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. 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
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
doting
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
jailers, 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
characterize
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,
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
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.
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
to
me?" "Nothing
indeed
could
be
more
unfortunate
and
agonizing
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 someone, 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
forever
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
country
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
forever,
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
rang
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.