Frankenstein 1831

FRANKENSTEIN:

OR,

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS.

BY MARY W. SHELLEY.

AUTHOR OF THE LAST MAN, PERKIN WARBECK, &c. &c.
REVISED, CORRECTED,
AND ILLUSTRATED WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION,
BY THE AUTHOR.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET:
BELL AND BRADFUTE, EDINBURGH;
AND CUMMING, DUBLIN.
1831.
INTRODUCTION.
The Publishers of the Standard Novels, in selecting “Frankenstein” for
one of their series, expressed a wish that I should furnish them with
some account of the origin of the story. I am the more willing to
comply, because I shall thus give a general answer to the question, so
very frequently asked me–“How I, when a young girl, came to think of,
and to dilate upon, so very hideous an idea?” It is true that I am very
averse to bringing myself forward in print; but as my account will only
appear as an appendage to a former production, and as it will be
confined to such topics as have connection with my authorship alone, I
can scarcely accuse myself of a personal intrusion.

It is not singular that, as the daughter of two persons of distinguished
literary celebrity, I should very early in life have thought of writing.
As a child I scribbled; and my favourite pastime, during the hours given
me for recreation, was to “write stories.” Still I had a dearer pleasure
than this, which was the formation of castles in the air–the indulging
in waking dreams–the following up trains of thought, which had for
their subject the formation of a succession of imaginary incidents. My
dreams were at once more fantastic and agreeable than my writings. In
the latter I was a close imitator–rather doing as others had done,
than putting down the suggestions of my own mind. What I wrote was
intended at least for one other eye–my childhood’s companion and
friend; but my dreams were all my own; I accounted for them to nobody;
they were my refuge when annoyed–my dearest pleasure when free.

I lived principally in the country as a girl, and passed a considerable
time in Scotland. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque
parts; but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern
shores of the Tay, near Dundee. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call
them; they were not so to me then. They were the eyry of freedom, and
the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of
my fancy. I wrote then–but in a most common-place style. It was beneath
the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides
of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy
flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I did not make myself
the heroine of my tales. Life appeared to me too common-place an affair
as regarded myself. I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or
wonderful events would ever be my lot; but I was not confined to my own
identity, and I could people the hours with creations far more
interesting to me at that age, than my own sensations.

After this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction.
My husband, however, was from the first, very anxious that I should
prove myself worthy of my parentage, and enrol myself on the page of
fame. He was for ever inciting me to obtain literary reputation, which
even on my own part I cared for then, though since I have become
infinitely indifferent to it. At this time he desired that I should
write, not so much with the idea that I could produce any thing worthy
of notice, but that he might himself judge how far I possessed the
promise of better things hereafter. Still I did nothing. Travelling, and
the cares of a family, occupied my time; and study, in the way of
reading, or improving my ideas in communication with his far more
cultivated mind, was all of literary employment that engaged my
attention.

In the summer of 1816, we visited Switzerland, and became the neighbours
of Lord Byron. At first we spent our pleasant hours on the lake, or
wandering on its shores; and Lord Byron, who was writing the third canto
of Childe Harold, was the only one among us who put his thoughts upon
paper. These, as he brought them successively to us, clothed in all the
light and harmony of poetry, seemed to stamp as divine the glories of
heaven and earth, whose influences we partook with him.

But it proved a wet, ungenial summer, and incessant rain often confined
us for days to the house. Some volumes of ghost stories, translated from
the German into French, fell into our hands. There was the History of
the Inconstant Lover, who, when he thought to clasp the bride to whom he
had pledged his vows, found himself in the arms of the pale ghost of her
whom he had deserted. There was the tale of the sinful founder of his
race, whose miserable doom it was to bestow the kiss of death on all the
younger sons of his fated house, just when they reached the age of
promise. His gigantic, shadowy form, clothed like the ghost in Hamlet,
in complete armour, but with the beaver up, was seen at midnight, by
the moon’s fitful beams, to advance slowly along the gloomy avenue. The
shape was lost beneath the shadow of the castle walls; but soon a gate
swung back, a step was heard, the door of the chamber opened, and he
advanced to the couch of the blooming youths, cradled in healthy sleep.
Eternal sorrow sat upon his face as he bent down and kissed the forehead
of the boys, who from that hour withered like flowers snapt upon the
stalk. I have not seen these stories since then; but their incidents are
as fresh in my mind as if I had read them yesterday.

“We will each write a ghost story,” said Lord Byron; and his proposition
was acceded to. There were four of us. The noble author began a tale, a
fragment of which he printed at the end of his poem of Mazeppa. Shelley,
more apt to embody ideas and sentiments in the radiance of brilliant
imagery, and in the music of the most melodious verse that adorns our
language, than to invent the machinery of a story, commenced one founded
on the experiences of his early life. Poor Polidori had some terrible
idea about a skull-headed lady, who was so punished for peeping through
a key-hole–what to see I forget–something very shocking and wrong of
course; but when she was reduced to a worse condition than the renowned
Tom of Coventry, he did not know what to do with her, and was obliged to
despatch her to the tomb of the Capulets, the only place for which she
was fitted. The illustrious poets also, annoyed by the platitude of
prose, speedily relinquished their uncongenial task.

I busied myself _to think of a story_,–a story to rival those which had
excited us to this task. One which would speak to the mysterious fears
of our nature, and awaken thrilling horror–one to make the reader dread
to look round, to curdle the blood, and quicken the beatings of the
heart. If I did not accomplish these things, my ghost story would be
unworthy of its name. I thought and pondered–vainly. I felt that blank
incapability of invention which is the greatest misery of authorship,
when dull Nothing replies to our anxious invocations. _Have you thought
of a story?_ I was asked each morning, and each morning I was forced to
reply with a mortifying negative.

Every thing must have a beginning, to speak in Sanchean phrase; and that
beginning must be linked to something that went before. The Hindoos give
the world an elephant to support it, but they make the elephant stand
upon a tortoise. Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist
in creating out of void, but out of chaos; the materials must, in the
first place, be afforded: it can give form to dark, shapeless
substances, but cannot bring into being the substance itself. In all
matters of discovery and invention, even of those that appertain to the
imagination, we are continually reminded of the story of Columbus and
his egg. Invention consists in the capacity of seizing on the
capabilities of a subject, and in the power of moulding and fashioning
ideas suggested to it.

Many and long were the conversations between Lord Byron and Shelley, to
which I was a devout but nearly silent listener. During one of these,
various philosophical doctrines were discussed, and among others the
nature of the principle of life, and whether there was any probability
of its ever being discovered and communicated. They talked of the
experiments of Dr. Darwin, (I speak not of what the Doctor really did,
or said that he did, but, as more to my purpose, of what was then spoken
of as having been done by him,) who preserved a piece of vermicelli in a
glass case, till by some extraordinary means it began to move with
voluntary motion. Not thus, after all, would life be given. Perhaps a
corpse would be re-animated; galvanism had given token of such things:
perhaps the component parts of a creature might be manufactured, brought
together, and endued with vital warmth.

Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by,
before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not
sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed
and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with
a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw–with shut
eyes, but acute mental vision,–I saw the pale student of unhallowed
arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous
phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some
powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital
motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the
effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the
Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would
rush away from his odious handywork, horror-stricken. He would hope
that, left to itself, the slight spark of life which he had communicated
would fade; that this thing, which had received such imperfect
animation, would subside into dead matter; and he might sleep in the
belief that the silence of the grave would quench for ever the transient
existence of the hideous corpse which he had looked upon as the cradle
of life. He sleeps; but he is awakened; he opens his eyes; behold the
horrid thing stands at his bedside, opening his curtains, and looking on
him with yellow, watery, but speculative eyes.

I opened mine in terror. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill of
fear ran through me, and I wished to exchange the ghastly image of my
fancy for the realities around. I see them still; the very room, the
dark _parquet_, the closed shutters, with the moonlight struggling
through, and the sense I had that the glassy lake and white high Alps
were beyond. I could not so easily get rid of my hideous phantom; still
it haunted me. I must try to think of something else. I recurred to my
ghost story,–my tiresome unlucky ghost story! O! if I could only
contrive one which would frighten my reader as I myself had been
frightened that night!

Swift as light and as cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. “I
have found it! What terrified me will terrify others; and I need only
describe the spectre which had haunted my midnight pillow.” On the
morrow I announced that I had _thought of a story_. I began that day
with the words, _It was on a dreary night of November_, making only a
transcript of the grim terrors of my waking dream.

At first I thought but of a few pages–of a short tale; but Shelley
urged me to develope the idea at greater length. I certainly did not owe
the suggestion of one incident, nor scarcely of one train of feeling, to
my husband, and yet but for his incitement, it would never have taken
the form in which it was presented to the world. From this declaration I
must except the preface. As far as I can recollect, it was entirely
written by him.

And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I
have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when
death and grief were but words, which found no true echo in my heart.
Its several pages speak of many a walk, many a drive, and many a
conversation, when I was not alone; and my companion was one who, in
this world, I shall never see more. But this is for myself; my readers
have nothing to do with these associations.

I will add but one word as to the alterations I have made. They are
principally those of style. I have changed no portion of the story, nor
introduced any new ideas or circumstances. I have mended the language
where it was so bald as to interfere with the interest of the narrative;
and these changes occur almost exclusively in the beginning of the first
volume. Throughout they are entirely confined to such parts as are mere
adjuncts to the story, leaving the core and substance of it untouched.

M. W. S.

_London, October 15, 1831._
PREFACE.
The event on which this fiction is founded, has been supposed, by Dr.
Darwin, and some of the physiological writers of Germany, as not of
impossible occurrence. I shall not be supposed as according the remotest
degree of serious faith to such an imagination; yet, in assuming it as
the basis of a work of fancy, I have not considered myself as merely
weaving a series of supernatural terrors. The event on which the
interest of the story depends is exempt from the disadvantages of a mere
tale of spectres or enchantment. It was recommended by the novelty of
the situations which it developes; and, however impossible as a physical
fact, affords a point of view to the imagination for the delineating of
human passions more comprehensive and commanding than any which the
ordinary relations of existing events can yield.

I have thus endeavoured to preserve the truth of the elementary
principles of human nature, while I have not scrupled to innovate upon
their combinations. The Iliad, the tragic poetry of Greece,–Shakspeare,
in the Tempest, and Midsummer Night’s Dream,–and most especially
Milton, in Paradise Lost, conform to this rule; and the most humble
novelist, who seeks to confer or receive amusement from his labours,
may, without presumption, apply to prose fiction a licence, or rather a
rule, from the adoption of which so many exquisite combinations of human
feeling have resulted in the highest specimens of poetry.

The circumstance on which my story rests was suggested in casual
conversation. It was commenced partly as a source of amusement, and
partly as an expedient for exercising any untried resources of mind.
Other motives were mingled with these, as the work proceeded. I am by
no means indifferent to the manner in which whatever moral tendencies
exist in the sentiments or characters it contains shall affect the
reader; yet my chief concern in this respect has been limited to the
avoiding the enervating effects of the novels of the present day, and to
the exhibition of the amiableness of domestic affection, and the
excellence of universal virtue. The opinions which naturally spring from
the character and situation of the hero are by no means to be conceived
as existing always in my own conviction; nor is any inference justly to
be drawn from the following pages as prejudicing any philosophical
doctrine of whatever kind.

It is a subject also of additional interest to the author, that this
story was begun in the majestic region where the scene is principally
laid, and in society which cannot cease to be regretted. I passed the
summer of 1816 in the environs of Geneva. The season was cold and rainy,
and in the evenings we crowded around a blazing wood fire, and
occasionally amused ourselves with some German stories of ghosts, which
happened to fall into our hands. These tales excited in us a playful
desire of imitation. Two other friends (a tale from the pen of one of
whom would be far more acceptable to the public than 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.

Marlow, September, 1817.
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 phenomena of
the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes.
What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there
discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and may regulate
a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage to
render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate
my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before
visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.
These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of
danger or death, and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with
the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday
mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But, supposing
all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable
benefit which I shall confer on all mankind to the last generation, by
discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which
at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret
of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an
undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my
letter, and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to
heaven; for nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a
steady purpose,–a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.
This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have
read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been
made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the
seas which surround the pole. You may remember, that a history of all
the voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our
good uncle Thomas’s library. My education was neglected, yet I was
passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and night,
and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt, as
a child, on learning that my father’s dying injunction had forbidden my
uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.

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

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

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

This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly
quickly over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in
my opinion, far more agreeable than that of an English stage-coach. The
cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs,–a dress which I
have already adopted; for there is a great difference between walking
the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no exercise
prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and
Archangel.

I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my
intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying
the insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think
necessary among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not
intend to sail until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah,
dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed, many, many
months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I fail,
you will see me again soon, or never.

Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on
you, and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for
all your love and kindness.

Your affectionate brother,

R. WALTON.
LETTER II.
_To Mrs. Saville, England._

Archangel, 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 sympathise with me; whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem
me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I
have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as
well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or
amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor
brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of
difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am
self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a
common, and read nothing but our uncle Thomas’s books of voyages. At
that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own
country; but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive
its most important benefits from such a conviction, that I perceived the
necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of my
native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate
than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more,
and that my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want
(as the painters call it) _keeping_; and I greatly need a friend who
would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection
enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.

Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on
the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen.
Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in
these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful
courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory: or rather, to
word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his
profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and
professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the
noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on
board a whale vessel: finding that he was unemployed in this city, I
easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.

The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in
the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This
circumstance, added to his well known integrity and dauntless courage,
made me very desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best
years spent under your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the
groundwork of my character, that I cannot overcome an intense distaste
to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it
to be necessary; and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his
kindliness of heart, and the respect and obedience paid to him by his
crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his
services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady
who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story.
Some years ago, he loved a young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and
having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl
consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined
ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his
feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she
loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father would never
consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on
being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his
pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had
designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on
his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase
stock, and then himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to
her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking
himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father
inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his
former mistress was married according to her inclinations. “What a noble
fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated:
he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends
him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts
from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.

Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little, or because I can
conceive a consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am
wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is
only now delayed until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The
winter has been dreadfully severe; but the spring promises well, and it
is considered as a remarkably early season; so that perhaps I may sail
sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me
sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness, whenever the
safety of others is committed to my care.

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my
undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the
trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am
preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to “the land of
mist and snow”; but I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be
alarmed for my safety, or if I should come back to you as worn and woful
as the “Ancient Mariner”? You will smile at my allusion; but I will
disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my
passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean, to that
production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something
at work in my soul, which I do not understand. I am practically
industrious–pains-taking;–a workman to execute with perseverance and
labour:–but besides this, there is a love for the marvellous, a belief
in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out
of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited
regions I am about to explore.

But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after
having traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of
Africa or America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to
look on the reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to
me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions
when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly.
Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,

ROBERT WALTON.
LETTER III.
_To Mrs. Saville, England._

MY DEAR SISTER, July 7th, 17–.

I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well advanced
on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its
homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see
my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits:
my men are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do the floating
sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the
region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have
already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer,
and although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow
us speedily towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain,
breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I had not expected.

No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a
letter. One or two stiff gales, and the springing of a leak, are
accidents which experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and
I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.

Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for my own sake, as well as
yours, I will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering,
and prudent.

But success _shall_ crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have
gone, tracing a secure way over the pathless seas: the very stars
themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still
proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the
determined heart and resolved will of man?

My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must
finish. Heaven bless my beloved sister!

R. W.
LETTER 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 showed signs of life we wrapped him up in
blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow
degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him
wonderfully.

Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often
feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he
had in some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and
attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more
interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of wildness,
and even madness; but there are moments when, if any one performs an act
of kindness towards him, or does him any the most trifling service, his
whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence
and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy
and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of
the weight of woes that oppresses him.

When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off
the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not
allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body
and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once,
however, the lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so
strange a vehicle?

His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he
replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”

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

“Yes.”

“Then I fancy we have seen him; for the day before we picked you up, we
saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”

This aroused the stranger’s attention; and he asked a multitude of
questions concerning the route which the 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 enquiries.”

“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 enquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice
had destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer with
any degree of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near midnight,
and the traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that
time; but of this I could not judge.

From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck, to watch
for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to
remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of
the atmosphere. I have promised that some one should watch for him, and
give him instant notice if any new object should appear in sight.

Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the
present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health, but is very
silent, and appears uneasy when any one except myself enters his cabin.
Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all
interested in him, although they have had very little communication with
him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother; and his constant
and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been
a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so
attractive and amiable.

I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no
friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit
had been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as
the brother of my heart.

I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should
I have any fresh incidents to record.
August 13th, 17–.

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my
admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble
a creature destroyed by misery, without feeling the most poignant grief?
He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated; and when he
speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they
flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.

He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on the
deck, apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet,
although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery, but
that he interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has
frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him
without disguise. He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour
of my eventual success, and into every minute detail of the measures I
had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he
evinced, to use the language of my heart; to give utterance to the
burning ardour of my soul; and to say, with all the fervour that warmed
me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every
hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man’s life or death were
but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I
sought; for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the
elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my
listener’s countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to suppress
his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes; and my voice quivered
and failed me, as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his
fingers,–a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused;–at length he
spoke, in broken accents:–“Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have
you drank also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me,–let me reveal my
tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!”

Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the
paroxysm of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened
powers, and many hours of repose and tranquil conversation were
necessary to restore his composure.

Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise
himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of
despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He
asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told:
but it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of
finding a friend–of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a
fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot; and expressed my conviction
that a man could boast of little happiness, who did not enjoy this
blessing.

“I agree with you,” replied the stranger; “we are unfashioned creatures,
but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves–such a
friend ought to be–do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and
faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures,
and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have
hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I–I
have lost 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 smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine
wanderer? You would not, if you saw him. You have been tutored and
refined by books and retirement from the world, and you are, therefore,
somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to
appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I
have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses, that
elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I
believe it to be an intuitive discernment; a quick but never-failing
power of judgment; a penetration into the causes of things, unequalled
for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression, and a
voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.
August 19. 17–.

Yesterday the stranger said to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain
Walton, that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had
determined, at one time, that the memory of these evils should die with
me; but you have won me to alter my determination. You seek for
knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the
gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine
has been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful
to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course,
exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am,
I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale; one that may
direct you if you succeed in your undertaking, and console you in case
of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed
marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature, I might fear to
encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will
appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions, which would
provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers
of nature:–nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series
internal evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”

You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered
communication; yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by
a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the
promised narrative, partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong
desire to ameliorate his fate, if it were in my power. I expressed these
feelings in my answer.

“I thank you,” he replied, “for your sympathy, but it is useless; my
fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall
repose in peace. I understand your feeling,” continued he, perceiving
that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken, my friend, if
thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen
to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”

He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next day when
I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I
have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my
duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has
related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make
notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure:
but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips, with what
interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I
commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous
eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin
hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are
irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story;
frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course, and
wrecked it–thus!
CHAPTER I.
I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished
of that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and
syndics; and my father had filled several public situations with honour
and reputation. He was respected by all who knew him, for his integrity
and indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger
days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of
circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the
decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.

As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot
refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a
merchant, who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous
mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a
proud and unbending disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been
distinguished for his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts,
therefore, in the most honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter
to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My
father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and was deeply grieved
by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He bitterly deplored
the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little worthy of
the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to seek
him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again
through his credit and assistance.

Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this
discovery, he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean
street, near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery and despair alone
welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the
wreck of his fortunes; but it was sufficient to provide him with
sustenance for some months, and in the 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.

There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but
this circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted
affection. There was a sense of justice in my father’s upright mind,
which rendered it necessary that he should approve highly to love
strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered from the
late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved, and so was disposed to set
a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and
worship in his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the
doating fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for her
virtues, and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing
her for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace
to his behaviour to her. Every thing was made to yield to her wishes and
her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered
by the gardener, from every rougher wind, and to surround her with all
that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent
mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant
spirit, had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two
years that had elapsed previous to their marriage my father had
gradually relinquished all his public functions; and immediately after
their union they sought the pleasant climate of Italy, and the change of
scene and interest attendant on a tour through that land of wonders, as
a restorative for her weakened frame.

From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was
born at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I
remained for several years their only child. Much as they were attached
to each other, they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection
from a very mine of love to bestow them upon me. My mother’s tender
caresses, and my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding
me, are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol,
and something better–their child, the innocent and helpless creature
bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future
lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as
they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of
what they owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to
the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined
that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of
patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken
cord, that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.

For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to
have a daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was
about five years old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of
Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their
benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the poor.
This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a
passion,–remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been
relieved,–for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the
afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a
vale attracted their notice, as being singularly disconsolate, while the
number of half-clothed children gathered about it, spoke of penury in
its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan,
my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant
and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a
scanty meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which
attracted my mother far above all the rest. She appeared of a different
stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child
was thin, and very fair. Her hair was the brightest living gold, and,
despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set a crown of
distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue eyes
cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of
sensibility and sweetness, that none could behold her without looking on
her as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a
celestial stamp in all her features.

The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She
was not her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother
was a German, and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been
placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They
had not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The
father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of
the antique glory of Italy,–one among the _schiavi ognor frementi_, who
exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the
victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or still lingered in the
dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property was confiscated, his
child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her foster
parents, and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose
among dark-leaved brambles.

When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall
of our villa, a child fairer than pictured cherub–a creature who seemed
to shed radiance from her looks, and whose form and motions were lighter
than the chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With
his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield
their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence
had seemed a blessing to them; but it would be unfair to her to keep her
in poverty and want, when Providence afforded her such powerful
protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was,
that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house–my more
than sister–the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations
and my pleasures.

Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential
attachment with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my
pride and my delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my
home, my mother had said playfully,–“I have a pretty present for my
Victor–to-morrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she
presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words literally, and looked upon Elizabeth
as mine–mine to protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on
her, I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other
familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression could body
forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me–my more than
sister, since till death she was to be mine only.
CHAPTER II.
We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in
our ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of
disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the
diversity and contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer
together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition;
but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more intense application,
and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge. She busied
herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the
majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home–the
sublime shapes of the mountains; the changes of the seasons; tempest and
calm; the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine
summers,–she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my
companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the
magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their
causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine.
Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness
akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest
sensations I can remember.

On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave
up entirely their wandering life, and fixed themselves in their native
country. We possessed a house in Geneva, and a _campagne_ on Belrive,
the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a
league from the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the
lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my
temper to avoid a crowd, and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was
indifferent, therefore, to my schoolfellows in general; but I united
myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry
Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular
talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger, for
its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He
composed heroic songs, and began to write many a tale of enchantment and
knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays, and to enter into
masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of
Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous
train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands
of the infidels.

No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My
parents were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We
felt that they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their
caprice, but the agents and creators of all the many delights which we
enjoyed. When I mingled with other families, I distinctly discerned how
peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the developement
of filial love.

My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some
law in my temperature they were turned, not towards childish pursuits,
but to an eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things
indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of languages, nor
the code of governments, nor the politics of various states, possessed
attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I
desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things, or
the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied
me, still my enquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or, in its
highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.

Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral
relations of things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and
the actions of men, were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to
become one among those whose names are recorded in story, as the
gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly soul of
Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her
sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her
celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the
living spirit of love to soften and attract: I might have become sullen
in my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was
there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And
Clerval–could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval?–yet
he might not have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his
generosity–so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for
adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real loveliness of
beneficence, and made the doing good the end and aim of his soaring
ambition.

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,
before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of
extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.
Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those
events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery: for
when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion, which
afterwards ruled my destiny, I find it arise, like a mountain river,
from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it
proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away
all my hopes and joys.

Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire,
therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my
predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all
went on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon: the inclemency of
the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this
house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I
opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate, and
the wonderful facts which he relates, soon changed this feeling into
enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind; and, bounding with
joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked
carelessly at the titlepage of my book, and said, “Ah! Cornelius
Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it is sad
trash.”

If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to
me, that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that
a modern system of science had been introduced, which possessed much
greater powers than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were
chimerical, while those of the former were real and practical; under
such circumstances, I should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and
have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with
greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible, that the train
of my ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my
ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no
means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I
continued to read with the greatest avidity.

When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of
this author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read
and studied the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they
appeared to me treasures known to few beside myself. I have described
myself as always having been embued with a fervent longing to penetrate
the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and wonderful
discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies
discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed
that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and
unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of
natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted, appeared even to my boy’s
apprehensions, as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.

The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him, and was acquainted
with their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little
more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal
lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,
anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in
their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had
gazed upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human
beings from entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I
had repined.

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and
knew more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became
their disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the
eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education in the
schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self taught with regard to
my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to
struggle with a child’s blindness, added to a student’s thirst for
knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors, I entered with the
greatest diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the
elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention.
Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory would attend the
discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, and render
man invulnerable to any but a violent death!

Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a
promise liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of
which I most eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always
unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my own inexperience and
mistake, than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors. And thus
for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an
unadept, a thousand contradictory theories, and floundering desperately
in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent
imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the
current of my ideas.

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

Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of
electricity. On this occasion a man of great research in natural
philosophy was with us, and, excited by this catastrophe, he entered on
the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of
electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing to me.
All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa,
Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by
some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my
accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be
known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew
despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind, which we are perhaps
most subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations;
set down natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive
creation; and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science,
which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In
this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics, and the branches
of study appertaining to that science, as being built upon secure
foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.

Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as
if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the
immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my life–the last effort
made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that was even then
hanging in the stars, and ready to envelope me. Her victory was
announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul, which
followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting
studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with
their prosecution, happiness with their disregard.

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good; but it was ineffectual.
Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and
terrible destruction.
CHAPTER III.
When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I
should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto
attended the schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for
the completion of my education, that I should be made acquainted with
other customs than those of my native country. My departure was
therefore fixed at an early date; but, before the day resolved upon
could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred–an omen, as it
were, of my future misery.

Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she
was in the greatest danger. During her illness, many arguments had been
urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had,
at first, yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that the life of
her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She
attended her sick bed,–her watchful attentions triumphed over the
malignity of the distemper,–Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences
of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day my
mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming
symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the
worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity of this best
of women did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth and
myself:–“My children,” she said, “my firmest hopes of future happiness
were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be
the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my
place to my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you;
and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all?
But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign
myself cheerfully to death, and will indulge a hope of meeting you in
another world.”

She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death.
I need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by
that most irreparable evil; the void that presents itself to the soul;
and the despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long
before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and
whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for
ever–that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished,
and the sound of a voice so familiar, and dear to the ear, can be
hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first
days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then
the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that
rude hand rent away some dear connection? and why should I describe a
sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives,
when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that
plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not
banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to
perform; we must continue our course with the rest, and learn to think
ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.

My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events,
was now again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of
some weeks. It appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose,
akin to death, of the house of mourning, and to rush into the thick of
life. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the less alarm me. I was
unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me; and, above
all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.

She indeed veiled her grief, and strove to act the comforter to us all.
She looked steadily on life, and assumed its duties with courage and
zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her
uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when
she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She
forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.

The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last
evening with us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him
to accompany me, and to become my fellow student; but in vain. His
father was a narrow-minded trader, and saw idleness and ruin in the
aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of
being debarred from a liberal education. He said little; but when he
spoke, I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a
restrained but firm resolve, not to be chained to the miserable details
of commerce.

[Illustration: _The day of my departure at length arrived._]

We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other, nor
persuade ourselves to say the word “Farewell!” It was said; and we
retired under the pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the
other was deceived: but when at morning’s dawn I descended to the
carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there–my father
again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to
renew her entreaties that I would write often, and to bestow the last
feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.

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

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

The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a
visit to some of the principal professors. Chance–or rather the evil
influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over
me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father’s
door–led me first to Mr. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He
was an uncouth man, but deeply embued in the secrets of his science. He
asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different
branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied
carelessly; and, partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my
alchymists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared:
“Have you,” he said, “really spent your time in studying such nonsense?”

I replied in the affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with
warmth, “every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly
and entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems
and useless names. Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where
no one was kind enough to inform you that these fancies, which you have
so greedily imbibed, are a thousand years old, and as musty as they are
ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to
find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must
begin your studies entirely anew.”

So saying, he 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 omitted.

I returned home, not disappointed, for I have said that I had long
considered those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I
returned, not at all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any
shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man, with a gruff voice and a
repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in
favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and connected a
strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had come
to concerning them in my early years. As a child, I had not been content
with the results promised by the modern professors of natural science.
With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth,
and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of
knowledge along the paths of time, and exchanged the discoveries of
recent enquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchymists. Besides, I had
a contempt for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very
different, when the masters of the science sought immortality and power;
such views, although futile, were grand: but now the scene was changed.
The ambition of the enquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation
of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly founded. I
was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of
little worth.

Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my
residence at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted
with the localities, and the principal residents in my new abode. But as
the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe
had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent
to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a
pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never
seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.

Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into the
lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor
was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but
with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs
covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were nearly
black. His person was short, but remarkably erect; and his voice the
sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of
the history of chemistry, and the various improvements made by different
men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most
distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present
state of the science, and explained many of its elementary terms. After
having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric
upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget:–

“The ancient teachers of this science,” said he, “promised
impossibilities, and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very
little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir
of life is a chimera. But these philosophers, whose hands seem only made
to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or
crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the
recesses of nature, and show how she works in her hiding places. They
ascend into the heavens: they have discovered how the blood circulates,
and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost
unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the
earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows.”

Such were the professor’s words–rather let me say such the words of
fate, enounced to destroy me. As he went on, I felt as if my soul were
grappling with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were
touched which formed the mechanism of my being: chord after chord was
sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one conception,
one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of
Frankenstein,–more, far more, will I achieve: treading in the steps
already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and
unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.

I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of
insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I
had no power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning’s dawn, sleep
came. I awoke, and my yesternight’s thoughts were as a dream. There
only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies, and to
devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a
natural talent. On the same day, I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners
in private were even more mild and attractive than in public; for there
was a certain dignity in his mien during his lecture, which in his own
house was replaced by the greatest affability and kindness. I gave him
pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits as I had given to
his fellow-professor. He heard with attention the little narration
concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa and
Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He
said, that “these were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern
philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their
knowledge. They had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names,
and arrange in connected classifications, the facts which they in a
great degree had been the instruments of bringing to light. The labours
of men of genius, however erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in
ultimately turning to the solid advantage of mankind.” I listened to his
statement, which was delivered without any presumption or affectation;
and then added, that his lecture had removed my prejudices against
modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty
and deference due from a youth to his instructor, without letting escape
(inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm
which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his advice concerning
the books I ought to procure.

“I am happy,” said M. Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if your
application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success.
Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest
improvements have been and may be made: it is on that account that I
have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time I have not
neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very
sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge
alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science, and not merely
a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch
of natural philosophy, including mathematics.”

He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me the uses of his
various machines; instructing me as to what I ought to procure, and
promising me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough
in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list
of books which I had requested; and I took my leave.

Thus ended a day memorable to me: it decided my future destiny.
CHAPTER IV.
From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the
most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.
I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,
which modern enquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the
lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the
university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense
and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy
and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I
found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and
his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature,
that banished every idea of pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for
me the path of knowledge, and made the most abstruse enquiries clear and
facile to my apprehension. My application was at first fluctuating and
uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded, and soon became so ardent
and eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning
whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was
rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my
proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with
a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed
the most 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 phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the
structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life.
Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was
a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery;
yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted,
if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our enquiries. I revolved
these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply
myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been
irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must
first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of
anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural
decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had
taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no
supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale
of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness
had no effect upon my fancy; and a churchyard was to me merely the
receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of
beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to
examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days
and nights in vaults and charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon
every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human
feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I
beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I
saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,
examining and analysing all the 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 enquiries 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
hinderance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to
make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet
in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this
determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting
and arranging my materials, I began.

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

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

My father made no reproach in his letters, and only took notice of my
silence by enquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves–sights which before always
yielded me supreme delight–so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.
The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a
close; and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared
rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.
Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a
most painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my
fellow-creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew
alarmed at the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my
purpose alone sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed
that exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and
I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete.
CHAPTER V.
It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment
of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected
the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being
into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the
morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was
nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I
saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a
convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

[Illustration: “_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, … I rushed out of the
room._”]

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

The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of
human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole
purpose of infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived
myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far
exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the
dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.
Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of
the room, and continued a long time traversing my bedchamber, unable to
compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I
had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes,
endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain:
I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I
saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of
Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted
the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her
features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my
dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the
grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my
sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered,
and every limb became convulsed: when, by the dim and yellow light of
the moon, as it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the
wretch–the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain
of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me.
His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin
wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand
was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed
down stairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which
I inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up
and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and
fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the
demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.

Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy
again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I
had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those
muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing
such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and
hardly, that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly
sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with
this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had
been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space were now become a
hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!

Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my
sleepless and aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple
and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates
of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the
streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the
wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my
view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt
impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a
black and comfortless sky.

I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by
bodily exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed
the streets, without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was
doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on
with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:–

“Like one who, on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.”[1]

[Footnote 1: Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner.”]

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the
various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew
not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that
was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew
nearer, I observed that it was the Swiss diligence: it stopped just
where I was standing; and, on the door being opened, I perceived Henry
Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. “My dear
Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! how fortunate
that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!”

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought
back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home
so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot
my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during
many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in
the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval
continued talking for some time about our mutual friends, and his own
good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily
believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father
that all necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of
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 by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account
myself.–But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short, and
gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill you
appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for
several nights.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The
form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before
my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words
surprised Henry: he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my
disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually
recurred to the same subject, persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed
its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.

By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and
grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became
capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I
perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young
buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a
divine spring; and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I
felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom
disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was
attacked by the fatal passion.

“Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good you are to me.
This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised
yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you?
I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been
the occasion; but you will forgive me.”

“You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get
well as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I
may speak to you on one subject, may I not?”

I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object
on whom I dared not even think?

“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, “I
will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin
would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own
handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at
your long silence.”

“Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first
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 VI.
Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own
Elizabeth:–

“My dearest Cousin,

“You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind
Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are
forbidden to write–to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor,
is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought
that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained
my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his
encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a
journey; yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform it
myself! I figure to myself that the task of attending on your sick bed
has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your
wishes, nor minister to them with the care and affection of your poor
cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are getting
better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in
your own handwriting.

“Get well–and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home, and
friends who love you dearly. Your father’s health is vigorous, and he
asks but to see you,–but to be assured that you are well; and not a
care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How pleased you would
be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen, and full
of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss, and to enter
into foreign service; but we cannot part with him, at least until his
elder brother return to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a
military career in a distant country; but Ernest never had your powers
of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter;–his time is
spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear
that he will become an idler, unless we yield the point, and permit him
to enter on the profession which he has selected.

“Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken
place since you left us. The blue lake, and snow-clad mountains, they
never change;–and I think our placid home, and our contented hearts are
regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my
time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none
but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one change has
taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion
Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not; I will relate
her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a
widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had
always been the favourite of her father; but, through a strange
perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of M.
Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine
was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at
our house. The republican institutions of our country have produced
simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in the great
monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between the
several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither
so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A
servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France
and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of
a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include
the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.

“Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I
recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill-humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that
Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica–she looked so
frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her,
by which she was induced to give her an education superior to that which
she had at first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was
the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she
made any professions; I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see
by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her
disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid
the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the
model of all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and
manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.

“When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.

“One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience
of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her
favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She
was a Roman catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea
which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure
for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor
girl! she wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered since
the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to
her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her
residence at her mother’s house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The
poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged
Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of
having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting
at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the
first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter.
Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is
very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her
mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.

“I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.

“Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip
concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has
already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage
with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon,
married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite
schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the
departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his
spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older
than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with
everybody.

“I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety
returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor,–one line–one
word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his
kindness, his affection, and his many letters: we are sincerely
grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat you,
write!

“ELIZABETH LAVENZA.

“Geneva, March 18th, 17–.”

* * * * *

“Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I exclaimed, when I had read her letter, “I will
write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel.” I
wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had
commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to
leave my chamber.

One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind
of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.
Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of
my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of
natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the
sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous
symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view.
He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a
dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these
cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M.
Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the
astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that
I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed
my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to
the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me
out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as
if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel
death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that
he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and
although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew
no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that
event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared
the detail to another would only impress more deeply.

M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me
even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D–n the
fellow!” cried he; “why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us
all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in
the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he
is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.–Ay, ay,”
continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, “M.
Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men
should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself
when young; but that wears out in a very short time.”

M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.

Clerval had never sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He
came to the university with the design of making himself complete master
of the oriental languages, as thus he should open a field for the plan
of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious
career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his
spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanscrit languages
engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same
studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to
fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in
being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction
but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him,
attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not
contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I
read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my
labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a
degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.
When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and
a garden of roses,–in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the
fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and
heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!

Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay
very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long, from an unwillingness
to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted
with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully;
and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty
compensated for its dilatoriness.

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with
pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had
always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature that I
had taken among the scenes of my native country.

We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had
long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me
to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind until it was on a level with your own! A selfish pursuit
had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection warmed
and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few years
ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the
hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,
notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible
burden.

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

We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits
were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and
hilarity.
CHAPTER VII.

On my return, I found the following letter from my father:–

“My dear Victor,

“You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of
your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines,
merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would
be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise,
my son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the
contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our
misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and
griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent son? I wish to
prepare you for the woful news, but I know it is impossible; even now
your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to convey to
you the horrible tidings.

“William is dead!–that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed
my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!

“I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.

“Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to
walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged
our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of
returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone
on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return. Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen
his brother: he said, that he had been playing with him, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and
afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return.

“This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him
until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned
to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I
could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and
was exposed to all the damps and dews of night; Elizabeth also suffered
extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy,
whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health,
stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the print of the murderer’s
finger was on his neck.

“He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to
see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted,
and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the
victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, ‘O God! I have murdered my
darling child!’

“She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again
lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening
William had teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that
she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless
the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace
of him at present, although our exertions to discover him are
unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!

“Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps
continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her
words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an
additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your
dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to
witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!

“Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,
but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of
festering, the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my
friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not
with hatred for your enemies.

“Your affectionate and afflicted father,

“ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.

“Geneva, May 12th, 17–.”

* * * * *

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was
surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first
expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the
table, and covered my face with my hands.

“My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with
bitterness, “are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has
happened?”

I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the
room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of
Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.

“I can offer you no consolation, my friend,” said he; “your disaster is
irreparable. What do you intend to do?”

“To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses.”

During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation;
he could only express his heart-felt sympathy. “Poor William!” said he,
“dear lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had
seen him bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his
untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the murderer’s grasp! How
much more a murderer, that could destroy such radiant innocence! Poor
little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep,
but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for
ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no
longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable
survivors.”

Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in
solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a
cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.

My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends;
but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could
hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I
passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for
nearly six years. How altered 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 Blanc. I wept like a child.
“Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your
wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid.
Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”

I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on
these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative
happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved
country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding
thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake!

Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also
closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt
still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil,
and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched
of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single
circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not
conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.

It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the
gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night
at Secheron, a village at the distance of half a league from the city.
The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit
the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass
through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at
Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on
the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm
appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill,
that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were
clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its
violence quickly increased.

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over
my head. It was echoed from 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 tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on
with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I
clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than
belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the
filthy 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 bedside; its departure. Two years had now
nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was
this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved
wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my
brother?

No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the
night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel
the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of
evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind,
and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such
as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own
vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy
all that was dear to me.

Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were
open, and I hastened to my father’s house. My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be
made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A
being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered
also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time
that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a
tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had
communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the
ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would
elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my
relatives to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Who
could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont
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 venerable parent! He still
remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over
the mantel-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father’s
desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair,
kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her
cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly
permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of
William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus
engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome
me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: “Welcome, my dearest
Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then
you would have found us all joyous and delighted. You come to us now to
share a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, I
hope, revive our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and
your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and
tormenting self-accusations.–Poor William! he was our darling and our
pride!”

Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother’s eyes; a sense of mortal
agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness
of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less
terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutely
concerning my father, and her I named my cousin.

“She most of all,” said Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused
herself of having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very
wretched. But since the murderer has been discovered–”

“The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was
free last night!”

“I do not know what you mean,” replied my brother, in accents of wonder,
“but to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would
believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced,
notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine
Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly
become capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?”

“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?”

“No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will
then hear all.”

He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had
been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for
several days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to
examine the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had
discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged
to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to
one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went
to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On
being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a
great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.

This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, “You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor,
good Justine, is innocent.”

At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on
his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after
we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other
topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, “Good God,
papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William.”

“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father; “for indeed I had rather
have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and
ingratitude in one I valued so highly.”

“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”

“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be
tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted.”

This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that
Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I
had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be
brought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale was not one to
announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness
by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the creator, who
would believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the
living monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose
upon the world?

We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last
beheld her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of
her childish years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but
it was allied to an expression more full of sensibility and intellect.
She welcomed me with the greatest affection. “Your arrival, my dear
cousin,” said she, “fills me with hope. You perhaps will find some means
to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be
convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my
own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that
lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be
torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know
joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I shall be
happy again, even after the sad death of my little William.”

“She is innocent, my Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall be proved; fear
nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her
acquittal.”

“How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt,
and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to see
every one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and
despairing.” She wept.

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

The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her
countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her
feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in
innocence, and did not tremble, although 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 enquired 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 shown the body, she
fell into violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several days. The
picture was then produced, which the servant had found in her pocket;
and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same
which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round
his neck, a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.

Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly
expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears; but, when she was
desired to plead, she collected her powers, and spoke, in an audible,
although variable voice.

“God knows,” she said, “how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend
that my protestations should acquit me: I rest my innocence on a plain
and simple explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me;
and I hope the character I have always borne will incline my judges to a
favourable interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or
suspicious.”

She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the
house of an aunt at 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. Most of the night she spent
here watching; towards morning she believed that she slept for a few
minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she
quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find my brother.
If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without her
knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the
market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night,
and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture
she could give no account.

“I know,” continued the unhappy victim, “how heavily and fatally this
one circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining
it; and when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to
conjecture concerning the probabilities by which it might have been
placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe that I have
no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to
destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no
opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have
stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?

“I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for
hope. I beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my
character; and if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt,
I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my
innocence.”

Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and
they spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred of the crime of which they
supposed her guilty, rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come
forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource, her excellent
dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the accused,
when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address the
court.

“I am,” said she, “the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or
rather his sister, for I was educated by, and have lived with his
parents ever since and even long before, his birth. It may therefore be
judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion; but when I see a
fellow-creature about to perish through the cowardice of her pretended
friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of
her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have lived in
the same house with her, at one time for five, and at another for nearly
two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable
and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my
aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection and care; and
afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner
that excited the admiration of all who knew her; after which she again
lived in my uncle’s house, where she was beloved by all the family. She
was warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and acted towards him
like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to
say, that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I
believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for
such an action: as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she
had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her; so
much do I esteem and value her.”

A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth’s simple and powerful appeal;
but it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of
poor Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed
violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept
as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish
was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew
it. Could the 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.”

This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had my
eyes deceived me? and was I really as mad as the whole world would
believe me to be, if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I hastened
to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.

“My cousin,” replied I, “it is decided as you may have expected; all
judges had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty
should escape. But she has confessed.”

This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness
upon Justine’s innocence. “Alas!” said she, “how shall I ever again
believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my
sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray?
her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has
committed a murder.”

Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see
my cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said, that he left it to
her own judgment and feelings to decide. “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I will
go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I
cannot go alone.” The idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could
not refuse.

We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some
straw at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested
on her knees. She rose on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone
with her, she threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly.
My cousin wept also.

“Oh, Justine!” said she, “why did you rob me of my last consolation? I
relied on your innocence; and although I was then very wretched, I was
not so miserable as I am now.”

“And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also
join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?” Her
voice was suffocated with sobs.

“Rise, my poor girl,” said Elizabeth, “why do you kneel, if you are
innocent? I am not one of your enemies; I believed you guiltless,
notwithstanding every evidence, until I heard that you had yourself
declared your guilt. That report, you say, is false; and be assured,
dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in you for a moment,
but your own confession.”

“I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain
absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my
other sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my
confessor has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost
began to think that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened
excommunication and hell fire in my last moments, if I continued
obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all looked on me as a
wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In an evil
hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable.”

She paused, weeping, and then continued–“I thought with horror, my
sweet lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt
had so highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a
crime which none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear
William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven,
where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to
suffer ignominy and death.”

“Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why
did you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I will
proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I will melt the stony hearts of
your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall not die!–You, my
play-fellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold! No! no! I
never could survive so horrible a misfortune.”

Justine shook her head mournfully. “I do now not fear to die,” she said;
“that pang is past. God raises my weakness, and gives me courage to
endure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember
me, and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the
fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to the
will of Heaven!”

During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison-room,
where I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who
dared talk of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the
awful boundary between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and
bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, uttering a
groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who
it was, she approached me, and said, “Dear sir, you are very kind to
visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?”

I could not answer. “No, Justine,” said Elizabeth; “he is more convinced
of your innocence than I was; for even when he heard that you had
confessed, he did not credit it.”

“I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude
towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection
of others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my
misfortune; and I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence
is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”

Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed
gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the
never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or
consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; but her’s also was
the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair
moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within
me, which nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with
Justine; and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear
herself away. “I wish,” cried she, “that I were to die with you; I
cannot live in this world of misery.”

Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty
repressed her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice
of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my
beloved and only friend; may Heaven, in its bounty, bless and preserve
you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer! Live,
and be happy, and make others so.”

And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth’s heart-rending eloquence
failed to move the judges from their settled conviction in the
criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeals
were lost upon them. And when I received their cold answers, and heard
the harsh unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed avowal died away
on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the
sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She perished on the scaffold as
a murderess!

From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and
voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my father’s
woe, and the desolation of that late so smiling home–all was the work
of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones; but these are not
your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound
of your lamentations shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your
son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend
each vital drop of blood for your sakes–who has no thought nor sense of
joy, except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances–who would
fill the air with blessings, and spend his life in serving you–he bids
you weep–to shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus
inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the
peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,
I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and
Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.
CHAPTER IX.
Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself), was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I
had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted for the moment
when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to my
fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of
conscience, which allowed me to look back upon the past with
self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was
seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to a
hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe.

This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never
entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the
face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude
was my only consolation–deep, dark, deathlike solitude.

My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my
disposition and habits, and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the
feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life, to inspire me with
fortitude, and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which
brooded over me. “Do you think, Victor,” said he, “that I do not suffer
also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother;” (tears
came into his eyes as he spoke;) “but is it not a duty to the survivors,
that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an
appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself; for
excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the
discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society.”

This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I
should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if
remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm with my
other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of
despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his view.

About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten
o’clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour,
had rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to
me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for
the night, I took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water.
Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes,
after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its
own course, and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often
tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing
that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly–if I except
some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard
only when I approached the shore–often, I say, I was tempted to plunge
into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my
calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic
and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was
bound up in mine. I thought also of my father, and surviving brother:
should I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the
malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my
mind only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I
had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure
feeling that all was not over, and that he would still commit some
signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the
recollection of the past. There was always scope for fear, so long as
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 abhorrence on his head, and avenge the deaths
of William and Justine.

Our house was the house of mourning. My father’s health was deeply
shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears
she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so
blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature, who in
earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake, and talked with
ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of those sorrows which are
sent to wean us from the earth, had visited her, and its dimming
influence quenched her dearest smiles.

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,” said she, “on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and
injustice, that I read in books or heard from others, as tales of
ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least they were remote, and more
familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come
home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood.
Yet I am certainly unjust. 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. But she was innocent. I
know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that
confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth,
who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I were
walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are
crowding, and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss. William and
Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the
world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to
suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places
with such a wretch.”

I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed,
but in effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my
countenance, and kindly taking my hand, said, “My dearest friend, you
must calm yourself. These events have affected me, God knows how deeply;
but I am not so wretched as you are. There is an expression of despair,
and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance, that makes me tremble.
Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends around
you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of
rendering you happy? Ah! while we love–while we are true to each other,
here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap
every tranquil blessing,–what can disturb our peace?”

And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every
other gift of fortune, suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my
heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror; lest at
that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.

Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of
heaven, could redeem my soul from woe: the very accents of love were
ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence
could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some
untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and
to die–was but a type of me.

Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me: but
sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily
exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable
sensations. It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my
home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in
the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my
ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards
the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood.
Six years had passed since then: _I_ was a wreck–but nought had changed
in those savage and enduring scenes.

I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards
hired a mule, as the more sure-footed, and least liable to receive
injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine: it was about the
middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the death of
Justine; that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The weight
upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the
ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on
every side–the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the
dashing of the waterfalls around, spoke of a power mighty as
Omnipotence–and I ceased to fear, or to bend before any being less
almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here
displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the
valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined
castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous
Arve, and cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the
trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. But it was augmented and
rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids
and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the
habitations of another race of beings.

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

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this
journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and
recognised, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
light-hearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing
accents, and maternal nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly
influence ceased to act–I found myself fettered again to grief, and
indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal,
striving so to forget the world, my fears, and, more than all,
myself–or, in a more desperate fashion, I alighted, and threw myself on
the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.

At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to
the extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a
short space of time I remained at the window, watching the pallid
lightnings that played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of
the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds
acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations: when I placed my head upon
my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came, and blest the
giver of oblivion.
CHAPTER X.
I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside the
sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that with
slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills, to barricade
the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy
wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered
around; and the solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of
imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling waves, or the fall of
some vast fragment, the thunder sound of the avalanche, or the cracking,
reverberated along the mountains of the accumulated ice, which, through
the silent working of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn,
as if it had been but a plaything in their hands. These sublime and
magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I was
capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling;
and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and
tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the
thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest
at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the
assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day.
They congregated round me; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the
glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare ravine; the eagle,
soaring amidst the clouds–they all gathered round me, and bade me be at
peace.

Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of
soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every
thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the
summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those
mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil, and seek them
in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was
brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of
Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous and
ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It
had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy, that gave wings to the soul,
and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The
sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect
of solemnising my mind, and causing me to forget the passing cares of
life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with
the path, and the presence of another would destroy the solitary
grandeur of the scene.

The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the
mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the
traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken
and strewed on the ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning
upon the jutting rocks of the mountain, or transversely upon other
trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected by ravines of
snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them is
particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking in
a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw
destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or
luxuriant, but they are sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene.
I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers
which ran through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite
mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain
poured from the dark sky, and added to the melancholy impression I
received from the objects around me. Alas! why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders
them more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger,
thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by
every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene that that word may
convey to us.

We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some
time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered
both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated
the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven,
rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a
league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I
now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league;
and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or
rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose
aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks
shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before
sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed–“Wandering
spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow
me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away from the
joys of life.”

As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance,
advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices
in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as
he approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled: a mist came
over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me; but I was quickly
restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape
came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the wretch
whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait
his approach, and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached;
his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and
malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible
for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at
first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him
with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt.

“Devil,” I exclaimed, “do you dare approach me? and do not you fear the
fierce vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile
insect! or rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! and, oh! that I
could, with the extinction of your miserable existence, restore those
victims whom you have so diabolically murdered!”

“I expected this reception,” said the 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 are, to speak in their
own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You
accuse me of murder; and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience,
destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I
ask you not to spare me: listen to me; and then, if you can, and if you
will, destroy the work of your hands.”

“Why do you call to my remembrance,” I rejoined, “circumstances, of
which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and
author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light!
Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have
made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power to
consider whether I am just to you, or not. Begone! relieve me from the
sight of your detested form.”

“Thus I relieve thee, my creator,” he said, and placed his hated hands
before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; “thus I take from
thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me, and grant
me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this
from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of
this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon
the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends to
hide itself behind yon snowy precipices, and illuminate another world,
you will have heard my story, and can decide. On you it rests, whether I
quit for ever the neighbourhood of man, and lead a 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 XI.
“It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of
my being: all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct.
A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard,
and smelt, at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I
learned to distinguish between the operations of my various senses. By
degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I
was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me, and troubled
me; but hardly had I felt this, when, by opening my eyes, as I now
suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked, and, I believe,
descended; but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations.
Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch
or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with no
obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became
more and more oppressive to me; and, the heat wearying me as I walked, I
sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest near
Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my
fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me
from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found
hanging on the trees, or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the
brook; and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.

“It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half-frightened, as it
were instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted
your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some
clothes; but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of
night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could
distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat
down and wept.

“Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a sensation of
pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise from among the
trees.[2] 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.

[Footnote 2: The moon.]

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

“The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened
form, showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations
had, by this time, become distinct, and my mind received every day
additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light, and to
perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from
the herb, and, by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the
sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and
thrush were sweet and enticing.

“One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been
left by some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the
warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live
embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I
thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I
examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be
composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches; but they were wet,
and would not burn. I was pained at this, and sat still watching the
operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat
dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this; and, by touching
the various branches, I discovered the cause, and busied myself in
collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, and have a
plentiful supply of fire. When night came on, and brought sleep with it,
I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I
covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves, and placed wet branches
upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground, and sunk
into sleep.

“It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I
uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I
observed this also, and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the
embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night came again, I
found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat; and that
the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food; for I found
some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and
tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I
tried, therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on the
live embers. I found that the berries were spoiled by this operation,
and the nuts and roots much improved.

“Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent the whole day searching
in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found
this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to
seek for one where the few wants I experienced would be more easily
satisfied. In this emigration, I exceedingly lamented the loss of the
fire which I had obtained through accident, and knew not how to
reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of this
difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply it;
and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood towards
the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles, and at length
discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the
night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appearance
was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance
that covered the ground.

“It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and
shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which
had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was
a new sight to me; and I examined the structure with great curiosity.
Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire,
over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise;
and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut, ran across
the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared
capable. His appearance, different from any I had ever before seen, and
his flight, somewhat surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance
of the hut: here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground was
dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as
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-sty and a clear pool
of water. One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now I
covered every crevice by which I might be perceived with stones and
wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to pass
out: all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and that was
sufficient for me.

“Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with clean straw, I
retired; for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before, to trust myself in his power. I
had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf
of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink,
more conveniently than from my hand, of the pure water which flowed by
my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept perfectly
dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was tolerably
warm.

“Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel, until
something should occur which might alter my determination. It was indeed
a paradise, compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the
rain-dropping branches, and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with
pleasure, and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a little
water, when I heard a step, and looking through a small chink, I beheld
a young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The
girl was young, and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found
cottagers and farm-house servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a
coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair
hair was plaited, but not adorned: she looked patient, yet sad. I lost
sight of her; and in about a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing
the pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along,
seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose
countenance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with
an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head, and bore it to the
cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the
young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the
cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house, and
sometimes in the yard.

“On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the
cottage had formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been
filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and almost
imperceptible chink, through which the eye could just penetrate. Through
this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean, but very
bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man,
leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young
girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently she took
something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down
beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play, and to
produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale.
It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld
aught beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of
the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle manners of the girl
enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air, which I perceived drew
tears from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took
no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds,
and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised
her, and smiled with such kindness and affection, that I felt sensations
of a peculiar and overpowering nature: they were a mixture of pain and
pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from hunger or
cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear
these emotions.

“Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a load
of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his
burden, and, taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the
fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and
he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased,
and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in
water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst
the young man went into the garden, and appeared busily employed in
digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an
hour, the young woman joined him, and they entered the cottage together.

“The old man had, in the 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 despatched. The young woman was again occupied
in arranging the cottage; the old man walked before the cottage in the
sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could
exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent creatures.
One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with
benevolence and love: the younger was slight and graceful in his figure,
and his features were moulded with the finest symmetry; yet his eyes and
attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man
returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools different from those
he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields.

“Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I found that the
cottagers had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was
delighted to find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the
pleasure I experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening,
the young girl and her companion were employed in various occupations
which I did not understand; and the old man again took up the instrument
which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning.
So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter
sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the
old man’s instrument nor the songs of the birds: I since found that he
read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or
letters.

“The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
extinguished their lights, and retired, as I conjectured, to rest.”
CHAPTER XII.
“I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences
of the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these
people; and I longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well
the treatment I had suffered the night before from the barbarous
villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might hereafter
think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly in
my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to discover the motives which
influenced their actions.

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

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

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

“A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of
the uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty; and they suffered
that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted
entirely of the vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow,
which gave very little during the winter, when its masters could
scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered the
pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers;
for several times they placed food before the old man, when they
reserved none for themselves.

“This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during
the night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption; but
when I found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I
abstained, and satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I
gathered from a neighbouring wood.

“I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist
their labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in
collecting wood for the family fire; and, during the night, I often took
his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home
firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.

“I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she
opened the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a
great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud
voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise. I
observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but
spent it in repairing the cottage, and cultivating the garden.

“By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that
these people possessed a method of communicating their experience and
feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words
they spoke sometimes, produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in
the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike
science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was
baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation
was quick; and the words they uttered, not having any apparent
connection with visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by
which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. By great
application, however, and after having remained during the space of
several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that
were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned
and applied the words, _fire_, _milk_, _bread_, and _wood_. I learned
also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion
had each of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was
_father_. The girl was called _sister_, or _Agatha_; and the youth
_Felix_, _brother_, or _son_. I cannot describe the delight I felt when
I learned the ideas appropriated to each of these sounds, and was able
to pronounce them. I distinguished several other words, without being
able as yet to understand or apply them; such as _good_, _dearest_,
_unhappy_.

“I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the
cottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt
depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys. I saw few
human beings beside them; and if any other happened to enter the
cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the
superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive,
often endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that
he called them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a
cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure
even upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes sometimes filled
with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; but I
generally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after
having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with
Felix. He was always the saddest of the group; and, even to my
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his
friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more
cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old
man.

“I could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, marked
the dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and
want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white
flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the
morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed
her path to the 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 XIII.
“I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate
events, that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,
have made me what I am.

“Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and the skies
cloudless. It surprised me, that what before was desert and gloomy
should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses
were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight, and a
thousand sights of beauty.

“It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from
labour–the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to
him–that I observed the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond
expression; he sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his
music, and I conjectured by his manner that he enquired 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, nor herself understood, the cottagers. They made many signs which I
did not comprehend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness
through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the
morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight
welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands
of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to her brother, made signs which
appeared to me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some
hours passed thus, while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the
cause of which I did not comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent
recurrence of some sound which the stranger repeated after them, that
she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea instantly
occurred to me, that I should make use of the same instructions to the
same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the first lesson,
most of them, indeed, were those which I had before understood, but I
profited by the others.

“As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they
separated, Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, ‘Good night,
sweet Safie.’ He sat up much longer, conversing with his father; and, by
the frequent repetition of her name, I conjectured that their lovely
guest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to
understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found
it utterly impossible.

“The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the usual
occupations of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the
old man, and, taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly
beautiful, that they at once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my
eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or
dying away, like a nightingale of the woods.

“When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first
declined it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in
sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old
man appeared enraptured, and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured
to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to express that
she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.

“The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration,
that joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends.
Safie was always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the
knowledge of language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most
of the words uttered by my protectors.

“In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and
the green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the
scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods;
the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal
rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were considerably
shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun; for I never
ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same
treatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered.

“My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily
master the language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than
the Arabian, who understood very little, and conversed in broken
accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost every word that
was spoken.

“While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, as
it was taught to the stranger; and this opened before me a wide field
for wonder and delight.

“The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney’s ‘Ruins of
Empires.’ I should not have understood the purport of this book, had not
Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this
work, he said, because the declamatory style was framed in imitation of
the eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of
history, and a view of the several empires at present existing in the
world; it gave me an insight into the manners, governments, and
religions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful
Asiatics; of the stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians;
of the wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans–of their
subsequent degenerating–of the decline of that mighty empire; of
chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the
American hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its
original inhabitants.

“These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man,
indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so
vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil
principle, and at another, as all that can be conceived of noble and
godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour that
can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record
have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than
that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not
conceive how one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why
there were laws and governments; but when I heard details of vice and
bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with disgust and
loathing.

“Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me.
While I listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the
Arabian, the strange system of human society was explained to me. I
heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and squalid
poverty; of rank, descent, and noble blood.

“The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the
possessions most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were, high and
unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be respected with only
one of these advantages; but, without either, he was considered, except
in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his
powers for the profits of the chosen few! And what was I? Of my creation
and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but I knew that I possessed no
money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a
figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same
nature as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon
coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to
my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around, I saw
and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth,
from which all men fled, and whom all men disowned?

“I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted
upon me: I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with
knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known
nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!

“Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it
has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to
shake off all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one
means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death–a state
which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good
feelings, and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers; but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through
means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and
which rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one
among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the animated smiles
of the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild exhortations of the
old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, were not for
me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!

“Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the
difference of sexes; and the birth and growth of children; how the
father doated on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the
older child; how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up in
the precious charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained
knowledge; of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which
bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.

“But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my
infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if
they had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I
distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then
was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling
me, or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The question
again recurred, to be answered only with groans.

“I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but allow me now to
return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings
of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in
additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an
innocent, half painful self-deceit, to call them).”
CHAPTER XIV.
“Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was
one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding
as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to
one so utterly inexperienced as I was.

“The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good
family in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence,
respected by his superiors, and beloved by his equals. His son was bred
in the service of his country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the
highest distinction. A few months before my arrival, they had lived in a
large and luxurious city, called Paris, surrounded by friends, and
possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or
taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.

“The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish
merchant, and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some reason
which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government. He was
seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from
Constantinople to join him. He was tried, and condemned to death. The
injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant;
and it was judged that his religion and wealth, rather than the crime
alleged against him, had been the cause of his condemnation.

“Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and
indignation were uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of the
court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him, and then
looked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts to gain
admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window in an
unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the
unfortunate Mahometan; who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the
execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night,
and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk,
amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by
promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt;
yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father,
and who, by her gestures, expressed her lively gratitude, the youth
could not help owning to his own mind, that the captive possessed a
treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.

“The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made on
the heart of Felix, and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in his
interests by the promise of her hand in marriage, so soon as he should
be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this
offer; yet he looked forward to the probability of the event as to the
consummation of his happiness.

“During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for
the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several
letters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to
express her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old
man, a servant of her father, who understood French. She thanked him in
the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her parent; and
at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.

“I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during my residence
in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters were
often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart, I will give them
to you, they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the sun
is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the substance
of them to you.

“Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a
slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of
the father of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and
enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in the
tenets of her religion, and taught her to aspire to higher powers of
intellect, and an independence of spirit, forbidden to the female
followers of Mahomet. This lady died; but her lessons were indelibly
impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again
returning to Asia, and being immured within the walls of a haram,
allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill suited to
the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble
emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian, and
remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in
society, was enchanting to her.

“The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on the night
previous to it, he quitted his prison, and before morning was distant
many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of his
father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated his plan to
the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under the
pretence of a journey, and concealed himself, with his daughter, in an
obscure part of Paris.

“Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons, and across Mont
Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable
opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.

“Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his
departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she
should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in
expectation of that event; and in the 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
facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.

“The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their
victim, and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot
of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown
into prison. The news reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of
pleasure. His blind and aged father, and his gentle sister, lay in a
noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed the free air, and the society of her
whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with
the Turks, that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for
escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a
boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,
he hastened to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the
law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.

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

“They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I
discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom
he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering
that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and ruin, became a
traitor to good feeling and honour, and had quitted Italy with his
daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money, to aid him, as
he said, in some plan of future maintenance.

“Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix, and rendered
him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could
have endured poverty; and while this distress had been the meed of his
virtue, he gloried in it: but the ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss
of his beloved Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The
arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.

“When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived of his wealth
and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her
lover, but to prepare to return to her native country. The generous
nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to
expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his
tyrannical mandate.

“A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter’s apartment, and told
her hastily, that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn
had been divulged, and that he should speedily be delivered up to the
French government; he had, consequently hired a vessel to convey him to
Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He
intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant,
to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which
had not yet arrived at Leghorn.

“When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it
would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was
abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike adverse to
it. By some papers of her father, which fell into her hands, she heard
of the exile of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot where he then
resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her
determination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her, and a
sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn,
but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for
Germany.

“She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage
of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her
with the most devoted affection; but the poor girl died, and the Arabian
was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country, and
utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however, into
good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which
they were bound; and, after her death, the woman of the house in which
they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at the
cottage of her lover.”
CHAPTER XV.
“Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I
learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire
their virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind.

“As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil; benevolence and
generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to
become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were
called forth and displayed. But, in giving an account of the progress of
my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the
beginning of the month of August of the same year.

“One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood, where I
collected my own food, and brought home firing for my protectors, I
found on the ground a leathern portmanteau, containing several articles
of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with
it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language, the
elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of
‘Paradise Lost,’ a volume of ‘Plutarch’s Lives,’ and the ‘Sorrows of
Werter.’ The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I
now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories,
whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occupations.

“I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced
in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me
to 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
to the beings concerning whom I read, and to whose conversation I was a
listener. I sympathised with, and partly understood them, but I was
unformed in mind; I was dependent on none, and related to none. ‘The
path of my departure was free;’ and there was none to lament my
annihilation. My person was hideous, and my stature gigantic? What did
this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my
destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to
solve them.

“The volume of ‘Plutarch’s Lives,’ which I possessed, contained the
histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had
a far different effect upon me from the ‘Sorrows of Werter.’ I learned
from Werter’s imaginations despondency and gloom: but Plutarch taught me
high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own
reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I
read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused
knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and
boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns, and large
assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only
school in which I had studied human nature; but this book developed new
and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public
affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest
ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I
understood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I
applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I
was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and
Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of
my protectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind;
perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young
soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with
different sensations.

“But ‘Paradise Lost’ excited different and far deeper emotions. I read
it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as
a true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe, that the
picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of
exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their similarity
struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link to
any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine
in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a
perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of
his Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge
from, beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and
alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my
condition; for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my
protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me.

“Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon
after my arrival in the hovel, I discovered some papers in the pocket of
the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had
neglected them; but now that I was able to decipher the characters in
which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was
your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely
described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your
work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences.
You, doubtless, recollect these papers. Here they are. 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
indelible. I sickened as I read. ‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I
exclaimed in agony. ‘Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so
hideous that even _you_ turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made
man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy
type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his
companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am
solitary and abhorred.’

“These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but
when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and
benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become
acquainted with my admiration of their virtues, they would compassionate
me, and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door
one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship? I
resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for
an interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this
attempt for some months longer; for the importance attached to its
success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found
that my understanding improved so much with every day’s experience, that
I was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more months
should have added to my sagacity.

“Several changes, in the 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 moonshine, even as that frail image and that inconstant
shade.

“I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself for the trial
which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my
thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and
dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my
feelings, and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my
sorrows, nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s
supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me
and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him.

“Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay
and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had
worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not
heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my
conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights
were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of
summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the
cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer.
They loved, and sympathised with one another; and their joys, depending
on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place
around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to
claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known and
loved by these amiable creatures: to see their sweet looks directed
towards me with affection, was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared
not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The
poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is
true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest: I required
kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of
it.

“The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken
place since I awoke into life. My attention, at this time, was solely
directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my
protectors. I revolved many projects; but that on which I finally fixed
was, to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had
sagacity enough to discover, that the unnatural hideousness of my person
was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My
voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore,
that if, in the absence of his children, I could gain the good-will and
mediation of the old De Lacey, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my
younger protectors.

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

“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would
decide my hopes, or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a
neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage: it was an
excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my
limbs failed me, and I sank to the ground. Again I rose; and, exerting
all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had
placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me,
and, with renewed determination, I approached the door of their cottage.

“I knocked. ‘Who is there?’ said the old man–‘Come in.’

“I entered; ‘Pardon this intrusion,’ said I: ‘I am a traveller in want
of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you would allow me to
remain a few minutes before the fire.’

“‘Enter,’ said De Lacey; ‘and I will try in what manner I can relieve
your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and, as I am
blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.’

“‘Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food; it is warmth and
rest only that I need.’

“I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious
to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the
interview; when the old man addressed me–

“‘By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman;–are you
French?’

“‘No; but I was educated by a French family, and understand that
language only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends,
whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.’

“‘Are they Germans?’

“‘No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an
unfortunate and deserted creature; I look around, and I have no relation
or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never seen
me, and know little of me. I am full of fears; for if I fail there, I am
an outcast in the world for ever.’

“‘Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate; but the
hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full
of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if
these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.’

“‘They are kind–they are the most excellent creatures in the world;
but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good
dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless, and in some degree
beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they
ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable
monster.’

“‘That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot
you undeceive them?’

“‘I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I
feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I
have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily
kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and
it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.’

“‘Where do these friends reside?’

“‘Near this spot.’

“The old man paused, and then continued, ‘If you will unreservedly
confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in
undeceiving them. I am blind, and cannot judge of your countenance, but
there is something in your words, which persuades me that you are
sincere. I am poor, and an exile; but it will afford me true pleasure to
be in any way serviceable to a human creature.’

“‘Excellent man! I thank you, and accept your generous offer. You raise
me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I
shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your
fellow-creatures.’

“‘Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal; for that can only
drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am
unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent:
judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’

“‘How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips first
have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be for
ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with
those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.’

“‘May I know the names and residence of those friends?’

“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob
me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for
firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my
remaining strength; I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud. At that
moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to
lose; but, seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, ‘Now is the
time!–save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I
seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!’

“‘Great God!’ exclaimed the old man, ‘who are you?’

“At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and
Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on
beholding me? Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to attend to her friend,
rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural
force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport of
fury, he dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently with a stick.
I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope.
But my heart sunk within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I
saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and
anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped
unperceived to my hovel.”
CHAPTER XVI.
“Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not
extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I
know not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my feelings were
those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the
cottage and its inhabitants, and have glutted myself with their shrieks
and misery.

“When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered in the wood; and
now, no longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my
anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken the
toils; destroying the objects that obstructed me, and ranging through
the wood with a stag-like swiftness. O! what a miserable night I passed!
the cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches
above me: now and then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the
universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment: I, like
the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me; and, finding myself unsympathised
with, wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around
me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.

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

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

“The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored me to some
degree of tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the
cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my
conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that my
conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in
having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to have
familiarised the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered
myself to the rest of his family, when they should have been prepared
for my approach. But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable;
and, after much consideration, I resolved to return to the cottage, seek
the old man, and by my representations win him to my party.

“These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound
sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by
peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the preceding day was for ever
acting before my eyes; the females were flying, and the enraged Felix
tearing me from his father’s feet. I awoke exhausted; and, finding that
it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in
search of food.

“When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the well-known
path that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace. I crept into
my hovel, and remained in silent expectation of the accustomed hour when
the family arose. That hour passed, the sun mounted high in the heavens,
but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently, apprehending
some dreadful misfortune. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I
heard no motion; I cannot describe the agony of this suspense.

“Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near the cottage, they
entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not
understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country,
which differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix
approached with another man: I was surprised, as I knew that he had not
quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover, from
his discourse, the meaning of these unusual appearances.

“‘Do you consider,’ said his companion to him, ‘that you will be
obliged to pay three months’ rent, and to lose the produce of your
garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore
that you will take some days to consider of your determination.’

“‘It is utterly useless,’ replied Felix; ‘we can never again inhabit
your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing to
the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and my sister
will never recover their horror. I entreat you not to reason with me any
more. Take possession of your tenement, and let me fly from this place.’

“Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion entered
the cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then
departed. I never saw any of the family of De Lacey more.

“I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of
utter and stupid despair. My protectors had departed, and had broken the
only link that held me to the world. For the first time the feelings of
revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive to control
them; but, allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my
mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my friends, of the mild
voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite beauty
of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished, and a gush of tears somewhat
soothed me. But again, when I reflected that they had spurned and
deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger; and, unable to injure 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 recompense, I now writhed under the
miserable pain of a wound, which shattered the flesh and bone. The
feelings of kindness and gentleness, which I had entertained but a few
moments before, gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.
Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.
But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.

“For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to
cure the wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder,
and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at any
rate I had no means of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also
by the oppressive sense of the injustice and ingratitude of their
infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge–a deep and deadly revenge,
such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I had
endured.

“After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The
labours I endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or
gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a mockery, which insulted my
desolate state, and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for
the enjoyment of pleasure.

“But my toils now drew near a close; and, in two months from this time,
I reached the environs of Geneva.

“It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among
the fields that surround it, to meditate in what manner I should apply
to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hunger, and far too unhappy to
enjoy the gentle breezes of evening, or the prospect of the sun setting
behind the stupendous mountains of Jura.

“At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection,
which was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came
running into the recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of
infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea seized me, that this
little creature was unprejudiced, and had lived too short a time to have
imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him, and
educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in
this peopled earth.

“Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed, and drew him
towards me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before his
eyes, and uttered a shrill scream: I drew his hand forcibly from his
face, and said, ‘Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to
hurt you; listen to me.’

“He struggled violently. ‘Let me go,’ he cried; ‘monster! ugly wretch!
you wish to eat me, and tear me to pieces–You are an ogre–Let me go,
or I will tell my papa.’

“‘Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.’

“‘Hideous monster! let me go. My papa is a Syndic–he is M.
Frankenstein–he will punish you. You dare not keep me.’

“‘Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy–to him towards whom I have
sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.’

“The child still struggled, and loaded me with epithets which carried
despair to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a
moment he lay dead at my feet.

“I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish
triumph: clapping my hands, I exclaimed, ‘I, too, can create desolation;
my enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and
a thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him.’

“As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his
breast. I took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite
of my malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I gazed
with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely
lips; but presently my rage returned: I remembered that I was for ever
deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow; and
that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in regarding me, have
changed that air of divine benignity to one expressive of disgust and
affright.

“Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage? I only
wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in
exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind, and perish in the
attempt to destroy them.

“While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had
committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I
entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty. A woman was
sleeping on some straw; she was young: not indeed so beautiful as her
whose portrait I held; but of an agreeable aspect, and blooming in the
loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose
joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over
her, and whispered ‘Awake, fairest, thy lover is near–he who would give
his life but to obtain one look of affection from thine eyes: my
beloved, awake!’

“The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she
indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus
would she assuredly act, if her darkened eyes opened, and she beheld me.
The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me–not I, but she
shall suffer: the murder I have committed because I am for ever robbed
of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source
in her: be hers the punishment! Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the
sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over
her, and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress.
She moved again, and I fled.

“For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place;
sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and
its miseries for ever. At length I wandered towards these mountains,
and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning
passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have
promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone, and miserable; man
will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself
would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species,
and have the same defects. This being you must create.”
CHAPTER XVII.
The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in expectation
of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my
ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He
continued–

“You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone
can do; and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to
concede.”

The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had
died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and,
as he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within
me.

“I do refuse it,” I replied; “and no torture shall ever extort a consent
from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall
never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself,
whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered
you; you may torture me, but I will never consent.”

“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and, instead of threatening,
I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable.
Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear
me to pieces, and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity
man more than he pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could
precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the
work of your own hands. Shall I respect man, when he contemns me? Let
him live with me in the interchange of kindness; and, instead of injury,
I would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his
acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable
barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject
slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will
cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator,
do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your
destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall
curse the hour of your birth.”

A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into
contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he
calmed himself and proceeded–

“I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not
reflect that _you_ are the cause of its excess. If any being felt
emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and
an hundred fold; for that one creature’s sake, I would make peace with
the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be
realised. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is
small, but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is
true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that
account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives will not be
happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now feel.
Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one
benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing;
do not deny me my request!”

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

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

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

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

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

“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not already shown a
degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not
even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a
wider scope for your revenge.”

“How is this? I must not be trifled with: and I demand an answer. If I
have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the
love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become
a thing, of whose existence every one will be ignorant. My vices are the
children of a forced solitude that I abhor; and my virtues will
necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel
the affections of a sensitive being, and become linked to the chain of
existence and events, from which I am now excluded.”

I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the various
arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues
which he had displayed on the opening of his existence, and the
subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which
his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and threats were
not omitted in my calculations: a creature who could exist in the
ice-caves of the glaciers, and hide himself from pursuit among the
ridges of inaccessible precipices, was a being possessing faculties it
would be vain to cope with. After a long pause of reflection, I
concluded that the justice due both to him and my fellow-creatures
demanded of me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him,
therefore, I said–

“I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever,
and every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall
deliver into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile.”

“I swear,” he cried, “by the sun, and by the blue sky of Heaven, and by
the fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while
they exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home, and
commence your labours: I shall watch their progress with unutterable
anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I shall appear.”

Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in
my sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than
the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the
sea of ice.

His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the verge of
the horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent
towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my
heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the
little paths of the mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced,
perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of
the day had produced. Night was far advanced, when I came to the
half-way resting-place, and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars
shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines
rose before me, and every here and there a broken tree lay on the
ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred strange
thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and clasping my hands in agony, I
exclaimed, “Oh! stars and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock
me: if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as
nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness.”

These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot describe to you how
the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened
to every blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to
consume me.

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no
rest, but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could
give no expression to my sensations–they weighed on me with a
mountain’s weight, and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them.
Thus I returned home, and entering the house, presented myself to the
family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense alarm; but I
answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed
under a ban–as if I had no right to claim their sympathies–as if never
more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them
to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself to my most
abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation made every other
circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream; and that thought
only had to me the reality of life.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and
I could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the
vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my
repugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not
compose a female without again devoting several months to profound study
and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries having been
made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material to
my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father’s consent to
visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay,
and shrunk from taking the first step in an undertaking whose immediate
necessity began to appear less absolute to me. A change indeed had taken
place in me: my health, which had hitherto declined, was now much
restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my unhappy
promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this change with pleasure,
and he turned his thoughts towards the best method of eradicating the
remains of my melancholy, which every now and then would return by fits,
and with a devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At
these moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole
days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching the clouds, and
listening to the rippling of the waves, silent and listless. But the
fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of
composure; and, on my return, I met the salutations of my friends with a
readier smile and a more cheerful heart.

It was after my return from one of these rambles, that my father,
calling me aside, thus addressed me:–

“I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former
pleasures, and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still
unhappy, and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in
conjecture as to the cause of this; but yesterday an idea struck me, and
if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point
would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all.”

I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued–

“I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage
with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort, and the stay
of my declining years. You were attached to each other from your
earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions
and tastes, entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the
experience of man, that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my
plan, may have entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your
sister, without any wish that she might become your wife. Nay, you may
have met with another whom you may love; and, considering yourself as
bound in honour to Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion the poignant
misery which you appear to feel.”

“My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and
sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my
warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects are
entirely bound up in the expectation of our union.”

“The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor,
gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you
feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast
a gloom over us. But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so
strong a hold of your mind, that I wish to dissipate. Tell me,
therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnisation of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us
from that every-day tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You
are younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent
fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any future
plans of honour and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose,
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on
your part would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words with
candour, and answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity.”

I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some time incapable
of offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of
thoughts, and endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion. Alas! to me the
idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and
dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise, which I had not yet fulfilled,
and dared not break; or, if I did, what manifold miseries might not
impend over me and my devoted family! Could I enter into a festival with
this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck, and bowing me to the
ground. I must perform my engagement, and let the monster depart with
his mate, before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union from
which I expected peace.

I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to
England, or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers
of that country, whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable
use to me in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the
desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory: besides, I had an
insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome
task in my father’s house, while in habits of familiar intercourse with
those I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the
slightest of which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me
with horror. I was aware also that I should often lose all self-command,
all capacity of hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me
during the progress of my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself
from all I loved while thus employed. Once commenced, it would quickly
be achieved, and I might be restored to my family in peace and
happiness. My promise fulfilled, the monster would depart for ever. Or
(so my fond fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile occur to destroy
him, and put an end to my slavery for ever.

These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to
visit England; but, concealing the true reasons of this request, I
clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I
urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to
comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy, that
resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find that
I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey, and he
hoped that change of scene and varied amusement would, before my return,
have restored me entirely to myself.

The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or
at most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal kind
precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without
previously communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth,
arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasburgh. This interfered with
the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the
commencement of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be
an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many
hours of lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henry might stand between me
and the intrusion of my foe. If I were alone, would he not at times
force his abhorred presence on me, to remind me of my task, or to
contemplate its progress?

To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union
with Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return. My father’s
age rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself, there was one
reward I promised myself from my detested toils–one consolation for my
unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of that day when,
enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth, and
forget the past in my union with her.

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

It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native
country. My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth,
therefore, acquiesced: but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of
my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief. It had
been her care which provided me a companion in Clerval–and yet a man is
blind to a thousand minute circumstances, which call forth a woman’s
sedulous attention. She longed to bid me hasten my return,–a thousand
conflicting emotions rendered her mute, as she bade me a tearful silent
farewell.

I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly
knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around. I
remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on
it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with
me. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful and
majestic scenes; but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could only
think of the bourne of my travels, and the work which was to occupy me
whilst they endured.

After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed
many leagues, I arrived at Strasburgh, where I waited two days for
Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He was
alive to every new scene; joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting
sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise, and recommence a new day.
He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape, and the
appearances of the sky. “This is what it is to live,” he cried, “now I
enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you
desponding and sorrowful!” In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts,
and neither saw the descent of the evening star, nor the golden sunrise
reflected in the Rhine.–And you, my friend, would be far more amused
with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an eye of
feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a miserable
wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment.

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to
Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage,
we passed many willowy islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We
stayed a day at Manheim, and, on the fifth from our departure from
Strasburgh, arrived at Mayence. The course of the Rhine below Mayence
becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly, and winds
between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many
ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black
woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a
singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills,
ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with the dark Rhine
rushing beneath; and, on the sudden turn of a promontory, flourishing
vineyards, with green sloping banks, and a meandering river, and
populous towns occupy the scene.

We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song of the
labourers, as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and
my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased.
I lay at the bottom of the boat, and, as I gazed on the cloudless blue
sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a
stranger. And if these were my sensations, who can describe those of
Henry? He felt as if he had been transported to 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
Unborrow’d from the eye”[3]

[Footnote 3: Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey.]

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for
ever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and
magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life
of its creator;–has 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 XIX.
London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several
months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the
intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time;
but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied with
the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of
my promise, and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction
that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural
philosophers.

If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness,
it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come
over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the
information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was
so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could
fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry
soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But
busy uninteresting joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw
an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow-men; this
barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine; and to reflect
on the events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish.

But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive,
and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of
manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of
instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long
had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in
his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of
its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of European
colonisation and trade. In Britain only could he further the execution
of his plan. He was for ever busy; and the only check to his enjoyments
was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as
possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures natural to one,
who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or
bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging another
engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the
materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the
torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every
thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word
that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to
palpitate.

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person
in Scotland, who had formerly been our visiter at Geneva. He mentioned
the beauties of his native country, and asked us if those were not
sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north
as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this
invitation; and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again
mountains and streams, and all the wondrous works with which Nature
adorns her chosen dwelling-places.

We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now
February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the
north at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not
intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor,
Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the
completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my chemical
instruments, and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my
labours in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a few days at
Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us
mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of
stately deer, were all novelties to us.

From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds
were filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted
there more than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I.
had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after
the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of
parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king, and his
companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and
son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city, which they
might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a
dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these
feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the
city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The
colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost
magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows
of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters,
which reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes,
embosomed among aged trees.

I enjoyed this scene; and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the
memory of the past, and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for
peaceful happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my
mind; and if I was ever overcome by _ennui_, the sight of what is
beautiful in nature, or the study of what is excellent and sublime in
the productions of man, could always interest my heart, and communicate
elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered
my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit, what I shall
soon cease to be–a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to
others, and intolerable to myself.

We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs,
and endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most
animating epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were
often prolonged by the successive objects that presented themselves. We
visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden, and the field on which that
patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and
miserable fears, to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and
self-sacrifice, of which these sights were the monuments and the
remembrancers. For an instant I dared to shake off my chains, and look
around me with a free and lofty spirit; but the iron had eaten into my
flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.

We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next
place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village
resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but 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 Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself among the
Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the
northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky
streams, were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made some
acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The
delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than mine; his mind
expanded in the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature
greater capacities and resources than he could have imagined himself to
have possessed while he associated with his inferiors. “I could pass my
life here,” said he to me; “and among these mountains I should scarcely
regret Switzerland and the Rhine.”

But he found that a traveller’s life is one that includes much pain
amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are 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 Westmorland,
and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants, when the period
of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them
to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my
promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the 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. Andrew’s, and
along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But
I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers, or enter into their
feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest; and
accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
alone. “Do you,” said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this be our
rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my
motions, I entreat you: leave me to peace and solitude for a short time;
and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more
congenial to your own temper.”

Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to
remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. “I had rather be with you,”
he said, “in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom
I do not know: hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again
feel myself somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence.”

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of
Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the
monster followed me, and would discover himself to me when I should have
finished, that he might receive his companion.

With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands, and fixed on
one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a
place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose high
sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren,
scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its
inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy
limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when
they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured
from the main land, which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of
these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two
rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable
penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the
door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some
furniture, and took possession; an incident which would, doubtless, have
occasioned some surprise, had not all the senses of the cottagers been
benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and
unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I
gave; so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.

In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening,
when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea, to
listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a
monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was
far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are
covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the
plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky; and, when troubled
by the winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant, when
compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.

In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived; but,
as I proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and
irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my
laboratory for several days; and at other times I toiled day and night
in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process in which
I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy
had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently
fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the
horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my
heart often sickened at the work of my hands.

Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a
solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the
actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew
restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor.
Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them,
lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold.
I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when
alone he should come to claim his companion.

In the 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 XX.
I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was
just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment,
and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should
leave my labour for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an
unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to
me, which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three
years before I was engaged in the same manner, and had created a fiend
whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart, and filled it for
ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being,
of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten
thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its own
sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood
of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in
all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might
refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might
even hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own
deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it
came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with
disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and
he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being
deserted by one of his own species.

Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new
world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the
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 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 passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea;
it was almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature
reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone
specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound
of voices, as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the silence,
although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my ear
was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a
person landed close to my house.

In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one
endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a
presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who
dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the
sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you
in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the
spot.

Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door
opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he
approached me, and said, in a smothered voice–

“You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you
intend? Do you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and
misery: I left Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the
Rhine, among its willow islands, and over the summits of its hills. I
have dwelt many months in the heaths of England, and among the deserts
of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger;
do you dare destroy my hopes?”

“Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like
yourself, equal in deformity and wickedness.”

“Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself
unworthy of my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe
yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day
will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but I am your
master;–obey!”

“The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is
arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but
they confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in
vice. Shall I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a 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 he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he
was; that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired his
return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian
enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as his
journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now
conjectured, by his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of
my society on him as I could spare. He besought me, therefore, to leave
my solitary isle, and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed
southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled me to life, and I
determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.

Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I
shuddered to reflect: I must pack up my chemical instruments; and for
that purpose I must enter the room which had been the scene of my odious
work, and I must handle those utensils, the sight of which was sickening
to me. The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage, and
unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the half-finished
creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I almost
felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to
collect myself, and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I
conveyed the instruments out of the room; but I reflected that I ought
not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of
the peasants; and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great
quantity of stones, and, laying them up, determined to throw them into
the sea that very night; and in the 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 slenderly acquainted with the
geography of this part of the world, that the sun was of little benefit
to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all the
tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters
that roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours,
and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other
sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that
flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others: I looked upon the
sea, it was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your task is already
fulfilled!” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval; all
left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his sanguinary and
merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie, so despairing
and frightful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing
before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it.

Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the
horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became
free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell: I felt sick,
and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high
land towards the south.

Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured
for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of
warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.

How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we
have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail
with a part of my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land.
It had a wild and rocky appearance; but, as I approached nearer, I
easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the
shore, and found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood
of civilised man. I carefully traced the windings of the land, and
hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind a small
promontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail
directly towards the town, as a place where I could most easily procure
nourishment. Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the
promontory, I perceived a small neat town and a good harbour, which I
entered, my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape.

As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several
people crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised at my
appearance; but, instead of offering me any assistance, whispered
together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in me
a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they
spoke English; and I therefore addressed them in that language: “My good
friends,” said I, “will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this
town, and inform me where I am?”

“You will know that soon enough,” replied a man with a hoarse voice.
“May be you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste;
but you will not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you.”

I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a
stranger; and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and
angry countenances of his companions. “Why do you answer me so roughly?”
I replied; “surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to receive
strangers so inhospitably.”

“I do not know,” said the man, “what the custom of the English may be;
but 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 enquired the way to the inn;
but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose
from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking
man approaching, tapped me on the shoulder, and said, “Come, Sir, you
must follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s, to give an account of yourself.”

“Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a
free country?”

“Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate; and
you are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found
murdered here last night.”

This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I was
innocent; that could easily be proved: accordingly I followed my
conductor in silence, and was led to one of the best houses in the town.
I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger; but, being surrounded by a
crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no physical
debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt. Little
did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm
me, and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death.

I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory
of the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to
my recollection.
CHAPTER XXI.
I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old
benevolent man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however,
with some degree of severity: and then, turning towards my conductors,
he asked who appeared as witnesses on this occasion.

About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the
magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before
with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o’clock,
they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put
in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen;
they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a
creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the
fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he
was proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something,
and fell at his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist
him; and, by the light of their lantern, they found that he had fallen
on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. Their first
supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person who had been
drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, on examination, they
found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then
cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the
spot, and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared
to be a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had
apparently been strangled; for there was no sign of any violence, except
the black mark of fingers on his neck.

The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but
when the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of
my brother, and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a
mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for
support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye, and of course drew
an unfavourable augury from my manner.

The son confirmed his father’s account: but when Daniel Nugent was
called, he swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion,
he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short distance from the
shore; and, as far as he could judge by the light of a few stars, it was
the same boat in which I had just landed.

A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the
door of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an
hour before she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat,
with only one man in it, push off from that part of the shore where the
corpse was afterwards found.

Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the
body into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed
it; and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite
gone.

Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed,
that, with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it
was very probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been
obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed.
Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from
another place, and it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the
shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the
town of * * * from the place where I had deposited the corpse.

Mr. 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. The examination, the presence of the magistrate
and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory, when I saw the
lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath;
and, throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, “Have my murderous
machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have
already destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval,
my friend, my benefactor—-”

The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and
I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions.

A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death:
my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the
murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated
my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was
tormented; and at others, I felt the fingers of the monster already
grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately,
as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my
gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other
witnesses.

Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I
not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming
children, the only hopes of their doating parents: how many brides and
youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and
the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials
was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the
turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture?

But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking
from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by
gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon.
It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had
forgotten the particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around,
and saw the barred windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory, and I groaned bitterly.

This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me.
She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her
countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise
that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of
persons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of misery. Her
tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and
the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings:–

“Are you better now, sir?” said she.

I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I believe I am;
but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am
still alive to feel this misery and horror.”

“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you
were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that’s none of
my business; I am sent to nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with
a safe conscience; it were well if 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
shown me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to
be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had
provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me;
for, although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every
human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and
miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes, to see
that I was not neglected; but his visits were short, and with long
intervals.

One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my
eyes half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome
by gloom and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than
desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness.
At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty, and
suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been.
Such were my thoughts, when the door of my apartment was opened, and Mr.
Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he
drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in French–

“I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do 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 agonising than the strange
chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising
accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality; seized
immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented
to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a
manner, and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path.”

As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this
retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the
knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to
say–

“Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on your
person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some
trace by which I could send to your relations an account of your
misfortune and illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one
which I discovered from its commencement to be from your father. I
instantly wrote to Geneva: nearly two months have elapsed since the
departure of my letter.–But you are ill; even now you tremble: you are
unfit for agitation of any kind.”

“This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event:
tell me what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am
now to lament?”

“Your family is perfectly well,” said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; “and
some one, a friend, is come to visit you.”

I know not by what chain of thought, the idea presented itself, but it
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my
misery, and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for
me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and
cried out in agony–

“Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God’s sake, do not let him
enter!”

Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in
rather a severe tone–

“I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father
would have been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance.”

“My father!” cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure: “is my father indeed come? How kind, how very
kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?”

My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.

Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried–

“Are you then safe–and Elizabeth–and Ernest?”

My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured,
by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my
desponding spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode
of cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!” said
he, looking mournfully at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of
the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to
pursue you. And poor Clerval–”

The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.

“Alas! yes, my father,” replied I; “some destiny of the most horrible
kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should
have died on the coffin of Henry.”

We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the
precarious state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that
could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my
strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the
appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.

As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black
melancholy, that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for
ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into
which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous
relapse. Alas! why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life?
It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a
close. Soon, oh! very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings, and
relieve me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust;
and, in executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then
the appearance of death was distant, although the wish was ever present
to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless and speechless,
wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my destroyer
in its ruins.

The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months in
prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a
relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the
county-town, where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with
every care of collecting witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was
spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was
not brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand
jury rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney
Islands at the hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight
after my removal I was liberated from prison.

My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a
criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere, and permitted to return to my native country. I did not
participate in these feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever; and
although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I
saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by
no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they
were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs
nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that fringed them;
sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw
them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.

My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of
Geneva, which I should soon visit–of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these
words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish
for happiness; and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved
cousin; or longed, with a devouring _maladie du pays_, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early
childhood: but my general state of feeling was a torpor, in which a
prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and
these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and
despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put an end to the
existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and vigilance
to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.

Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed
over my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return without
delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I so fondly
loved; and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any chance led me to
the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his
presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of
the monstrous Image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul still
more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our departure, fearful
that I could not sustain the fatigues of a journey: for I was a
shattered wreck,–the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I
was a mere skeleton; and fever night and day preyed upon my wasted
frame.

Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and
impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on
board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed with a fair wind
from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the deck, looking at
the stars, and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the
darkness that shut Ireland from my sight; and my pulse beat with a
feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past
appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in
which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of Ireland,
and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was
deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I
repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing
with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for
Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me
on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night
in which he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a
thousand feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.

Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of
taking every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of
this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the
preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various
misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity, and soon slept
profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery;
my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I
was possessed by a kind of 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; the dashing waves were around: the cloudy sky above; the fiend
was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a truce was
established between the present hour and the irresistible, disastrous
future, imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human
mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible.
CHAPTER XXII.
The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon
found that I had overtaxed my strength, and that I must repose before I
could continue my journey. My father’s care and attentions were
indefatigable; but he did not know the origin of my sufferings, and
sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to
seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred!
they were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to
the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and
celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their
intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them, whose joy it was to
shed their blood, and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and
all, abhor me, and hunt me from the world, did they know my unhallowed
acts, and the crimes which had their source in me!

My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society, and strove by
various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt
deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder,
and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.

“Alas! my father,” said I, “how little do you know me. Human beings,
their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch
as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I,
and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of
this–I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry–they all died by my
hands.”

My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same
assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an
explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring
of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had
presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved
in my convalescence. I avoided explanation, and maintained a continual
silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that I
should be supposed mad; and this in itself would for ever have chained
my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret
which would fill my hearer with consternation, and make fear and
unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my
impatient thirst for sympathy, and was silent when I would have given
the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet still words like those
I have recorded, would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no
explanation of them; but their truth in part relieved the burden of my
mysterious woe.

Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded
wonder, “My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I
entreat you never to make such an assertion again.”

“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the heavens, who
have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the
assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A
thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have
saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not
sacrifice the whole human race.”

The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were
deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation, and
endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as
possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had taken place in
Ireland, and never alluded to them, or suffered me to speak of my
misfortunes.

As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling in my
heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own
crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost
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.

A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received
the following letter from Elizabeth:–

“My dear Friend,

“It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle
dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may
hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you
must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when
you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured
as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your
countenance, and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort
and tranquillity.

“Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable
a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at
this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon you; but a conversation
that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders some
explanation necessary before we meet.

“Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have to explain?
If you really say this, my questions are answered, and all my doubts
satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may
dread, and yet be pleased with this explanation; and, in a probability
of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what,
during your absence, I have often wished to express to you, but have
never had the courage to begin.

“You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of
your parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and
taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly take
place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I
believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But as
brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each
other, without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our
case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you, by our mutual
happiness, with simple truth–Do you not love another?

“You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at
Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last
autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude, from the society of every
creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our
connection, and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of
your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But
this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you,
and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend
and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as my own, when
I declare to you, that our marriage would render me eternally miserable,
unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep to
think, that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may
stifle, by the word _honour_, all hope of that love and happiness which
would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an
affection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold, by being an
obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and
playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this
supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one
request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to
interrupt my tranquillity.

“Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer 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 were victorious I should be at
peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I
should be a free man. Alas! what freedom? such as the peasant enjoys
when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt,
his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and
alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in my Elizabeth I
possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse and
guilt, which would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and re-read her letter, and some
softened feelings stole into my heart, and dared to whisper paradisiacal
dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel’s
arm bared to drive me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy.
If the monster executed his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I
considered whether my marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction
might indeed arrive a few months sooner; but if my torturer should
suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he would surely
find other, and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had vowed _to
be with me on my wedding-night_, yet he did not consider that threat as
binding him to peace in the mean time; for, as if to show me that he was
not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after
the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my
immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my
father’s happiness, my adversary’s designs against my life should not
retard it a single hour.

In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and
affectionate. “I fear, my beloved girl,” I said, “little happiness
remains for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in
you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life,
and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a
dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with
horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only
wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of
misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place;
for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But
until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most
earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply.”

In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth’s letter, we returned to
Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection; yet tears were
in her eyes, as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw
a change in her also. She was thinner, and had lost much of that
heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness, and
soft looks of compassion, made her a more fit companion for one blasted
and miserable as I was.

The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought
madness with it; and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity
possessed me; sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage; sometimes
low and despondent. I neither spoke, nor looked at any one, but sat
motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.

Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle
voice would soothe me when transported by passion, and inspire me with
human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me, and for me. When
reason returned, she would remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire me with
resignation. Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for
the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury
there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.

Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my immediate marriage with
Elizabeth. I remained silent.

“Have you, then, some other attachment?”

“None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our union with
delight. Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate
myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my cousin.”

“My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us;
but let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for
those whom we have lost, to those who yet live. Our circle will be
small, but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune.
And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects of
care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly
deprived.”

Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the
threat returned: nor can you wonder, that, omnipotent as the fiend had
yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as
invincible; and that when he had pronounced the words, “I shall be with
you on your wedding-night,” I should regard the threatened fate as
unavoidable. But death was no evil to me, if the loss of Elizabeth were
balanced with it; and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful
countenance, agreed with my father, that if my cousin would consent, the
ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the
seal to my fate.

Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish
intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself
for ever from my native country, and wandered a friendless outcast over
the earth, than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if
possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real
intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I
hastened that of a far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice
or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed
my feelings by an appearance of hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to
the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived the 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. Through my father’s
exertions, a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to
her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como
belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our union, we
should proceed to Villa Lavenza, and spend our first days of happiness
beside the beautiful lake near which it stood.

In the 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 solemnisation drew nearer, and I heard it continually spoken of
as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.

Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to
calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my
destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her;
and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised
to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the mean time
overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only recognised in the
melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.

After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at my
father’s; but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our
journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian, and continuing our
voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable, all
smiled on our nuptial embarkation.

Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the
feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was hot, but we
were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy, while we enjoyed the
beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw
Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalègre, and at a distance,
surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy
mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the
opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the
ambition that would quit its native country, and an almost
insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.

I took the hand of Elizabeth: “You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! if you
knew what I have suffered, and what I may yet endure, you would
endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom from despair, that this
one day at least permits me to enjoy.”

“Be happy, my dear Victor,” replied Elizabeth; “there is, I hope,
nothing to distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not
painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not
to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before us; but I will
not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move along, and
how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the
dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting.
Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters,
where we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a
divine day! how happy and serene all nature appears!”

Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all
reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating; joy
for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to
distraction and reverie.

The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance, and
observed its path through the chasms of the higher, and the glens of the
lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached
the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The
spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it, and the range
of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.

The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity,
sunk at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water,
and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore,
from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The
sun sunk beneath the horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I
felt those cares and fears revive, which soon were to clasp me, and
cling to me for ever.
CHAPTER XXIII.
It was eight o’clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the
shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn, and
contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured
in darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.

The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in
the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens, and was
beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight
of the vulture, and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene
of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that
were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.

I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night obscured the shapes
of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and
watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my
bosom; every sound terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my
life dearly, and not shrink from the conflict until my own life, or that
of my adversary, was extinguished.

Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful
silence; but there was something in my glance which communicated terror
to her, and trembling she asked, “What is it that agitates you, my dear
Victor? What is it you fear?”

“Oh! peace, peace, my love,” replied I; “this night, and all will be
safe: but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.”

I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how
fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and
I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I
had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.

She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages
of the house, and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat
to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to
conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the
execution of his menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful
scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I
heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the
motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the blood
trickling in my veins, and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This
state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed
into the room.

Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the
destruction of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth? She was
there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging
down, and her pale and distorted features half covered by her hair.
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 fell senseless on
the ground.

When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn;
their countenances expressed a breathless terror: but the horror of
others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that
oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of
Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She
had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her; and
now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a handkerchief thrown across
her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards
her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deadly languor and coldness
of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be
the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the
fiend’s grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from
her lips.

While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look
up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind
of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the
chamber. The shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of
horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most
hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed
to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my
wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom,
fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and, running with the
swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.

The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the
spot where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats;
nets were cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned
hopeless, most of my companions believing it to have been a form
conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they proceeded to search
the country, parties going in different directions among the woods and
vines.

I attempted to accompany them, and proceeded a short distance from the
house; but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken
man, I fell at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my
eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I
was carried back, and placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had
happened; my eyes wandered round the room, as if to seek something that
I had lost.

After an interval, I arose, and, as if by instinct, crawled into the
room where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping
around–I hung over it, and joined my sad tears to theirs–all this time
no distinct idea presented itself to my mind; but my thoughts rambled to
various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes, and their
cause. I was bewildered in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of
William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of
my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends
were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be
writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This
idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, and
resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.

There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but
the wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it
was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I
hired men to row, and took an oar myself; for I had always experienced
relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing
misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured, rendered
me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar; and leaning my head
upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up,
I saw the scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time, and which
I had contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now
but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain
had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they
had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth.
Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.
The sun might shine, or the clouds might lower: but nothing could appear
to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every
hope of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as I
was; so frightful an event is single in the history of man.

But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last
overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached
their _acme_, and what I must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know
that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate. My
own strength is exhausted; and I must tell, in a few words, what remains
of my hideous narration.

I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the former sunk
under the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable
old man! his eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and
their delight–his Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doated on
with all that affection which a man feels, who in the decline of life,
having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that remain.
Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs, and
doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors
that were accumulated around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave
way: he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my
arms.

What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and
darkness were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed,
I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the
friends of my youth; but I awoke, and found myself in a dungeon.
Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception of my
miseries and situation, and was then released from my prison. For they
had called me mad; and during many months, as I understood, a solitary
cell had been my habitation.

Liberty, however, had been an useless gift to me, had I not, as I
awakened to reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory
of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their
cause–the monster whom I had created, the miserable 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 for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my
history, briefly, but with firmness and precision, marking the dates
with accuracy, and never deviating into invective or exclamation.

The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I
continued he became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes
shudder with horror, at others a lively surprise, unmingled with
disbelief, was painted on his countenance.

When I had concluded my narration, I said, “This is the being whom I
accuse, and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert
your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and
hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of
those functions on this occasion.”

This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own
auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is
given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was
called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his
incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, “I would willingly
afford you every aid in your pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak
appears to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who
can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice, and inhabit
caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some
months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and no one can
conjecture to what place he has wandered, or what region he may now
inhabit.”

“I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; and if he
has indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois,
and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do
not credit my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the
punishment which is his desert.”

As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was
intimidated:–“You are mistaken,” said he, “I will exert myself; and if
it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer
punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have
yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove
impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you
should make up your mind to disappointment.”

“That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My
revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I
confess that it is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is
unspeakable, when I reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose
upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand: I have but one
resource; and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his
destruction.”

I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy
in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness
which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan
magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of
devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of
madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child, and
reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.

“Man,” I cried, “how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease;
you know not what it is you say.”

I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on
some other mode of action.
CHAPTER XXIV.
My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was
swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed
me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings, and allowed me
to be calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death
would have been my portion.

My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when
I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became
hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few
jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed.

And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have
traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the
hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are wont
to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my
failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge
kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being.

When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I
might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled;
and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what
path I should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the
entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father
reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their
graves. 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 not seen, around the head of the mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to
rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also
lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on
the grass, and kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, “By
the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by
the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night,
and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the 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 choked my
utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish
laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it,
and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter.
Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy, and have
destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I
was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away; when a well-known
and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an
audible whisper–“I am satisfied: miserable wretch! you have determined
to live, and I am satisfied.”

I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but the devil
eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and shone
full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as he fled with more than
mortal speed.

I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a
slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue
Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter
by night, and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took
my passage in the same ship; but he escaped, I know not how.

Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I
have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this
horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who
feared that if I lost all trace of him, I should despair and die, left
some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the
print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on
life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you understand
what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue, were the
least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil,
and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good
followed and directed my steps; and, when I most murmured, would
suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties.
Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a
repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited
me. The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country
ate; but I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I
had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless,
and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed
the few drops that revived me, and vanish.

I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the 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 I brought with me some food that I had killed,
which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had
provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during
sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most
miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture.
The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours,
of happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage.
Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During
the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night: for in
sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the
benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my
Elizabeth’s voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often,
when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming
until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the
arms of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them!
how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my
waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments
vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my
path towards the destruction of the 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 give up my search,
until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my
Elizabeth, and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the
reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened, and
the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The
peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy
ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from
their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice,
and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief
article of maintenance.

The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One
inscription that he left was in these words:–“Prepare! your toils only
begin: wrap yourself in furs, and provide food; for we shall soon enter
upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting
hatred.”

My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I
resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on Heaven to support
me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until
the ocean appeared at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the
horizon. Oh! how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered
with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior
wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the
Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the
boundary of their toils. I did not weep; but I knelt down, and, with a
full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the
place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe, to meet and
grapple with him.

Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus
traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the
fiend possessed the same advantages; but I found that, as before I had
daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him: so much so, that
when I first saw the ocean, he was but one day’s journey in advance, and
I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new
courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched
hamlet on the sea-shore. I enquired of the inhabitants concerning the
fiend, and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said,
had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting
to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his
terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and,
placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove
of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy
of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea
in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must
speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the
eternal frosts.

On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of despair.
He had escaped me; and I must commence a destructive and almost endless
journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean,–amidst cold that few
of the inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a
genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea
that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance
returned, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.
After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered
round, and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.

I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the
Frozen Ocean; and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed
from land.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I have endured
misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution
burning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and
rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard
the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But
again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure.

By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I
had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of
hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of
despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured
her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after
the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the
summit of a sloping ice-mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue,
died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye
caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to
discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I
distinguished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known
form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart!
warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might
not intercept the view I had of the 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 foe, my hopes were
suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I
had ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its
progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every
moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind
arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake,
it split, and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work
was soon finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me
and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that
was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death.

In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died; and
I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress, when I
saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of
succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far
north, and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my
sledge to construct oars; and by these means was enabled, with infinite
fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had
determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the
mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you
to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your
direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigour was
exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships
into a death which I still dread–for my task is unfulfilled.

Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the 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. And do I dare to ask of you to
undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone?
No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if
the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he
shall not live–swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated
woes, and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent
and persuasive; and once his words had even power over my heart: but
trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and
fiendlike malice. Hear him not; call on the 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 congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles
mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his
tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty
the words so replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now
lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and
quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his
countenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a
tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a
volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression
of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.

His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the simplest
truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he
showed me, and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought
to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his
asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster has then
really existence! I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and
admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the
particulars of his creature’s formation: but on this point he was
impenetrable.

“Are you mad, my friend?” said he; “or whither does your senseless
curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a
demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! learn my miseries, and do not seek to
increase your own.”

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history: he
asked to see them, and then himself corrected and augmented them in many
places; but principally in giving the life and spirit to the
conversations he held with his enemy. “Since you have preserved my
narration,” said he, “I would not that a mutilated one should go down to
posterity.”

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale
that ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul,
have been drunk up by the interest for my guest, which this tale, and
his own elevated and gentle manners, have created. I wish to soothe him;
yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every
hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know
will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he
enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium: he believes,
that, when in dreams he holds converse with his friends, and derives
from that communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements to his
vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings
themselves who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith
gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as
imposing and interesting as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and
misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays unbounded
knowledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is
forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic
incident, or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without
tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his
prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel
his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.

“When younger,” said he, “I believed myself destined for some great
enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of
judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of
the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been
oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those
talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on
the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive
and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common
projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of
my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my
speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel who
aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination
was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by
the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the
creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my
reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts,
now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects.
From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but
how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known me as I once was, you
would not recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely
visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell,
never, never again to rise.”

Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I
have sought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these
desert seas I have found such a one; but, I fear, I have gained him only
to know his value, and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he
repulses the idea.

“I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions towards so
miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties, and fresh
affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any
man be to me as Clerval was; or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where
the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the
companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our
minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine
dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never
eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain
conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother
can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect
the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however
strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated
with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and
association, but from their own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing
voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, will be ever
whispered in my ear. They are dead; and but one 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. Yet it is terrible to reflect
that the lives of all these men are endangered through me. If we are
lost, my mad schemes are the cause.

And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of
my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass,
and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh!
my beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations
is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a
husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: Heaven bless you, and
make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He
endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession
which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have
happened to other navigators, who have attempted this sea, and, in spite
of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the
power of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair; he
rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe
these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of
expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny
caused by this despair.
September 5th.

A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is
highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot
forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of
being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my
unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of
desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire
still glimmers in his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly
roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent
lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This
morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend–his eyes
half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,–I was roused by half a
dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They
entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his
companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to
me, to make me a requisition, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We
were immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but they feared
that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage
be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them
into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They
insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if
the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southward.

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived
the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in
possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when
Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly
to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,
and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men,
he said–

“What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so
easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious
expedition? And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was
smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers
and terror; because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to be
called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger and death
surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it
a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were
hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your names
adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour, and
the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of
danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your
courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who
had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls,
they were chilly, and returned to their warm 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 may be; it is mutable, and cannot withstand you, if you say that
it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace
marked on your brows. Return, as heroes who have fought and conquered,
and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.”

He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings
expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and
heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved? They looked at
one another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire,
and consider of what had been said: that I would not lead them farther
north, if they strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that,
with reflection, their courage would return.

They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk in
languor, and almost deprived of life.

How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die than
return shamefully,–my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my
fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never
willingly continue to endure their present hardships.
September 7th.

The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed.
Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back
ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess,
to bear this injustice with patience.
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 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were
heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every
direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could only
remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate
guest, whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely
confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with
force towards the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th
the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors
saw this, and that their return to their native country was apparently
assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and
long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause
of the tumult. “They shout,” I said, “because they will soon return to
England.”

“Do you then really return?”

“Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them
unwillingly to danger, and I must return.”

“Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but
mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely
the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient
strength.” Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the
exertion was too great for him; he fell back, and fainted.

It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life was
entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with
difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing
draught, and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the 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 blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a
rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was
in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there
was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my
own species had greater claims to my attention, because they included a
greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I
refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for the
first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in
evil: he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who
possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know
where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may
render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction
was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious
motives, I asked you to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this
request now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue.

“Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to fulfil
this task; and now, that you are returning to England, you will have
little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these
points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I
leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near
approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I
may still be misled by passion.

“That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in
other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the
only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the
beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell,
Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it
be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in
science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.”

His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his
effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted
again to speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes
closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away
from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this
glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the
depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and
feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of
disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.

I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the
breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there
is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin
where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine.
Good night, my sister.

Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the
remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to
detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete
without this final and wonderful catastrophe.

I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable
friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe;
gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he
hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged
hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture
like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased
to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung towards the
window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such
loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and
endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this
destroyer. I called on him to stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning towards the
lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every
feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some
uncontrollable passion.

“That is also my victim!” he exclaimed: “in his murder my crimes are
consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh,
Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that
I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by
destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold, he cannot answer me.”

His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had suggested
to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroying
his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion.
I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to
his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness.
I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster
continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I
gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his
passion: “Your repentance,” I said, “is now superfluous. If you had
listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of remorse,
before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity,
Frankenstein would yet have lived.

“And do you dream?” said the dæmon; “do you think that I was then dead
to agony and remorse?–He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse, “he
suffered not in the consummation of the deed–oh! not the ten-thousandth
portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its
execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was
poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval were music
to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and
sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not
endure the violence of the change, without 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 rekindled within me. “Wretch!” I said, “it is
well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made.
You throw a torch into a pile of buildings; and, when they are consumed,
you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he
whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he
become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you
feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn
from your power.”

“Oh, it is not thus–not thus,” interrupted the being; “yet such must be
the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my
actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I
ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the
feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being
overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue has
become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am
content to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure: when I die, I
am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory.
Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of
enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my
outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was
capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and
devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No
guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to
mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot
believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with
sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of
goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.
Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his
desolation; I am alone.

“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my
crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the detail which he gave you of
them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I
endured, wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes,
I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving;
still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there
no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his
friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic
who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous
and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an
abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my
blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

“But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the
helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to
death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have
devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love
and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that
irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me;
but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look
on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the
imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these
hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no
more.

“Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is
nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man’s death is needed to
consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be
done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to
perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which
brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the
globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this
miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and
unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall
die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the
prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me
into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both
will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel
the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense will pass away;
and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the
images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the
cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the
warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to
die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the
bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?

“Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these
eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive,
and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better
satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou
didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;
and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think
and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than
that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to
thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my
wounds until death shall close them for ever.

“But soon,” he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and
what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be
extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the
agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade
away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will
sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell.”

He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft
which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and
lost in darkness and distance.
THE END.
LONDON:
Printed by A. & R Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.

Published by

Kevin L. Ferguson

Assistant Professor of English and Director of Writing at Queens