Chapter 19

von Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

London was our current refuge, and we decided to stay for several months in this remarkable city. Clerval was eager to connect with the brilliant minds and talented individuals thriving around us, but for me, that was a secondary concern. My main focus was on gathering the information I needed to fulfill my promise, so I quickly made use of the letters of introduction I had brought, addressed to some of the most respected natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my happier days of study, it would have filled me with immense joy. But a shadow had fallen over my life, and I found myself visiting these people solely for the knowledge they could provide on a subject that consumed me. Socializing felt burdensome; when I was alone, I could immerse myself in the beauty of the world around me. Henry’s voice offered a soothing balm, allowing me to momentarily escape into a fragile peace. Yet, the cheerful, busy faces of others only deepened my despair. I felt an insurmountable barrier between myself and humanity, a barrier stained with the blood of William and Justine. Reflecting on the events tied to those names filled my heart with anguish.

In Clerval, I saw a reflection of my former self. He was curious and eager to learn, finding endless fascination in the differences he observed. He was pursuing a long-held dream of visiting India, believing that his knowledge of its languages and insights into its society could significantly aid European colonization and trade. Only in Britain could he advance his plans. He was constantly engaged, and the only thing that dampened his joy was my own sorrowful demeanor. I tried to hide my feelings as much as possible, not wanting to rob him of the natural pleasures that came with exploring a new chapter in life, free from care or painful memories. I often declined his invitations to join him, citing other commitments, so I could be alone. I also began gathering the materials I needed for my new creation, which felt like the slow torture of water dripping on my head. Every thought dedicated to it was a source of deep anguish, and even mentioning it made my lips tremble and my heart race.

After spending several months in London, we received a letter from someone in Scotland who had previously visited us in Geneva. He spoke of the beauty of his homeland and invited us to extend our journey north to Perth, where he lived. Clerval was eager to accept, and despite my aversion to society, I longed to see the mountains and streams, the incredible landscapes that Nature had crafted in her chosen places.

We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and now it was February. We decided to start our journey north at the end of another month. Instead of taking the main road to Edinburgh, we planned to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the lakes of Cumberland, aiming to complete our tour by the end of July. I packed my chemical instruments and the materials I had collected, determined to finish my work in some quiet corner of the northern highlands of Scotland.

We left London on March 27th and spent a few days in Windsor, wandering through its beautiful forest. This was a new experience for us, the mountaineers; the towering oaks, the abundance of game, and the majestic deer were all fresh wonders to behold.

We made our way to Oxford, and as we entered the city, memories of events from over a century and a half ago flooded our minds. This was the place where Charles I had gathered his forces, a city that had remained loyal to him even when the rest of the nation turned its back to support Parliament and the cause of liberty. The thought of that ill-fated king and his companions—the charming Falkland, the arrogant Goring, his queen, and his son—added a unique depth to every corner of the city they might have walked. The spirit of those earlier days lingered here, and we reveled in tracing its echoes.

Even if those feelings had not found their fulfillment in our imaginations, the city itself was beautiful enough to capture our admiration. The colleges were ancient and picturesque, the streets almost grand, and the lovely Isis River flowed beside it, winding through lush meadows. Its placid waters reflected the impressive towers, spires, and domes nestled among the old trees.

I appreciated the scene, but my enjoyment was tinged with both the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. I was meant for a life of peaceful happiness. In my youth, discontent had never touched me, and even when boredom threatened to creep in, the beauty of nature or the brilliance of human creativity could always lift my spirits. But now I felt like a withered tree; a bolt had struck my soul, and I realized I would continue to exist only to become a pitiful reminder of what I once was—an unbearable sight of broken humanity, both to others and to myself.

We spent a significant time in Oxford, wandering its surroundings and trying to identify every spot connected to that thrilling chapter of English history. Our little explorations often stretched on as we encountered one fascinating site after another. We visited the tomb of the renowned Hampden and the field where that patriot had fallen. For a fleeting moment, my spirit lifted from its burdensome fears as I contemplated the noble ideals of liberty and self-sacrifice that these places represented. I dared to shake off my chains and gaze around with a sense of freedom and grandeur, but the weight of my despair pulled me back down, trembling and hopeless.

Leaving Oxford was bittersweet, and we continued on to Matlock, our next destination. The countryside around this village reminded me more of Switzerland, though everything felt on a smaller scale, and the green hills lacked the distant white peaks that crowned the pine-clad mountains of my homeland. We explored the remarkable cave and the small natural history exhibits, where curiosities were displayed much like in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The mention of that last name sent a shiver through me, and I was eager to leave Matlock, now forever linked to that dreadful memory.

From Derby, we journeyed northward, spending two months in Cumberland and Westmorland. I could almost convince myself I was among the Swiss mountains again. The patches of lingering snow on the northern slopes, the lakes, and the rushing rocky streams were all familiar and beloved sights. Here, we also made some acquaintances who nearly managed to draw me into happiness. Clerval’s delight was even greater than mine; his mind opened up in the company of talented individuals, and he discovered within himself capacities and resources he never knew he had while surrounded by those he considered inferior. “I could spend my life here,” he said to me. “Among these mountains, I would hardly miss Switzerland and the Rhine.”

But he soon realized that a traveler’s life is filled with both joy and pain. His emotions were always on edge, and just when he began to relax, he found himself compelled to leave behind the pleasure of one experience for the allure of another, only to abandon that for yet more new adventures.

We had barely explored the lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland, and developed a fondness for some of the locals, when the time came for our meeting with our Scottish friend. I was relieved to leave. I had neglected my promise for too long, and I worried about the consequences of the creature’s disappointment. What if he stayed in Switzerland and took his revenge on my family? This thought haunted me, robbing me of any chance for peace or rest.

I waited anxiously for my letters; if they were delayed, I was consumed by dread and a thousand fears. When they finally arrived, and I saw the familiar handwriting of Elizabeth or my father, I could hardly bring myself to read them, terrified of what I might find. Sometimes, I imagined that the monster was trailing me, ready to hasten my guilt by harming my friend. When these thoughts overwhelmed me, I clung to Henry, shadowing him everywhere to protect him from the imagined wrath of my tormentor. I felt as if I had committed a terrible crime, a burden of guilt that weighed heavily on me. I was innocent, yet I had unwittingly brought a dreadful curse upon myself, as real as any crime.

I arrived in Edinburgh with weary eyes and a troubled mind, even though the city could captivate the most unfortunate soul. Clerval preferred Oxford, finding its ancient charm more appealing. But the beauty and order of Edinburgh’s new town, with its stunning castle and breathtaking surroundings—Arthur’s Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills—filled him with joy and admiration. I, however, was restless, eager to reach the end of my journey.

After a week in Edinburgh, we set off, passing through Coupar and St. Andrew’s, along the banks of the Tay, until we reached Perth, where our friend awaited us. I wasn’t in the mood to socialize or engage with strangers, so I told Clerval that I wanted to explore Scotland alone. “You enjoy yourself,” I said. “Let’s plan to meet here. I might be gone for a month or two, but please don’t try to find me. I need some time for peace and solitude. When I return, I hope to be in a better frame of mind, more in tune with your spirit.”

Henry tried to talk me out of it, but seeing my determination, he stopped arguing. He asked me to write often. “I’d rather be with you on your solitary adventures than with these Scots I don’t know. Hurry back, my dear friend, so I can feel at home again, which I can’t do while you’re away.”

After parting ways with Henry, I resolved to find a remote corner of Scotland to finish my work in solitude. I was sure the creature was following me and would reveal himself once I completed my task, eager to claim his companion.

With that thought in mind, I journeyed through the northern highlands and settled on one of the most isolated of the Orkney Islands as the site for my work. It was a stark place, little more than a rock battered by the relentless waves. The land was barren, barely providing enough pasture for a few scrawny cows and some oatmeal for its inhabitants, who numbered just five, their thin, ragged bodies a testament to their meager existence. Fresh water, vegetables, and bread were luxuries brought in from the mainland, about five miles away.

On the entire island, there were only three shabby huts, and one was empty when I arrived. I rented it. The hut had two rooms, both showing the grim signs of extreme poverty. The roof had caved in, the walls were unplastered, and the door hung off its hinges. I had it repaired, bought some basic furniture, and moved in. This would have surprised anyone else, but the locals were so numbed by their own suffering that they hardly noticed my arrival. I lived in peace, unnoticed and unbothered, hardly thanked for the small amounts of food and clothing I provided, as hardship dulls even the most basic human responses.

In this retreat, I dedicated my mornings to work. In the evenings, when the weather allowed, I would walk along the rocky beach, listening to the waves crash at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland, so different from this desolate and haunting landscape. Its hills were lush with vines, and its cottages dotted the plains. Its beautiful lakes mirrored a gentle blue sky, and even when stirred by the winds, their turmoil was nothing compared to the thunderous roar of the ocean.

When I first arrived, I divided my time among various tasks, but as I continued my work, it became increasingly dreadful and tedious. There were days when I couldn’t bring myself to step into my laboratory, and then there were nights when I worked tirelessly, consumed by the need to finish. The process I was involved in was truly grotesque. During my initial experiment, a kind of wild enthusiasm had blinded me to the horror of what I was doing; I was so focused on the end goal that I ignored the gruesome nature of my actions. But now, I approached it with a clear mind, and my heart often sank at the sight of what my hands were creating.

In this grim situation, trapped in a loathsome task and isolated in a way that nothing could distract me from the reality of my work, my mood became erratic. I grew restless and anxious. Every moment, I dreaded the thought of encountering my tormentor. Sometimes, I found myself staring at the ground, too afraid to look up, fearing that I might see the very thing I dreaded most. I was reluctant to stray too far from other people, worried that when I was alone, he would come to claim me.

Despite this turmoil, I pressed on, and my work was progressing significantly. I looked toward its completion with a mix of shaky anticipation and an unsettling sense of foreboding that made my heart feel heavy. I dared not question the hope that flickered within me, knowing it was intertwined with dark premonitions of what might come.