FRANKENSTEIN, by MARY W SHELLEY.
Digitized by Cardinalis Etext Press [C.E.K.]
Posted to Wiretap in August 1993, as franken.txt.
Italics are represented as _Italics_.
Originally written in 1818, this is from a 1973
reprinting of the 1912 Everyman's edition, of which
only the introduction is copyright (c)1963 by
J.M. Dent & Sons Ltd, London; Shelley died in 1851.
This text is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN.
Mary W. Shelley
Frankenstein
Dent: London
Everyman's Library
Dutton: New York
First included in Everyman's Library 1912
Last reprinted 1973
Preface
THE event on which this fiction is founded has been supposed,
by Dr. Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of
Germany, as not of impossible occurrence. I shall not be
supposed as according the remotest degree of serious faith to
such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as the basis of a work
of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely weaving a
series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the
interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages
of a mere tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended
by the novelty of the situations which it developes; and,
however impossible as a physical fact, affords a point of view
to the imagination for the delineating of human passions more
comprehensive and commanding than any which the ordinary
relations of existing events can yield.
I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary
principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to
innovate upon their combinations. The _Iliad_, the tragic
poetry of Greece--Shakspeare, in the _Tempest_ and _Midsummer
Night's Dream_--and most especially Milton, in _Paradise Lost_,
conform to this rule; and the most humble novelist, who seeks
to confer or receive amusement from his labours, may, without
presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, or rather a
rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations
of human feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry.
The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in
casual conversation. It was commenced partly as a source of
amusement, and partly as an expedient for exercising any
untried resources of mind. Other motives were mingled with
these as the work proceeded. I am by no means indifferent to
the manner in which whatever moral tendencies exist in the
sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the reader;
yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the
avoiding the enervating effects of the novels of the present
day and to the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic
affection, and the excellence of universal virtue. The
opinions which naturally spring from the character and
situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived as
existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference
justly to be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any
philosophical doctrine of whatever kind.
It is a subject also of additional interest to the author that
this story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is
principally laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted.
I passed the summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva.
The season was cold and rainy, and in the evenings we crowded
around a blazing wood fire, and occasionally amused ourselves
with some German stories of ghosts, which happened to fall
into our hands. These tales excited in us a playful desire
of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of
one of whom would be far more acceptable to the public than
anything I can ever hope to produce) and myself agreed to write
each a story founded on some supernatural occurrence.
The weather, however, suddenly became serene; and my two
friends left me on a journey among the Alps, and lost, in the
magnificent scenes which they present, all memory of their
ghostly visions. The following tale is the only one which has
been completed.
MARLOW, September 1817.
LETTER I
_To Mrs. Saville, England_
ST. PETERSBURGH, _Dec. 11, 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 day dreams 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 for
ever 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 for ever. 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 laborious 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
tranquillise 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's 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
Shakspeare 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 stage-coach. 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 II
_To Mrs. Saville, England_
_ARCHANGEL, March 28th, 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 sympathise 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's 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 day dreams 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 desired 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 III
_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 united 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 IV
_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 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 some one 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 an 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 any one performs an act
of kindness towards him, or does him any 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 daemon, 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 in
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 some one 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 any one
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 drank 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, seems
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 19th, 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 I
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 doating
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 visted Germany and France. I, their eldest
child, was born in 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.
Every one 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--to-morrow
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 II
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 schoolfellows 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, rough 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
afterwards 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 beside
myself. I have described myself as always having been embued
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, anatomise, 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 fulfilment 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 ribands 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 envelope 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 III
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 sick bed--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 death-bed
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
for ever--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 compiled
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 embued 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 alchymists 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, 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 alchymists. 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 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 IV
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
continuity sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and
was solely wrapt 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 improvement, 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 minutia 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 desires 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 organisation; 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 complex
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 hinderance 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 realise. 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 eye-balls were starting from
their sockets in attending to the details of my employment.
The dissecting room and the slaughterhouse 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 moralising 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 silence 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 V
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 bedchamber,
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 down stairs. 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."[1]
[1] 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 bchold 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 for ever 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 thoughts 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 VI
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 sick bed 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 related 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 reined 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 outstript 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 an eulogy on himself, which happily
turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.
Clerval had never sympathised 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 toward the East, as affording scope for his
spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit
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 sympathised 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 every one we met appeared gay and happy.
My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings
of unbridled joy and hilarity.
CHAPTER VII
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 inquired 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 him 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
murderer'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 murderer 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 to the joy
I at first expressed on receiving news 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 to 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 such 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 everything 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 not
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
lightnings 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 everything 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
that 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 angell 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 that
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 revolved in my mind the events which I had until
now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress towards
the creation; the appearance of the work of my own hands alive
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 discover 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 as 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. He expressed a sorrowful
delight to see 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 inquired 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 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 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 ingratitude 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 VIII
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 gated 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 any one
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 daemon, 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 forego 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 be 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 her's 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 heartrending
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 IX
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 for ever. 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 recognised, reminded me of days gone by,
and were associated with the light-hearted 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 blest
the giver of oblivion.
CHAPTER X
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
tranquillised 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 mountain-top, 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 solemnising 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 higher, 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 wandering 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 yon snowy precipices,
and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story, and
can decide. On you it rests whether I quit for ever the
neighbourhood of man, and lead a hapless 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 XI
"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.[1] 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 rung 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.
[1] The moon.
"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 surrrounded 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 sunk 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
Pandaemonium appeared to the daemons 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 mused;
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 farm-house 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 than{sic}
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 despatched.
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 XII
"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 being 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
sympathised in their joys. I saw few human beings beside 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
milkhouse, drew water from the well, and brought the wood from
the out-house, 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
sprung 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 XIII
"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 some one tapped at the door.
"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman 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, not 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 for ever 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 doated 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 XIV
"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 Mahometan; 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 Mahomet. 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 De
Lacey 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 Turks 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 adverse 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 XV
"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 for ever 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 sunk 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
sympathised 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 sympathising 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 sympathised 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 realise 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
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 for ever.'
"`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 for ever 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 for ever.
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 sunk 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 XVI
"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 stag
like swiftness. O! 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 unsympathised 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 familiarised 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 for ever 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 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
sunk, 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 south westerly 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 some one
in sport. She continued her course along the precipitous sides
of the river, when suddenly her foot slipt, 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 sunk 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 for ever 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 I 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 for ever 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 for ever. 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 XVII
The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in
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
contemns 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 arch-enemy, 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 an hundred and an hundred fold; 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 realised. 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 sympathise 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
every one 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 become 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
for ever, 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
mountains, 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 half-way 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 XVIII
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 shrunk 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 solemnisation of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have
drawn us from that every-day tranquillity befitting my years
and infirmities. You are younger; yet I 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 an 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 for ever.
Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile
occur to destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for ever.
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 Strasburgh. 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 agonised 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 Strasburgh, 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, "now 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 Strasburgh 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 Manheim, and, on the fifth
from our departure from Strasburgh, arrived at Mayence.
The course of the Rhine below Mayence 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 Fairyland, 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
relieve 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 waterspout 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 worldly-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."[1]
[1] Wordsworth's _Tintern Abbey._
And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being
lost for ever? 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 the
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 XIX
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 colonisation and trade. In Britain only could he
further the execution of his plan. He was for ever 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 northward, we passed two months
in Cumberland and Westmoreland. 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 for ever 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
Westmoreland, 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 us 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, conpensated
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 main land, 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
occasioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the
cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it
was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the
pittance of food and clothes which I gave; so much does
suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.
In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the
evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony
beach of the sea, to listen to the waves as they roared and
dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing
scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from
this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered
with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the
plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and,
when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of
a lively infant, when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.
In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first
arrived; but, as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day
more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail
on myself to enter my laboratory for several days; and at other
times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work.
It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged.
During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had
blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently
fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to
the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood,
and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.
Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation,
immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant call
my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my
spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every
moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my
eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them, lest they
should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold.
I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest
when alone he should come to claim his companion.
In the meantime I worked on, and my labour was already
considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion with a
tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to
question, but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of
evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom.
CHAPTER XX
I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the
moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light
for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of
consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the
night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention
to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led
me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years
before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created
a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart,
and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now
about to form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike
ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more malignant
than her mate, and delight, for its own sake, in murder and
wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man,
and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in
all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal,
might refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation.
They might even hate each other; the creature who already lived
loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater
abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the female form?
She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior
beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone,
exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one
of his own species.
Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of
the new world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies
for which the daemon thirsted would be children, and a race of
devils would be propagated upon the earth who might make the
very existence of the species of man a condition precarious and
full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit, to inflict
this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been
moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been
struck senseless by his fiendish threats: but now, for the
first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I
shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their
pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace
at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race.
I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on looking up,
I saw, by the light of the moon, the daemon at the casement.
A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat
fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had
followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid
himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths;
and he now came to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment
of my promise.
As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent
of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness
on my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling
with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged.
The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future
existence he depended for happiness, and, with a howl of
devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.
I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my
own heart never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling
steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone; none were near
me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve me from the sickening
oppression of the most terrible reveries.
Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on
the sea; it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed,
and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few
fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the
gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fishermen
called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was
hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear was
suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and
a person landed close to my house.
In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if
some one endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head
to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was, and wished to
rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from
mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so
often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to
fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot.
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the
door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the
door, he approached me, and said, in a smothered voice--"You have
destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend?
Do you dare to break your promise?
I have endured toil and misery: I left Switzerland with you; I
crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands,
and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in
the heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have
endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare
destroy my hopes?"
"Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another
like yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness."
"Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved
yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have
power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so
wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are
my creator, but I am your master;--obey!"
"The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your
power is arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of
wickedness; but they confirm me in a determination of not
creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set
loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight is in death and
wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only
exasperate my rage."
The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his
teeth in the impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he,
"find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and
I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited
by detestation and scorn. Man! you may hate; but beware! your
hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will
fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever.
Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my
wretchedness? You can blast my other passions; but revenge
remains--revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may
die; but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the
sun that gazes on your misery. Beware; for I am fearless, and
therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake,
that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the
injuries you inflict."
"Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds
of malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no
coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable."
"It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night."
I started forward, and exclaimed, "Villain! before you sign my
death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe."
I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted the
house with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his
boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness,
and was soon lost amidst the waves.
All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned
with rage to pursue the murderer of my peace and precipitate
him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily and
perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images
to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and
closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to
depart, and he had directed his course towards the main land.
I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to
his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his
words--"_I_ will be with you on your wedding-night." That then
was the period fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that
hour I should die, and at once satisfy and extinguish his malice.
The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought of my
beloved Elizabeth,--of her tears and endless sorrow, when she
should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her,--tears,
the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes,
and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle.
The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my
feelings became calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the
violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the
house, the horrid scene of the last night's contention, and
walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an
insuperable barrier between me and my fellow-creatures; nay, a
wish that such should prove the fact stole across me. I desired
that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is
true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I
returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most
loved die under the grasp of a damon whom I had myself created.
I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from
all it loved, and miserable in the separation. When it became
noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass, and was
overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the
preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed
by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sunk
refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged
to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect
upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the
words of the fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they
appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.
The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore,
satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with an
oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one
of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from
Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join him.
He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he
was; that letters from the friends he had formed in London
desired his return to complete the negotiation they had entered
into for his Indian enterprise. He could not any longer delay
his departure; but as his journey to London might be followed,
even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he
entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could
spare. He besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle,
and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed southwards
together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I
determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.
Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which
I shuddered to reflect: I must pack up my chemical instruments;
and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been the
scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils, the
sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at
daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage, and unlocked the door
of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature,
whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost
felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being.
I paused to collect myself, and then entered the chamber.
With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room;
but I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work
to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I
accordingly put them into a basket, with a great quantity of
stones, and, laying them up, determined to throw them into the
sea that very night; and in the meantime I sat upon the beach,
employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus.
Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had
taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance of
the damon. I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy
despair, as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be
fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been taken from
before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly.
The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur
to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did
not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had
resolved in my own mind, that to create another like the fiend
I had first made would be an act of the basest and most
atrocious selfishness; and I banished from my mind every
thought that could lead to a different conclusion.
Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then,
putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four
miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary: a few
boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them.
I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime,
and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my
fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been
clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took
advantage of the moment of darkness, and cast my basket into
the sea: I listened to the gurgling sound as it sunk, and then
sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded; but the air
was pure, although chilled by the north-east breeze that was
then rising. But it refreshed me, and filled me with such
agreeable sensations, that I resolved to prolong my stay on the
water; and, fixing the rudder in a direct position, stretched
myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon,
everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat,
as its keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in
a short time I slept soundly.
I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when
I awoke I found that the sun had already mounted considerably.
The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened the
safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was
north-east, and must have driven me far from the coast from
which I had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but
quickly found that, if I again made the attempt, the boat would
be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only
resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt
a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me, and was
so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the
world, that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be
driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the tortures of
starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that
roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many
hours, and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to
my other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were
covered by clouds that flew before the wind, only to be
replaced by others: I looked upon the sea, it was to be my
grave. "Fiend," I exclaimed, "your task is already fulfilled!"
I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; all left
behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his sanguinary and
merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie, so
despairing and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on
the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect
on it.
Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined
towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze,
and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to
a heavy swell: I felt sick, and hardly able to hold the rudder,
when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south.
Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense
I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life
rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed
from my eyes.
How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging
love we have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed
another sail with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my
course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance;
but, as I approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces
of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found
myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of
civilised man. I carefully traced the windings of the land,
and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind
a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility,
I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place where
I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had
money with me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived a small
neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart
bounding with joy at my unexpected escape.
As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails,
several people crowded towards the spot. They seemed much
surprised at my appearance; but, instead of offering me any
assistance, whispered together with gestures that at any other
time might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm.
As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke English; and I
therefore addressed them in that language: "My good friends,"
said I, "will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this
town, and inform me where I am?"
"You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a hoarse voice.
"May be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste;
but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you."
I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from
a stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the
frowning and angry countenances of his companions. "Why do you
answer me so roughly?" I replied; "surely it is not the custom
of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably."
"I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English
may be; but it is the custom of the Irish to hate villains."
While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd
rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity
and anger, which annoyed, and in some degree alarmed me.
I inquired the way to the inn; but no one replied. I then moved
forward and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they
followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking man approaching,
tapped me on the shoulder, and said, "Come, sir, you must follow
me to Mr. Kirwin's, to give an account of yourself."
"Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself?
Is not this a free country?"
"Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a
magistrate; and you are to give an account of the death of a
gentleman who was found murdered here last night."
This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself.
I was innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I
followed my conductor in silence, and was led to one of the
best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and
hunger; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it
politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical debility
might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt.
Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments
to overwhelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear
of ignominy or death.
I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall
the memory of the frightful events which I am about to relate,
in proper detail, to my recollection.
CHAPTER XXI
I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an
old benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon
me, however, with some degree of severity: and then, turning
towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on
this occasion.
About half a dozen men came forward; and one being selected by
the magistrate, he deposed that he had been out fishing the
night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent,
when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast
rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was a very
dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at
the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about
two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the
fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some
distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck his
foot against something, and fell at his length on the ground.
His companions came up to assist him; and, by the light of
their lantern, they found that he had fallen on the body of a
man who was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition
was that it was the corpse of some person who had been drowned,
and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, on examination, they
found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was
not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an
old woman near the spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to
restore it to life. It appeared to be a handsome young man,
about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been
strangled; for there was no sign of any violence, except the
black mark of fingers on his neck.
The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest
me; but when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I
remembered the murder of my brother, and felt myself extremely
agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes,
which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate
observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew an unfavourable
augury from my manner.
The son confirmed his father's account: but when Daniel Nugent
was called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of
his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a
short distance from the shore; and, as far as he could judge by
the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had
just landed.
A woman deposed that she lived near the beach, and was standing
at the door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the
fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of
the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man in it, push off
from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found.
Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having
brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They put it
into a bed, and rubbed it; and Daniel went to the town for an
apothecary, but life was quite gone.
Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they
agreed that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during
the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for
many hours, and had been obliged to return nearly to the same
spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it
appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and it
was likely that, as I did not appear to know the shore, I might
have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town
of ---- from the place where I had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kerwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be
taken into the room where the body lay for interment, that it
might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce
upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme
agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been
described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and
several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being
struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during
this eventful night; but knowing that I had been conversing
with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the
time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as
to the consequences of the affair.
I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to
the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding it?
I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that
terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination,
the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a
dream from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry
Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath; and,
throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have my murderous
machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life?
Two I have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny:
but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor----"
The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I
endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.
A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point
of death: my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I
called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of
Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in
the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at
others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my
neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately,
as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me;
but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright
the other witnesses.
Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why
did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches
away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doating
parents: how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day
in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms
and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that
I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of
the wheel, continually renewed the torture?
But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as
awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed,
surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable
apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I
thus awoke to understanding: I had forgotten the particulars of
what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune
had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around, and saw
the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair
beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the
turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities
which often characterise that class. The lines of her face
were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see
without sympathising in sights of misery. Her tone expressed
her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the
voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:--
"Are you better now, sir?" said she.
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe
I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am
sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror."
"For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about
the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for
you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you!
However, that's none of my business; I am sent to nurse you,
and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it were
well if everybody did the same."
I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so
unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very edge of
death; but I felt languid, and unable to reflect on all that
had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a
dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it
never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.
As the images that floated before me become more distinct, I
grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me: no one was near me
who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand
supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and
the old woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was
visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was
strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be
interested in the fate of a murderer, but the hangman who would
gain his fee?
These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr.
Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best
room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was
the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a
nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me; for, although he
ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human
creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore,
sometimes, to see that I was not neglected; but his visits were
short, and with long intervals.
One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a
chair, my eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in
death. I was overcome by gloom and misery, and often reflected
I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which
to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered
whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the
penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been.
Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened
and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy
and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me
in French--
"I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do
anything to make you more comfortable?"
"I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the
whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving."
"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little
relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune.
But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode; for,
doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to free you from the
criminal charge."
"That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events,
become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured
as I am and have been, can death be any evil tome?"
"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the
strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by
some surprising accident, on this shore renowned for its
hospitality, seized immediately, and charged with murder.
The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the body of
your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed,
as it were, by some fiend across your path."
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I
endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt
considerable surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess
concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my
countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say--
"Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that
were on your person were brought me, and I examined them that
I might discover some trace by which I could send to your
relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found
several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from
its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to
Geneva: nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of
my letter.--But you are ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit
for agitation of any kind."
"This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible
event: tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and
whose murder I am now to lament?"
"Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with
gentleness; "and some one, a friend, is come to visit you."
I know not by what chain of thought the idea presented itself,
but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come
to mock at my misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval,
as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires.
I put my hand before my eyes and cried out in agony--
"Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake do not
let him enter!"
Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could
not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt,
and said, in rather a severe tone--
"I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your
father would have been welcome instead of inspiring such
violent repugnance."
"My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was
relaxed from anguish to pleasure: "is my father indeed come?
How kind, how very kind! But where is he, why does he not
hasten to me?"
My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate;
perhaps he thought that my former exclamation was a momentary
return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed his former
benevolence. He rose and quitted the room with my nurse, and
in a moment my father entered it.
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure
than the arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him
and cried--
"Are you then safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?"
My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and
endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my
heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a
prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. "What a place is
this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking mournfully at
the barred windows and wretched appearance of the room.
"You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to
pursue you. And poor Clerval----"
The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation
too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.
"Alas! yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most
horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or
surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry."
We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution
necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in
and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too
much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like
that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health.
As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval
was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once
the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my
friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! why did they preserve
so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might
fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh!
very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and relieve
me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust;
and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to
rest. Then the appearance of death was distant although the
wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours
motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution
that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.
The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three
months in prison; and although I was still weak, and in
continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly
a hundred miles to the county-town where the court was held.
Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting
witnesses and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace
of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not
brought before the court that decides on life and death.
The grand jury rejected the bill on its being proved that I was
on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found;
and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison.
My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations
of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the
fresh atmosphere, and permitted to return to my native country.
I did not participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of
a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was
poisoned for ever; and although the sun shone upon me as upon
the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense
and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer
of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the
expressive eyes of Henry languishing in death, the dark orbs
nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that
fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the
monster as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection.
He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit--of Elizabeth
and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me.
Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; and thought,
with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or longed, with
a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more the blue lake
and rapid Rhone that had been so dear to me in early childhood:
but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a prison
was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish
and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an
end to the existence I loathed; and it required unceasing
attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some
dreadful act of violence.
Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally
triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I
should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the
lives of those I so fondly loved; and to lie in wait for the
murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his
concealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence,
I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the
monstrous Image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul
still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our
departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a
journey: for I was a shattered wreck--the shadow of a human
being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton; and fever
night and day preyed upon my wasted frame.
Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and
impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our
passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed
with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight.
I lay on the deck looking at the stars and listening to the
dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland
from my sight; and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I
reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to
me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which
I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of
Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly
that I was deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend
and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the
monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole
life; my quiet happiness while residing with my family in
Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt.
I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on
to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the
night in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train
of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
Ever since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom
of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was
by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest
necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the
recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double
my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not
afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented
a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was
possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend's grasp in
my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and cries
rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me,
perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were
around: the cloudy sky above; the fiend was not here: a sense
of security, a feeling that a truce was established between the
present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future, imparted
to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is
by its structure peculiarly susceptible.
CHAPTER XXII
The voyage came to an end. We landed and proceeded to Paris.
I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength, and that I must
repose before I could continue my journey. My father's care
and attentions were indefatigable; but he did not know the
origin of my sufferings, and sought erroneous methods to remedy
the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society.
I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! they were my
brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the
most repulsive among them as to creatures of an angelic nature
and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to
share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them,
whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their
groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me, and hunt me
from the world, did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes
which had their source in me!
My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society, and
strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he
thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to
answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me
the futility of pride.
"Alas! my father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human
beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded
if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy
Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge;
she died for it; and I am the cause of this--I murdered her.
William, Justine, and Henry--they all died by my hands."
My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the
same assertion; when I thus accused myself he sometimes seemed
to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider
it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness,
some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination,
the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence.
I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual silence
concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that
I should be supposed mad; and this in itself would for ever
have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself
to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with
consternation, and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates
of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for
sympathy, and was silent when I would have given the world to
have confided the fatal secret. Yet still words like those I
have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could
offer no explanation of them; but their truth in part relieved
the burden of my mysterious woe.
Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of
unbounded wonder, "My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this?
My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again."
"I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the
heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my
truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims; they
died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my
own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could
not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race."
The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas
were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our
conversation and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts.
He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the
scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and never alluded to them,
or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes.
As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling
in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent
manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the
consciousness of them. By the utmost selfviolence, I curbed
the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to
declare itself to the whole world; and my manners were calmer
and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the
sea of ice.
A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I
received the following letter from Elizabeth:--
"MY DEAR FRIEND,--It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive
a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a
formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a
fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must have suffered!
I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted
Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured
as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in
your countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally
void of comfort and tranquillity.
"Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so
miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would
not disturb you at this period when so many misfortunes weigh
upon you; but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous
to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet.
"Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have to
explain? If you really say this, my questions are answered, and
all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it
is possible that you may dread, and yet be pleased with this
explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I
dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence,
I have often wished to express to you, but have never had the
courage to begin.
"You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite
plan of your parents ever since our infancy. We were told
this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event
that would certainly take place. We were affectionate
playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued
friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and
sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other
without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be
our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you,
by our mutual happiness, with simple truth--Do you not love another?
"You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life
at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw
you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the
society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you
might regret our connection, and believe yourself bound in
honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents although they
opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false
reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you, and
that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant
friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as
well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would
render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate of
your own free choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne
down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle,
by the word _honour_, all hope of that love and happiness which
would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so
disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries
tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be
assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love
for you not to be made miserable by this supposition.
Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request,
remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to
interrupt my tranquillity.
"Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or
the next day, or even until you come, if it will give you pain.
My uncle will send me news of your health; and if I see but one
smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any
other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness.
"ELIZABETH LAVENZA."
"GENEVA, _May 18th, 17--._"
This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten,
the threat of the fiend--"_I_ _will be with you on your
wedding-night!_" Such was my sentence, and on that night would
the daemon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me from the
glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my
sufferings. On that night he had determined to consummate his
crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would
then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I
should be at peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he
were vanquished I should be a free man. Alas! what freedom?
such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred
before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and
he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free.
Such would be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I
possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors of
remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her letter and
some softened feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper
paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was
already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive me from
all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster
executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I
considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My
destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner; but if
my torturer should suspect that I postponed it influenced by
his menaces he would surely find other, and perhaps more
dreadful, means of revenge. He had vowed _to be with me on my
wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that threat as binding
him to peace in the meantime; for, as if to show me that he was
not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval
immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved,
therefore, that if my immediate union with my cousin would
conduce either to hers or my father's happiness, my adversary's
designs against my life should not retard it a single hour.
In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm
and affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little
happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day
enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you
alone do I consecrate my life and my endeavours for
contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one;
when revealed to you it will chill your frame with horror, and
then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this
tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage
shall take place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect
confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not
mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I
know you will comply."
In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter we
returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm
affection; yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my
emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her
also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly
vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness and
soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one
blasted and miserable as I was.
The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory
brought madness with it; and when I thought of what had passed
a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt
with rage; sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke nor
looked at any one, but sat motionless, bewildered by the
multitude of miseries that overcame me.
Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her
gentle voice would soothe me when transported by passion, and
inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept
with me and for me. When reason returned she would remonstrate
and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! it is well
for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is
no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is
otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.
Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my immediate marriage
with Elizabeth. I remained silent.
"Have you, then, some other attachment?"
"None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our
union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it
I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of
my cousin."
"My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have
befallen us; but let us only cling closer to what remains, and
transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet
live. Our circle will be small, but bound close by the ties of
affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have
softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be
born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived."
Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance
of the threat returned: nor can you wonder that, omnipotent as
the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost
regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the
words, "I shall be with you on your wedding-night," I should
regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no
evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it; and
I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance,
agreed with my father that, if my cousin would consent, the
ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I
imagined, the seal to my fate.
Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be the
hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have
banished myself for ever from my native country, and wandered
a friendless outcast over the earth, than have consented to
this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers,
the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I
thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that
of a far dearer victim.
As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from
cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me.
But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity,
that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father,
but hardly deceived the everwatchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth.
She looked forward to our union with placid contentment,
not unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had
impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible happiness
might soon dissipate into an airy dream, and leave no trace
but deep and everlasting regret.
Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory visits
were received; and all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up,
as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed
there, and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of
my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of
my tragedy. Through my father's exertions, a part of the
inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by the
Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como
belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our
union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza, and spend our first
days of happiness beside the beautiful lake near which it stood.
In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in
case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and
a dagger constantly about me, and was ever on the watch to
prevent artifice; and by these means gained a greater degree
of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat
appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to
disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my
marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day
fixed for its solemnisation drew nearer and I heard it
continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could
possibly prevent.
Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed
greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my
wishes and my destiny she was melancholy, and a presentiment of
evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful
secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the following day.
My father was in the meantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of
preparation, only recognised in the melancholy of his niece
the diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my
father's; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should
commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian,
and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was
fair, the wind favourable, all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.
Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed
the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was
hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy,
while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side
of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant banks of
Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful
Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain
endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the opposite
banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the
ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost
insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to
enslave it.
I took the hand of Elizabeth: "You are sorrowful, my love.
Ah! if you knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet
endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and
freedom from despair that this one day at least permits me
to enjoy."
"Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I
hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively
joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented.
Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect
that is opened before us; but I will not listen to such a
sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how the
clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the
dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more
interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are
swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every
pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! how happy
and serene all nature appears!"
Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from
all reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was
fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it
continually gave place to distraction and reverie.
The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance,
and observed its path through the chasms of the higher, and the
glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the
lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which
forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the
woods that surrounded it, and the range of mountain above
mountain by which it was overhung.
The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing
rapidity, sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just
ruffled the water, and caused a pleasant motion among the trees
as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most
delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the
horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I felt those
cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to
me for ever.
CHAPTER XXIII
It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time
on the shore enjoying the transitory light, and then retired
to the inn and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods,
and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their
black outlines.
The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great
violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the
heavens and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across
it swifter than the flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays,
while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens,
rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning
to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.
I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night obscured
the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind.
I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol
which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me; but I
resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not shrink from
the conflict until my own life, or that of my adversary, was
extinguished.
Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and
fearful silence; but there was something in my glance which
communicated terror to her, and trembling she asked, "What is
it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?"
"Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I; "this night and all
will be safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful."
I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I
reflected how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected
would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire,
resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge
as to the situation of my enemy.
She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the
passages of the house, and inspecting every corner that might
afford a retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of
him, and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate chance
had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces, when
suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from
the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the
whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of
every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood
trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my
limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was
repeated, and I rushed into the room.
Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate
the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature of
earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the
bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and distorted features
half covered by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same
figure--her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the
murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live?
Alas! life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated.
For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless
on the ground.
When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of
the inn; their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but
the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of
the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the
room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so
lately living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the
posture in which I had first beheld her; and now, as she lay,
her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across her
face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed
towards her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deadly
languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held
in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and
cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her
neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips.
While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened
to look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened,
and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of
the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown
back; and, with a sensation of horror not to be described, I
saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred.
A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer as
with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my
wife. I rushed towards the window and, drawing a pistol from
my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and,
running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.
The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room.
I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared, and we
followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain.
After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of
my companions believing it to have been a form conjured up
by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search
the country, parties going in different directions among the
woods and vines.
I attempted to accompany them, and proceeded a short distance
from the house; but my head whirled round, my steps were like
those of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter
exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched
with the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back and
placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes
wandered round the room as if to seek something that I had lost.
After an interval I arose and, as if by instinct, crawled into
the room where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women
weeping around--I hung over it, and joined my sad tears to
theirs--all this time no distinct idea presented itself to my
mind; but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting
confusedly on my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered
in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the
execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my
wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining
friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father
even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be
dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder and recalled me to
action. I started up and resolved to return to Geneva with all
possible speed.
There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the
lake; but the wind was unfavourable and the rain fell in
torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might
reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, and
took an oar myself; for I had always experienced relief from
mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery
I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured,
rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar,
and leaning my head upon my hands gave way to every gloomy idea
that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were
familiar to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated
but the day before in the company of her who was now but a
shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes.
The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the
waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been
observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind
as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the
clouds might lower: but nothing could appear to me as it had
done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every hope
of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as
I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man.
But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this
last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I
have reached their _acme_, and what I must now relate can but be
tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched
away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted; and
I must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration.
I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the
former sunk under the tidings that I bore. I see him now,
excellent and venerable old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy,
for they had lost their charm and their delight--his Elizabeth,
his more than daughter, whom he doated on with all that
affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having
few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain.
Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey
hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not
live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; the
springs of existence suddenly gave way: he was unable to rise
from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms.
What then became of me? I know not. I lost sensation, and
chains and darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me.
Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows
and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth; but I awoke,
and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by
degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and
situation, and was then released from my prison. For they had
called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a
solitary cell had been my habitation.
Liberty, however, had been an useless gift to me had I not, as
I awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge.
As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to
reflect on their cause--the monster whom I had created, the
miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world for
my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I
thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might
have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on
his cursed head.
Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began
to reflect on the best means of securing him; and for this
purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a
criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had an
accusation to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family; and
that I required him to exert his whole authority for the
apprehension of the murderer.
The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness:--
"Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part
shall be spared to discover the villain."
"I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition
that I have to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I
should fear you would not credit it were there not something in
truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story
is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no
motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus addressed him, was
impressive but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution
to pursue my destroyer to death; and this purpose quieted my
agony, and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now
related my history, briefly, but with firmness and precision,
marking the dates with accuracy, and never deviating into
invective or exclamation.
The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as
I continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him
sometimes shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise,
unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance.
When I had concluded my narration, I said, "This is the being
whom I accuse, and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon
you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate,
and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not
revolt from the execution of those functions on this occasion.
This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of
my own auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of
belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural
events; but when he was called upon to act officially in
consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned.
He, however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every
aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak appears
to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance.
Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice, and
inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude?
Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his
crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has
wandered, or what region he may now inhabit."
"I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit;
and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted
like the chamois, and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I
perceive your thoughts: you do not credit my narrative, and do
not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which is
his desert."
As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was
intimidated:--"You are mistaken," said he, "I will exert
myself; and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be
assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his
crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to
be his properties, that this will prove impracticable; and
thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should make up
your mind to disappointment."
"That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail.
My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to
be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only
passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable when I reflect that
the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists.
You refuse my just demand: I have but one resource; and I devote
myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction."
I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was
a frenzy in my manner and something, I doubt not, of that
haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have
possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was
occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism,
this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness.
He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and reverted
to my tale as the effects of delirium.
"Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!
Cease; you know not what it is you say."
I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to
meditate on some other mode of action.
CHAPTER XXIV
My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was
swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge
alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my
feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at periods
when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion.
My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country,
which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my
adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of
money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my
mother, and departed.
And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life.
I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured
all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous
countries, are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know;
many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy
plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared
not die and leave my adversary in being.
When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by
which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my
plan was unsettled; and I wandered many hours round the
confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue.
As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the
cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed.
I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their graves.
Everything was silent, except the leaves of the trees, which
were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark;
and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an
uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to
flit around and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen,
around the head of the mourner.
The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly
gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived;
their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out
my weary existence. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth,
and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on
which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep
and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night,
and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the daemon
who caused this misery until he or I shall perish in mortal
conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life: to execute
this dear revenge will I again behold the sun and tread the
green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my
eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead; and on
you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in
my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of
agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me."
I had begun my abjuration with solemnity and an awe which
almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard
and approved my devotion; but the furies possessed me as I
concluded, and rage choked my utterance.
I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and
fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the
mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me
with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have
been possessed by frenzy, and have destroyed my miserable
existence, but that my vow was heard and that I was reserved
for vengeance. The laughter died away; when a well-known and
abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an
audible whisper--"I am satisfied: miserable wretch! you have
determined to live, and I am satisfied."
I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but
the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon
arose and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he
fled with more than mortal speed.
I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task.
Guided by a slight clue I followed the windings of the Rhone,
but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange
chance, I saw the fiend enter by night and hide himself in a
vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same
ship; but he escaped, I know not how.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still
evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the
peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his
path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace
of him I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me.
The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge
step on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to
whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand what
I have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue were the
least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by
some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet
still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps; and,
when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate me from
seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature,
overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was
prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me.
The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the
country ate; but I will not doubt that it was set there by the
spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry,
the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight
cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me,
and vanish.
I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the
daemon generally avoided these, as it was here that the
population of the country chiefly collected. In other places
human beings were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted on the
wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and
gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or
I brought with me some food that I had killed, which, after
taking a small part, I always presented to those who had
provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.
My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it
was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed
sleep! often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my
dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me
had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that
I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of
this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During
the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night:
for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country;
again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the
silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval
enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome
march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night
should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms
of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for
them! how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they
haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they
still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me,
died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction
of the daemon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the
mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious,
than as the ardent desire of my soul.
What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know.
Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the
trees, or cut in stone, that guided me and instigated my fury.
"My reign is not yet over" (these words were legible in one
of these inscriptions); "you live, and my power is complete.
Fellow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you
will feel the misery of cold and frost to which I am impassive.
You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily,
a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we
have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard and miserable
hours must you endure until that period shall arrive."
Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote
thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give
up my search until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy
shall I join my Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now
prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!
As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows
thickened and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe
to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and
only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the
animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding places to
seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice and no fish
could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article
of maintenance.
The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my
labours. One inscription that he left was in these
words:--"Prepare! your toils only begin: wrap yourself in furs
and provide food; for we shall soon enter upon a journey where
your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred."
My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing
words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on
Heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to
traverse immense deserts until the ocean appeared at a distance
and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! how unlike
it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered with ice, it was
only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness
and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the
Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture
the boundary of their toils. I did not weep; but I knelt down
and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for
conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped,
notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him.
Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs,
and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know
not whether the fiend possessed the same advantages; but I
found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit,
I now gained on him: so much so that, when I first saw the
ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to
intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new
courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a
wretched hamlet on the sea-shore. I inquired of the
inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate
information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the
night before, armed with a gun and many pistols, putting to
flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of
his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of
winter food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had
seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed
them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck
villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a
direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he
must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice or frozen
by the eternal frosts.
On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of
despair. He had escaped me; and I must commence a destructive
and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the
ocean--amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long
endure, and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate,
could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend
should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned,
and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.
After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead
hovered round and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared
for my journey.
I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the
inequalities of the Frozen Ocean; and purchasing a plentiful
stock of provisions, I departed from land.
I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I have
endured misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a
just retribution burning within my heart could have enabled me
to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred
up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea
which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came and
made the paths of the sea secure.
By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should
guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the
continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart,
often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes.
Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon
have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals
that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the summit of
a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue,
died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when
suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain.
I strained my sight to discover what it could be, and uttered
a wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge and the
distorted proportions of a well known form within. Oh! with
what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart! warm tears
filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away that they might not
intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my sight was
dimmed by the burning drops until, giving way to the emotions
that oppressed me, I wept aloud.
But this was not the time for delay: I disencumbered the dogs
of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food;
and, after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and
yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route.
The sledge was still visible; nor did I again lose sight of it
except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock
concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly
gained on it; and when, after nearly two days' journey, I
beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart
bounded within me.
But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my
hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him
more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was
heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and
swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and
terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea
roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it
split and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound.
The work was soon finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous sea
rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a
scattered piece of ice, that was continually lessening, and
thus preparing for me a hideous death.
In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs
died; and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of
distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding
forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception
that vessels ever came so far north, and was astounded at the
sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct
oars; and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to
move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had
determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself
to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose.
I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could
pursue my enemy. But your direction was northward. You took
me on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon
have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I
still dread--for my task is unfulfilled.
Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the
daemon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die and
he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not
escape; that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance in his
death. And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage,
to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not
so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if the
ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he
shall not live--swear that he shall not triumph over my
accumulated woes, and survive to add to the list of his dark
crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his words had
even power over my heart: but trust him not. His soul is as
hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiendlike malice.
Hear him not; call on the names of William, Justine, Clerval,
Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust
your sword into his heart. I will hover near and direct the
steel aright.
WALTON, _in continuation_
_August 26th, 17--._
You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do
you not feel your blood congeal with horror like that which
even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he
could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet
piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with
anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with
indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched in
infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his countenance
and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a
tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like
a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an
expression of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations
on his persecutor.
His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the
simplest truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and
Safie, which he showed me, and the apparition of the monster
seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the
truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest
and connected. Such a monster has then really existence! I
cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and admiration.
Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the
particulars of his creature's formation: but on this point he
was impenetrable.
"Are you mad, my friend?" said he; "or whither does your
senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for
yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! learn
my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own."
Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his
history: he asked to see them, and then himself corrected and
augmented them in many places; but principally in giving the
life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy.
"Since you have preserved my narration," said he, "I would not
that a mutilated one should go down to posterity."
Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the
strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and
every feeling of my soul, have been drunk up by the interest
for my guest, which this tale, and his own elevated and gentle
manners, have created. I wish to soothe him; yet can I counsel
one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of
consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know
will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and
death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude
and delirium: he believes that, when in dreams he holds
converse with his friends and derives from that communion
consolation for his miseries or excitements to his vengeance,
they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings
themselves who visit him from the regions of a remote world.
This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them
to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.
Our conversations are not always confined to his own history
and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he
displays unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing
apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can
I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or endeavours
to move the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a
glorious creature must he have been in the days of his
prosperity when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems
to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.
"When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some
great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a
coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious
achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature
supported me when others would have been oppressed; for I
deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents
that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected
on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of
a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with
the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which
supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only
to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes
are as nothing; and, like the archangel who aspired to
omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination
was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were
intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea
and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot
recollect without passion my reveries while the work was
incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my
powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my
infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but
how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known me as I once was
you would not recognise me in this state of degradation.
Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to
bear me on until I fell, never, never again to rise.
"Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a
friend; I have sought one who would sympathise with and love me.
Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a one; but
I fear I have gained him only to know his value and lose him.
I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.
"I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions
towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties
and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those who
are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was; or any woman
another Elizabeth? Even, where the affections are not strongly
moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our
childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which
hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine
dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified,
are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with
more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives.
A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms
have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false
dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be
attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with
suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit
and association, but from their own merits; and wherever I am
the soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation of
Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and
but one feeing in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve
my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design,
fraught with extensive utility to my fellow-creatures, then
could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I
must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence;
then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die."
_September 2nd._
MY BELOVED SISTER,--I write to you encompassed by peril and
ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England,
and the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by
mountains of ice which admit of no escape and threaten every
moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows whom I have
persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid; but I
have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in
our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it
is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are
endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.
And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will
not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my
return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of
despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister,
the sickening failing of your heart felt expectations is, in
prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have
a husband and lovely children; you may be happy: Heaven bless
you and make you so!
My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion.
He endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were
a possession which he valued. He reminds me how often the same
accidents have happened to other navigators who have attempted
this sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful
auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence:
when he speaks they no longer despair; he rouses their energies
and, while they hear his voice, they believe these vast
mountains of ice are mole-hills which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a
mutiny caused by this despair.
_September 5th._
A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that although
it is highly probable that these papers may never reach you,
yet I cannot forbear recording it.
We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent
danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is
excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already
found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein
has daily declined in health: a feverish fire still glimmers in
his eyes; but he is exhausted, and when suddenly roused to any
exertion he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness.
I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a
mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of
my friend--his eyes half closed, and his limbs hanging
listlessly--I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors who
demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their
leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had
been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me,
to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse.
We were immured in ice and should probably never escape; but
they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate,
and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to
continue my voyage and lead them into fresh dangers after they
might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore,
that I should engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel
should be freed I would instantly direct my course southward.
This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet
conceived the idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in
justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I
hesitated before I answered; when Frankenstein, who had at
first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force
enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and
his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the
men he said--
"What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain?
Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did you not
call this a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it glorious?
Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea,
but because it was full of dangers and terror; because at every
new incident your fortitude was to be called forth and your
courage exhibited; because danger and death surrounded it, and
these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious,
for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to
be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your names adored
as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour and
the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first
imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and
terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away, and are
content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to
endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly and
returned to their warm firesides. Why that requires not this
preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and dragged your
captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove yourselves
cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your
purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such
stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand
you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your
families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows.
Return as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who know
not what it is to turn their backs on the foe."
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different
feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty
design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were
moved? They looked at one another and were unable to reply.
I spoke; I told them to retire and consider of what had been
said: that I would not lead them farther north if they
strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that, with
reflection, their courage would return.
They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk
in languor and almost deprived of life.
How all this will terminate I know not; but I had rather die
than return shamefully--my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear
such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory
and honour, can never willingly continue to endure their
present hardships.
_September 7th._
The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not
destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and
indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires
more philosophy than I possess to bear this injustice with patience.
_Septmber 12th._
It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of
utility and glory;--I have lost my friend. But I will
endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear
sister; and while I am wafted towards England, and towards
you, I will not despond.
September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder
were heard at a distance as the islands split and cracked in
every direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as
we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied
by my unfortunate guest, whose illness increased in such a
degree that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice
cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards the north;
a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the passage
towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw
this, and that their return to their native country was
apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them,
loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke
and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said,
"because they will soon return to England."
"Do you then really return?"
"Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead
them unwillingly to danger, and I must return."
"Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your
purpose, but mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not.
I am weak; but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will
endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, he endeavoured
to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him;
he fell back and fainted.
It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that
life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he
breathed with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon
gave him a composing draught and ordered us to leave him
undisturbed. In the meantime he told me that my friend had
certainly not many hours to live.
His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be
patient. I sat by his bed watching him; his eyes were closed,
and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a
feeble voice, and, bidding me come near, said--"Alas! the
strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and
he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not,
Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that
burning hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed;
but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my
adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in
examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit
of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature, and was
bound towards him, to assure, as far as was in my power, his
happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there was
another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings
of my own species had greater claims to my attention, because
they included a greater proportion of happiness or misery.
Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to
create a companion for the first creature. He showed
unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in evil: he destroyed
my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who possessed
exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know
where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself,
that he may render no other wretched he ought to die. The task
of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. When actuated
by selfish and vicious motives I asked you to undertake my
unfinished work; and I renew this request now when I am only
induced by reason and virtue.
"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to
fulfil this task; and now that you are returning to England you
will have little chance of meeting with him. But the
consideration of these points, and the well balancing of what
you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and
ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of death.
I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may still be
misled by passion.
"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs
me; in other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my
release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for several
years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me and I
hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in
tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it be only the
apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science
and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."
His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted
by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour
afterwards he attempted again to speak, but was unable; he
pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while the
irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips.
Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of
this glorious spirit? What can I say that will enable you to
understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express
would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is
overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey
towards England, and I may there find consolation.
I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is
midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck
scarcely stir. Again; there is a sound as of a human voice,
but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of
Frankenstein still lie. I must arise and examine. Good night,
my sister.
Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy
with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have
the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded
would be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe.
I entered the cabin where lay the remains of my ill-fated and
admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find
words to describe; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and
distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin his
face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast
hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of
a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach he ceased to
utter exclamations of grief and horror and sprung towards the
window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face,
of such loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes
involuntarily and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties
with regard to this destroyer. I called on him to stay.
He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning
towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget
my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by
the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.
"That is also my victim!" he exclaimed: "in his murder my
crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is
wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted
being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me?
I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou
lovedst. Alas! he is cold, he cannot answer me."
His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had
suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my
friend, in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a
mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this
tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face,
there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness.
I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips.
The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches.
At length I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of
the tempest of his passion: "Your repentance," I said, "is now
superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience,
and heeded the stings of remorse, before you had urged your
diabolical vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet
have lived.
"And do you dream?" said the damon; "do you think that I was
then dead to agony and remorse?--He," he continued, pointing to
the corpse, "he suffered not in the consummation of the
deed--oh! not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that
was mine during the lingering detail of its execution.
A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was
poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval
were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible
of love and sympathy; and when wrenched by misery to vice
and hatred it did not endure the violence of the change without
tone such as you cannot even imagine.
"After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland
heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity
amounted to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discovered
that he, the author at once of my existence and of its
unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that
while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me he sought
his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence
of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter
indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance.
I recollected my threat and resolved that it should be
accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly
torture; but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse
which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she
died!--nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all
feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my
despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I
had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had
willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design
became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my
last victim!"
I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet,
when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers
of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on
the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled
within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is well that you come here to
whine over the desolation that you have made. You throw a
torch into a pile of buildings; and when they are consumed you
sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend!
if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object,
again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance.
It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim
of your malignity is withdrawn from your power."
"Oh, it is not thus--not thus," interrupted the being; "yet
such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to
be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling
in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first
sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness
and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I
wished to be participated. But now that virtue has become to
me a shadow and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for
sympathy? I am content to suffer alone while my sufferings
shall endure: when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence
and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was
soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment.
Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning my
outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which
I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts
of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath
the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no
misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the
frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the
same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and
transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness.
But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.
Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates
in his desolation; I am alone.
"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a
knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail
which he gave you of them he could not sum up the hours and
months of misery which I endured, wasting in impotent passions.
For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own
desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still I
desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was
there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only
criminal when all human kind sinned against me? Why do you not
hate Felix who drove his friend from his door with contumely?
Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the
saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate
beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to
be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood
boils at the recollection of this injustice.
"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely
and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they
slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or
any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select
specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among
men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable
ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me;
but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard
myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think
on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and
long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when
that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.
"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief.
My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death
is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish
that which must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think
that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit
your vessel on the iceraft which brought me thither, and shall
seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect
my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that
its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed
wretch who would create such another as I have been. I shall die.
I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me,
or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is
dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more the
very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no
longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks.
Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this
condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the
images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I
felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of
the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to
me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation.
Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where
can I find rest but in death?
"Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom
these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou
wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against
me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my
destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction
that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in
some mode unknown to me, thou hast not ceased to think and
feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater
than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was
still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will
not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them
for ever.
"But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall
die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning
miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile
triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames.
The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will
be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in
peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell."
He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the
ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away
by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
THE END