(the Modern Prometheus)

by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

Letter 1

To Mrs. Saville, England

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17--

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement

of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.

I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister

of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets

of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks,

which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand

this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions

towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.

Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent

and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole

is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself

to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There,

Margaret,

the sun is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon

and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There--for with your leave,

my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators--

there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea,

we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty

every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe.

Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena

of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.

What may not be expected in a country of eternal light?

I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle

and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require

only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.

I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world

never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted

by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they are sufficient

to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence

this labourious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks

in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery

up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false,

you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer

on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage

near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months

are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which,

if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter,

and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven,

for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind

as a steady purpose--a point on which the soul may fix

its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream

of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts

of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect

of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas

which surround the pole. You may remember that a history

of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole

of our good Uncle Thomas' library. My education was neglected,

yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study

day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret

which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction

had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets

whose effusions entranced my soul and lifted it to heaven. I also became

a poet and for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation;

I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple

where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated.

You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily

I bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited

the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned

into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking.

I can, even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself

to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship.

I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea;

I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep;

I often worked harder than the common sailors during the day

and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine,

and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer

might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself

as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration.

I must own I felt a little proud when my captain offered me

the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to remain

with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish

some great purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury,

but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path.

Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative!

My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate,

and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed

on a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which

will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only

to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,

when theirs are failing.

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia.

They fly quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant,

and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach.

The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs--

a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference

between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours,

when no exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins.

I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road between

St. Petersburgh and Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks;

and my intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done

by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors

as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing.

I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return?

Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed,

many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet.

If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you,

and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude

for all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. Walton

Letter 2

To Mrs. Saville, England

Archangel, 28th March, 17--

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow!

Yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel

and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged

appear to be men on whom I can depend and are certainly possessed

of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy,

and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil.

I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm

of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed

by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection.

I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium

for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man

who could sympathize with me, whose eyes would reply to mine.

You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel

the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous,

possessed of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind,

whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans.

How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother!

I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties.

But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated:

for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common

and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas' books of voyages.

At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets

of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power

to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction

that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages

than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality

more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true

that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended

and magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) *keeping*;

and I greatly need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me

as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend

on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen.

Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even

in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful

courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather,

to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession.

He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional

prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest

endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him

on board a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city,

I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable

in the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline.

This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage,

made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude,

my best years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage,

has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome

an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship:

I have never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner

equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience

paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate

in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first

in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness

of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago

he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed

a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented

to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony;

but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet,

entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time

that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father

would never consent to the union. My generous friend

reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover,

instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm

with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life;

but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains

of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited

the young woman's father to consent to her marriage with her lover.

But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour

to my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable,

quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former mistress

was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble fellow!"

you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated:

he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him,

which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing,

detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little or because I can conceive

a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering

in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage

is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation.

The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises well,

and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps

I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly:

you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness

whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect

of my undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you

a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful,

with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions,

to "the land of mist and snow," but I shall kill no albatross;

therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you

as worn and woeful as the "Ancient Mariner." You will smile at my allusion,

but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to,

my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean

to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets.

There is something at work in my soul which I do not understand.

I am practically industrious--painstaking, a workman to execute

with perseverance and labour--but besides this there is a love

for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined

in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of men,

even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again,

after having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape

of Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear

to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present

to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters

on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits.

I love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection,

should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,

Robert Walton

Letter 3

To Mrs. Saville, England

July 7th, 17--

My dear Sister,

I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe--

and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England

by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel;

more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps,

for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold

and apparently firm of purpose, nor do the floating sheets of ice

that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region

towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them.

We have already reached a very high latitude; but it is

the height of summer, and although not so warm as in England,

the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores

which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree

of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure

in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak

are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record,

and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake,

as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter danger.

I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.

But success *shall* crown my endeavours. Wherefore not?

Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas,

the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies

of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed

yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart

and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus.

But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R.W.

Letter 4

To Mrs. Saville, England

August 5th, 17--

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear

recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me

before these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice,

which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her

the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangerous,

especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog.

We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place

in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld,

stretched out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice,

which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned,

and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts,

when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention

and diverted our solicitude from our own situation.

We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs,

pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile;

a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature,

sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress

of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost

among the distant inequalities of the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,

many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote

that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in,

however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track,

which we had observed with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence we heard the ground sea,

and before night the ice broke and freed our ship. We, however,

lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark

those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up

of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck

and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel,

apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge,

like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night

on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive;

but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading

to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be,

a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European.

When I appeared on deck the master said, "Here is our captain,

and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea."

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English,

although with a foreign accent. "Before I come on board your vessel,"

said he, "will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?"

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question

addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom

I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource

which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth

the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we

were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.

Good God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated

for his safety, your surprise would have been boundless.

His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated

by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition.

We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted

the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck

and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy

and forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed

signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and placed him near the chimney

of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup,

which restored him wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak,

and I often feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding.

When he had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin

and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw

a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally

an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when,

if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does him

the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up,

as it were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness

that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and despairing,

and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight of woes

that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble

to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions;

but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity,

in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended

upon entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked

why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom,

and he replied, "To seek one who fled from me."

"And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?"

"Yes."

"Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked you up

we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."

This aroused the stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude

of questions concerning the route which the demon, as he called him,

had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,

"I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that

of these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries."

"Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman of me

to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine."

"And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation;

you have benevolently restored me to life."

Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking up

of the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied

that I could not answer with any degree of certainty,

for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller

might have arrived at a place of safety before that time;

but of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame

of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck

to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him

to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness

of the atmosphere. I have promised that someone should watch for him

and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence

up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health

but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself

enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle

that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had

very little communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him

as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy

and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his better days,

being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend

on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit

had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed

as the brother of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals,

should I have any fresh incidents to record.

August 13th, 17--

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once

my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree.

How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery

without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle,

yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated, and when he speaks,

although his words are culled with the choicest art,

yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness and is continually on the deck,

apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own.

Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery

but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others.

He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated

to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments

in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail

of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led

by the sympathy which he evinced to use the language of my heart,

to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul, and to say,

with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune,

my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise.

One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement

of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire

and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke,

a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first

I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands

before his eyes, and my voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears

trickle fast from between his fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast.

I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: "Unhappy man!

Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxicating draught?

Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!"

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity;

but the paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger

overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose

and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared

to despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling

the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse

concerning myself personally. He asked me the history

of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it awakened

various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend,

of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind

than had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction

that a man could boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.

"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures,

but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves--

such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate

our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble

of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge

respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before you,

and have no cause for despair. But I--I have lost everything

and cannot begin life anew."

As he said this his countenance became expressive of a calm,

settled grief that touched me to the heart. But he was silent

and presently retired to his cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does

the beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight

afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power

of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double existence:

he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments,

yet when he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit

that has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer?

You would not if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined

by books and retirement from the world, and you are therefore

somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit

to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man.

Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it is

which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above

any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment,

a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration

into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision;

add to this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations

are soul-subduing music.

August 19, 17--

Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive,

Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes.

I had determined at one time that the memory of these evils

should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination.

You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope

that the gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you,

as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters

will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing

the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers

which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce

an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed

in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.

Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous.

Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to encounter

your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible

in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter

of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature;

nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence

of the truth of the events of which it is composed."

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified

by the offered communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew

his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness

to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly

from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power.

I expressed these feelings in my answer.

"I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless;

my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event,

and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,"

continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him;

"but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you;

nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history,

and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined."

He then told me that he would commence his narrative the next day

when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks.

I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied

by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words,

what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged,

I will at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you

the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him and who hear it

from his own lips--with what interest and sympathy shall I read it

in some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice

swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me

with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand

raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face

are irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story,

frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course

and wrecked it--thus!

Chapter 1

I am by birth a Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished

of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors

and syndics, and my father had filled several public situations

with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him

for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business.

He passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs

of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early,

nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband

and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character,

I cannot refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends

was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell,

through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man,

whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending disposition

and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same country

where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and magnificence.

Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner,

he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne,

where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort

with the truest friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat

in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored

the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy

of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring

to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him

to begin the world again through his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself,

and it was ten months before my father discovered his abode.

Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house,

which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss.

But when he entered, misery and despair alone welcomed him.

Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck

of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance

for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure

some respectable employment in a merchant's house. The interval was,

consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became

more deep and rankling when he had leisure for reflection,

and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that

at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness,

incapable of any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness,

but she saw with despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing

and that there was no other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort

possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her

in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw

and by various means contrived to earn a pittance

scarcely sufficient to support life.

Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse;

her time was more entirely occupied in attending him;

her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month

her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar.

This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin

weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came

like a protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself

to his care; and after the interment of his friend he conducted her

to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a relation.

Two years after this event Caroline became his wife.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents,

but this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer

in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice

in my father's upright mind which rendered it necessary

that he should approve highly to love strongly.

Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the late-discovered

unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value

on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship

in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness

of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues

and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her

for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace

to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield to her wishes

and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic

is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her

with all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion

in her soft and benevolent mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity

of her hitherto constant spirit, had been shaken by what she

had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed previous

to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished

all his public functions; and immediately after their union

they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of scene

and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders,

as a restorative for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child,

was born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles.

I remained for several years their only child. Much as they were

attached to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores

of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me.

My mother's tender caresses and my father's smile of benevolent pleasure

while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything

and their idol, and something better--their child, the innocent

and helpless creature bestowed on them by heaven, whom to bring up to good,

and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness

or misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me.

With this deep consciousness of what they owed towards the being

to which they had given life, added to the active spirit of tenderness

that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every hour

of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity,

and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed

but one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired

to have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring.

When I was about five years old, while making an excursion

beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores

of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter

the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty;

it was a necessity, a passion--remembering what she had suffered,

and how she had been relieved--for her to act in her turn

the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks

a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice

as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children

gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape. One day,

when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied by me,

visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working,

bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal

to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted

my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock.

The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants;

this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the brightest

living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed

to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample,

her blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face

so expressive of sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her

without looking on her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent,

and bearing a celestial stamp in all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder

and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history.

She was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman.

Her mother was a German and had died on giving her birth.

The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse:

they were better off then. They had not been long married,

and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge

was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory

of Italy--one among the *schiavi ognor frementi*, who exerted himself

to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim

of its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered

in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated;

his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued

with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode,

fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me

in the hall of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub--

a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and whose form

and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The apparition

was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed

on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond

of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them,

but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want

when Providence afforded her such powerful protection.

They consulted their village priest, and the result was

that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' house--

my more than sister--the beautiful and adored companion

of all my occupations and my pleasures.

Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment

with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride

and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home,

my mother had said playfully, "I have a pretty present for my Victor--

tomorrow he shall have it." And when, on the morrow,

she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I,

with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally

and looked upon Elizabeth as mine--mine to protect, love, and cherish.

All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own.

We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word,

no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood

to me--my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.

Chapter 2

We were brought up together; there was not quite a year

difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strangers

to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul

of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast

that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together.

Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition;

but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application

and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge.

She busied herself with following the aerial creations

of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes

which surrounded our Swiss home--the sublime shapes

of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm,

the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence

of our Alpine summers--she found ample scope for admiration

and delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious

and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things,

I delighted in investigating their causes. The world was to me

a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, earnest research

to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture,

as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations

I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years,

my parents gave up entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves

in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne

on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance

of rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally

in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed

in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd

and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore,

to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in the bonds

of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval

was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy

of singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship,

and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply read

in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs

and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure.

He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades,

in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles,

of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train

who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre

from the hands of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself.

My parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence.

We felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot

according to their caprice, but the agents and creators

of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled

with other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate

my lot was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement;

but by some law in my temperature they were turned

not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn,

and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess

that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments,

nor the politics of various states possessed attractions for me.

It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I desired to learn;

and whether it was the outward substance of things

or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man

that occupied me, still my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical,

or in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak,

with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of life,

the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme;

and his hope and his dream was to become one among those

whose names are recorded in story as the gallant

and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul

of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home.

Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance

of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us.

She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract;

I might have become sullen in my study, through the ardour of my nature,

but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness.

And Clerval--could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval?

Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful

in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness

amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded

to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good

the end and aim of his soaring ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,

before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions

of extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.

Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record

those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery,

for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion

which afterward ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river,

from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded,

it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away

all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius

that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration,

to state those facts which led to my predilection for that science.

When I was thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure

to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather

obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house

I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa.

I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts

to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates

soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light

seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy,

I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly

at the title page of my book and said, "Ah! Cornelius Agrippa!

My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad trash."

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains

to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa

had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of science

had been introduced which possessed much greater powers

than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical,

while those of the former were real and practical,

under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside

and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was,

by returning with greater ardour to my former studies.

It is even possible that the train of my ideas

would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin.

But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume

by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents,

and I continued to read with the greatest avidity.

When I returned home my first care was to procure the whole works

of this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus.

I read and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight;

they appeared to me treasures known to few besides myself.

I have described myself as always having been imbued

with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature.

In spite of the intense labour and wonderful discoveries

of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies discontented

and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed

that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great

and unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors

in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted

appeared even to my boy's apprehensions as tyros engaged

in the same pursuit.

The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted

with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more.

He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal

lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,

anatomize, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause,

causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him.

I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed

to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature,

and rashly and ignorantly I had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper

and knew more. I took their word for all that they averred,

and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such

should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine

of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree,

self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father

was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness,

added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the guidance

of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence

into the search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life;

but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention.

Wealth was an inferior object, but what glory would attend

the discovery if I could banish disease from the human frame

and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils

was a promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors,

the fulfillment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations

were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own

inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity

in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems,

mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories

and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge,

guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident

again changed the current of my ideas. When I was

about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive,

when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm.

It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst

at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens.

I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress

with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden

I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak

which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon

as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared,

and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it

the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner.

It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced

to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything

so utterly destroyed.

Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious

laws of electricity. On this occasion a man of great research

in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe,

he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed

on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new

and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly

into the shade Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus,

the lords of my imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow

of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed studies.

It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known.

All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable.

By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps

most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up

my former occupations, set down natural history and all its progeny

as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained

the greatest disdain for a would-be science which

could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge.

In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics

and the branches of study appertaining to that science

as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy

of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments

are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back,

it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination

and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel

of my life--the last effort made by the spirit of preservation

to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars

and ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced

by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed

the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies.

It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution,

happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual.

Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed

my utter and terrible destruction.

Chapter 3

When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved

that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.

I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father

thought it necessary for the completion of my education

that I should be made acquainted with other customs

than those of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed

at an early date, but before the day resolved upon could arrive,

the first misfortune of my life occurred--an omen, as it were,

of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever;

her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger.

During her illness many arguments had been urged

to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her.

She had at first yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard

that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer

control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions

triumphed over the malignity of the distemper--Elizabeth was saved,

but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver.

On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied

by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants

prognosticated the worst event. On her deathbed the fortitude

and benignity of this best of women did not desert her.

She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. "My children,"

she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed

on the prospect of your union. This expectation

will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love,

you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas!

I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved

as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all?

But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour

to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope

of meeting you in another world."

She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection

even in death. I need not describe the feelings of those

whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil,

the void that presents itself to the soul, and the despair

that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long

before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day

and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have departed

forever--that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished

and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed,

never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days;

but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil,

then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom

has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection?

And why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt,

and must feel? The time at length arrives when grief

is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile

that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege,

is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties

which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest

and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains

whom the spoiler has not seized. My departure for Ingolstadt,

which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined upon.

I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me

sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death,

of the house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life.

I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me.

I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me,

and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth

in some degree consoled.

She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter

to us all. She looked steadily on life and assumed its duties

with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those

whom she had been taught to call her uncle and cousins.

Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled

the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us.

She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.

The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening

with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him

to accompany me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His father

was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness and ruin

in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt

the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education.

He said little, but when he spoke I read in his kindling eye

and in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve

not to be chained to the miserable details of commerce.

We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other

nor persuade ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said,

and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose,

each fancying that the other was deceived; but when at morning's dawn

I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away,

they were all there--my father again to bless me, Clerval

to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties

that I would write often and to bestow the last feminine attentions

on her playmate and friend.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away

and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been

surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring

to bestow mutual pleasure--I was now alone. In the university

whither I was going I must form my own friends and be my own protector.

My life had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic,

and this had given me invincible repugnance to new countenances.

I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were

"old familiar faces," but I believed myself totally unfitted

for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections

as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded,

my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition

of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard

to remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had longed

to enter the world and take my station among other human beings.

Now my desires were complied with, and it would, indeed,

have been folly to repent.

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections

during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing.

At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes.

I alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment

to spend the evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction

and paid a visit to some of the principal professors.

Chance--or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction,

which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned

my reluctant steps from my father's door--led me first to

M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man,

but deeply imbued in the secrets of his science. He asked me

several questions concerning my progress in the different

branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied

carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names

of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied.

The professor stared. "Have you," he said, "really spent your time

in studying such nonsense?"

I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M. Krempe

with warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on those books

is utterly and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory

with exploded systems and useless names. Good God!

In what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough

to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed

are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient?

I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age,

to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir,

you must begin your studies entirely anew."

So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books

treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure,

and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning

of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures

upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman,

a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days

that he omitted.

I returned home not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered

those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned

not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape.

M. Krempe was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive

countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favour

of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a strain,

perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come to

concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content

with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science.

With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth

and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge

along the paths of time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers

for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt

for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different

when the masters of the science sought immortality and power;

such views, although futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed.

The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation

of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded.

I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities

of little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days

of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent

in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal residents

in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought

of the information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures.

And although I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow

deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said

of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.

Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went

into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after.

This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared

about fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive

of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples,

but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person

was short but remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest

I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation

of the history of chemistry and the various improvements

made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour

the names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then

took a cursory view of the present state of the science

and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made

a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric

upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:

"The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised impossibilities

and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little;

they know that metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life

is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble

in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible,

have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses

of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places.

They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered

how the blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe.

They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can command

the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock

the invisible world with its own shadows."

Such were the professor's words--rather let me say such the words

of the fate--enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt

as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one

the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being;

chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled

with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done,

exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein--more, far more, will I achieve;

treading in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way,

explore unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries

of creation.

I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was

in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order

would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees,

after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight's

thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a resolution to return

to my ancient studies and to devote myself to a science for which

I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day

I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private

were even more mild and attractive than in public,

for there was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture

which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability

and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account

of my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow professor.

He heard with attention the little narration concerning my studies

and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus,

but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited.

He said that "These were men to whose indefatigable zeal

modern philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations

of their knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task,

to give new names and arrange in connected classifications

the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments

of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius,

however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning

to the solid advantage of mankind." I listened to his statement,

which was delivered without any presumption or affectation,

and then added that his lecture had removed my prejudices

against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms,

with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his instructor,

without letting escape (inexperience in life would have made me ashamed)

any of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours.

I requested his advice concerning the books I ought to procure.

"I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple;

and if your application equals your ability, I have no doubt

of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy

in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made;

it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study;

but at the same time, I have not neglected the other

branches of science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist

if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone.

If your wish is to become really a man of science and not merely

a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch

of natural philosophy, including mathematics." He then took me

into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various machines,

instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use

of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science

not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books

which I had requested, and I took my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me; it decided my future destiny.

Chapter 4

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry,

in the most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly

my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works,

so full of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers

have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures

and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science

of the university, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal

of sound sense and real information, combined, it is true,

with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on that account

the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend.

His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism, and his instructions

were given with an air of frankness and good nature that banished

every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for me

the path of knowledge and made the most abstruse inquiries

clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at first

fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded

and soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared

in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that

my progress was rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment

of the students, and my proficiency that of the masters.

Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa

went on, whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation

in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during which

I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul,

in the pursuit of some discoveries which I hoped to make.

None but those who have experienced them can conceive

of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others

have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know;

but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery

and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity which closely pursues one study

must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study;

and I, who continually sought the attainment of one object

of pursuit and was solely wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly

that at the end of two years I made some discoveries

in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me

great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived

at this point and had become as well acquainted with the theory

and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons

of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there

being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning

to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened

that protracted my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention

was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal

endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle

of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been

considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink

of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain

our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined

thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those branches

of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated

by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study

would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine

the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death.

I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient;

I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.

In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind

should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember

to have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared the apparition

of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and a churchyard

was to me merely the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which,

from being the seat of beauty and strength, had become food for the worm.

Now I was led to examine the cause and progress of this decay

and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-houses.

My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable

to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man

was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed

to the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders

of the eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae

of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death,

and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light

broke in upon me--a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple,

that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect

which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius

who had directed their inquiries towards the same science,

that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not

more certainly shine in the heavens than that which I now affirm is true.

Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery

were distinct and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour

and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life;

nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing animation

upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery

soon gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time

spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the summit

of my desires was the most gratifying consummation of my toils.

But this discovery was so great and overwhelming that all the steps

by which I had been progressively led to it were obliterated,

and I beheld only the result. What had been the study

and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world

was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene,

it all opened upon me at once: the information I had obtained

was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them

towards the object of my search than to exhibit that object

already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried

with the dead and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering

and seemingly ineffectual light.

I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express,

my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which

I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story,

and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject.

I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was,

to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me,

if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous

is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier that man is

who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires

to become greater than his nature will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands,

I hesitated a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.

Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet

to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its intricacies

of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work

of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first

whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself,

or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted

by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life

to an animal as complete and wonderful as man. The materials at present

within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking,

but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself

for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled,

and at last my work be imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement

which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged

to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations

of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude

and complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability.

It was with these feelings that I began the creation of a human being.

As the minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed,

I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being

of a gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height,

and proportionably large. After having formed this determination

and having spent some months in successfully collecting

and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards,

like a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death

appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through,

and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species

would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures

would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude

of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.

Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation

upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it

impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body

to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking

with unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study,

and my person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes,

on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope

which the next day or the next hour might realize. One secret

which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself;

and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed

and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places.

Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled

among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal

to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim

with the remembrance; but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse

urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation

but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance,

that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as,

the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits.

I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers,

the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber,

or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated

from all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase,

I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting

from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment.

The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials;

and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation,

whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased,

I brought my work near to a conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul,

in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields

bestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage,

but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings

which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget

those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen

for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I well remembered

the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased with yourself

you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you.

You must pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence

as a proof that your other duties are equally neglected."

I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings,

but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself,

but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished,

as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection

until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature,

should be completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect

to vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced

that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether

free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve

a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire

to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge

is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself

has a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste

for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix,

then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting

the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man

allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity

of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Caesar

would have spared his country, America would have been discovered

more gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part

of my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed. My father

made no reproach in his letters and only took notice of my science

by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.

Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours;

but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights

which before always yielded me supreme delight--so deeply

was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered

before my work drew near to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly

how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked

by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery

to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade than an artist

occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed

by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree;

the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures

as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed

at the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose

alone sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed

that exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease;

and I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete.

Chapter 5

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment

of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony,

I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse

a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet.

It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally

against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when,

by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye

of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion

agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate

the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form?

His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful.

Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles

and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing;

his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more

horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the

same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his

shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings

of human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years,

for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body.

For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it

with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished,

the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust

filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created,

I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber,

unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded

to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed

in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness.

But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed

by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health,

walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised,

I embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips,

they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to change,

and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms;

a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling

in the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror;

a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb

became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon,

as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch--

the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain

of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me.

His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds,

while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear;

one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped

and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging

to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest

of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation,

listening attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were

to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which

I had so miserably given life.

Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy

again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch.

I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then,

but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion,

it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly

and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others,

I nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness.

Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment;

dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space

were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid,

the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless

and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock,

which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court,

which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets,

pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch

whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my view.

I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited,

but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain

which poured from a black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring

by bodily exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind.

I traversed the streets without any clear conception of where I was

or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear,

and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:

Like one who, on a lonely road,

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And, having once turned round, walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

[Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."]

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which

the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused,

I knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach

that was coming towards me from the other end of the street.

As it drew nearer I observed that it was the Swiss diligence;

it stopped just where I was standing, and on the door being opened,

I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out.

"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you!

How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence

brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes

of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand,

and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly,

and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy.

I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner,

and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time

about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted

to come to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he,

"how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that

all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of bookkeeping;

and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last,

for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same

as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in *The Vicar of Wakefield*:

`I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily

without Greek.' But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike

of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery

to the land of knowledge."

"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me

how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear

from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little

upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he,

stopping short and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark

how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if

you had been watching for several nights."

"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged

in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest,

as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments

are now at an end and that I am at length free."

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less

to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked

with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected,

and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left

in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about.

I dreaded to behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry

should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes

at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room.

My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself.

I then paused, and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door

forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect

a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side;

but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty,

and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe

that so great a good fortune could have befallen me, but when I became

assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy

and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;

but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me;

I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse

beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place;

I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.

Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival,

but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes

for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained,

heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.

"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter?

Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause

of all this?"

"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I

thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "*he* can

tell. Oh, save me! Save me!" I imagined that the monster seized

me; I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting,

which he anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness.

But I was not the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless

and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me

for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse.

I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age

and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness

would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent

of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind

and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt

of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm,

he performed the kindest action that he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded

and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life.

The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was

forever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him.

Doubtless my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be

the wanderings of my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity

with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him

that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed

and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time

I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure,

I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds

were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window.

It was a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly

to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection

revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time

I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.

"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me.

This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself,

has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you?

I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been

the occasion, but you will forgive me."

"You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself,

but get well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits,

I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?"

I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude

to an object on whom I dared not even think?

"Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour,

"I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your father and cousin

would be very happy if they received a letter from you

in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been

and are uneasy at your long silence."

"Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought

would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love

and who are so deserving of my love?"

"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad

to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you;

it is from your cousin, I believe."

Chapter 6

Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from

my own Elizabeth:

My dearest Cousin,

You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters

of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me

on your account. You are forbidden to write--to hold a pen;

yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm

our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought that each post

would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle

from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented

his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers

of so long a journey, yet how often have I regretted

not being able to perform it myself! I figure to myself

that the task of attending on your sickbed has devolved

on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your wishes

nor minister to them with the care and affection of your

poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes

that indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will

confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting.

Get well--and return to us. You will find a happy,

cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your

father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you,

but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever

cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be

to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen

and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss

and to enter into foreign service, but we cannot part with him,

at least until his elder brother return to us. My uncle

is not pleased with the idea of a military career in a distant country,

but Ernest never had your powers of application. He looks upon study

as an odious fetter; his time is spent in the open air, climbing

the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he will become

an idler unless we yield the point and permit him to enter

on the profession which he has selected.

Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children,

has taken place since you left us. The blue lake and snow-clad

mountains--they never change; and I think our placid home

and our contented hearts are regulated by the same immutable laws.

My trifling occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded

for any exertions by seeing none but happy, kind faces around me.

Since you left us, but one change has taken place

in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion

Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not;

I will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz,

her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine

was the third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father,

but through a strange perversity, her mother could not endure her,

and after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt

observed this, and when Justine was twelve years of age,

prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our house.

The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler

and happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies

that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between

the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders,

being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined

and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing

as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received

in our family, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which,

in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance

and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours;

and I recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humour,

one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason

that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked

so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment

for her, by which she was induced to give her an education superior

to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid;

Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world:

I do not mean that she made any professions; I never heard

one pass her lips, but you could see by her eyes that she

almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay

and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention

to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model

of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology

and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

When my dearest aunt died every one was too much occupied

in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her

during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine

was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her.

One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother,

with the exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless.

The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to think

that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment from heaven

to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic;

and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived.

Accordingly, a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt,

Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor girl!

She wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered

since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness

and a winning mildness to her manners which had before been remarkable

for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house

of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating

in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive

her unkindness but much oftener accused her of having caused

the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length

threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased

her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died

on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning

of this last winter. Justine has returned to us, and I assure you

I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle

and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien

and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.

I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin,

of little darling William. I wish you could see him;

he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes,

dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples

appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already

had one or two little *wives*, but Louisa Biron is his favourite,

a pretty little girl of five years of age.

Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged

in a little gossip concerning the good people of Geneva.

The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory

visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman,

John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard,

the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow,

Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the departure

of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his spirits,

and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively,

pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow,

and much older than Manoir, but she is very much admired

and a favourite with everybody.

I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin;

but my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude. Write,

dearest Victor--one line--one word will be a blessing to us.

Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection,

and his many letters; we are sincerely grateful. Adieu!

My cousin, take care of yourself, and, I entreat you, write!

Elizabeth Lavenza

Geneva, March 18th, 17--

"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her letter.

"I will write instantly and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel."

I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence

had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight

I was able to leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval

to the several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent

a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.

Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning

of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy

even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise

quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument

would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this,

and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed

my apartment, for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike

for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares

of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors.

M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth,

the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived

that I disliked the subject, but not guessing the real cause,

he attributed my feelings to modesty and changed the subject

from my improvement to the science itself, with a desire,

as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do?

He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed

carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments which were

to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death.

I writhed under his words yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.

Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning

the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse,

his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn.

I thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly

that he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me;

and although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence

that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him

that event which was so often present to my recollection but which I feared

the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time,

of almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh, blunt encomiums

gave me even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman.

"D--n the fellow!" cried he. "Why, M. Clerval, I assure you

he has outstripped us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is

nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed

in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the Gospel, has now set himself

at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down,

we shall all be out of countenance. Ay, ay," continued he,

observing my face expressive of suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest,

an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should be diffident

of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself when young;

but that wears out in a very short time."

M. Krempe had now commenced a eulogy on himself, which happily

turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval had never sympathized in my tastes for natural science,

and his literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me.

He came to the university with the design of making himself complete master

of the Oriental languages, as thus he should open a field

for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue

no inglorious career, he turned his eyes towards the East

as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian,

Arabic, and Sanskrit languages engaged his attention,

and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies.

Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly

from reflection and hated my former studies, I felt great relief

in being the fellow pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction

but consolation in the works of the Orientalists. I did not,

like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects,

for I did not contemplate making any other use of them

than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning,

and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing,

and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced

in studying the authors of any other country. When you read

their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,

in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes

your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry

of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva

was fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed

by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads

were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded

until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly,

for I longed to see my native town and my beloved friends.

My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness

to leave Clerval in a strange place before he had become acquainted

with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully,

and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came

its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily

which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed

a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid

a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited.

I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise,

and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the rambles

of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations; my health and spirits

had long been restored, and they gained additional strength

from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress,

and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me

from the intercourse of my fellow creatures and rendered me unsocial,

but Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart;

he again taught me to love the aspect of nature and the cheerful faces

of children. Excellent friend! How sincerely did you love me

and endeavour to elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own!

A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me until your gentleness

and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature

who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care.

When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me

the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields

filled me with ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine;

the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, while those of summer

were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which

during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding

my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety and sincerely sympathized in my feelings;

he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations

that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion

were truly astonishing; his conversation was full of imagination,

and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers,

he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times

he repeated my favourite poems or drew me out into arguments,

which he supported with great ingenuity.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon; the peasants were dancing,

and everyone we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high,

and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.

Chapter 7

On my return, I found the following letter from my father:--

"My dear Victor,

"You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix

the date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted

to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day

on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness,

and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son,

when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold,

on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor,

can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you

callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain

on my long absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news,

but I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page

to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.

William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted

and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor,

he is murdered! I will not attempt to console you;

but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction.

Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers,

went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene,

and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk

before we thought of returning; and then we discovered that

William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found.

We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return.

Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen his brother;

he said, that he had been playing with him, that William

had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him,

and afterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.

This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him

until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might

have returned to the house. He was not there. We returned again,

with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy

had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night;

Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning

I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming

and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless;

the print of the murder's finger was on his neck.

He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible

in my countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth.

She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted

to prevent her; but she persisted, and entering the room

where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim,

and clasping her hands exclaimed, "O God! I have murdered

my darling child!"

She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty.

When she again lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me,

that that same evening William had teased her to let him wear

a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother.

This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged

the murdered to the deed. We have no trace of him at present,

although our exertions to discover him are unremitted;

but they will not restore my beloved William!

Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth.

She weeps continually, and accuses herself unjustly

as the cause of his death; her words pierce my heart.

We are all unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you,

my son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother!

Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live

to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance

against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and gentleness,

that will heal, instead of festering, the wounds of our minds.

Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness

and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred

for your enemies.

Your affectionate and afflicted father,

Alphonse Frankenstein.

Geneva, May 12th, 17--.

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter,

was surprised to observe the despair that succeeded the joy

I at first expressed on receiving new from my friends.

I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands.

"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep

with bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend,

what has happened?"

I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room

in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval,

as he read the account of my misfortune.

"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he;

"your disaster is irreparable. What do you intend to do?"

"To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses."

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation;

he could only express his heartfelt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he,

dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother!

Who that had seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty,

but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so miserably;

to feel the murderer's grasp! How much more a murderer

that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little fellow!

one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep,

but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings

are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form,

and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity;

we must reserve that for his miserable survivors."

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets;

the words impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered them

afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived,

I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on,

for I longed to console and sympathise with my loved

and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town,

I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude

of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes

familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years.

How altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden

and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand

little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations,

which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be

the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared no advance,

dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble,

although I was unable to define them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind.

I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm;

and the snowy mountains, `the palaces of nature,' were not changed.

By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued

my journey towards Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower

as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly

the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc.

I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake!

how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear;

the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace,

or to mock at my unhappiness?"

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling

on these preliminary circumstances; but they were days

of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure.

My country, my beloved country! who but a native can tell

the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains,

and, more than all, thy lovely lake!

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me.

Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains,

I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene

of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become

the most wretched of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly,

and failed only in one single circumstance, that in all the misery

I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the hundredth part

of the anguish I was destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva;

the gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged

to pass the night at Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league

from the city. The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest,

I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered.

As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake

in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage

I saw the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blanc

in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly,

and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe its progress.

It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain

coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm

increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash

over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy;

vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake,

making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant

every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself

from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland,

appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent storm

hung exactly north of the town, over the part of the lake

which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet.

Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened

and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.

While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific,

I wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky

elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud,

"William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!"

As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole

from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently:

I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object,

and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature,

and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity,

instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon,

to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be

(I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother?

No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced

of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree

for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom.

Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the fair child.

He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence

of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought

of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain,

for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks

of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill

that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit,

and disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued,

and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I resolved

in my minds the events which I had until now sought to forget:

the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance

of the works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure. Two years

had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life;

and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world

a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery;

had he not murdered my brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder

of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air.

But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination

was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being

whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will and power

to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had now done,

nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose

from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates

were open, and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought

was to discoverer what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit

to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell.

A being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life,

had met me at midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain.

I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had been seized

just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give

an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable.

I well knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me,

I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides,

the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit,

even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it.

And then of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature

capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Saleve?

These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house.

I told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library

to attend their usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace,

and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father

before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent!

He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother,

which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an historical subject,

painted at my father's desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort

in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father.

Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity

and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity.

Below this picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed

when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered:

he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me: "Welcome,

my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago,

and then you would have found us all joyous and delighted.

You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can alleviate;

yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems sinking

under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth

to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.--Poor William!

he was our darling and our pride!"

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony

crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness

of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new,

and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest;

I enquired more minutely concerning my father, and her I named my cousin.

"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accused herself

of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched.

But since the murderer has been discovered--"

"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt

to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try

to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw.

I saw him too; he was free last night!"

"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents of wonder,

"but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery.

No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth

will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence.

Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable,

and fond of all the family, could suddenly become so capable

of so frightful, so appalling a crime?"

"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused?

But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it,

surely, Ernest?"

"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out,

that have almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour

has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that,

I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day,

and you will then hear all."

He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William

had been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed

for several days. During this interval, one of the servants,

happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder,

had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother,

which had been judged to be the temptation of the murderer.

The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who,

without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate;

and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged

with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure

by her extreme confusion of manner. This was a strange tale,

but it did not shake my faith; and I replied earnestly,

"You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine,

is innocent."

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed

on his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully;

and, after we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced

some other topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed,

"Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer

of poor William."

"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father, "for indeed

I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered

so much depravity and ungratitude in one I valued so highly."

"My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."

"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty.

She is to be tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope,

that she will be acquitted."

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind

that Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder.

I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence

could be brought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale

was not one to announce publicly; its astounding horror

would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist,

except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him,

in the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance

which I had let loose upon the world?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her

since I last beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness

surpassing the beauty of her childish years. There was the same candour,

the same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression

more full of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me

with the greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin,"

said she, "fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means

to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe,

if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly

as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us;

we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl,

whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate.

If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not,

I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again,

even after the sad death of my little William."

"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved;

fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance

of her acquittal."

"How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,

and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible:

and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner

rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept.

"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is,

as you believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our laws,

and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow

of partiality."

Chapter 8

We passed a few sad hours until eleven o'clock, when the trial

was to commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged

to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court.

During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered

living torture. It was to be decided whether the result of my curiosity

and lawless devices would cause the death of two of my fellow beings:

one a smiling babe full of innocence and joy, the other

far more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of infamy

that could make the murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl

of merit and possessed qualities which promised to render her life happy;

now all was to be obliterated in an ignominious grave, and I the cause!

A thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime

ascribed to Justine, but I was absent when it was committed,

and such a declaration would have been considered as the ravings

of a madman and would not have exculpated her who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning,

and her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity

of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident

in innocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated

by thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise

have excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators

by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed.

She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained;

and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt,

she worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered

the court she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered

where we were seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us,

but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection

seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness.

The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the charge,

several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her,

which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of her innocence

as I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder

had been committed and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman

not far from the spot where the body of the murdered child

had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did there,

but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused

and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o'clock,

and when one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied

that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly

if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body,

she fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days.

The picture was then produced which the servant had found in her pocket;

and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was

the same which, an hour before the child had been missed,

she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation

filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded,

her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery

were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears,

but when she was desired to plead, she collected her powers

and spoke in an audible although variable voice.

"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend

that my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence on a plain

and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me,

and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges

to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance appears doubtful

or suspicious."

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed

the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed

at the house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league

from Geneva. On her return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man

who asked her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost.

She was alarmed by this account and passed several hours

in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced

to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage,

being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well known.

Most of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed

that she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke.

It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour

to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay,

it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered

when questioned by the market-woman was not surprising,

since she had passed a sleepless night and the fate of poor William

was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could give no account.

"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally

this one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power

of explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance,

I am only left to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which

it might have been placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked.

I believe that I have no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been

so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there?

I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had,

why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?

"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope.

I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character,

and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt,

I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence."

Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years,

and they spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime

of which they supposed her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling

to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource,

her excellent dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail

the accused, when, although violently agitated, she desired permission

to address the court.

"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered,

or rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents

ever since and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged

indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but when I see

a fellow creature about to perish through the cowardice

of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak,

that I may say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted

with the accused. I have lived in the same house with her,

at one time for five and at another for nearly two years.

During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable

and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein,

my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection and care

and afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness,

in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her,

after which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved

by all the family. She was warmly attached to the child who is now dead

and acted towards him like a most affectionate mother. For my own part,

I do not hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the evidence

produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence.

She had no temptation for such an action; as to the bauble on which

the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have

willingly given it to her, so much do I esteem and value her."

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal,

but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour

of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned

with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude.

She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer.

My own agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial.

I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the demon

who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother

also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy?

I could not sustain the horror of my situation, and when I perceived

that the popular voice and the countenances of the judges

had already condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court

in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal mine;

she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse

tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.

I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning

I went to the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask

the fatal question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause

of my visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black,

and Justine was condemned.

I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before

experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured

to bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey

an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then endured.

The person to whom I addressed myself added that Justine

had already confessed her guilt. "That evidence," he observed,

"was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of it,

and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a criminal

upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive."

This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean?

Had my eyes deceived me? And was I really as mad as the whole world

would believe me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions?

I hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected;

all judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that

one guilty should escape. But she has confessed."

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness

upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she. "How shall I ever again

believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed

as my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence

only to betray? Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile,

and yet she has committed a murder."

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire

to see my cousin. My father wished her not to go but said

that he left it to her own judgment and feelings to decide.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go, although she is guilty;

and you, Victor, shall accompany me; I cannot go alone."

The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine

sitting on some straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled,

and her head rested on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter;

and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at the feet

of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also.

"Oh, Justine!" said she. "Why did you rob me of my last consolation?

I relied on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched,

I was not so miserable as I am now."

"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you

also join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?"

Her voice was suffocated with sobs.

"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth; "why do you kneel,

if you are innocent? I am not one of your enemies,

I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence,

until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt.

That report, you say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine,

that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,

but your own confession."

"I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might

obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart

than all my other sins. The God of heaven forgive me!

Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he threatened

and menaced, until I almost began to think that I was the monster

that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and hell fire

in my last moments if I continued obdurate. Dear lady,

I had none to support me; all looked on me as a wretch doomed

to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil hour

I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable."

She paused, weeping, and then continued, "I thought with horror,

my sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine,

whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you loved,

was a creature capable of a crime which none but the devil himself

could have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest blessed child!

I soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all he happy;

and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death."

"Oh, Justine! Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you.

Why did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear.

I will proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt

the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers.

You shall not die! You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister,

perish on the scaffold! No! No! I never could survive

so horrible a misfortune."

Justine shook her head mournfully. "I do not fear to die," she said;

"that pang is past. God raises my weakness and gives me courage

to endure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if

you remember me and think of me as of one unjustly condemned,

I am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady,

to submit in patience to the will of heaven!"

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room,

where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair!

Who dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow

was to pass the awful boundary between life and death, felt not,

as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth

and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul.

Justine started. When she saw who it was, she approached me and said,

"Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe

that I am guilty?"

I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is

more convinced of your innocence than I was, for even when he heard

that you had confessed, he did not credit it."

"I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude

towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection

of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half

my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now that my innocence

is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin."

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself.

She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer,

felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope

or consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy, but hers also

was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes

over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness.

Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart;

I bore a hell within me which nothing could extinguish.

We stayed several hours with Justine, and it was with great difficulty

that Elizabeth could tear herself away. "I wish," cried she,

"that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of misery."

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty

repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said

in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady,

dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend; may heaven,

in its bounty, bless and preserve you; may this be the last misfortune

that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so."

And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence

failed to move the judges from their settled conviction

in the criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate

and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And when I received

their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men,

my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself

a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim.

She perished on the scaffold as a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate

the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing!

And my father's woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home

all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones,

but these are not your last tears! Again shall you raise

the funeral wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall again

and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early,

much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop of blood

for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy except

as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances, who would fill

the air with blessings and spend his life in serving you--

he bids you weep, to shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes,

if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause

before the peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror,

and despair, I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon

the graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims

to my unhallowed arts.

Chapter 9

Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings

have been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness

of inaction and certainty which follows and deprives the soul

both of hope and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was alive.

The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse

pressed on my heart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes;

I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief

beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself)

was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love

of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted

for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful

to my fellow beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity

of conscience which allowed me to look back upon the past

with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes,

I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away

to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps

never entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained.

I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency

was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation--deep, dark,

deathlike solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible

in my disposition and habits and endeavoured by arguments

deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life

to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage

to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think, Victor,"

said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child

more than I loved your brother"--tears came into his eyes as he spoke--

"but is it not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain

from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief?

It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow

prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge

of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case;

I should have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends

if remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm,

with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father

with a look of despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change

was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates

regularly at ten o'clock and the impossibility of remaining

on the lake after that hour had rendered our residence within

the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free.

Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night,

I took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes,

with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,

after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue

its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections.

I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me,

and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene

so beautiful and heavenly--if I except some bat, or the frogs,

whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached

the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake,

that the waters might close over me and my calamities forever.

But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth,

whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine.

I thought also of my father and surviving brother; should I

by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice

of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace

would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation

and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope.

I had been the author of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear

lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness.

I had an obscure feeling that all was not over and that he would still

commit some signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface

the recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear

so long as anything I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend

cannot be conceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth,

my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish

that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected

on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds

of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak

of the Andes, could I when there have precipitated him to their base.

I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent

of abhorrence on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken

by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding;

she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure

seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears

she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence

so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature

who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake

and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first

of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited her,

and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.

"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death

of Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works

as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts

of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others

as tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote

and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery

has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting

for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed

that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime

for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved

of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son

of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth,

and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent

to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought

such a creature unfit to remain in the society of men.

But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent;

you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor,

when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves

of certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge

of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring

to plunge me into the abyss. William and Justine were assassinated,

and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free,

and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer

on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places

with such a wretch."

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,

but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish

in my countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend,

you must calm yourself. These events have affected me,

God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are.

There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge,

in your countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor,

banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around you,

who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power

of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true

to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty,

your native country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--

what can disturb our peace?"

And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before

every other gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend

that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her,

as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer

had been near to rob me of her.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth,

nor of heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents

of love were ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud

which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The wounded deer

dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze

upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me,

but sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek,

by bodily exercise and by change of place, some relief

from my intolerable sensations. It was during an access of this kind

that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards

the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence,

the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral,

because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards

the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently

during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: I was a wreck,

but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.

I performed the first part of my journey on horseback.

I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable

to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine;

it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months

after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated

all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened

as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains

and precipices that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river

raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around

spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear

or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created

and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise.

Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent

and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the precipices

of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and there

peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of singular beauty.

But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps,

whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all,

as belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.

I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river forms,

opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it.

Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley

is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque

as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high

and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no more

ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road;

I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and marked the smoke

of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc,

raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dome

overlooked the valley.

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me

during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new object

suddenly perceived and recognized, reminded me of days gone by,

and were associated with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood.

The very winds whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature

bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence ceased to act--

I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all the misery

of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget

the world, my fears, and more than all, myself--or, in a more desperate

fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down

by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded

to the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured.

For a short space of time I remained at the window watching

the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening

to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath.

The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations;

when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it

as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.

Chapter 10

I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood

beside the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier,

that with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills

to barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains

were before me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me;

a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn silence

of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial nature was broken

only by the brawling waves or the fall of some vast fragment,

the thunder sound of the avalanche or the cracking, reverberated

along the mountains, of the accumulated ice, which,

through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon

rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands.

These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation

that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness

of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued

and tranquillized it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind

from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month.

I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on

and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes

which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me;

the unstained snowy mountaintop, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,

and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds--

they all gathered round me and bade me be at peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-

inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded

every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists

hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces

of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil

and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me?

My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit

of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous

and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it.

It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul

and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.

The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always

the effect of solemnizing my mind and causing me to forget

the passing cares of life. I determined to go without a guide,

for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of another

would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual

and short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity

of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate.

In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche

may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground,

some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks

of the mountain or transversely upon other trees. The path,

as you ascend nigher, is intersected by ravines of snow,

down which stones continually roll from above; one of them

is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound,

such as even speaking in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air

sufficient to draw destruction upon the head of the speaker.

The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are sombre and add

an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath;

vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran through it

and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite mountains,

whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured

from the dark sky and added to the melancholy impression I received

from the objects around me. Alas! Why does man boast of sensibilities

superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them

more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,

thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved

by every wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may

convey to us.

We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.

We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day.

We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,

Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;

It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is free.

Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;

Nought may endure but mutability!

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent.

For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice.

A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains.

Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier.

The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea,

descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep.

The field of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours

in crossing it. The opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock.

From the side where I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite,

at the distance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc,

in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock,

gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather

the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains,

whose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy

and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds.

My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy;

I exclaimed, "Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest

in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me,

as your companion, away from the joys of life."

As I said this I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,

advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded

over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution;

his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man.

I was troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me,

but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains.

I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!)

that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage

and horror, resolving to wait his approach and then close with him

in mortal combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish,

combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness

rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely

observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,

and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive

of furious detestation and contempt.

"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? And do not you

fear the fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head?

Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust!

And, oh! That I could, with the extinction of your miserable existence,

restore those victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!"

"I expected this reception," said the daemon. "All men hate the wretched;

how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things!

Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom

thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us.

You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life?

Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you

and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions,

I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse,

I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood

of your remaining friends."

"Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The tortures of hell

are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil!

You reproach me with your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish

the spark which I so negligently bestowed."

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings

which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me and said--

"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred

on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek

to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation

of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember,

thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior

to thine, my joints more supple. But I will not be tempted

to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature,

and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king

if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me.

Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample

upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection,

is most due. Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam,

but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy

for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone

am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery

made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous."

"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between

you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength

in a fight, in which one must fall."

"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee

to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores

thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein,

I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity;

but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me;

what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing?

They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers

are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the caves of ice,

which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one

which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail,

for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude

of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do,

and arm themselves for my destruction. Shall I not then hate them

who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable,

and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power

to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains

for you to make so great, that not only you and your family,

but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds

of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me.

Listen to my tale; when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me,

as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed,

by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defence

before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me

of murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience,

destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man!

Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me, and then, if you can,

and if you will, destroy the work of your hands."

"Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances

of which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin

and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which

you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands

that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond expression.

You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or not.

Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your detested form."

"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated

hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus

I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me

and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed,

I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange,

and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations;

come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens;

before it descends to hide itself behind your snowy precipices

and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story and can decide.

On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighbourhood of man

and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures

and the author of your own speedy ruin."

As he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed.

My heart was full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded,

I weighed the various arguments that he had used and determined

at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity,

and compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto supposed him

to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation

or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt

what the duties of a creator towards his creature were,

and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness.

These motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed the ice,

therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain

again began to descend; we entered the hut, the fiend with an air

of exultation, I with a heavy heart and depressed spirits. But I consented

to listen, and seating myself by the fire which my odious companion

had lighted, he thus began his tale.

Chapter 11

"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era

of my being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.

A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,

and smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time

before I learned to distinguish between the operations

of my various senses. By degrees, I remember, a stronger light

pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes.

Darkness then came over me and troubled me, but hardly had I felt this

when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in

upon me again. I walked and, I believe, descended, but I presently found

a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies

had surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight; but I now found

that I could wander on at liberty, with no obstacles

which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became

more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying me as I walked,

I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest

near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting

from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst.

This roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries

which I found hanging on the trees or lying on the ground.

I slaked my thirst at the brook, and then lying down,

was overcome by sleep.

"It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half frightened,

as it were, instinctively, finding myself so desolate.

Before I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold,

I had covered myself with some clothes, but these were insufficient

to secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor, helpless,

miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing;

but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept.

"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation

of pleasure. I started up and beheld a radiant form rise

from among the trees.* [*The moon] I gazed with a kind of wonder.

It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path, and I again went out

in search of berries. I was still cold when under one of the trees

I found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself, and sat down

upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was confused.

I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds

rang in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me;

the only object that I could distinguish was the bright moon,

and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure.

"Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night

had greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations

from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream

that supplied me with drink and the trees that shaded me

with their foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered

that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears,

proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals

who had often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also

to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me

and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light

which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs

of the birds but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations

in my own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds

which broke from me frightened me into silence again.

"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened form,

showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations

had by this time become distinct, and my mind received every day

additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light

and to perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect

from the herb, and by degrees, one herb from another. I found

that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those

of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing.

"One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire

which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome

with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy

I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again

with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause

should produce such opposite effects! I examined the materials

of the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of wood.

I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet and would not burn.

I was pained at this and sat still watching the operation of the fire.

The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried and itself

became inflamed. I reflected on this, and by touching

the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself

in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it

and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night came on

and brought sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire

should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves

and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my cloak,

I lay on the ground and sank into sleep.

"It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire.

I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame.

I observed this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused

the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again

I found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat

and that the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food,

for I found some of the offals that the travellers had left

had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the berries

I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food

in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found

that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts

and roots much improved.

"Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day

searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger.

When I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had

hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants

I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this emigration

I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained

through accident and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours

to the serious consideration of this difficulty, but I was obliged

to relinquish all attempt to supply it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak,

I struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days

in these rambles and at length discovered the open country.

A great fall of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields

were of one uniform white; the appearance was disconsolate,

and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance

that covered the ground.

"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food

and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground,

which had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd.

This was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure

with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man

sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast.

He turned on hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly,

and quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which

his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance,

different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight

somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance

of the hut; here the snow and rain could not penetrate;

the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite

and divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell

after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured

the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread,

cheese, milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like.

Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep.

"It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun,

which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence

my travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast

in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours,

until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear!

the huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration

by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese

that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages,

allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered,

but I had hardly placed my foot within the door before the children

shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused;

some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously bruised by stones

and many other kinds of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country

and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite bare,

and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld

in the village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat

and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience,

I dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood,

but so low that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood,

however, was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry;

and although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it

an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.

"Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter,

however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more

from the barbarity of man. As soon as morning dawned I crept

from my kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover

if I could remain in the habitation I had found. It was situated

against the back of the cottage and surrounded on the sides

which were exposed by a pig sty and a clear pool of water.

One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now

I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived

with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them

on occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed

came through the sty, and that was sufficient for me.

"Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw,

I retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance,

and I remembered too well my treatment the night before

to trust myself in his power. I had first, however, provided

for my sustenance for that day by a loaf of coarse bread,

which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink more conveniently

than from my hand of the pure water which flowed by my retreat.

The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry,

and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm.

"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel

until something should occur which might alter my determination.

It was indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest,

my former residence, the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth.

I ate my breakfast with pleasure and was about to remove a plank

to procure myself a little water when I heard a step,

and looking through a small chink, I beheld a young creature,

with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The girl was young

and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found cottagers

and farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed,

a coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb;

her fair hair was plaited but not adorned: she looked patient yet sad.

I lost sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned

bearing the pail, which was now partly filled with milk.

As she walked along, seemingly incommoded by the burden,

a young man met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence.

Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pail

from her head and bore it to the cottage himself. She followed,

and they disappeared. Presently I saw the young man again,

with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the cottage;

and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house and sometimes

in the yard.

"On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows

of the cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes

had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a small

and almost imperceptible chink through which the eye

could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small room was visible,

whitewashed and clean but very bare of furniture. In one corner,

near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands

in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl was occupied

in arranging the cottage; but presently she took something

out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down

beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play

and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush

or the nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch

who had never beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair

and benevolent countenance of the aged cottager won my reverence,

while the gentle manners of the girl enticed my love. He played

a sweet mournful air which I perceived drew tears from the eyes

of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice,

until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds,

and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet.

He raised her and smiled with such kindness and affection

that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature;

they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before

experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food;

and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear these emotions.

"Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders

a load of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him

of his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage,

placed it on the fire; then she and the youth went apart

into a nook of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf

and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased and went into the garden

for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then

upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man

went into the garden and appeared busily employed in digging

and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour,

the young woman joined him and they entered the cottage together.

"The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance

of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat.

The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again occupied

in arranging the cottage, the old man walked before the cottage

in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth.

Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two

excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs

and a countenance beaming with benevolence and love;

the younger was slight and graceful in his figure,

and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his eyes

and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency.

The old man returned to the cottage, and the youth,

with tools different from those he had used in the morning,

directed his steps across the fields.

"Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found

that the cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers,

and was delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end

to the pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours.

In the evening the young girl and her companion were employed

in various occupations which I did not understand; and the old man

again took up the instrument which produced the divine sounds

that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had finished,

the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were monotonous,

and neither resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument

nor the songs of the birds; I since found that he read aloud,

but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or letters.

"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,

extinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest."

Chapter 12

"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought

of the occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck me

was the gentle manners of these people, and I longed to join them,

but dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered

the night before from the barbarous villagers, and resolved,

whatever course of conduct I might hereafter think it right

to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in my hovel,

watching and endeavouring to discover the motives which influenced

their actions.

"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun.

The young woman arranged the cottage and prepared the food,

and the youth departed after the first meal.

"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it.

The young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl

in various laborious occupations within. The old man,

whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours

on his instrument or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed

the love and respect which the younger cottagers exhibited

towards their venerable companion. They performed towards him

every little office of affection and duty with gentleness,

and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.

"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion

often went apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause

for their unhappiness, but I was deeply affected by it.

If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I,

an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why

were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house

(for such it was in my eyes) and every luxury; they had a fire

to warm them when chill and delicious viands when hungry;

they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,

they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each day

looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply?

Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve

these questions, but perpetual attention and time explained to me

many appearances which were at first enigmatic.

"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes

of the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty,

and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree.

Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden

and the milk of one cow, which gave very little during the winter,

when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it.

They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly,

especially the two younger cottagers, for several times

they placed food before the old man when they reserved none for themselves.

"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed,

during the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption,

but when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers,

I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots

which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.

"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled

to assist their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part

of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the night

I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered,

and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.

"I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman,

when she opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished

on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words

in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise.

I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day,

but spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden.

"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found

that these people possessed a method of communicating their experience

and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived

that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain,

smiles or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers.

This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired

to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt

I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick,

and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection

with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue

by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference.

By great application, however, and after having remained

during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel,

I discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar

objects of discourse; I learned and applied the words, `fire,' `milk,'

`bread,' and `wood.' I learned also the names of the cottagers

themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them several names,

but the old man had only one, which was `father.' The girl was called

`sister' or `Agatha,' and the youth `Felix,' `brother,' or `son.'

I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated

to each of these sounds and was able to pronounce them.

I distinguished several other words without being able as yet

to understand or apply them, such as `good,' `dearest,' unhappy.

"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners

and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me;

when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced,

I sympathized in their joys. I saw few human beings besides them,

and if any other happened to enter the cottage, their harsh manners

and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments

of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured

to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that he called them,

to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent,

with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me.

Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears,

which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I generally found

that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after having listened

to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with Felix.

He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my unpractised senses,

he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his friends.

But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful

than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old man.

"I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight,

marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst

of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister

the first little white flower that peeped out from beneath

the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she had risen,

he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house,

drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the outhouse,

where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always

replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe,

he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he often

went forth and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood

with him. At other times he worked in the garden, but

as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man

and Agatha.

"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees

I discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read

as when he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he found

on the paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed

to comprehend these also; but how was that possible

when I did not even understand the sounds for which they stood as signs?

I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently

to follow up any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole mind

to the endeavour, for I easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed

to discover myself to the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt

until I had first become master of their language, which knowledge

might enable me to make them overlook the deformity of my figure,

for with this also the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes

had made me acquainted.

"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace,

beauty, and delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed

myself in a transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe

that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when

I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am,

I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.

Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects

of this miserable deformity.

"As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow vanished,

and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this time

Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving indications

of impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found,

was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.

Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, which they dressed;

and these signs of comfort increased daily as the season advanced.

"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon,

when it did not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens

poured forth its waters. This frequently took place, but a high wind

quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more pleasant

than it had been.

"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning

I attended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispersed

in various occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent

in observing my friends. When they had retired to rest,

if there was any moon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods

and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned,

as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow

and performed those offices that I had seen done by Felix.

I afterwards found that these labours, performed by an invisible hand,

greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard them,

on these occasions, utter the words `good spirit,' `wonderful';

but I did not then understand the signification of these terms.

"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover

the motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive

to know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought

(foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness

to these deserving people. When I slept or was absent, the forms

of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix

flitted before me. I looked upon them as superior beings

who would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed

in my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them,

and their reception of me. I imagined that they would be disgusted,

until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating words,

I should first win their favour and afterwards their love.

"These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour

to the acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh,

but supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music

of their tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood

with tolerable ease. It was as the ass and the lap-dog;

yet surely the gentle ass whose intentions were affectionate,

although his manners were rude, deserved better treatment

than blows and execration.

"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered

the aspect of the earth. Men who before this change seemed

to have been hid in caves dispersed themselves and were employed

in various arts of cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes,

and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth!

Fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak,

damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated

by the enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted

from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future gilded

by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy."

Chapter 13

"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate

events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,

have made me what I am.

"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies cloudless.

It surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy should now bloom

with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified

and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight

and a thousand sights of beauty.

"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically

rested from labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children

listened to him--that I observed the countenance of Felix

was melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once

his father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner

that he inquired the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied

in a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music

when someone tapped at the door.

"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide.

The lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black veil.

Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied

by pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice

was musical but unlike that of either of my friends.

On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady, who,

when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance

of angelic beauty and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black,

and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated;

her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair,

each cheek tinged with a lovely pink.

"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every

trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed

a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have

believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed

with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as beautiful

as the stranger. She appeared affected by different feelings;

wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she held out her hand

to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as well

as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear

to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount,

and dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage.

Some conversation took place between him and his father,

and the young stranger knelt at the old man's feet and would have kissed

his hand, but he raised her and embraced her affectionately.

"I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds

and appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood by

nor herself understood the cottagers. They made many signs

which I did not comprehend, but I saw that her presence

diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow

as the sun dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy

and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha,

the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger,

and pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean

that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus,

while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which

I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence

of some sound which the stranger repeated after them,

that she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea

instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the same instructions

to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty words

at the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had

before understood, but I profited by the others.

"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early.

When they separated Felix kissed the hand of the stranger and said,

'Good night sweet Safie.' He sat up much longer, conversing with

his father, and by the frequent repetition of her name I conjectured

that their lovely guest was the subject of their conversation.

I ardently desired to understand them, and bent every faculty

towards that purpose, but found it utterly impossible.

"The next morning Felix went out to his work, and after

the usual occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat

at the feet of the old man, and taking his guitar, played some airs

so entrancingly beautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow

and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed

in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away like a nightingale of the woods.

"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha,

who at first declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice

accompanied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain

of the stranger. The old man appeared enraptured and said some words

which Agatha endeavoured to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared

to wish to express that she bestowed on him the greatest delight

by her music.

"The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration

that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.

Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly

in the knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend

most of the words uttered by my protectors.

"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage,

and the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers,

sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance

among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the nights

clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure to me,

although they were considerably shortened by the late setting

and early rising of the sun, for I never ventured abroad during daylight,

fearful of meeting with the same treatment I had formerly endured

in the first village which I entered.

"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily

master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly

than the Arabian, who understood very little and conversed

in broken accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate

almost every word that was spoken.

"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters

as it was taught to the stranger, and this opened before me

a wide field for wonder and delight.

"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's Ruins of Empires.

I should not have understood the purport of this book had not Felix,

in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this work,

he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation

of the Eastern authors. Through this work I obtained

a cursory knowledge of history and a view of the several empires

at present existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners,

governments, and religions of the different nations of the earth.

I heard of the slothful Asiatics, of the stupendous genius

and mental activity of the Grecians, of the wars and wonderful virtue

of the early Romans--of their subsequent degenerating--of the decline

of that mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard

of the discovery of the American hemisphere and wept with Safie

over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants.

"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings.

Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent,

yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion

of the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived

of noble and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man

appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being;

to be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared

the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that

of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time

I could not conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow,

or even why there were laws and governments; but when I heard details

of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away

with disgust and loathing.

"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me.

While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian,

the strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard

of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty,

of rank, descent, and noble blood.

"The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned

that the possessions most esteemed by your fellow creatures

were high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man

might be respected with only one of these advantages,

but without either he was considered, except in very rare instances,

as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the profits

of the chosen few! And what was I? Of my creation and creator

I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I possessed no money,

no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure

hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man.

I was more agile than they and could subsist upon coarser diet;

I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame;

my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around I saw

and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot

upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?

"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections

inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased

with knowledge. Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood,

nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!

"Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind

when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock.

I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling,

but I learned that there was but one means to overcome

the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state which I feared

yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings

and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers,

but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through means

which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown,

and which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had

of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha

and the animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me.

The mild exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation

of the loved Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!

"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard

of the difference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children,

how the father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies

of the older child, how all the life and cares of the mother

were wrapped up in the precious charge, how the mind of youth

expanded and gained knowledge, of brother, sister, and all

the various relationships which bind one human being

to another in mutual bonds.

"But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched

my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses;

or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy

in which I distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance

I had been as I then was in height and proportion. I had never yet

seen a being resembling me or who claimed any intercourse with me.

What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered only with groans.

"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow me now

to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me

such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder,

but which all terminated in additional love and reverence

for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half-painful

self-deceit, to call them)."

Chapter 14

"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends.

It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind,

unfolding as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting

and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was.

"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended

from a good family in France, where he had lived for many years

in affluence, respected by his superiors and beloved by his equals.

His son was bred in the service of his country, and Agatha

had ranked with ladies of the highest distinction. A few months

before my arrival they had lived in a large and luxurious city

called Paris, surrounded by friends and possessed of every enjoyment

which virtue, refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied

by a moderate fortune, could afford.

"The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin.

He was a Turkish merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years,

when, for some reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious

to the government. He was seized and cast into prison

the very day that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him.

He was tried and condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence

was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant; and it was judged

that his religion and wealth rather than the crime alleged against him

had been the cause of his condemnation.

"Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror

and indignation were uncontrollable when he heard the decision

of the court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him

and then looked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts

to gain admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window

in an unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon

of the unfortunate Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains,

waited in despair the execution of the barbarous sentence.

Felix visited the grate at night and made known to the prisoner

his intentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted,

endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises

of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt,

yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father

and who by her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the youth

could not help owning to his own mind that the captive possessed

a treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.

"The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made

on the heart of Felix and endeavoured to secure him more entirely

in his interests by the promise of her hand in marriage so soon

as he should be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate

to accept this offer, yet he looked forward to the probability

of the event as to the consummation of his happiness.

"During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward

for the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed

by several letters that he received from this lovely girl,

who found means to express her thoughts in the language of her lover

by the aid of an old man, a servant of her father who understood French.

She thanked him in the most ardent terms for his intended services

towards her parent, and at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.

"I have copies of these letters, for I found means, during my residence

in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters

were often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart

I will give them to you; they will prove the truth of my tale;

but at present, as the sun is already far declined,

I shall only have time to repeat the substance of them to you.

"Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized

and made a slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty,

she had won the heart of the father of Safie, who married her.

The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms of her mother,

who, born in freedom, spurned the bondage to which she was now reduced.

She instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion

and taught her to aspire to higher powers of intellect

and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female followers

of Muhammad. This lady died, but her lessons were indelibly impressed

on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again returning

to Asia and being immured within the walls of a harem,

allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements,

ill-suited to the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas

and a noble emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian

and remaining in a country where women were allowed to take

a rank in society was enchanting to her.

"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the night

previous to it he quitted his prison and before morning was distant

many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name

of his father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated

his plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house,

under the pretence of a journey and concealed himself, with his daughter,

in an obscure part of Paris.

"Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons

and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided

to wait a favourable opportunity of passing into some part

of the Turkish dominions.

"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment

of his departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise

that she should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained

with them in expectation of that event; and in the meantime

he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him

the simplest and tenderest affection. They conversed with one another

through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation

of looks; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country.

"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes

of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other plans.

He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian,

but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear lukewarm,

for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer

if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state

which they inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which

he should be enabled to prolong the deceit until

it might be no longer necessary, and secretly to take his daughter

with him when he departed. His plans were facilitated by the news

which arrived from Paris.

"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape

of their victim and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer.

The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and DeLacey and Agatha

were thrown into prison. The news reached Felix and roused him

from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father

and his gentle sister lay in a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed

the free air and the society of her whom he loved.

This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with the Turk

that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for escape

before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder

at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,

he hastened to Paris and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the law,

hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.

"He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months

before the trial took place, the result of which deprived them

of their fortune and condemned them to a perpetual exile

from their native country.

"They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany,

where I discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk,

for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression,

on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin,

became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy

with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money

to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.

"Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix

and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most miserable

of his family. He could have endured poverty, and while this distress

had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude

of the Turk and the loss of his beloved Safie were misfortunes

more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian

now infused new life into his soul.

"When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived

of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter

to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return

to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was outraged

by this command; she attempted to expostulate with her father,

but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate.

"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment

and told her hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence

at Leghorn had been divulged and that he should speedily be delivered

up to the French government; he had consequently hired a vessel

to convey him to Constantinople, for which city he should sail

in a few hours. He intended to leave his daughter under the care

of a confidential servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part

of his property, which had not yet arrived at Leghorn.

"When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct

that it would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence

in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings

were alike averse to it. By some papers of her father

which fell into her hands she heard of the exile of her lover

and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided.

She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her determination.

Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a sum of money,

she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn,

but who understood the common language of Turkey,

and departed for Germany.

"She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues

from the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill.

Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection, but the poor girl died,

and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language

of the country and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world.

She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned

the name of the spot for which they were bound, and after her death

the woman of the house in which they had lived took care that Safie

should arrive in safety at the cottage of her lover."

Chapter 15

"Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply.

I learned, from the views of social life which it developed,

to admire their virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind.

"As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and generosity

were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor

in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were called forth

and displayed. But in giving an account of the progress of my intellect,

I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month

of August of the same year.

"One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood

where I collected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors,

I found on the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles

of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize

and returned with it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written

in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage;

they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives,

and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures

gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind

upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed

in their ordinary occupations.

"I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books.

They produced in me an infinity of new images and feelings,

that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently

sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter,

besides the interest of its simple and affecting story,

so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon

what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found in it

a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment.

The gentle and domestic manners it described, combined

with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object

something out of self, accorded well with my experience

among my protectors and with the wants which were forever alive

in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more divine being

than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension,

but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon death and suicide

were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to enter

into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions

of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it.

"As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings

and condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time

strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read

and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathized with

and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind;

I was dependent on none and related to none. "The path of my departure

was free," and there was none to lament my annihilation.

My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this mean?

Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination?

These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.

"The volume of Plutarch's Lives which I possessed contained

the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics.

This book had a far different effect upon me from the Sorrows of Werter.

I learned from Werter's imaginations despondency and gloom,

but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he elevated me

above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and love

the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my understanding

and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms,

wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas.

But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and large assemblages of men.

The cottage of my protectors had been the only school in which

I had studied human nature, but this book developed new

and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs,

governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour

for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice,

as far as I understood the signification of those terms,

relative as they were, as I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone.

Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to admire

peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference

to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors

caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps,

if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier,

burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued

with different sensations.

"But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions.

I read it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen

into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder

and awe that the picture of an omnipotent God warring

with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred

the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own.

Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to any other being

in existence; but his state was far different from mine

in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God

a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care

of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge

from beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.

Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition,

for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors,

the bitter gall of envy rose within me.

"Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings.

Soon after my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers

in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your laboratory.

At first I had neglected them, but now that I was able

to decipher the characters in which they were written,

I began to study them with diligence. It was your journal

of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely described

in these papers every step you took in the progress of your work;

this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences.

You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are.

Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin;

the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances

which produced it is set in view; the minutest description

of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language

which painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible.

I sickened as I read. `Hateful day when I received life!'

I exclaimed in agony. `Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster

so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God, in pity,

made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form

is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance.

Satan had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him,

but I am solitary and abhorred.'

"These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude;

but when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers,

their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself

that when they should become acquainted with my admiration

of their virtues they would compassionate me and overlook

my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one,

however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship?

I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself

for an interview with them which would decide my fate.

I postponed this attempt for some months longer, for the importance

attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail.

Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much

with every day's experience that I was unwilling to commence

this undertaking until a few more months should have added to my sagacity.

"Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage.

The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants,

and I also found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there.

Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation,

and were assisted in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich,

but they were contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful,

while mine became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge

only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was.

I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my person

reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail image

and that inconstant shade.

"I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial

which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed

my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise,

and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing

with my feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances

breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve

soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered

Adam's supplication to his Creator. But where was mine?

He had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.

"Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief,

the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren

and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods

and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather;

I was better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold

than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers,

the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me,

I turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness

was not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved

and sympathized with one another; and their joys, depending on each other,

were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around them.

The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire

to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known

and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks

directed towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambition.

I dared not think that they would turn them from me

with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door

were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures

than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy;

but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it.

"The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons

had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention at this time

was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself

into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects,

but that on which I finally fixed was to enter the dwelling

when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough

to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person

was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me.

My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought,

therefore, that if in the absence of his children

I could gain the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey,

I might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors.

"One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the

ground and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth,

Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk,

and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage.

When his children had departed, he took up his guitar

and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful

than I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance

was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness

and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument,

he sat absorbed in reflection.

"My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial,

which would decide my hopes or realize my fears. The servants

were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in

and around the cottage; it was an excellent opportunity;

yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me

and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting all the firmness

of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed

before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me,

and with renewed determination I approached the door of their cottage.

"I knocked. `Who is there?' said the old man. `Come in.'

"I entered. `Pardon this intrusion,' said I; `I am a traveller

in want of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me

if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before the fire.'

"`Enter,' said De Lacey, `and I will try in what manner I can

to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home,

and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult

to procure food for you.'

"`Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is warmth

and rest only that I need.'

"I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute

was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner

to commence the interview, when the old man addressed me.

`By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman;

are you French?'

"`No; but I was educated by a French family and understand

that language only. I am now going to claim the protection

of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour

I have some hopes.'

"`Are they Germans?'

"`No, they are French. But let us change the subject.

I am an unfortunate and deserted creature, I look around

and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable people

to whom I go have never seen me and know little of me.

I am full of fears, for if I fail there, I am an outcast

in the world forever.'

"`Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate,

but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest,

are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes;

and if these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.'

"`They are kind--they are the most excellent creatures in the world;

but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me.

I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless

and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes,

and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend,

they behold only a detestable monster.'

"`That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless,

cannot you undeceive them?'

"`I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account

that I feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends;

I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits

of daily kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them,

and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.'

"`Where do these friends reside?'

"`Near this spot.'

"The old man paused and then continued, `If you will unreservedly confide

to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use

in undeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance,

but there is something in your words which persuades me

that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me

true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.'

"`Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer.

You raise me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that,

by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy

of your fellow creatures.'

"`Heaven forbid! Even if you were really criminal,

for that can only drive you to desperation, and not

instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family

have been condemned, although innocent; judge, therefore,

if I do not feel for your misfortunes.'

"`How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips

first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me;

I shall be forever grateful; and your present humanity assures me

of success with those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.'

"`May I know the names and residence of those friends?' "I paused.

This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of

or bestow happiness on me forever. I struggled vainly

for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed

all my remaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud.

At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors.

I had not a moment to lose, but seizing the hand of the old man,

I cried, `Now is the time! Save and protect me! You and your family

are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!'

"`Great God!' exclaimed the old man. 'Who are you?'

"At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie,

and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation

on beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend

to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward,

and with supernatural force tore me from his father,

to whose knees I clung, in a transport of fury, he dashed me

to the ground and struck me violently with a stick.

I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope.

But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained.

I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain

and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped

unperceived to my hovel."

Chapter 16

"Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant,

did I not extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly

bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me;

my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure

have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself

with their shrieks and misery.

"When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood;

and now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent

to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast

that had broken the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me

and ranging through the wood with a staglike swiftness. Oh!

What a miserable night I passed! The cold stars shone in mockery,

and the bare trees waved their branches above me; now and then

the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness.

All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend,

bore a hell within me, and finding myself unsympathized with,

wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me,

and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.

"But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure;

I became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion and sank

on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair.

There was none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity

or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No;

from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species,

and more than all, against him who had formed me and sent me forth

to this insupportable misery.

"The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was impossible

to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid myself

in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours

to reflection on my situation.

"The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me

to some degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed

at the cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty

in my conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent

that my conversation had interested the father in my behalf,

and I was a fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children.

I ought to have familiarized the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees

to have discovered myself to the rest of his family,

when they should have been prepared for my approach.

But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable,

and after much consideration I resolved to return to the cottage,

seek the old man, and by my representations win him to my party.

"These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank

into a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me

to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene

of the preceding day was forever acting before my eyes;

the females were flying and the enraged Felix tearing me

from his father's feet. I awoke exhausted, and finding

that it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place,

and went in search of food.

"When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards

the well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there

was at peace. I crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation

of the accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour passed,

the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear.

I trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune.

The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion;

I cannot describe the agony of this suspense.

"Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage,

they entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations;

but I did not understand what they said, as they spoke the language

of the country, which differed from that of my protectors. Soon after,

however, Felix approached with another man; I was surprised,

as I knew that he had not quitted the cottage that morning,

and waited anxiously to discover from his discourse

the meaning of these unusual appearances.

"`Do you consider,' said his companion to him, `that you will be obliged

to pay three months' rent and to lose the produce of your garden?

I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore

that you will take some days to consider of your determination.'

"`It is utterly useless,' replied Felix; `we can never again

inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger,

owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related.

My wife and my sister will never recover from their horror.

I entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take possession

of your tenement and let me fly from this place.'

"Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion

entered the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes,

and then departed. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.

"I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state

of utter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed

and had broken the only link that held me to the world.

For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom,

and I did not strive to control them, but allowing myself to be borne

away by the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death.

When I thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey,

the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian,

these thoughts vanished and a gush of tears somewhat soothed me.

But again when I reflected that they had spurned and deserted me,

anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to injure anything human,

I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As night advanced

I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage,

and after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden,

I waited with forced impatience until the moon had sunk

to commence my operations.

"As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods

and quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens;

the blast tore along like a mighty avalanche and produced

a kind of insanity in my spirits that burst all bounds of reason

and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a tree and danced

with fury around the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed

on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly touched.

A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my brand; it sank,

and with a loud scream I fired the straw, and heath, and bushes,

which I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the cottage

was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it and licked it

with their forked and destroying tongues.

"As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part

of the habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.

"And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps?

I resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes;

but to me, hated and despised, every country must be equally horrible.

At length the thought of you crossed my mind. I learned from your papers

that you were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply

with more fitness than to him who had given me life?

Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed upon Safie,

geography had not been omitted; I had learned from these

the relative situations of the different countries of the earth.

You had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native town,

and towards this place I resolved to proceed.

"But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel

in a southwesterly direction to reach my destination,

but the sun was my only guide. I did not know the names

of the towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask information

from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you only

could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no sentiment

but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! You had endowed me

with perceptions and passions and then cast me abroad an object

for the scorn and horror of mankind. But on you only had I any claim

for pity and redress, and from you I determined to seek that justice

which I vainly attempted to gain from any other being

that wore the human form.

"My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense.

It was late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long

resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering

the visage of a human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun

became heatless; rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen;

the surface of the earth was hard and chill, and bare,

and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! How often did I imprecate curses

on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled,

and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness.

The nearer I approached to your habitation, the more deeply

did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart.

Snow fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not.

A few incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed

a map of the country; but I often wandered wide from my path.

The agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred

from which my rage and misery could not extract its food;

but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines

of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth and the earth

again began to look green, confirmed in an especial manner

the bitterness and horror of my feelings.

"I generally rested during the day and travelled only

when I was secured by night from the view of man. One morning,

however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood,

I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had risen;

the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me

by the loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air.

I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead,

revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations,

I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude

and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks,

and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun,

which bestowed such joy upon me.

"I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came

to its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river,

into which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding

with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly knowing

what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices,

that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress.

I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running towards the spot

where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from someone in sport.

She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river,

when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream.

I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour,

from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore.

She was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power

to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach

of a rustic, who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled.

On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms,

hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily,

I hardly knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun,

which he carried, at my body and fired. I sank to the ground,

and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.

"This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being

from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed

under the miserable pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone.

The feelings of kindness and gentleness which I had entertained

but a few moments before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.

Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.

But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.

"For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring

to cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder,

and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through;

at any rate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings

were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the injustice

and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge--

a deep and deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate

for the outrages and anguish I had endured.

"After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey.

The labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun

or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery

which insulted my desolate state and made me feel more painfully

that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure.

"But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time

I reached the environs of Geneva.

"It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place

among the fields that surround it to meditate in what manner

I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger

and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes of evening

or the prospect of the sun setting behind the stupendous mountains of Jura.

"At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection,

which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child,

who came running into the recess I had chosen,

with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him,

an idea seized me that this little creature was unprejudiced

and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity.

If, therefore, I could seize him and educate him as my companion

and friend, I should not be so desolate in this peopled earth.

"Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed

and drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my form,

he placed his hands before his eyes and uttered a shrill scream;

I drew his hand forcibly from his face and said, `Child,

what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me.'

"He struggled violently. `Let me go,' he cried; `monster!

Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces.

You are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa.'

"`Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.'

"`Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a Syndic--

he is M. Frankenstein--he will punish you. You dare not keep me.'

"`Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy--to him towards whom

I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.'

"The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets

which carried despair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him,

and in a moment he lay dead at my feet.

"I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation

and hellish triumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed, `I too can

create desolation; my enemy is not invulnerable; this death will

carry despair to him, and a thousand other miseries shall torment

and destroy him.'

"As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering

on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman.

In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me.

For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes,

fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently

my rage returned; I remembered that I was forever deprived

of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow

and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in regarding me,

have changed that air of divine benignity to one expressive of disgust

and affright.

"Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage?

I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations

in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish

in the attempt to destroy them.

"While l was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot

where I had committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded

hiding-place, I entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty.

A woman was sleeping on some straw; she was young, not indeed

so beautiful as her whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect

and blooming in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought,

is one of those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me.

And then I bent over her and whispered, 'Awake, fairest,

thy lover is near--he who would give his life but to obtain one look

of affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!'

"The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me.

Should she indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce

the murderer? Thus would she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened

and she beheld me. The thought was madness; it stirred

the fiend within me--not I, but she, shall suffer; the murder

I have committed because I am forever robbed of all that she could give me,

she shall atone. The crime had its source in her; be hers the punishment!

Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man,

I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her

and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress.

She moved again, and I fled.

"For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,

sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world

and its miseries forever. At length I wandered towards these mountains,

and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed

by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part

until you have promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone

and miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed

and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion

must be of the same species and have the same defects.

This being you must create."

Chapter 17

The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the expectation

of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas

sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued,

"You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the interchange

of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do,

and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede."

The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger

that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers,

and as he said this I could no longer suppress the rage

that burned within me.

"I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort

a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men,

but you shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create

another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the world.

Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never consent."

"You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and instead of threatening,

I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable.

Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator,

would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why

I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder

if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame,

the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me?

Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury

I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude

at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses

are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be

the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries;

if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you

my archenemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred.

Have a care; I will work at your destruction, nor finish

until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour

of your birth."

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled

into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold;

but presently he calmed himself and proceeded-

"I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me,

for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess.

If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them

a hundred and a hundredfold; for that one creature's sake

I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge

in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I ask of you

is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex,

but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small,

but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me.

It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world;

but on that account we shall be more attached to one another.

Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless and free

from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me happy;

let me feel gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see

that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing;

do not deny me my request!"

I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences

of my consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument.

His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature

of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion

of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling

and continued,

"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being

shall ever see us again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America.

My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid

to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment.

My companion will be of the same nature as myself and will be content

with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun

will shine on us as on man and will ripen our food. The picture I present

to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it

only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been

towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize

the favourable moment and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."

"You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man,

to dwell in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be

your only companions. How can you, who long for the love

and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return

and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation;

your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a companion

to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be;

cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent."

"How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved

by my representations, and why do you again harden yourself

to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit,

and by you that made me, that with the companion you bestow

I will quit the neighbourhood of man and dwell, as it may chance,

in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have fled,

for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly away,

and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker."

His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him

and sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him,

when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened

and my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred.

I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathize

with him, I had no right to withhold from him the small portion

of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow.

"You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shown

a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you?

May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph

by affording a wider scope for your revenge?"

"How is this? I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer.

If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion;

the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes,

and I shall become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant.

My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor,

and my virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion

with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive being

and became linked to the chain of existence and events

from which I am now excluded."

I paused some time to reflect on all he had related

and the various arguments which he had employed. I thought

of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening

of his existence and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling

by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him.

His power and threats were not omitted in my calculations; a creature

who could exist in the ice caves of the glaciers and hide himself

from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices was a being

possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause

of reflection I concluded that the justice due both to him

and my fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply

with his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said,

"I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe forever,

and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon

as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you

in your exile."

"I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven,

and by the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer,

while they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home

and commence your labours; I shall watch their progress

with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready

I shall appear."

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change

in my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed

than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations

of the sea of ice.

His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge

of the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten

my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed

in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow.

The labour of winding among the little paths of the mountain

and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was

by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced.

Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place

and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals

as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me,

and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene

of wonderful solemnity and stirred strange thoughts within me.

I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed,

"Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me;

if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought;

but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness."

These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you

how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened

to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc

on its way to consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix;

I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart

I could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me

with a mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them.

Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the family.

My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm, but I answered

no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed

under a ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--

as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus

I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself

to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation

made every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream,

and that thought only had to me the reality of life.

Chapter 18

Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva;

and I could not collect the courage to recommence my work.

I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable

to overcome my repugnance to the task which was enjoined me.

I found that I could not compose a female without again devoting

several months to profound study and laborious disquisition.

I had heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher,

the knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes thought

of obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this purpose;

but I clung to every pretence of delay and shrank from taking

the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity

began to appear less absolute to me. A change indeed

had taken place in me; my health, which had hitherto declined,

was now much restored; and my spirits, when unchecked

by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably.

My father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts

towards the best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy,

which every now and then would return by fits, and with

a devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine.

At these moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude.

I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat,

watching the clouds and listening to the rippling of the waves,

silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed

to restore me to some degree of composure, and on my return

I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile

and a more cheerful heart.

It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father,

calling me aside, thus addressed me,

"I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed

your former pleasures and seem to be returning to yourself.

And yet you are still unhappy and still avoid our society.

For some time I was lost in conjecture as to the cause of this,

but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it is well founded,

I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point would be

not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all."

I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued--

"I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage

with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort

and the stay of my declining years. You were attached to each other

from your earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared,

in dispositions and tastes, entirely suited to one another.

But so blind is the experience of man that what I conceived

to be the best assistants to my plan may have entirely destroyed it.

You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any wish

that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another

whom you may love; and considering yourself as bound in honour to Elizabeth,

this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you appear to feel."

"My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly

and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does,

my warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects

are entirely bound up in the expectation of our union."

"The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor,

gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced.

If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events

may cast a gloom over us. But it is this gloom which appears

to have taken so strong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate.

Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnization

of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events

have drawn us from that everyday tranquillity refitting my years

and infirmities. You are younger; yet l do not suppose,

possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that an early marriage

would at all interfere with any future plans of honour and utility

that you may have formed. Do not suppose, however, that I wish

to dictate happiness to you or that a delay on your part would cause me

any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words with candour and answer me,

I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity."

I listened to my father in silence and remained for some time

incapable of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind

a multitude of thoughts and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion.

Alas! To me the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth

was one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise

which I had not yet fulfilled and dared not break, or if I did,

what manifold miseries might not impend over me and my devoted family!

Could I enter into a festival with this deadly weight yet hanging

round my neck and bowing me to the ground? I must perform my engagement

and let the monster depart with his mate before I allowed myself

to enjoy the delight of a union from which I expected peace.

I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either

journeying to England or entering into a long correspondence

with those philosophers of that country whose knowledge

and discoveries were of indispensable use to me in my present undertaking.

The latter method of obtaining the desired intelligence was dilatory

and unsatisfactory; besides, I had an insurmountable aversion

to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task in my father's house

while in habits of familiar intercourse with those I loved.

I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest

of which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror.

I was aware also that I should often lose all self-command,

all capacity of hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me

during the progress of my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself

from all I loved while thus employed. Once commenced,

it would quickly be achieved, and I might be restored to my family

in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the monster

would depart forever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident

might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my slavery forever.

These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish

to visit England, but concealing the true reasons of this request,

I clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion,

while I urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced

my father to comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy

that resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find

that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey,

and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would,

before my return, have restored me entirely to myself.

The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months,

or at most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal

kind precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion.

Without previously communicating with me, he had, in concert

with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasbourg.

This interfered with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution

of my task; yet at the commencement of my journey the presence of my friend

could in no way be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus

I should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening reflection.

Nay, Henry might stand between me and the intrusion of my foe.

If I were alone, would he not at times force his abhorred presence

on me to remind me of my task or to contemplate its progress?

To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union

with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return.

My father's age rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself,

there was one reward I promised myself from my detested toils--

one consolation for my unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect

of that day when, enfranchised from my miserable slavery,

I might claim Elizabeth and forget the past in my union with her.

I now made arrangements for my journey, but one feeling haunted me

which filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should leave

my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy and unprotected

from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my departure.

But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and would he not

accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in itself,

but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.

I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that the reverse

of this might happen. But through the whole period

during which I was the slave of my creature I allowed myself

to be governed by the impulses of the moment; and my present sensations

strongly intimated that the fiend would follow me and exempt my family

from the danger of his machinations.

It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted

my native country. My journey had been my own suggestion,

and Elizabeth therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet

at the idea of my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery

and grief. It had been her care which provided me a companion in

Clerval--and yet a man is blind to a thousand minute circumstances

which call forth a woman's sedulous attention. She longed

to bid me hasten my return; a thousand conflicting emotions

rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent farewell.

I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly knowing

whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around.

I remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it,

to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me.

Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful

and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving.

I could only think of the bourne of my travels and the work

which was to occupy me whilst they endured.

After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed

many leagues, I arrived at Strasbourg, where I waited two days for Clerval.

He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He was alive

to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun,

and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new day.

He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape

and the appearances of the sky. "This is what it is to live,"

he cried; "how I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein,

wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful!" In truth,

I was occupied by gloomy thoughts and neither saw the descent

of the evening star nor the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine.

And you, my friend, would be far more amused with the journal of Clerval,

who observed the scenery with an eye of feeling and delight,

than in listening to my reflections. I, a miserable wretch,

haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment.

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasbourg to Rotterdam,

whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage

we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns.

We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure

from Strasbourg, arrived at Mainz. The course of the Rhine below Mainz

becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly

and winds between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms.

We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices,

surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine,

indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot

you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices,

with the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,

flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river

and populous towns occupy the scene.

We travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song

of the labourers as we glided down the stream. Even I,

depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings,

even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the boat, and as I gazed

on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity

to which I had long been a stranger. And if these were my sensations,

who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had been transported

to fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man.

"I have seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country;

I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains

descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black

and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance

were it not for the most verdant islands that believe the eye

by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest,

when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water and gave you an idea

of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean; and the waves dash

with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his mistress

were overwhelmed by an avalanche and where their dying voices

are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind;

I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud;

but this country, Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders.

The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange,

but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river

that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs

yon precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed

amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers

coming from among their vines; and that village half hid in the recess

of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits and guards

this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those

who pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks

of the mountains of our own country." Clerval! Beloved friend!

Even now it delights me to record your words and to dwell on the praise

of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a being formed

in the "very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination

was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed

with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted

and wondrous nature that the world-minded teach us to look for only

in the imagination. But even human sympathies were not sufficient

to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature,

which others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:--

-----The sounding cataract

Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to him

An appetite; a feeling, and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, or any interest

Unborrow'd from the eye.*

[*Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey".]

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost forever?

Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent,

which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life of its creator;

-- has this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No,

it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty,

has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend.

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are

but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe

my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates.

I will proceed with my tale.

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved

to post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary

and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. Our journey here

lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we arrived

in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England.

It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December,

that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames

presented a new scene; they were flat but fertile, and almost every town

was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort

and remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich--

places which I had heard of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's

towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history.

Chapter 19

London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain

several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired

the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time,

but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied

with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion

of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction

that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished

natural philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,

it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight

had come over my existence, and I only visited these people

for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject

in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me;

when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth;

the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself

into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces

brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier

placed between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed

with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events

connected with those names filled my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive

and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners

which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction

and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view.

His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge

of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society,

the means of materially assisting the progress of European colonization

and trade. In Britain only could he further the execution of his plan.

He was forever busy, and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful

and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible,

that I might not debar him from the pleasures natural to one

who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care

or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him,

alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began

to collect the materials necessary for my new creation,

and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water

continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it

was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it

caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person

in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned

the beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient

allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth,

where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation,

and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains

and streams and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns

her chosen dwelling-places. We had arrived in England at the beginning

of October, and it was now February. We accordingly determined

to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration

of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow

the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock,

and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion

of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments

and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours

in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor,

rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers;

the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer

were all novelties to us.

From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city

our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events

that had been transacted there more than a century and a half before.

It was here that Charles I had collected his forces. This city

had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause

to join the standard of Parliament and liberty. The memory

of that unfortunate king and his companions, the amiable Falkland,

the insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest

to every part of the city which they might be supposed to have inhabited.

The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted

to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found

an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city had yet in itself

sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient

and picturesque; the streets are almost magnificent; and the lovely Isis,

which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure,

is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects

its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes,

embosomed among aged trees.

I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered

both by the memory of the past and the anticipation of the future.

I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days

discontent never visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by ennui,

the sight of what is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent

and sublime in the productions of man could always interest my heart

and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree;

the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive

to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be--a miserable spectacle

of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs

and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate

to the most animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages

of discovery were often prolonged by the successive objects

that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden

and the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated

from its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas

of liberty and self sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments

and the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains

and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the iron

had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless,

into my miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was

our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood

of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland;

but everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills

want the crown of distant white Alps which always attend

on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave

and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities

are disposed in the same manner as in the collections

at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble

when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit Matlock,

with which that terrible scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months

in Cumberland and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself

among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow

which yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes,

and the dashing of the rocky streams were all familiar

and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances,

who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval

was proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded

in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature

greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself

to have possessed while he associated with his inferiors.

"I could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among these mountains

I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine."

But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain

amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch;

and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged

to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new,

which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes

for other novelties.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland

and Westmorland and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants

when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached,

and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry.

I had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects

of the daemon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland

and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me

and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise

have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters

with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was miserable

and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived

and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared

to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend

followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.

When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment,

but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage

of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime,

the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed

drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city

might have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it

so well as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing

to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh,

its romantic castle and its environs, the most delightful in the world,

Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills compensated him

for the change and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration.

But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's,

and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us.

But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter

into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest;

and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland

alone. "Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous.

I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions,

I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time;

and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart,

more congenial to your own temper.

Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan,

ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often.

"I had rather be with you," he said, "in your solitary rambles,

than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know; hasten, then,

my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home,

which I cannot do in your absence."

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot

of Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt

but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me

when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion.

With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands

and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours.

It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock

whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves.

The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows,

and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons,

whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare.

Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries,

and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainland,

which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts,

and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired.

It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness

of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in,

the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges.

I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession,

an incident which would doubtless have