Chapter 21

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

I was soon brought before the magistrate, an elderly man with a kind demeanor, though his gaze held a hint of sternness. He looked at me for a moment before turning to my escorts, asking who would testify in this matter.

A group of about six men stepped forward. One was chosen by the magistrate to speak. He recounted how he had been out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent. Around ten o’clock, they noticed a strong northern wind picking up and decided to head back to shore. It was a dark night; the moon hadn’t risen yet. Instead of landing at the harbor, they went to a creek about two miles down, a spot they were used to.

He walked ahead, carrying part of their fishing gear, while his companions followed at a distance. As he walked along the sand, he stumbled over something and fell. His friends rushed to help him, and with the light of their lantern, they discovered he had fallen on the body of a man who seemed lifeless. Initially, they thought it might be the body of someone who had drowned, washed ashore by the waves. But upon closer inspection, they found the clothes were dry and the body was still warm. They quickly took it to a nearby cottage belonging to an old woman, trying in vain to revive him. The man looked to be in his mid-twenties and had apparently been strangled; the only sign of violence was a dark mark around his neck.

I barely registered the first part of the testimony, but when the mark on the neck was mentioned, I was struck with a wave of anxiety. Memories of my brother’s murder flooded back, and I felt my body tremble. A haze clouded my vision, forcing me to lean against a chair for support. The magistrate watched me closely, undoubtedly interpreting my reaction as suspicious.

The son confirmed his father’s account, but when Daniel Nugent took the stand, he insisted that just before his friend fell, he had seen a boat with a single man in it not far from shore. From what he could tell under the dim starlight, it looked like the same boat I had just arrived in.

Another woman testified that she lived near the beach and had been waiting for the fishermen’s return when she saw a boat with one man push off from the same area where the body was later found.

Yet another woman confirmed that the fishermen had brought the body into her home. It was still warm. They laid it on a bed and tried to revive it while Daniel went to town for a doctor, but it was too late.

Several other men were questioned about my arrival, and they agreed that with the strong north wind that had picked up during the night, it was likely I had been drifting for hours and had ended up nearly back where I started. They noted that it seemed I had brought the body from another location, and since I didn’t know the area well, I might have unknowingly landed far from where I had left the corpse.

Mr. Kirwin, upon hearing this testimony, decided I should be taken to the room where the body lay for burial, to see how I would react to it. This suggestion likely stemmed from my earlier agitation when the details of the murder were discussed. I was led by the magistrate and several others to the inn.

As I walked, I couldn’t help but reflect on the strange coincidences of that fateful night. I had been speaking with various people on the island around the time the body was discovered, so I felt a strange calm about the situation.

Entering the room where the corpse lay, I was led to the coffin. How can I even begin to describe what I felt? The horror still grips me, and I shudder at the memory of that moment. Everything—the examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses—faded from my mind when I saw Henry Clerval’s lifeless body before me. I gasped, throwing myself over him, crying out, “Have my murderous plans taken you too, my dearest Henry? I have already destroyed two lives; more victims await their fate. But you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor—”

The weight of my anguish became unbearable, and I was carried out of the room, wracked with convulsions.

A fever took hold of me after that. I spent two months teetering on the brink of death. My ravings, as I later learned, were terrifying. I accused myself of murdering William, Justine, and Clerval. At times, I begged my caretakers to help me destroy the monster that tormented me, while at other moments, I felt its fingers tightening around my throat, screaming in agony and terror. Fortunately, since I spoke my native language, only Mr. Kirwin understood me. My wild gestures and desperate cries were enough to frighten everyone else around me.

Why didn’t I just die? More miserable than anyone could imagine, why didn’t I slip into forgetfulness and find peace? Death takes away so many innocent children, the only hopes of their adoring parents. How many brides and young lovers, full of health and hope one day, become nothing but food for worms the next? What was I made of that allowed me to endure so much suffering, like a wheel that keeps turning, renewing my torment?

But I was meant to live. After two months, I found myself waking up in a prison, lying on a miserable bed, surrounded by guards, bolts, and the grim trappings of a dungeon. I remember it was morning when I finally regained my senses. I had forgotten the details of what had happened, but I felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me. When I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalor of the room, everything came rushing back, and I groaned in despair.

My sound stirred an old woman who had been sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a nurse, the wife of one of the guards, and her face showed all the harsh traits typical of her kind. The lines etched into her skin were hard and unyielding, like someone who had grown accustomed to witnessing suffering without feeling it. Her voice was indifferent as she spoke to me in English, a tone I recognized from my delirium.

“Are you feeling better now, sir?” she asked.

I replied weakly, “I think I am; but if it’s all true—if I didn’t just dream this—I’m sorry to still be alive to endure this misery and horror.”

“Well,” she said, “if you’re talking about the gentleman you murdered, I think it would be better for you if you were dead. It’s going to be tough for you! But that’s not my concern; I’m here to nurse you back to health. I do my job with a clear conscience; it would be nice if everyone did the same.”

I turned away from her in disgust, unable to believe someone could speak so callously to someone just pulled back from the brink of death. I felt weak and couldn’t process everything that had happened. My entire life felt like a dream, and I sometimes doubted its reality, as it never seemed to present itself with the weight of truth.

As the images in my mind sharpened, I grew feverish. Darkness closed in around me; no one was there to comfort me with a loving voice, no familiar hand to support me. The doctor came and prescribed medicine, and the old woman prepared it for me, but his indifference was clear, and the brutality in her expression was unmistakable. Who would care about the fate of a murderer except the hangman waiting for his fee?

These were my initial thoughts, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me great kindness. He had arranged for the best room in the prison to be prepared for me—though “best” was a relative term in such a place—and he had provided a physician and a nurse. It’s true that he rarely visited, as much as he wanted to help every suffering soul; he didn’t want to witness the agonies and ravings of a murderer. He would come occasionally to ensure I wasn’t neglected, but his visits were brief and infrequent.

One day, as I was slowly recovering, I sat in a chair, my eyes half-closed, my cheeks pale like those of the dead. Overcome by gloom and despair, I often thought it would be better to seek death than to remain in a world filled with such misery. At one point, I even considered confessing my guilt and accepting the law’s punishment, feeling less innocent than poor Justine had been. Those were my thoughts when the door to my room opened, and Mr. Kirwin walked in. His face showed sympathy and compassion as he pulled a chair closer to mine and spoke to me in French.

“I fear this place is very distressing for you. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“Thank you, but nothing you suggest matters to me. There is no comfort in this world that I can accept.”

“I know that the sympathy of a stranger can offer little comfort to someone as burdened by misfortune as you are. But I hope you’ll soon leave this sad place, as I’m sure evidence can be found to clear you of the charges against you.”

“That’s the least of my worries. I’ve become the most miserable person alive through a series of strange events. With the torment I’ve endured, can death be any worse?”

“Nothing could be more tragic and agonizing than the bizarre circumstances that have unfolded. You were cast upon this shore, known for its hospitality, only to be seized and accused of murder. The first thing you saw was the body of your friend, killed in such an inexplicable way, lying there as if placed by some malevolent force.”

As Mr. Kirwin spoke, I felt a mix of anguish and surprise at how much he seemed to know about me. I must have shown my shock, for he quickly added,

“After you fell ill, all the papers on you were brought to me. I examined them, hoping to find a way to inform your family about your misfortune and illness. I found several letters, including one from your father. I wrote to Geneva immediately; it’s been nearly two months since my letter was sent. But you’re unwell; you’re trembling now, and you shouldn’t be agitated.”

“This uncertainty is far worse than any terrible news. Just tell me what new tragedy has occurred, and whose death I must now mourn?”

“Your family is perfectly well,” Mr. Kirwin said gently. “And someone, a friend, has come to see you.”

I don’t know how I came to think it, but the idea struck me that the murderer had come to gloat over my suffering and taunt me with Clerval’s death, pushing me further into despair. I covered my eyes and cried out in anguish,

“Oh! Take him away! I can’t bear to see him; please, don’t let him in!”

Mr. Kirwin looked at me with concern. He couldn’t help but interpret my outburst as a sign of guilt and replied in a stern tone,

“I would have thought that your father’s presence would be welcome, rather than provoke such a strong aversion.”

“My father!” I exclaimed, every part of me shifting from despair to joy. “Is my father really here? How kind, how very kind! But where is he? Why isn’t he here with me?”

My sudden change in demeanor surprised and pleased the magistrate. Perhaps he thought my earlier outburst was just a fleeting moment of delirium. He quickly returned to his kind demeanor, stood up, and left the room with my nurse. Moments later, my father entered.

Nothing could have brought me greater joy than seeing my father. I reached out to him and cried,

“Are you safe? And Elizabeth? And Ernest?”

My father reassured me of their well-being and tried to lift my spirits by talking about things that mattered to me. But he soon realized that a prison is no place for cheerfulness. “What a place you’re in, my son!” he said, looking sadly at the barred windows and the dismal state of the room. “You traveled seeking happiness, but it seems fate is against you. And poor Clerval—”

Hearing the name of my unfortunate friend stirred an unbearable grief within me, and I couldn’t help but cry.

“Yes, my father,” I replied. “Some terrible destiny hangs over me, and I must live to face it, or I would have surely died on Henry’s coffin.”

We couldn’t talk for long, as my fragile health required that I avoid any strain. Mr. Kirwin came in, insisting that I conserve my strength and not overexert myself. But my father’s presence felt like that of a guardian angel, and slowly, I began to regain my health.

As my illness faded, I was consumed by a deep, dark melancholy that nothing seemed able to lift. The image of Clerval haunted me, a ghostly reminder of his murder. More than once, my friends feared that my distress might lead to a dangerous relapse. Why did they cling to such a miserable existence? Surely it was so I could fulfill my fate, which now felt like it was nearing its end. Soon—oh, so very soon—death would extinguish my pain and free me from the heavy burden of anguish that dragged me down. In the pursuit of justice, I would finally find rest. Though death felt distant, the desire for it was ever-present in my mind. I often sat for hours, motionless and silent, wishing for some great upheaval that might bury both me and my tormentor in its ruins.

The time for the court proceedings approached. I had already spent three months in prison, and though I was still weak and at risk of relapsing, I had to travel nearly a hundred miles to the town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin took it upon himself to gather witnesses and prepare my defense. I was spared the humiliation of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case hadn’t reached the court that decides life and death. The grand jury dismissed the charges when it was proven that I had been on the Orkney Islands at the time my friend’s body was discovered. Two weeks after my transfer, I was released from prison.

My father was overjoyed to find me free from the burdens of a criminal charge, able to breathe fresh air again and return to my homeland. I didn’t share in his joy; to me, the walls of a dungeon felt just as unbearable as those of a palace. Life had become a poisoned chalice, and even though the sun shone on me like it did on the happy and carefree, I saw only a thick, terrifying darkness around me, illuminated only by the glare of two haunting eyes. Sometimes they were Henry’s expressive eyes, fading in death, nearly closed beneath long, dark lashes. Other times, they were the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I had first seen them in my room at Ingolstadt.

My father tried to stir feelings of affection within me. He spoke of Geneva, which I would soon visit, and of Elizabeth and Ernest, but his words only drew deep groans from me. Occasionally, I felt a flicker of longing for happiness and thought with bittersweet nostalgia of my beloved cousin or yearned to see once more the blue lake and rushing Rhône that had been so dear to me in my childhood. Yet, my overall state was one of numbness, where a prison felt as welcome as the most beautiful scene in nature. These moments of longing were rarely interrupted except by fits of anguish and despair. During those times, I often tried to end the existence I loathed, and it took constant vigilance to prevent me from committing some act of violence.

Yet one duty remained, a thought that eventually triumphed over my selfish despair. I needed to return to Geneva without delay, to watch over the lives of those I loved and to lie in wait for the murderer. If fate brought me to his hiding place, or if he dared to confront me again, I wanted to be ready to end the existence of the monstrous figure I had unwittingly given a twisted semblance of a soul. My father wanted to delay our departure, fearing I wouldn’t be able to handle the journey, for I was a broken shell of a person. My strength had vanished; I was little more than a skeleton, and fever gnawed at my frail body day and night.

As I urged my father to leave Ireland, my restlessness and impatience grew unbearable. Eventually, he agreed, and we boarded a ship headed for Havre-de-Grace. The wind was favorable as we set sail from the Irish coast under the cover of midnight.

Lying on the deck, I gazed at the stars and listened to the waves crashing against the hull. I welcomed the darkness that concealed Ireland from my view, and my heart raced with a feverish joy at the thought of soon reaching Geneva. The memories of my past felt like a terrifying dream; yet the ship beneath me, the wind pushing me away from the loathed shores of Ireland, and the vast sea surrounding me reminded me that this was no illusion. Clerval, my dear friend and companion, had fallen victim to me and the monster I had created.

I replayed my life in my mind: the quiet happiness I had known with my family in Geneva, the painful loss of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I shuddered at the reckless enthusiasm that had driven me to bring my hideous enemy to life, recalling the night he first opened his eyes. I struggled to continue my thoughts; a flood of emotions overwhelmed me, and I wept bitterly.

Since recovering from my fever, I had taken a small dose of laudanum each night, as it was the only way I could find the rest I desperately needed. Burdened by the weight of my misfortunes, I swallowed double my usual dose and soon fell into a deep sleep. But sleep offered no escape from my thoughts and anguish; my dreams were filled with terrifying visions.

As dawn approached, I was gripped by a nightmare. I felt the fiend's hand around my neck, unable to break free. Groans and cries echoed in my ears. My father, who had been watching over me, noticed my restlessness and gently woke me. The crashing waves surrounded us, the sky was overcast, and the monster was not there. A sense of security washed over me, a fleeting feeling that a temporary truce existed between this moment and the inevitable, disastrous future. It brought me a calm forgetfulness, something the human mind is particularly prone to in times of distress.