by Mary Shelley
“The cold tomb held the gentle form of Mrs. Rivers: each day we visited it, and each day we collected fresh memorials, and exhausted ourselves in talk concerning the lost one. Immediately on my arrival I had written to my uncle, and the cause of my rash act pleading my excuse, it was visited less severely than I expected; I was told that it was well that I displayed affection and gratitude towards a too indulgent friend, though my depravity betrayed itself in the manner even in which I fulfilled a duty. I was bid at once return to the college — after a fortnight had passed I obeyed; and now I lived on Alithea’s letters, which breathed only her eloquent regrets — already my own dream of life was formed to be for ever her protector, her friend, her servant, her all that she could deign to make me; to devote myself day after day, year after year, through all my life to her only. While with her, oppressed by grief as we both were, I did not understand my own sensations, and the burning of my heart, which opened as a volcano when I heard her only speak my name, or felt the touch of her soft hand. But, returned to college, a veil fell from my eyes. I knew that I loved her, I hailed the discovery with transport; I hugged to my bosom the idea that she was the first and last being to awaken the tumultuous sensations that took away my breath, dimmed my eyes, and dissolved me into tenderness.
“Soon after her mother’s death she was placed as a parlour boarder at a school — I saw her once there, but I did not see her alone — I could not speak, I could only gaze on her unexampled loveliness; nor, strange to say, did I wish to disclose the passion that agitated me; she was so young, so confiding, so innocent, I wished to be but as a brother to her, for I had a sort of restless presentiment, that distance and reserve would ensue on my disclosing my other feeling. In fact, I was a mere boy; I knew myself to be a friendless one, and I desired time and consideration, and the fortunate moment to occur, before I exchanged our present guileless, but warm and tender attachment, for the hopes and throes of a passion which demands a future, and is therefore full of peril. True, when I left her I reproached myself for my cowardice; but I would not write, and deferred, till I saw her, all explanation of my feelings.
“Some months after, the time arrived when I was to embark for India. Captain Rivers had returned, and inhabited the beloved cottage, and Alithea dwelt with him; I went to see her previous to my departure. My soul was in tumults; I desired to take her with me; but that was impossible, and yet to leave her thus, and go into a far and long exile away from her, was too frightful; I could not believe that I could exist without the near hope and expectation of seeing her, without that constant mingling of hearts which made her life-blood but as a portion of my own. My resolution was easily made to claim her as mine, my betrothed, my future bride; and I had a vague notion that, if I were accepted, Captain Rivers would form some plan to prevent my going to India, or to bring me back speedily. I arrived at the cottage, and the first sight of her father was painful to me — he was rough and uncouth; and though proud of his daughter, yet treated her with little of that deference to which she had a right even from him — the more reason, I thought, to make her mine; and that very evening I expressed my desire to Captain Rivers: a horse-laugh was the reply — he treated me partly as a mad boy, partly as an impertinent beggar. My passions were roused, my indignation burst all the fetters I sought to throw over it — I answered haughtily — insolently — our words were loud and rude; I laughed at his menaces, and scoffed at his authority. I retorted scorn with scorn, till the fiery old sailor was provoked to knock me down. In all this I thought not of him in the sacred character of Alithea’s father — I knew but one parent for her, she had as it were joined us by making us companions, and friends — both children of her heart; she was gone, and the rude tyrant who usurped her place excited only detestation and loathing, from the insolence of his pretensions. Still, when he struck me, his age, and his infirmities — for he was lame — prevented my returning the blow. I rose, and folding my arms, and looking at him with a smile of ineffable contempt, I said, “Poor miserable man! do you think to degrade me by a blow? but for pity, I could return it so that you would never lift up your head again from that floor — I spare you — farewell. You have taught me one lesson — I will die rather than leave Alithea in the hands of a ruffian, such as you.” With these words I turned on my heel, and walked out of the house.
“I repaired to a neighbouring public-house, and wrote to Alithea, asking, demanding an interview; I claimed it in her mother’s name. Her answer came, it was wetted with her tears — dear gentle being! — so alien was her nature from all strife, that the very idea of contention shook her delicate frame, and seemed almost to unhinge her reason. She respected her father, and she loved me with an affection nourished by long companionship, and sacred associations. She promised to meet me, if I would abstain from again seeing her father.
“In the same wood, and at the same midnight hour, as when before she came to bring assistance and consolation to the outcast boy three years before, I saw her again; and for the last time, before I quitted England. Alithea had one fault, if such name may be given to a delicacy of structure that rendered every clash of human passion, terrifying. In physical danger, she could show herself a heroine; but awaken her terror of moral evil, and she was hurried away beyond all self-command by spasms of fear. Thus, as she came now clandestinely, under the cover of night, her father’s denunciations still sounding in her ears — the friend of her youth banished — going away for ever; and that departure disturbed by strife, her reason almost forsook her — she was bewildered — clinging to me with tears — yet fearful at every minute of discovery. It was a parting of anguish. She did not feel the passion that ruled my bosom. Hers was a gentler, sisterly feeling; yet not the less entwined with the principles of her being, and necessary to her existence. She lavished caresses and words of endearment on me: she could not tear herself away; yet she rejected firmly every idea of disobedience to her father; and the burning expressions of my love found no echo in her bosom.
“Thus we parted; and a few days afterwards I was on the wide sea, sailing for my distant bourn. At first I had felt disappointed and angry; but soon imagination shed radiance over what had seemed chilly and dim. I felt her dear head repose on my heart; I saw her bright eyes overbrimming with tears; and heard her sweet voice repeat again and again her vow never to forget her brother, her more than brother, her only friend; the only being left her to love. No wonder that, during the various changes of a long voyage — during reveries indulged endlessly through calm nights, and the mightier emotions awakened by storm and danger, that the memory of this affection grew into a conviction that I was loved, and a belief that she was mine forever.
“I am not writing my life; and, but for the wish to appear less criminal in my dear child’s eyes, I had not written a word of the foregone pages, but leaped at once to the mere facts that justify poor Alithea, and tell the tragic story of her death. Years have past, and oblivion has swept away all memory of the events of which I speak. Who recollects the wise, white lady of the secluded cot, and her houri daughter? This heart alone, there they live enshrined. My dreams call up their forms. I visit them in my solitary reveries. I try to forget the ensuing years, and to become the heedless, half-savage boy, who listened with wonder, yet conviction, to lessons of virtue; and to call back the melting of the heart which the wise lady’s words produced, and the bounding, wild joy I felt beside her child. If there is a hell, it need no other torment but memory to call back such scenes as these, and bid me remember the destruction that ensued.
“I remained ten years in India, an officer in a regiment of the Company’s cavalry. I saw a good deal of service; went through much suffering; and doing my duty on the field of battle, or at the hour of attack, I gained that approbation in the field, which I lost when in quarters by a sort of systematized insubordination, which was a part of my untameable nature. In action even, I went beyond my orders — however that was forgiven; but when in quarters, I took part with the weak, and showed con
tempt for the powerful. I was looked upon as dangerous; and the more so, that the violence of my temper often made my manner in a high degree reprehensible. I attached myself to several natives; that was a misdemeanor. I strove to inculcate European tastes and spirit, enlightened views, and liberal policy, to one or two native princes, whom, from some ill-luck, the English governors wished to keep in ignorance and darkness. I was for ever entangled in the intimacy, and driven to try to serve the oppressed; while the affection I excited was considered disaffection on my part to the rulers. Sometimes also I met with ingratitude and treachery; my actions were misrepresented, either by prejudice or malice; and my situation, of a subordinate officer, without fortune, gave to the influence I acquired, through learning the language and respecting the habits and feelings of the natives, an air of something so inexplicable, as might, in the dark ages, have been attributed to witchcraft, and in these enlightened times was considered a tendency to the most dangerous intrigues. Having saved an old rajah’s life, and having taken great pains to extricate him from a difficulty in which the Europeans had purposely entangled him, it became rumoured that I aspired to succeed to a native principality, and I was peremptorily ordered off to another station. My views were in diametrical opposition to the then Indian government. My conversation was heedless — my youthful imagination exalted by native magnificence; I own I often dreamt of the practicability of driving the merchant sovereigns from Hindostan. There was, as is the essence of my character, much boyish folly joined to dangerous passion; all of which took the guise in my own heart of that high heroic adventure with which I longed to adorn my life. A subaltern in the Company’s service, I could never gain my Alithea, or do her the honour with which I longed to crown her. The acquisition of power, of influence, of station, would exalt me in her father’s eyes — so much of what was selfish mingled in my conduct — but I was too young and impetuous to succeed. Those in power watched me narrowly. The elevation of a day was always followed by a quick transfer to an unknown and distant province.
“In all my wildest schemes the thought of Alithea reigned paramount. My only object was to prove myself worthy of her; and my only dream for the future was to make her mine for ever.
“A constancy of ten years, strung perpetually up to the height of passion, may appear improbable; yet it was so. It was my nature to hold an object with tenacious grasp — to show a proud contempt of obstacles — to resolve on ultimate triumph. Besides this, the idea of Alithea was so kneaded up and incorporate with my being, that my living heart must have been searched and anatomized to its core, before the portion belonging to her could have been divided from the rest. I disdained the thought of every other woman. It was my pride to look coldly on every charm, and to shut my heart against all but Alithea. During the first years of my residence in India, I often wrote to her, and pouring out my soul on paper, I conjured her to preserve herself for me. I told her how each solitary jungle or mountain ravine spoke to me of a secluded home with her; how every palace and gorgeous hall seemed yet a shrine too humble for her. The very soul of passion breathed along the lines I traced — they were such as an affianced lover would have written, pure in their tenderness; but heart-felt, penetrating, and eloquent; they were my dearest comfort. After long, wearisome marches — after the dangers of an assault or a skirmish — after a day spent among the sick or dying — in the midst of many disappointments and harassing cares; during the storms of pride and the languor of despair, it was my consolation to fly to her image and to recall the tender happiness of reunion — to endeavour to convey to her how she was my hope and aim — my fountain in the desert, the shadowy tree to shelter me from the burning sun — the soft breeze to refresh me — the angelic visitor to the unfortunate martyr. Not one of these letters ever reached her — her father destroyed them all: on his head be the crime and the remorse of his daughter’s death! Fool and coward! would I shift to other shoulders the heavy weight? No! no! crime and remorse still link me to her. Let them eat into my frame with fiery torture; they are better than forgetfulness!
“I had two hopes in India: one was, to raise myself to such a station as would render me worthy of Alithea in the eyes of Captain Rivers; the other, to return to England — to find change there — to find love in her heart — and to move her to quit all for me. By turns these two dreams reigned over me; I indulged in them with complacency — I returned to them with ardour — I nourished them with perseverance. I never saw a young Indian mother with her infant but my soul dissolved in tender fancies of domestic union and bliss with Alithea. There was something in her soft, dark eye, and in the turn of her countenance, purely eastern; and many a lovely, half-veiled face I could have taken for hers; many a slight, symmetrical figure, round, elegant and delicate, seemed her own, as, with elastic undulating motion, they passed on their way to temple or feast. I cultivated all these fancies; they nourished my fidelity, and made the thought of her the absolute law of my life.
“Ten years passed, and then news came that altered my whole situation. My uncle and his only son died; the family estate devolved on me. I was rich and free. Rich in my own eyes, and in the eyes of all to whom competency is wealth. I felt sure that, with this inheritance, Captain Rivers would not disdain me for his child. I gave up my commission immediately, and returned to England.
“England and Alithea! How balmy, how ineffably sweet was the idea of once more beholding the rural spot where she resided; of treading the woodland paths with her — of visiting her dear mother’s grave — of renewing our old associations, and knitting our destinies inextricably in one. It was a voyage of bliss. I longed for its conclusion; but feeling that a pathway was stretched across the ocean, leading even into her very presence, I blessed each wave or tract of azure sea we passed over. The limitless Atlantic was my road to her, and became glorified as the vision of the Hebrew shepherd boy; and yet loved, with the same home-felt sweetness as that with which I used to regard the lime-tree walk that led to her garden-gate. I forgot the years that had elapsed since we met; it was with difficulty that I forced my imagination to remember that I should not find her pale mother beside her to sanctify our union.
CHAPTER XI.
“On landing in England, I at once set off to the far northern county where she resided. I arrived at the well-known village; all looked the same; I recognized the cottages and their flower-gardens, and even some of the elder inhabitants, looking, methought, no older than when I left them. My heart hailed my return home with rapture, and I quickened my steps towards the cottage. It was shut up and abandoned. This was the first check my sanguine spirit had met. Hitherto I had not pronounced her name nor asked a question — I longed to return, as from a walk, and to find all things as I had left it. Living in a dream, I had not considered the chances and the storms, or even the mere changes, of the seasons of life.
“My pen lags in its task — I dilate on things best hurried over, yet they serve as a screen between me and fate. A few inquiries revealed the truth. Captain Rivers was dead — his daughter married. I had lived in a fool’s paradise. None of the obstacles existed that I expected to meet and conquer but in their stead a fourfold brazen door had risen, locked, barred and guarded, and I could not even shake a hinge, or put back a bolt.
“I hurried from the fatal spot; it became a hell to me. And oh, to think that I had lived in vain — vainly dreamt of the angel of my idolatry, vainly hoped — and most vainly loved; called her mine when another held her, sold myself to perpetual slavery to her shadow, while her living image enriched the shrine of another’s home! The tempest that shook my soul did not permit me to give form, or indeed to dwell consecutively on such desolating thoughts. As a man who arrives from a pleasant journey, and turns the corner where he expects to view the dwelling in which repose his wife, his children — all dear to him — and when he gains the desired spot, beholds it smouldering in ashes, and is told that all are consumed, and that their bones lie beneath the ruins; thus was I — my imagination had created
home, and bride, and fair beings sprung from her side, who called me father, and one word defaced my whole future life and widowed me for ever. “Now began that chain of incidents that led to a deed I had not thought of. Incidents or accidents; acts, done I know not why; nothing in themselves; but meeting, and kindled by the fiery spirit that raged in my bosom, they gave such direction to its ruinous powers, as produced the tragedy for ever to be deplored.
“Bewildered and overwhelmed by the loss which to me had all the novelty and keenness of a disaster of yesterday, though I found that many years had gone by, since, in reality, it was completed, I fled from the spot I had so fondly sought, and hurried up to London on no fixed errand, with no determined idea, yet vaguely desiring to do something. Scarcely arrived, I met a man whom I had known in India. He asked me to dine with him, and I complied; because to refuse would have required explanation, and the affirmative was more easily given. I did not mean to keep my engagement; yet when the hour came, so intolerable had I become to myself — so poignant and loathsome were my thoughts — that I went, so to lose for a few moments the present sense of ill. It was a bachelor’s dinner, and there were in addition to myself three or four other guests — among them a Mr. Neville. From the moment this man opened his lips to speak, I took a violent dislike to him. He was, and always must have been, the man whom among ten thousand I should have marked out to abhor. He was cold, proud, and sarcastic, withal a decayed dandy, turned cynic — who, half despising himself, tried wholly to disdain his fellow creatures. A man whose bosom never glowed with a generous emotion, and who took pride in the sagacity which enabled him to detect worms and corruption in the loveliness of virtue. A poor, mean-spirited fellow, despite his haughty outside; and then when he spoke of women, how base a thing he seemed! his disbelief in their excellence, his contemptuous pity, his insulting love, made my blood boil. To me there was something sacred in a woman’s very shadow. Was she evil, I regarded her with the pious regret with which I might view a shrine desecrated by sacrilegious hands — the odour of sanctity still floated around the rifled altar; I never could regard them as mere fellow-creatures — they were beings of a better species, sometimes gone astray in the world’s wilderness, but always elevated above the best among us. For Alithea’s sake I respected every woman. How much good I knew of them! Generous, devoted, delicate — their very faults were but misdirected virtues; and this animal dared revile beings of whose very nature he could form no conception. A burthen was lifted from my soul when he left us.
