Frankenstein 1818

FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

London:

_PRINTED FOR_
LACKINGTON, HUGHES, HARDING, MAVOR, & JONES,
FINSBURY SQUARE.

1818.

* * * * *

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?—-

Paradise Lost.

* * * * *

_TO_
WILLIAM GODWIN,
_AUTHOR OF POLITICAL JUSTICE, CALEB WILLIAMS, &c._
THESE VOLUMES
_Are respectfully inscribed_
BY
THE AUTHOR.
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,–Shakespeare, 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 of the
enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to the
exhibitions 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 any thing 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.
FRANKENSTEIN;

OR, THE

_MODERN PROMETHEUS._
LETTER I.
_To Mrs._ SAVILLE, _England_.

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17–.

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the
commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil
forebodings. I arrived here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my
dear sister of my welfare, and increasing confidence in the success of
my undertaking.

I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which
braces my nerves, and fills me with delight. Do you understand this
feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which
I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by
this wind of promise, my 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 phænomena 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 tranquillize the mind as a
steady purpose,–a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have
read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been
made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the
seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all
the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our
good uncle Thomas’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 sea-faring life.

These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets
whose effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also
became a poet, and for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation;
I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple where the
names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well acquainted
with my failure, and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just at
that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were
turned into the channel of their earlier bent.

Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can,
even now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great
enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied
the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily
endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder
than the common sailors during the day, and devoted my nights to the
study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of
physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest
practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in
a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I
felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity in
the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so
valuable did he consider my services.

And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great
purpose. My life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I
preferred glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh,
that some encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage
and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are
often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage;
the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not
only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own,
when their’s 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 wrapt 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, 28th March, 17–.

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow;
yet a second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel,
and am occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already
engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly
possessed of dauntless courage.

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the
absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have
no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success,
there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by
disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I
shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium
for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who
could sympathize with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem
me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I
have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as
well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve
or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your
poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of
difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am
self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a
common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas’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 school-boys 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. 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. He is,
indeed, of so amiable a nature, that he will not hunt (a favourite, and
almost the only amusement here), because he cannot endure to spill
blood. He is, moreover, heroically generous. Some years ago he loved a
young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and having amassed a
considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the
match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she
was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to
spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that
he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My
generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the
name of her lover instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought
a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of
his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the
remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then himself solicited
the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her lover. But
the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to my
friend; who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country,
nor returned until he heard that his former mistress was married
according to her inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim.
He is so; but then he has passed all his life on board a vessel, and has
scarcely an idea beyond the rope and the shroud.

But do not suppose that, 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.

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 to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive
your letters (though the chance is very doubtful) 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 merchant-man 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 breaking of a mast, 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
your’s, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering,
and prudent.

Remember me to all my English friends.

Most affectionately yours,

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 a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge,
and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller
with our telescopes, until he was lost among the distant inequalities of
the ice.

This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed,
many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote
that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in,
however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had
observed with the greatest attention.

About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and
before night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to
until the morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose
masses which float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of
this time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and
found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking
to 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 shewed 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 dæmon, 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 the stranger seemed very eager 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. But 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 employments of others. He has
asked me many questions concerning my design; and I have related my
little history frankly to him. He appeared pleased with the confidence,
and suggested several alterations in my plan, which I shall find
exceedingly useful. There is no pedantry in his manner; but all he does
appears to spring solely from the interest he instinctively takes in the
welfare of those who surround him. He is often overcome by gloom, and
then he sits by himself, and tries to overcome all that is sullen or
unsocial in his humour. These paroxysms pass from him like a cloud from
before the sun, though his dejection never leaves him. I have
endeavoured to win his confidence; and I trust that I have succeeded.
One day I mentioned to him the desire I had always felt of finding a
friend who might sympathize with me, and direct me by his counsel. I
said, I did not belong to that class of men who are offended by advice.
“I am self-educated, and perhaps I hardly rely sufficiently upon my own
powers. I wish therefore that my companion should be wiser and more
experienced than myself, to confirm and support me; nor have I believed
it impossible to find a true friend.”

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger, “in believing that friendship
is not only a desirable, but a possible acquisition. 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 every thing, 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 laugh at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer? If you do, you must have certainly lost that simplicity which
was once your characteristic charm. Yet, if you will, smile at the
warmth of my expressions, while I find every day new causes for
repeating them.

* * * * *

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, once, 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 misfortunes will be useful to you, yet,
if you are inclined, listen to my tale. I believe that the strange
incidents connected with it will afford a view of nature, which may
enlarge your faculties and understanding. You will hear of powers and
occurrences, such as you have been accustomed to believe impossible: but
I do not doubt that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of
the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

You may easily conceive 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 engaged, 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!
FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
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; and it was not
until the decline of life that he thought of marrying, and bestowing on
the state sons who might carry his virtues and his name down to
posterity.

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 grieved also for
the loss of his society, and resolved to seek him out and endeavour to
persuade 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 mean time 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.

When my father became a husband and a parent, he found his time so
occupied by the duties of his new situation, that he relinquished many
of his public employments, and devoted himself to the education of his
children. Of these I was the eldest, and the destined successor to all
his labours and utility. No creature could have more tender parents than
mine. My improvement and health were their constant care, especially as
I remained for several years their only child. But before I continue my
narrative, I must record an incident which took place when I was four
years of age.

My father had a sister, whom he tenderly loved, and who had married
early in life an Italian gentleman. Soon after her marriage, she had
accompanied her husband into her native country, and for some years my
father had very little communication with her. About the time I
mentioned she died; and a few months afterwards he received a letter
from her husband, acquainting him with his intention of marrying an
Italian lady, and requesting my father to take charge of the infant
Elizabeth, the only child of his deceased sister. “It is my wish,” he
said, “that you should consider her as your own daughter, and educate
her thus. Her mother’s fortune is secured to her, the documents of which
I will commit to your keeping. Reflect upon this proposition; and decide
whether you would prefer educating your niece yourself to her being
brought up by a stepmother.”

My father did not hestitate, and immediately went to Italy, that he
might accompany the little Elizabeth to her future home. I have often
heard my mother say, that she was at that time the most beautiful child
she had ever seen, and shewed signs even then of a gentle and
affectionate disposition. These indications, and a desire to bind as
closely as possible the ties of domestic love, determined my mother to
consider Elizabeth as my future wife; a design which she never found
reason to repent.

From this time Elizabeth Lavenza became my playfellow, and, as we grew
older, my friend. She was docile and good tempered, yet gay and playful
as a summer insect. Although she was lively and animated, her feelings
were strong and deep, and her disposition uncommonly affectionate. No
one could better enjoy liberty, yet no one could submit with more grace
than she did to constraint and caprice. Her imagination was luxuriant,
yet her capability of application was great. Her person was the image of
her mind; her hazel eyes, although as lively as a bird’s, possessed an
attractive softness. Her figure was light and airy; and, though capable
of enduring great fatigue, she appeared the most fragile creature in the
world. While I admired her understanding and fancy, I loved to tend on
her, as I should on a favourite animal; and I never saw so much grace
both of person and mind united to so little pretension.

Every one adored Elizabeth. If the servants had any request to make, it
was always through her intercession. We were strangers to any species of
disunion and dispute; for although there was a great dissimilitude in
our characters, there was an harmony in that very dissimilitude. I was
more calm and philosophical than my companion; yet my temper was not so
yielding. My application was of longer endurance; but it was not so
severe whilst it endured. I delighted in investigating the facts
relative to the actual world; she busied herself in following the aërial
creations of the poets. The world was to me a secret, which I desired to
discover; to her it was a vacancy, which she sought to people with
imaginations of her own.

My brothers were considerably younger than myself; but I had a friend
in one of my schoolfellows, who compensated for this deficiency. Henry
Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva, an intimate friend of my
father. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. I remember, when he
was nine years old, he wrote a fairy tale, which was the delight and
amazement of all his companions. His favourite study consisted in books
of chivalry and romance; and when very young, I can remember, that we
used to act plays composed by him out of these favourite books, the
principal characters of which were Orlando, Robin Hood, Amadis, and St.
George.

No youth could have passed more happily than mine. My parents were
indulgent, and my companions amiable. Our studies were never forced; and
by some means we always had an end placed in view, which excited us to
ardour in the prosecution of them. It was by this method, and not by
emulation, that we were urged to application. Elizabeth was not incited
to apply herself to drawing, that her companions might not outstrip her;
but through the desire of pleasing her aunt, by the representation of
some favourite scene done by her own hand. We learned Latin and English,
that we might read the writings in those languages; and so far from
study being made odious to us through punishment, we loved application,
and our amusements would have been the labours of other children.
Perhaps we did not read so many books, or learn languages so quickly, as
those who are disciplined according to the ordinary methods; but what
we learned was impressed the more deeply on our memories.

In this description of our domestic circle I include Henry Clerval; for
he was constantly with us. He went to school with me, and generally
passed the afternoon at our house; for being an only child, and
destitute of companions at home, his father was well pleased that he
should find associates at our house; and we were never completely happy
when Clerval was absent.

I feel 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. But,
in drawing the picture of my early days, I must not omit to 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. I cannot help remarking
here the many opportunities instructors possess of directing the
attention of their pupils to useful knowledge, which they utterly
neglect. 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,
with my imagination warmed as it was, should probably have applied
myself to the more rational theory of chemistry which has resulted from
modern discoveries. 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; and although I
often wished to communicate these secret stores of knowledge to my
father, yet his indefinite censure of my favourite Agrippa always
withheld me. I disclosed my discoveries to Elizabeth, therefore, under a
promise of strict secrecy; but she did not interest herself in the
subject, and I was left by her to pursue my studies alone.

It may appear very strange, that a disciple of Albertus Magnus should
arise in the eighteenth century; but our family was not scientifical,
and I had not attended any of the lectures given at the schools of
Geneva. My dreams were therefore undisturbed by reality; and I entered
with the greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone
and the elixir of life. But the latter obtained my most 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.

The natural phænomena that take place every day before our eyes did not
escape my examinations. Distillation, and the wonderful effects of
steam, processes of which my favourite authors were utterly ignorant,
excited my astonishment; but my utmost wonder was engaged by some
experiments on an air-pump, which I saw employed by a gentleman whom we
were in the habit of visiting.

The ignorance of the early philosophers on these and several other
points served to decrease their credit with me: but I could not entirely
throw them aside, before some other system should occupy their place in
my mind.

When I was about fifteen years old, we had retired to our house near
Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunder-storm. 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
ribbands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly destroyed.

The catastrophe of this tree excited my extreme astonishment; and I
eagerly inquired of my father the nature and origin of thunder and
lightning. He replied, “Electricity;” describing at the same time the
various effects of that power. He constructed a small electrical
machine, and exhibited a few experiments; he made also a kite, with a
wire and string, which drew down that fluid from the clouds.

This last stroke completed the overthrow of Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus
Magnus, and Paracelsus, who had so long reigned the lords of my
imagination. But by some fatality I did not feel inclined to commence
the study of any modern system; and this disinclination was influenced
by the following circumstance.

My father expressed a wish that I should attend a course of lectures
upon natural philosophy, to which I cheerfully consented. Some accident
prevented my attending these lectures until the course was nearly
finished. The lecture, being therefore one of the last, was entirely
incomprehensible to me. The professor discoursed with the greatest
fluency of potassium and boron, of sulphates and oxyds, terms to which I
could affix no idea; and I became disgusted with the science of natural
philosophy, although I still read Pliny and Buffon with delight,
authors, in my estimation, of nearly equal interest and utility.

My occupations at this age were principally the mathematics, and most of
the branches of study appertaining to that science. I was busily
employed in learning languages; Latin was already familiar to me, and I
began to read some of the easiest Greek authors without the help of a
lexicon. I also perfectly understood English and German. This is the
list of my accomplishments at the age of seventeen; and you may conceive
that my hours were fully employed in acquiring and maintaining a
knowledge of this various literature.

Another task also devolved upon me, when I became the instructor of my
brothers. Ernest was six years younger than myself, and was my principal
pupil. He had been afflicted with ill health from his infancy, through
which Elizabeth and I had been his constant nurses: his disposition was
gentle, but he was incapable of any severe application. William, the
youngest of our family, was yet an infant, and the most beautiful little
fellow in the world; his lively blue eyes, dimpled cheeks, and endearing
manners, inspired the tenderest affection.

Such was our domestic circle, from which care and pain seemed for ever
banished. My father directed our studies, and my mother partook of our
enjoyments. Neither of us possessed the slightest pre-eminence over the
other; the voice of command was never heard amongst us; but mutual
affection engaged us all to comply with and obey the slightest desire of
each other.
CHAPTER II.
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; but her illness was not severe,
and she quickly recovered. During her confinement, 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 her
favourite was recovering, she could no longer debar herself from her
society, and entered her chamber long before the danger of infection was
past. The consequences of this imprudence were fatal. On the third day
my mother sickened; her fever was very malignant, and the looks of her
attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the
fortitude and benignity of this admirable woman 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 your younger cousins.
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 connexion; 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 journey to Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was
now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some
weeks. This period was spent sadly; my mother’s death, and my speedy
departure, depressed our spirits; but Elizabeth endeavoured to renew the
spirit of cheerfulness in our little society. Since the death of her
aunt, her mind had acquired new firmness and vigour. She determined to
fulfil her duties with the greatest exactness; and she felt that that
most imperious duty, of rendering her uncle and cousins happy, had
devolved upon her. She consoled me, amused her uncle, instructed my
brothers; and I never beheld her so enchanting as at this time, when she
was continually endeavouring to contribute to the happiness of others,
entirely forgetful of herself.

The day of my departure at length arrived. I had taken leave of all my
friends, excepting Clerval, who spent the last evening with us. He
bitterly lamented that he was unable to accompany me: but his father
could not be persuaded to part with him, intending that he should become
a partner with him in business, in compliance with his favourite theory,
that learning was superfluous in the commerce of ordinary life. Henry
had a refined mind; he had no desire to be idle, and was well pleased to
become his father’s partner, but he believed that a man might be a very
good trader, and yet possess a cultivated understanding.

We sat late, listening to his complaints, and making many little
arrangements for the future. The next morning early I departed. Tears
gushed from the eyes of Elizabeth; they proceeded partly from sorrow at
my departure, and partly because she reflected that the same journey was
to have taken place three months before, when a mother’s blessing would
have accompanied me.

I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged
in the most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by
amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow
mutual pleasure, I was now alone. In the university, whither I was
going, I must form my own friends, and be my own protector. My life had
hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic; and this had given me
invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers,
Elizabeth, and Clerval: these were “old familiar faces;” but I believed
myself totally unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my
reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits
and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of knowledge. I had
often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my youth cooped up
in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my station
among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it
would, indeed, have been folly to repent.

I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my
journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high
white steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to
my solitary apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased.

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a
visit to some of the principal professors, and among others to M.
Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He received me with politeness,
and asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different
branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I mentioned, it
is true, with fear and trembling, the only authors I had ever read upon
those subjects. 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 stept aside, and wrote down a list of several books
treating of natural philosophy, which he desired me to procure, and
dismissed me, after mentioning that in the beginning of the following
week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural
philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a
fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that
he missed.

I returned home, not disappointed, for I had long considered those
authors useless whom the professor had so strongly reprobated; but I did
not feel much inclined to study the books which I procured at his
recommendation. M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and
repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in
favour of his doctrine. 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 spent almost
in solitude. 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 gray 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 pour over the microscope or
crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the
recesses of nature, and shew 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.”

I departed highly pleased with the professor and his lecture, and paid
him a visit the same evening. 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. He heard with attention my 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; and I, at the same time, 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 III.
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. It was, perhaps, the amiable
character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of natural
philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science
itself. But this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards
knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more
exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application, which at
first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now 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 I improved
rapidly. 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 heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this
manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart
and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make.
None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements
of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before
you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate
capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely 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 improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and
my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.

One of the phænonema 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 church-yard 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 minutiæ of causation, as exemplified in
the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst
of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me–a light so brilliant
and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that
among so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards
the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so
astonishing a secret.

Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is
true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the
discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of
generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.

The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon
gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful
labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most
gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great
and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively
led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been
the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world,
was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened
upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather
to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the
object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I
was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a
passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual
light.

I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes
express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with
which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of
my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that
subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to
your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my
precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town
to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature
will allow.

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although
I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame
for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles,
and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.
I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like
myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much
exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give
life to an animal as 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
hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to
make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet
in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this
determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting
and arranging my materials, I began.

No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like
a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared
to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a
torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as
its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their
being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so
completely as I should deserve their’s. Pursuing these reflections, I
thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might
in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where
death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.

These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with
unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person
had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of
certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or
the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the
hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued
nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret
toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured
the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble,
and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost
frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or
sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance,
that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural
stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I
collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane
fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary
chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all
the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of
filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in
attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the
slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human
nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by
an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a
conclusion.

The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in
one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow
a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage:
but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same
feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to
forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not
seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well
remembered the words of my father: “I know that while you are pleased
with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear
regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in
your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally
neglected.”

I knew well therefore what would be my father’s feelings; but I could
not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which
had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were,
to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the
great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be
completed.

I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was
justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame.
A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful
mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his
tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an
exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a
tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those
simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is
certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If
this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic
affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Cæsar would have spared his
country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the
empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my
tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.

My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took notice of my
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 shewed 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; a disease that I regretted the more because I had
hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the
firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would
soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when
my creation should be complete.
CHAPTER IV.
It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment
of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected
the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being
into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the
morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was
nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I
saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a
convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the
wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form?
His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as
beautiful. Beautiful!–Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the
work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black,
and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only
formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost
of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his
shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips.

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of
human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole
purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived
myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far
exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the
dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.
Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of
the room, and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable
to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the
tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my
clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was
in vain: I slept indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I
thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets
of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I
imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of
death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the
corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I
saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from
my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth
chattered, and every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow
light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window-shutters, I
beheld the wretch–the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up
the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were
fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds,
while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not
hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped,
and rushed down stairs. I took refuge in the court-yard 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 wetted 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 turn’d round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

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 it was not absolutely necessary for a merchant not to understand
any thing except book-keeping; 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 bye, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account
myself.–But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short, and
gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill you
appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights.”

“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one
occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see:
but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end, and that I am at length free.”

I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to
allude to the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick
pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the
thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my
apartment might still be there, alive, and walking about. I dreaded to
behold this monster; but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him therefore to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the
stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock
of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; and a cold
shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children are
accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them
on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the
apartment was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous
guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good-fortune could have
befallen me; but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I
clapped my hands for joy, and ran down to Clerval.

We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast;
but I was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed
me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse
beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single instant in the same
place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud.
Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival;
but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes
for which he could not account; and my loud, unrestrained, heartless
laughter, frightened and astonished him.

“My dear Victor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake, is the matter? Do not
laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?”

“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought
I saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; “_he_ can tell.–Oh, save
me! save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled
furiously, and fell down in a fit.

Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he
anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was
not the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my
senses for a long, long time.

This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for
several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I
afterwards learned that, knowing my father’s advanced age, and unfitness
for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make
Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my
disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse
than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not
doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that
he could towards them.

But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The
form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was 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
hand-writing. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at
your long silence.”

“Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose that my first thought
would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are
so deserving of my love.”

“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to
see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your
cousin, I believe.”
CHAPTER V.
Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.

* * * * *

“_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.

“MY DEAR COUSIN,

“I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning
your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals
the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have
seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to
dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been
exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly
as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded
that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you
are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor,
we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear,
and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father’s
health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last
winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him:
he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he
had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active.

“My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession
Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him
of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is
continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake.
I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin,
is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer’s is a very healthy happy life;
and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any.
My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through
his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all
fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to
cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant,
and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a
lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they
were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of
occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to
meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said,
that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the
conversation on that subject.

“And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps
amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? 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 her house. The republican institutions of our country
have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in
the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction
between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders
being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined
and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant
in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the
duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does
not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a
human being.

“After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my
little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your’s; 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 eye-lashes, 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 every
body.

“I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot
conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear
Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father
and all of us happy; or—-I cannot bear to think of the other side of
the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin.”

“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. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as 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.–Aye, aye,”
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 was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for
the minutiæ of science. Languages were his principal study; and he
sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for
self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew,
gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of
Greek and Latin. For my own part, 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. 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
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, loving 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 ecstacy. The
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the
hedges, while those of summer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,
notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible
burden.

Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in my feelings:
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,
in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of
wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great
ingenuity.

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and 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 VI.
On my return, I found the following letter from my father:–

* * * * *

“_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.

“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 gay 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 an absent child? 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 they had been playing together, 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 infant!’

“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 teazed 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 raise my spirits. He did not do
this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest
sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “that dear child; he now sleeps with
his angel mother. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does
not now feel the murderer’s grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he
knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors
are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation.
Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of
man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved
object, ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his
brother.”

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
cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathize with my loved and sorrowing friends;
but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could
hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I
passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for
nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time? One
sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little
circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations which,
although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive.
Fear overcame me; I dared 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 Blânc; 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 half a league to the east of 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 Blânc 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 Salêve, the Juras, and the Alps of
Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the
lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most
violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake
which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt.
Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened
and sometimes disclosed the Môle, a peaked mountain to the east of the
lake.

While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with
a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped
my hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than
belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the
filthy dæmon 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 Salêve, 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 bed side; 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. Besides, of what use would be pursuit? Who
could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont
Salêve? 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 respectable parent! He still
remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over
the mantle-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. But we are now
unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome.
Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived
in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is
quite inconsolable.” Ernest began to weep as he said these words.

“Do not,” said I, “welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not
be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father’s house after so
long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his
misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?”

“She indeed 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 do not know what you mean; but we were all very unhappy when she was
discovered. 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 all at once become so extremely wicked?”

“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;
and, after several days, 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 shewed 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; and, in this assurance, I
calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without
prognosticating an evil result.

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her
form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a
pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every one loved and caressed. She was
now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was
uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a
good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes
were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction
allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion
fair, and her figure slight and graceful. 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 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.

“Sweet niece,” said my father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you
believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity
with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality.”
CHAPTER VII.
We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o’clock, when the trial was to
commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend
as witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this
wretched mockery of justice, I suffered living torture. It was to be
decided, whether the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would
cause the death of two of my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of
innocence and joy; the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror.
Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed qualities which promised
to render her life happy: now all was to be obliterated in an
ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I have
confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was
absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been
considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her
who suffered through me.

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her
countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in
innocence, and did not tremble, although gazed on and execrated by
thousands; for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise have
excited, was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the
imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was
tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her
confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up
her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, she
threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A
tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly recovered
herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter
guiltlessness.

The trial began; and after the advocate against her had stated the
charge, several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined
against her, which might have staggered 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 any thing had been heard concerning him. When shewn 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 Chêne, 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 any thing 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. Unable to rest or sleep,
she quitted her asylum early, 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.”

Excellent Elizabeth! A murmur of approbation was heard; 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 dæmon, 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.”

When I returned home, 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 benevolence? 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 ill-humour, and yet
she has committed a murder.”

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a wish 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 further 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?” 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, my dear girl; I will every where
proclaim your innocence, and force belief. Yet you must die; you, my
playfellow, my companion, my more than sister. I never can survive so
horrible a misfortune.”

“Dear, sweet Elizabeth, do not weep. You ought to raise me with thoughts
of a better life, and elevate me from the petty cares of this world of
injustice and strife. Do not you, excellent friend, drive me to
despair.”

“I will try to comfort you; but this, I fear, is an evil too deep and
poignant to admit of consolation, for there is no hope. Yet heaven
bless thee, my dearest Justine, with resignation, and a confidence
elevated beyond this world. Oh! how I hate its shews and mockeries! when
one creature is murdered, another is immediately deprived of life in a
slow torturing manner; then the executioners, their hands yet reeking
with the blood of innocence, believe that they have done a great deed.
They call this _retribution_. Hateful name! When that word is
pronounced, I know greater and more horrid punishments are going to be
inflicted than the gloomiest tyrant has ever invented to satiate his
utmost revenge. Yet this is not consolation for you, my Justine, unless
indeed that you may glory in escaping from so miserable a den. Alas! I
would I were in peace with my aunt and my lovely William, escaped from a
world which is hateful to me, and the visages of men which I abhor.”

Justine smiled languidly. “This, dear lady, is despair, and not
resignation. I must not learn the lesson that you would teach me. Talk
of something else, something that will bring peace, and not increase of
misery.”

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
dreary 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 staid 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.”

As we returned, Elizabeth said, “You know not, my dear Victor, how much
I am relieved, now that I trust in the innocence of this unfortunate
girl. I never could again have known peace, if I had been deceived in my
reliance on her. For the moment that I did believe her guilty, I felt an
anguish that I could not have long sustained. Now my heart is lightened.
The innocent suffers; but she whom I thought amiable and good has not
betrayed the trust I reposed in her, and I am consoled.”

Amiable cousin! such were your thoughts, mild and gentle as your own
dear eyes and voice. But I–I was a wretch, and none ever conceived of
the misery that I then endured.
END OF VOL. I.
FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

London:

_PRINTED FOR_
LACKINGTON, HUGHES, HARDING, MAVOR, & JONES,
FINSBURY SQUARE.

1818.

* * * * *

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?—-

Paradise Lost.
CHAPTER I.
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 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, death-like solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my
disposition and habits, and endeavoured to reason with me on the folly
of giving way to immoderate grief. “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 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
any thing 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 anger 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
ecstacy of our future prospects. She had become grave, and often
conversed of the inconstancy of fortune, and the instability of human
life.

“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. Every body 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. Yet 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 cousin, 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. Be
calm, my dear Victor; I would sacrifice my life to your peace. We surely
shall be happy: quiet in our native country, and not mingling in the
world, what can disturb our tranquillity?”

She shed tears as she said this, distrusting the very solace that she
gave; but at the same time she smiled, that she might chase away the
fiend that lurked in my heart. My father, who saw in the unhappiness
that was painted in my face only an exaggeration of that sorrow which I
might naturally feel, thought that an amusement suited to my taste would
be the best means of restoring to me my wonted serenity. It was from
this cause that he had removed to the country; and, induced by the same
motive, he now proposed that we should all make an excursion to the
valley of Chamounix. I had been there before, but Elizabeth and Ernest
never had; and both had often expressed an earnest desire to see the
scenery of this place, which had been described to them as so wonderful
and sublime. Accordingly we departed from Geneva on this tour about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine.

The weather was uncommonly fine; and if mine had been a sorrow to be
chased away by any fleeting circumstance, this excursion would certainly
have had the effect intended by my father. As it was, I was somewhat
interested in the scene; it sometimes lulled, although it could not
extinguish my grief. During the first day we travelled in a carriage. In
the morning we had seen the mountains at a distance, towards which we
gradually advanced. We perceived that the valley through which we wound,
and which was formed by the river Arve, whose course we followed, closed
in upon us by degrees; and when the sun had set, we beheld immense
mountains and precipices overhanging us on every side, and heard the
sound of the river raging among rocks, and the dashing of water-falls
around.

The next day we pursued our journey upon mules; and as we ascended still
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.

We passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river
forms, opened before us, and we began to ascend the mountain that
overhangs it. Soon after we entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley
is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as
that of Servox, through which we had just passed. The high and snowy
mountains were its immediate boundaries; but we saw no more ruined
castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; we
heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche, and marked the
smoke of its passage. Mont Blânc, the supreme and magnificent Mont
Blânc, raised itself from the surrounding _aiguilles_, and its
tremendous _dome_ overlooked the valley.

During this journey, I sometimes joined Elizabeth, and exerted myself to
point out to her the various beauties of the scene. I often suffered my
mule to lag behind, and indulged in the misery of reflection. At other
times I spurred on the animal before my companions, that I might forget
them, the world, and, more than all, myself. When at a distance, I
alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and
despair. At eight in the evening I arrived at Chamounix. My father and
Elizabeth were very much fatigued; Ernest, who accompanied us, was
delighted, and in high spirits: the only circumstance that detracted
from his pleasure was the south wind, and the rain it seemed to promise
for the next day.

We retired early to our apartments, but not to sleep; at least I did
not. I remained many hours at the window, watching the pallid lightning
that played above Mont Blânc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve,
which ran below my window.
CHAPTER II.
The next day, contrary to the prognostications of our guides, was fine,
although clouded. We visited the source of the Arveiron, and rode about
the valley until evening. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded
me the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They
elevated me from all littleness of feeling; and although they did not
remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillized it. In some degree,
also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded
for the last month. I returned in the evening, fatigued, but less
unhappy, and conversed with my family with more cheerfulness than had
been my custom for some time. My father was pleased, and Elizabeth
overjoyed. “My dear cousin,” said she, “you see what happiness you
diffuse when you are happy; do not relapse again!”

The following morning the rain poured down in torrents, and thick mists
hid the summits of the mountains. I rose early, but felt unusually
melancholy. The rain depressed me; my old feelings recurred, and I was
miserable. I knew how disappointed my father would be at this sudden
change, and I wished to avoid him until I had recovered myself so far as
to be enabled to conceal those feelings that overpowered me. I knew
that they would remain that day at the inn; and as I had ever inured
myself to rain, moisture, and cold, I resolved to go alone 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 ecstacy that gave wings to the
soul, and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy.
The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the
effect of solemnizing my mind, and causing me to forget the passing
cares of life. I determined to go alone, 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 wand’ring thought pollutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh, or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven,
rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blânc, 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
aërial 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; anger 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 dæmon. “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. Every where 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 may be, 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 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 harmless life, or
become the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author of your own
speedy ruin.”

As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I followed. My heart was
full, and I did not answer him; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the
various arguments that he had used, and determined at least to listen to
his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my
resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my
brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion.
For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards
his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I
complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with his
demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock.
The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend: we entered the
hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart, and
depressed spirits. But I consented to listen; and, seating myself by the
fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.
CHAPTER III.
“It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original æra 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. 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.

“Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had
greatly lessened when I began to distinguish my sensations from each
other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with
drink, and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted
when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my
ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had
often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with
greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me, and to perceive the
boundaries of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I
tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the birds, but was unable.
Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own mode, but the
uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened me into
silence again.

“The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened
form, shewed 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
re-produce 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
Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons of hell after their sufferings in the
lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherd’s
breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the
latter, however, I did not like. Then overcome by fatigue, I lay down
among some straw, and fell asleep.

“It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth of the sun, which
shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant’s breakfast in a
wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until
at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! the
huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses, engaged my admiration by
turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw
placed at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One
of the best of these I entered; but I had hardly placed my foot within
the door, before the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted.
The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until,
grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I
escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel,
quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had
beheld in the village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat
and pleasant appearance; but, after my late dearly-bought experience, I
dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so
low, that I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however,
was placed on the earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and
although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks, I found it an
agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.

“Here then I retreated, and lay down, happy to have found a shelter,
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man.

“As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel, that I might view
the adjacent cottage, and discover if I could remain in the habitation I
had found. It was situated against, the back of the cottage, and
surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig-stye 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 stye, 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, white-washed and clean, but very
bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man,
leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl
was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she took something
out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down beside the
old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play, and to produce
sounds, sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was
a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld aught
beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of the aged
cottager, won my reverence; while the gentle manners of the girl enticed
my love. He played a sweet mournful air, which I perceived drew tears
from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no
notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds, and
the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised her,
and smiled with such kindness and affection, that I felt sensations of a
peculiar and over-powering 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 shewed 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 mean time, been pensive; but, on the appearance
of his companions, he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to
eat. The meal was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again occupied
in arranging the cottage; the old man walked before the cottage in the
sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could
exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent creatures. One
was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with benevolence
and love: the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his
features were moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and
attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man
returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools different from those
he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields.

“Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I found that the
cottagers had a means of prolonging light, by the use of tapers, and was
delighted to find, that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the
pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening,
the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the
instrument, which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in
the morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play,
but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the
harmony of the old man’s instrument or 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 IV.
“I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences
of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these
people; and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well
the treatment I had suffered the night before from the barbarous
villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter
think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in
my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the motives which
influenced their actions.

“The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman
arranged the cottage, and prepared the food; and the youth departed
after the first meal.

“This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The
young man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various
laborious occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be
blind, employed his leisure hours on his instrument, or in
contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which the
younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They
performed towards him every little office of affection and duty with
gentleness; and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.

“They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often
went apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness;
but I was deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were
miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being,
should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy? They
possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes), and every
luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill, and delicious viands
when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more,
they enjoyed one another’s company and speech, interchanging each day
looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they
really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; but
perpetual attention, and time, explained to me many appearances which
were at first enigmatic.

“A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of
the uneasiness of this amiable family; it was poverty: and they suffered
that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted
entirely of the vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow, who
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 connexion
with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could
unravel the mystery of their reference. By great application, however,
and after having remained during the space of several revolutions of the
moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were given to some of the
most familiar objects of discourse: I learned and applied the words
_fire_, _milk_, _bread_, and _wood_. I learned also the names of the
cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them
several names, but the old man had only one, which was _father_. The
girl was called _sister_, or _Agatha_; and the youth _Felix_, _brother_,
or _son_. I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas
appropriated to each of these sounds, and was able to pronounce them. I
distinguished several other words, without being able as yet to
understand or apply them; such as _good_, _dearest_, _unhappy_.

“I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the
cottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt
depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized in their joys. I saw few
human beings 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 groupe; and, even to my
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his
friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more
cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old
man.

“I could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, marked
the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and
want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white
flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the
morning before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed
her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the
wood from the 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 V.
“I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events
that impressed me with feelings which, from what I was, 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–I observed that 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, or 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 one 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 as 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 degeneration–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 acquisitions; but without either he was considered, except
in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his
powers for the profit 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, endowed 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 their’s. 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
or 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; of 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 wrapt 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 VI.
“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 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 that 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’s, who understood French. She thanked him
in the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her father;
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 the being immured within the walls of a haram,
allowed only to occupy herself with puerile 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 had quitted 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 mean time 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 greatly
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 Turk, that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for
escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a
boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,
he hastened to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the
law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.

“He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the
trial took place; the result of which deprived them of their fortune,
and condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country.

“They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I
discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom
he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering
that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and impotence, 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 when this distress had been the meed of his
virtue, he would have 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 with him 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 feelings were alike adverse to it. By
some papers of her father’s, 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
small 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 VII.
“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 ecstacy, 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
the beings concerning whom I read, and to whose conversation I was a
listener. I sympathized with, and partly understood them, but I was
unformed in mind; I was dependent on none, and related to none. ‘The
path of my departure was free;’ and there was none to lament my
annihilation. My person was hideous, and my stature gigantic: what did
this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my
destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to
solve them.

“The volume of _Plutarch’s Lives_ which I possessed, contained the
histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had
a far different effect upon me from the _Sorrows of Werter_. I learned
from Werter’s imaginations despondency and gloom: but Plutarch taught me
high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own
reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I
read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused
knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and
boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns, and large
assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only
school in which I had studied human nature; but this book developed new
and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs
governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for
virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood
the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied
them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of
course led to admire peaceable law-givers, 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 created 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 decypher 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. Every thing 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
ineffaceable. I sickened as I read. ‘Hateful day when I received life!’
I exclaimed in agony. ‘Cursed 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 your’s, more horrid from its very resemblance. Satan had his
companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am
solitary and detested.’

“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 wisdom.

“Several changes, in the mean time, 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 moon-shine, even as that frail image and that
inconstant shade.

“I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself for the trial
which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my
thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and
dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing with my
feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream: no Eve soothed my
sorrows, or shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s
supplication to his Creator; but where was mine? he had abandoned me,
and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him.

“Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay
and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had
worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not
heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my
conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights
were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of
summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the
cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer.
They loved, and sympathized with one another; and their joys, depending
on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place
around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to
claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known and
loved by these amiable creatures: to see their sweet looks turned
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 Lacy, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my
younger protectors.

“One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground,
and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and
Felix, departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own
desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed,
he took up his guitar, and played several mournful, but sweet airs, more
sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his
countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but, as he continued,
thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the
instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.

“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which
would decide my hopes, or realize my fears. The servants were gone to a
neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage: it was an
excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my
limbs failed me, and I sunk 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 Lacy; ‘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 these 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 VIII.
“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. Oh! what a miserable night I
passed! the cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their
branches above me: now and then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth
amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest or in
enjoyment: I, like the arch fiend, bore a hell within me; and, finding
myself unsympathized with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and
destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.

“But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became
fatigued with excess of bodily exertion, and sank on the damp grass in
the sick impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men
that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness
towards my enemies? No: from that moment I declared everlasting war
against the species, and, more than all, against him who had formed me,
and sent me forth to this insupportable misery.

“The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and knew that it was
impossible to return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid
myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours
to reflection on my situation.

“The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored me to some
degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the
cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my
conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that my
conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in
having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to have
familiarized the old De Lacy to me, and by degrees 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 past, 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 suspence.

“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 Lacy 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 controul
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 Lacy, 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 any
thing 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 recompence, 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, 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 would 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 impregnable; 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 was seeking a more secluded hiding-place, when
I perceived a woman passing near me. 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 smiles are bestowed on all but me; she shall not escape:
thanks to the lessons of Felix, and the sanguinary laws of man, I have
learned how to work mischief. I approached her unperceived, and placed
the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress.

“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 IX.
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.”

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 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
realized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself: the gratification is
small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is
true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that
account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be
happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel.
Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one
benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing;
do not deny me my request!”

I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of
my consent; but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His
tale, and the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of
fine sensations; and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of
happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change of
feeling, and continued–

“If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us
again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that
of man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid, to glut my appetite;
acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will
be of the same nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare.
We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on
man, and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful
and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the
wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I
now see compassion in your eyes: let me seize the favourable moment, and
persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire.”

“You propose,” replied I, “to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell
in those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only
companions. How can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man,
persevere in this exile? You will return, and again seek their kindness,
and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions will be
renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of
destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot
consent.”

“How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my
representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints?
I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me,
that, with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of
man, and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil
passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy; my life will
flow quietly away, and, in my dying moments, I shall not curse my
maker.”

His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him, and
sometimes felt a wish to console him; but when I looked upon him, when I
saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my
feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle
these sensations; I thought, that as I could not sympathize with him, I
had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which
was yet in my power to bestow.

“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not already shewn 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 thought I had moved your compassion, and yet you still
refuse to bestow on me the only benefit that can soften my heart, and
render me harmless. 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, 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 him 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; but my
presence, so haggard and strange, hardly calmed the fears of my family,
who had waited the whole night in anxious expectation of my return.

The following day we returned to Geneva. The intention of my father in
coming had been to divert my mind, and to restore me to my lost
tranquillity; but the medicine had been fatal. And, unable to account
for the excess of misery I appeared to suffer, he hastened to return
home, hoping the quiet and monotony of a domestic life would by degrees
alleviate my sufferings from whatsoever cause they might spring.

For myself, I was passive in all their arrangements; and the gentle
affection of my beloved Elizabeth was inadequate to draw me from the
depth of my despair. The promise I had made to the dæmon weighed upon my
mind, like Dante’s iron cowl on the heads of the hellish hypocrites. All
pleasures of earth and sky passed before me like a dream, and that
thought only had to me the reality of life. Can you wonder, that
sometimes a kind of insanity possessed me, or that I saw continually
about me a multitude of filthy animals inflicting on me incessant
torture, that often extorted screams and bitter groans?

By degrees, however, these feelings became calmed. I entered again into
the every-day scene of life, if not with interest, at least with some
degree of tranquillity.
END OF VOL. II.
FRANKENSTEIN;

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.

London:

_PRINTED FOR_
LACKINGTON, HUGHES, HARDING, MAVOR, & JONES,
FINSBURY SQUARE.

1818.

* * * * *

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?—-

Paradise Lost.
CHAPTER I.
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 could not resolve to interrupt my returning tranquillity. 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 this exordium, and my father continued–

“I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage
with your cousin 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 your cousin, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you
appear to feel.”

“My dear father, re-assure 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 on this subject, my dear Victor,
gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you
feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast
a gloom over us. But it is this gloom, which appears to have taken so
strong a hold of your mind, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me,
therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnization of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us from
that 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 cousin 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, any
variation was agreeable to me, and I was delighted with the idea of
spending a year or two in change of scene and variety of occupation, in
absence from my family; during which period some event might happen
which would restore me to them in peace and happiness: my promise might
be fulfilled, and the monster have departed; or some accident might
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 the guise of wishing to travel and see the
world before I sat down for life within the walls of my native town.

I urged my entreaty with earnestness, and my father was easily induced
to comply; for a more indulgent and less dictatorial parent did not
exist upon earth. Our plan was soon arranged. I should travel to
Strasburgh, where Clerval would join me. Some short time would be spent
in the towns of Holland, and our principal stay would be in England. We
should return by France; and it was agreed that the tour should occupy
the space of two years.

My father pleased himself with the reflection, that my union with
Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return to Geneva. “These
two years,” said he, “will pass swiftly, and it will be the last delay
that will oppose itself to your happiness. And, indeed, I earnestly
desire that period to arrive, when we shall all be united, and neither
hopes or fears arise to disturb our domestic calm.”

“I am content,” I replied, “with your arrangement. By that time we shall
both have become wiser, and I hope happier, than we at present are.” I
sighed; but my father kindly forbore to question me further concerning
the cause of my dejection. He hoped that new scenes, and the amusement
of travelling, would restore my tranquillity.

I now made arrangements for my journey; but one feeling haunted me,
which filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should
leave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy, and
unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my
departure. But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go; and
would he not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in
itself, but soothing, inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends.
I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of this
might happen. But through the whole period during which I was the slave
of my creature, I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of the
moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend
would follow me, and exempt my family from the danger of his
machinations.

It was in the latter end of August that I departed, to pass two years of
exile. Elizabeth approved of the reasons of my departure, and only
regretted that she had not the same opportunities of enlarging her
experience, and cultivating her understanding. She wept, however, as she
bade me farewell, and entreated me to return happy and tranquil. “We
all,” said she, “depend upon you; and if you are miserable, what must be
our feelings?”

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: for I resolved to fulfil my promise while abroad, and return, if
possible, a free man. 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 sun-rise
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 to listen 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 by many willowy islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We
staid 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 Fairy-land, and enjoyed
a happiness seldom tasted by man. “I have seen,” he said, “the most
beautiful scenes of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne
and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the
water, casting black and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy
and mournful appearance, were it not for the most verdant islands that
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 water-spout must be on the great ocean, and the waves
dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his
mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche, and where their dying voices
are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have
seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud: but this country,
Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of
Switzerland are more majestic and strange; but there is a charm in the
banks of this divine river, that I never before saw equalled. Look at
that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the island,
almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that
group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village
half-hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that
inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man, than
those who pile the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the
mountains of our own country.”

Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record your words,
and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He
was a being formed in the “very poetry of nature.” His wild and
enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart.
His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his friendship was of
that devoted and wondrous nature that the 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
Unborrowed from the eye.”

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 this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my
memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming
with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your
unhappy friend.

Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight
tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,
overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will
proceed with my tale.

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to
post the remainder of our way; for the wind was contrary, and the stream
of the river was too gentle to aid us.

Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery; but
we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to
England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that
I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames
presented a new scene; they were flat, but fertile, and almost every
town was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort,
and remembered the Spanish armada; Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich,
places which I had heard of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s towering
above all, and the Tower famed in English history.
CHAPTER II.
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 for ever busy; and the only check to
his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mien. 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 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 Gower, 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 abhorrent 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 every
thing 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
dæmon’s disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland, and wreak his
vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me, and tormented me at
every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched repose and
peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience: if they were
delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when
they arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I
hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the
fiend followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my
companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for
a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the
fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great
crime, the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had
indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of
crime.

I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might
have interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so
well as Oxford; for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing
to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its
romantic castle, and its environs, the most delightful in the world,
Arthur’s Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland Hills, compensated
him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But
I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrews, 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 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 sequel 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 mean time 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 III.
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 abhorence 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
dæmon 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 a 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 dæmon 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 past, 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 weakness 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 resolution of not creating you a companion in vice.
Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a dæmon, 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 dæmon 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 nearly a year had elapsed since we had quitted
Switzerland, and France was yet unvisited. He entreated me, therefore,
to leave my solitary isle, and meet him at Perth, in a week from that
time, when we might arrange the plan of our future proceedings. 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 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 day-break, 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 mean time 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 dæmon. 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, every thing 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 little 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; and
sunk 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 civilized
man. I eagerly 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 very 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 gruff 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?”

“Aye, 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 IV.
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 all 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, upon 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. He
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. Kirwin, 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, that faintly reminds me of the anguish of the
recognition. The trial, 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 agonizing suffering 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 characterize
that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathizing 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; but you will be hung
when the next sessions come on. 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 every body 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 became 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
shewn 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 at long
intervals.

One day, when 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
remain miserably pent up only to be let loose in a world 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 any thing 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 to me?”

“Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing 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–

“It was not until a day or two after your illness that I thought of
examining your dress, 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 insure 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 allowed 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.

I remember, as I quitted the prison, I heard one of the men say, “He may
be innocent of the murder, but he has certainly a bad conscience.” These
words struck me. A bad conscience! yes, surely I had one. William,
Justine, and Clerval, had died through my infernal machinations; “And
whose death,” cried I, “is to finish the tragedy? Ah! my father, do not
remain in this wretched country; take me where I may forget myself, my
existence, and all the world.”

My father easily acceded to my desire; and, after having taken leave of
Mr. Kirwin, we hastened to Dublin. I felt as if I was relieved from a
heavy weight, when the packet sailed with a fair wind from Ireland, and
I had quitted for ever the country which had been to me the scene of so
much misery.

It was midnight. My father slept in the cabin; and 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 at the mad enthusiasm that hurried
me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the
night during 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 took a double dose, 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 night-mare; 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,
and pointed to the port of Holyhead, which we were now entering.
CHAPTER V.
We had resolved not to go to London, but to cross the country to
Portsmouth, and thence to embark for Havre. I preferred this plan
principally because I dreaded to see again those places in which I had
enjoyed a few moments of tranquillity with my beloved Clerval. I thought
with horror of seeing again those persons whom we had been accustomed to
visit together, and who might make inquiries concerning an event, the
very remembrance of which made me again feel the pang I endured when I
gazed on his lifeless form in the inn at —-.

As for my father, his desires and exertions were bounded to the again
seeing me restored to health and peace of mind. His tenderness and
attentions were unremitting; my grief and gloom was obstinate, but he
would not 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 caused by
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 feeling that I
should be supposed mad, and this for ever chained my tongue, when I
would have given the whole world to have confided the fatal secret.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded
wonder, “What do you mean, Victor? are you mad? 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
self-violence, 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.

We arrived at Havre on the 8th of May, and instantly proceeded to Paris,
where my father had some business which detained us a few weeks. In this
city, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:–

* * * * *

“_To_ VICTOR FRANKENSTEIN.

“MY DEAREST 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 devoid 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 I have no more to
do than to sign myself your affectionate cousin. 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
connexion, 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 cousin, 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 cruelest 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 interested an
affection for you, may increase your miseries ten-fold, 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 it to-morrow, 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 dæmon 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 was 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, pennyless, 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 paradisaical
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 mean time; for, as if to shew 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 her’s
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 concentered
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. My cousin 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 on what had passed, a real insanity
possessed me; sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage, sometimes
low and despondent. I neither spoke or looked, 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 my
cousin. 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 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 ever-watchful 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. A house was purchased for
us near Cologny, by which we should enjoy the pleasures of the country,
and yet be so near Geneva as to see my father every day; who would
still reside within the walls, for the benefit of Ernest, that he might
follow his studies at the schools.

In the mean time 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 solemnization 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 the following day. My father was in the mean
time overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only observed 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 pass the
afternoon and night at Evian, and return to Cologny the next morning. As
the day was fair, and the wind favourable, we resolved to go by water.

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 Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalêgre, and at a distance,
surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blânc, 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 Blânc, 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 VI.
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 relax the impending conflict until my own life, or
that of my adversary, were extinguished.

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful
silence; at length she said, “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
dreadful 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.
Every where 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 fainted.

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 deathly 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,
shot; 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 by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search the
country, parties going in different directions among the woods and
vines.

I did not accompany them; I was exhausted: a film covered my eyes, and
my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I lay on a
bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the
room, as if to seek something that I had lost.

At length I remembered that my father would anxiously expect the return
of Elizabeth and myself, and that I must return alone. This reflection
brought tears into my eyes, and I wept for a long time; but my thoughts
rambled to various subjects, reflecting 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 lour; 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 niece, 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; an apoplectic fit was brought on, 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 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.

But liberty had been a 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 dæmon 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 provisionally 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 detection 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
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
that, while every proper measure is pursued, you should endeavour to
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 phrenzy
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 VII.
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 modelled 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 around 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. Every thing 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 seen not, 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 by the spirits that preside over thee, I swear to pursue the dæmon,
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 adjuration 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 choaked
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 phrenzy, 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 I should despair and die, often 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 may 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 dæmon
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 bringing 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 agonizing 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 dæmon, 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. Follow 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 omit my search,
until he or I perish; and then with what ecstacy shall I join my
Elizabeth, and those 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 seashore. 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; when once,
after the poor animals that carried 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 ecstacy 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 dæmon; 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 enemy, 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 still 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 dæmon, 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. Yet, do I dare ask 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 live to make another such a wretch as I am. 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
fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the manes 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 congealed 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 agony. 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
shewed 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? Or to what do your questions tend? 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 feelings 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, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the
real beings 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 felt as if I were 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 feeling, 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 recognize 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 sympathize 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 shewn early, suspect
the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however
strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be invaded 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 feeling 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 2d.

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. We may survive; and if we do not,
I will repeat the lessons of my Seneca, and die with a good heart.

Yet 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 failings of your heart-felt
expectations are, 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’s
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 desired 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 demand, 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
desired, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if
the vessel should be freed, I would instantly direct my coarse
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, and these dangers 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 name
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 fire-sides. 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 might be; it is mutable, 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 further
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.

* * * * *

September 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 19th, 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, but 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 mean time 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 blameable. 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 my
fellow-creatures 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 shewed 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 may not 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 looks
upon 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 dæmon; “do you think that I was then dead
to agony and remorse?–He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse, “he
suffered not more 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 ye 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 torture 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 re-kindled 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 bringing forth. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour
and devotion. But now vice has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.
No crime, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable
to mine. When I call over the frightful catalogue of my deeds, I cannot
believe that I am he whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and
transcendant 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
quite 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 whilst 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 they will
meet my eyes, when it will haunt my thoughts, no more.

“Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is
nearly complete. Neither your’s 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 ice-raft which
brought me hither, 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
chirping 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 yet ceased to
think and feel, thou desirest not my life for my own misery. Blasted as
thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of
remorse may 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.

Published by

Kevin L. Ferguson

Assistant Professor of English and Director of Writing at Queens