lost
the
power
of
rendering
you
happy? Ah!
While
we
love,
while
we
are
true
to
each
other,
here
in
this
land
of
peace
and
beauty,
your
native
country,
we
may
reap
every
tranquil
blessing—what
can
disturb
our
peace?"
And
could
not
such
words
from
her
whom
I fondly
prized
before
every
other
gift
of
fortune
suffice
to
chase
away
the
fiend
that
lurked
in
my heart?
Even
as
she
spoke
I
drew
near
to
her,
as
if
in
terror,
lest
at
that
very
moment
the
destroyer
had been
near
to
rob
me
of
her.
Thus
not
the
tenderness
of
friendship,
nor
the
beauty
of
earth,
nor
of
heaven,
could
redeem
my soul
from
woe;
the
very
accents
of
love
were
ineffectual. I
was
encompassed
by
a
cloud
which
no
beneficial
influence
could
penetrate.
The
wounded
deer
dragging
its
fainting
limbs
to
some
untrodden brake,
there
to
gaze
upon
the
arrow
which
had pierced it,
and
to
die,
was
but
a type
of
me. Sometimes I
could
cope
with
the
sullen
despair
that
overwhelmed me,
but
sometimes
the
whirlwind
passions
of
my soul
drove
me
to
seek,
by
bodily
exercise
and
by
change
of
place,
some
relief
from
my
intolerable
sensations.
It
was
during
an
access
of
this
kind
that
I suddenly left my home,
and
bending
my
steps
towards
the
near
Alpine
valleys,
sought
in
the
magnificence,
the
eternity
of
such
scenes,
to
forget
myself
and
my ephemeral,
because
human, sorrows. My wanderings
were
directed
towards
the
valley
of
Chamounix. I had
visited
it
frequently
during
my boyhood.
Six
years
had
passed
since
then: _I_
was
a wreck,
but
nought
had
changed
in
those
savage
and
enduring scenes. I
performed
the
first
part
of
my
journey
on
horseback. I afterwards
hired
a mule,
as
the
more
sure-footed
and
least
liable
to
receive
injury
on
these
rugged
roads.
The
weather
was
fine;
it
was
about
the
middle
of
the
month
of
August, nearly
two
months
after
the
death
of
Justine,
that
miserable
epoch
from
which
I dated
all
my woe.
The
weight
upon
my spirit
was
sensibly lightened
as
I plunged
yet
deeper
in
the
ravine
of
Arve.
The
immense
mountains
and
precipices
that
overhung
me
on
every
side,
the
sound
of
the
river
raging
among
the
rocks,
and
the
dashing
of
the
waterfalls
around
spoke
of
a power
mighty
as
Omnipotence—and I
ceased
to
fear
or
to
bend
before
any
being
less
almighty
than
that
which
had
created
and
ruled
the
elements,
here
displayed
in
their
most
terrific
guise. Still,
as
I
ascended
higher,
the
valley
assumed
a
more
magnificent
and
astonishing
character. Ruined castles hanging
on
the
precipices
of
piny mountains,
the
impetuous
Arve,
and
cottages
every
here
and
there
peeping
forth
from
among
the
trees
formed
a
scene
of
singular
beauty.
But
it
was
augmented
and
rendered
sublime
by
the
mighty
Alps,
whose
white
and
shining
pyramids
and
domes
towered
above
all,
as
belonging
to
another
earth,
the
habitations
of
another
race
of
beings. I
passed
the
bridge
of
Pelissier,
where
the
ravine,
which
the
river
forms,
opened
before
me,
and
I began
to
ascend
the
mountain
that
overhangs it.
Soon
after, I
entered
the
valley
of
Chamounix.
This
valley
is
more
wonderful
and
sublime,
but
not
so
beautiful
and
picturesque
as
that
of
Servox,
through
which
I had
just
passed.
The
high
and
snowy
mountains
were
its
immediate
boundaries,
but
I
saw
no
more
ruined castles
and
fertile
fields.
Immense
glaciers
approached
the
road; I
heard
the
rumbling
thunder
of
the
falling
avalanche
and
marked
the
smoke
of
its
passage. Mont Blanc,
the
supreme
and
magnificent
Mont Blanc,
raised
itself
from
the
surrounding
aiguilles,
and
its
tremendous
dome
overlooked
the
valley. A tingling long-lost sense
of
pleasure
often
came
across
me
during
this
journey.
Some
turn
in
the
road,
some
new
object
suddenly
perceived
and
recognized, reminded
me
of
days
gone by,
and
were
associated
with
the
lighthearted
gaiety
of
boyhood.
The
very
winds whispered
in
soothing accents,
and
maternal
Nature
bade
me
weep
no
more.
Then
again
the
kindly
influence
ceased
to
act—I found
myself
fettered
again
to
grief
and
indulging
in
all
the
misery
of
reflection.
Then
I
spurred
on
my animal,
striving
so
to
forget
the
world, my fears,
and
more
than
all, myself—or,
in
a
more
desperate
fashion, I
alighted
and
threw
myself
on
the
grass,
weighed
down
by
horror
and
despair.
At
length
I
arrived
at
the
village
of
Chamounix.
Exhaustion
succeeded
to
the
extreme
fatigue
both
of
body
and
of
mind
which
I had endured.
For
a
short
space
of
time I
remained
at
the
window
watching
the
pallid
lightnings
that
played
above
Mont Blanc
and
listening
to
the
rushing
of
the
Arve,
which
pursued
its
noisy
way
beneath.
The
same
lulling
sounds
acted
as
a
lullaby
to
my
too
keen
sensations;
when
I
placed
my
head
upon
my pillow,
sleep
crept
over
me; I felt
it
as
it
came
and
blessed
the
giver
of
oblivion.