Chapter 9

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Nothing is more painful for the human mind than the stillness that follows a whirlwind of emotions, a calm that strips the soul of both hope and fear. Justine was gone, her suffering ended, while I remained alive. My blood coursed through my veins, yet a heavy weight of despair and guilt pressed down on my heart, a burden that seemed impossible to lift. Sleep evaded me; I drifted through life like a restless spirit, haunted by the unspeakable horrors I had unleashed, and I feared that even worse was yet to come.

Despite this turmoil, my heart still brimmed with kindness and a longing for virtue. I had started my life with noble intentions, eager to help others and make a difference. But now, everything lay in ruins. Instead of the peace of mind that once allowed me to reflect on my past with satisfaction and hope for the future, I was consumed by guilt and remorse, spiraling into a hell of torment that words could never capture.

This mental anguish took a toll on my health, which had perhaps never fully recovered from the initial shock I had experienced. I avoided human contact; the sounds of joy and contentment felt like daggers to my heart. Solitude became my only refuge—deep, dark, suffocating solitude.

My father noticed the change in me, the pain evident in my demeanor and habits. He tried to inspire me with courage, using his own serene conscience and guiltless life as a guide. “Do you think, Victor,” he said, “that I don’t suffer too? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother.” Tears welled in his eyes as he spoke. “But isn’t it our duty to the living to not add to their sorrow with excessive grief? It’s also a duty to yourself; too much sorrow hinders improvement, enjoyment, and even the ability to fulfill daily responsibilities, which are essential for anyone to be part of society.”

Though his advice was wise, it felt irrelevant to my situation. I would have been the first to hide my grief and comfort my friends if it weren’t for the bitterness of remorse and the terror that mingled with my other emotions. In response, I could only meet my father’s gaze with despair and try to retreat from his sight.

Around this time, we moved to our house at Belrive, a change that brought me some relief. The strict curfew of ten o’clock in Geneva had felt suffocating, and now I was free. Often, after the rest of the family had gone to bed, I would take a boat out onto the lake and spend hours drifting on the water. Sometimes the wind would carry me along with my sails up, and other times, I would row to the center of the lake, letting the boat drift while I sank into my own miserable thoughts.

In the stillness of the night, surrounded by beauty, I often found myself tempted to plunge into the silent waters, to let them cover me and my troubles forever. But I held back, thinking of Elizabeth, the heroic and suffering woman I loved, whose life was intertwined with mine. I also thought of my father and my surviving brother; how could I abandon them to the wrath of the monster I had unleashed?

In those moments, I cried bitterly, wishing for peace of mind so I could bring them comfort and happiness. But that was impossible. Remorse snuffed out every glimmer of hope. I had caused irreversible harm, and I lived in constant fear that the creature I had created would commit more atrocities. Deep down, I sensed that it wasn’t over, that he would carry out some horrific act that would overshadow the past. As long as anything I loved remained, there was always room for fear.

My hatred for that fiend was beyond comprehension. When I thought of him, my teeth clenched, my eyes burned with rage, and I desperately wished to extinguish the life I had so carelessly given. Reflecting on his crimes and malice, my desire for revenge surged beyond reason. I would have journeyed to the highest peak of the Andes just to cast him down into the abyss below. I longed to see him again, to unleash my fury and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.

Our home had become a place of mourning. My father's health had been deeply affected by the horror of recent events. Elizabeth was sad and withdrawn; she no longer found joy in her usual activities. To her, any pleasure felt like a betrayal to the dead. She believed that eternal sorrow and tears were the only fitting tribute to innocence so tragically lost. Gone was the happy girl who once wandered with me along the lake, dreaming excitedly about our future. The first of life’s sorrows had struck her, dimming her brightest smiles.

“When I think about the tragic death of Justine Moritz,” she said, “I can no longer see the world as I once did. Before, I viewed stories of vice and injustice in books or from others as tales from the past or imaginary horrors; they felt distant and more logical than real. But now, misery has come home, and people seem like monsters, eager to tear each other apart. Yet, I know I’m being unfair. Everyone believed that poor girl was guilty. If she had truly committed the crime for which she was punished, she would have been the most depraved of humans. To kill the son of her benefactor and friend, a child she had cared for since birth and loved as if he were her own, for a few jewels? I could never agree to the death of any human being, but I would have thought someone capable of that unfit for society. But she was innocent. I know it, I feel it; you believe it too, and that reassures me. Oh, Victor, when lies can appear so much like the truth, how can anyone be sure of their happiness? I feel like I’m walking on the edge of a cliff, with thousands trying to push me into the abyss. William and Justine were murdered, and the real killer walks free, perhaps even respected. Even if I were condemned to die for the same crimes, I wouldn’t trade places with such a monster.”

I listened to her words, feeling a deep agony. I was not the one who had committed the act, but in effect, I was the true murderer. Elizabeth saw my distress etched on my face and gently took my hand. “My dearest friend, you must calm down. These events have affected me deeply, but I am not as wretched as you are. There’s a look of despair, and sometimes revenge, in your eyes that frightens me. Please, Victor, banish these dark thoughts. Remember the friends around you who place all their hopes in you. Have we lost the ability to make you happy? As long as we love and remain true to one another, here in this land of peace and beauty, your homeland, we can find every tranquil blessing—what could disturb our peace?”

Could her words, coming from the one I cherished above all else, really chase away the darkness lurking in my heart? As she spoke, I moved closer to her, terrified that the destroyer might be near, ready to take her from me.

Yet, not even the warmth of friendship, nor the beauty of the earth or sky, could save my soul from despair; even the sweetest words of love fell flat. I was surrounded by a cloud that no light could penetrate. I felt like a wounded deer, dragging itself to a hidden thicket, where it could gaze at the arrow that had struck it and die in solitude.

Sometimes I managed to cope with the heavy despair that enveloped me, but at other times, the storm of my emotions drove me to seek relief through physical exertion and change of scenery. It was during one of those restless moments that I suddenly left home, heading toward the nearby Alpine valleys, hoping to lose myself in the grandeur and timelessness of those landscapes and escape my fleeting, human sorrows. My path led me to the valley of Chamounix, a place I had visited often in my youth. Six years had passed since then; I was a wreck, but nothing had changed in those wild, eternal scenes.

I started my journey on horseback, but soon switched to a mule, which was steadier and less likely to get hurt on these rough roads. The weather was perfect; it was mid-August, nearly two months since Justine’s death, a time that marked the beginning of all my suffering. As I ventured deeper into the Arve ravine, I felt a noticeable lightness in my spirit. The towering mountains and steep cliffs surrounded me, the river roared among the rocks, and waterfalls crashed nearby, all showcasing a power as great as the divine. In that moment, I stopped fearing anything less than the force that had created and governed the elements, which were on full display in their most awe-inspiring form.

As I climbed higher, the valley transformed into something even more magnificent. Ruined castles clung to the cliffs of pine-covered mountains, the fierce Arve rushed by, and quaint cottages peeked out from the trees, creating a scene of unique beauty. This beauty was elevated to the sublime by the majestic Alps, their white peaks and domes soaring above, as if they belonged to another world, the homes of a different kind of being.

I crossed the Pélissier bridge, where the ravine carved by the river opened up before me, and I began my ascent of the mountain looming above. Soon, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley was more awe-inspiring and grand, though not as picturesque as the Servox valley I had just traversed. Towering snowy mountains framed the landscape, but there were no more ruined castles or fertile fields. Massive glaciers edged the road, and I could hear the thunderous rumble of avalanches and see the smoke they left in their wake. Mont Blanc, the magnificent Mont Blanc, rose above the surrounding peaks, its colossal dome casting a shadow over the valley.

As I traveled, a long-forgotten sense of joy would occasionally wash over me. A bend in the road or a familiar sight would remind me of happier days, evoking the carefree spirit of my childhood. The winds seemed to whisper soothingly, and Nature herself urged me to stop my weeping. But then, just as suddenly, that comforting influence would fade, and I would find myself shackled by grief, drowning in a sea of reflection. In desperation, I would spur my mule on, trying to forget the world, my fears, and most importantly, myself. Sometimes, I would dismount and collapse onto the grass, overwhelmed by horror and despair.

Eventually, I reached the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion washed over me, a result of the intense fatigue that had gripped both my body and mind. For a brief moment, I sat by the window, watching the pale lightning dance above Mont Blanc and listening to the Arve rushing noisily below. The soothing sounds acted like a lullaby to my heightened senses. When I finally laid my head on the pillow, sleep began to envelop me, and I welcomed it, grateful for the gift of forgetfulness.