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Oh dear god, why?!
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Oh dear god, why?!

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README 

        
Frankenstein,

=================



or the Modern Prometheus

----------------------------



by

~~~~~~



Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

----------------------------------------



CONTENTS

------------



`Letter 1`_ `Letter 2`_ `Letter 3`_ `Letter 4`_



`Chapter 1`_ `Chapter 2`_ `Chapter 3`_ `Chapter 4`_

`Chapter 5`_ `Chapter 6`_ `Chapter 7`_ `Chapter 8`_

`Chapter 9`_ `Chapter 10`_ `Chapter 11`_ `Chapter 12`_

`Chapter 13`_ `Chapter 14`_ `Chapter 15`_ `Chapter 16`_

`Chapter 17`_ `Chapter 18`_ `Chapter 19`_ `Chapter 20`_

`Chapter 21`_ `Chapter 22`_ `Chapter 23`_ `Chapter 24`_



Letter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~



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



TO Mrs. Saville, England



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

an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived

here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare

and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.



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

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

my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This

breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing,

gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise,

my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded

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

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

is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a

perpetual splendour. There--for with your leave, my sister, I will put some

trust in preceding navigators--there snow and frost are banished; and,

sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and

in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its

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

heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not

be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous

power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial

observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming

eccentricities consistent forever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with

the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land

never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they

are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to

commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in

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

native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot

contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the

last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries,

to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining

the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by

an undertaking such as mine.



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

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

nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose--a

point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has

been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the

accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of

arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole.

You may remember that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of

discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle Thomas' library. My education

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

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

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

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



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

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

for one year lived in a paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also

might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare

are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure and how heavily I

bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my

cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of their earlier bent.



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

now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great

enterprise. I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the

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

cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the

common sailors during the day and devoted my nights to the study of

mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science

from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage.

Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and

acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a little proud when my

captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and entreated me to

remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider my

services. And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great

purpose? My life might have been passed in ease and luxury, but I preferred

glory to every enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some

encouraging voice would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my

resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often

depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult voyage, the

emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required not only to

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

failing.



This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly

over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion,

far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not

excessive, if you are wrapped in furs--a dress which I have already adopted,

for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated

motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually

freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road

between St. Petersburgh and Archangel. I shall depart for the latter town in

a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship there, which

can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to engage as

many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to the

whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when

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

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

meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never. Farewell, my dear,

excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I

may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.



Your affectionate brother,     R. Walton



Letter 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~



Archangel, 28th March, 17--



To Mrs. Saville, England



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

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

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

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

courage.



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

absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil, I have no

friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there

will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no

one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to

paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of

feeling. I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me, whose

eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I

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

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

tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend

repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in execution and too

impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to me that I am

self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common

and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas' books of voyages. At that age I became

acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when

it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits from

such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with

more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am

in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I

have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent,

but they want (as the painters call it) KEEPING; and I greatly need a friend

who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection

enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind. Well, these are useless

complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here

in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the

dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for

instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous

of glory, or rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of

advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of

national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some

of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on

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

engaged him to assist in my enterprise. The master is a person of an

excellent disposition and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and

the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known

integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth

passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine

fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot

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

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

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

to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to

secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a

lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story.

Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having

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

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

was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare

her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he was

poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous

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

lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his

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

bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money

to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to

consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused,

thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who, when he found the father

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

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

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

as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it

renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and

sympathy which otherwise he would command.



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

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

resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate, and my voyage is only now delayed

until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully

severe, but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably

early season, so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do

nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and

considerateness whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.



I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my

undertaking. It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the

trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am

preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist

and snow," but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed for my

safety or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful as the "Ancient

Mariner." You will smile at my allusion, but I will disclose a secret. I have

often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the

dangerous mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative of

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

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

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

marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which

hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and

unvisited regions I am about to explore. But to return to dearer

considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas,

and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not

expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture.

Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive

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

love you very tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear

from me again.



Your affectionate brother, Robert Walton



Letter 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~



July 7th, 17--



To Mrs. Saville, England



My dear Sister,



I write a few lines in haste to say that I am safe--and well advanced on my

voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward

voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my native land,

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

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

continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which we

are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high

latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in

England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores

which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth

which I had not expected.



No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter.

One or two stiff gales and the springing of a leak are accidents which

experienced navigators scarcely remember to record, and I shall be well

content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.



Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured that for my own sake, as well as yours, I

will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.



But success SHALL crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone,

tracing a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves being

witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the

untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved

will of man?



My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish.

Heaven bless my beloved sister!



R.W.



Letter 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~



August 5th, 17--



To Mrs. Saville, England



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

although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can

come into your possession.



Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the

ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated.

Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round

by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would

take place in the atmosphere and weather.



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

every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no

end. Some of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with

anxious thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and

diverted our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage,

fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the

distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently

of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge and guided the dogs. We watched the

rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes until he was lost among

the distant inequalities of the ice. This appearance excited our unqualified

wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land; but this

apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had

supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track,

which we had observed with the greatest attention. About two hours after this

occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night the ice broke and freed

our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the

dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the

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



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

all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone

in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which

had drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog

remained alive; but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were

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

be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but a European. When I

appeared on deck the master said, "Here is our captain, and he will not allow

you to perish on the open sea."



On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a

foreign accent. "Before I come on board your vessel," said he, "will you have

the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?"



You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me

from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom I should have supposed

that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged

for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that

we were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.



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

God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety,

your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and

his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in

so wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as

soon as he had quitted the fresh air he fainted. We accordingly brought him

back to the deck and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy and

forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life

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

stove. By slow degrees he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him

wonderfully.



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

feared that his sufferings had deprived him of understanding. When he had in

some measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin and attended on him as

much as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his

eyes have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness, but there

are moments when, if anyone performs an act of kindness towards him or does

him 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 demon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon

after, when he was alone with me, he said, "I have, doubtless, excited your

curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate

to make inquiries."



"Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble

you with any inquisitiveness of mine."



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

benevolently restored me to life."



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

destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not answer with any degree

of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the

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

this I could not judge. From this time a new spirit of life animated the

decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be

upon deck to watch for the sledge which had before appeared; but I have

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

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

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



Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the

present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health but is very silent

and appears uneasy when anyone except myself enters his cabin. Yet his

manners are so conciliating and gentle that the sailors are all interested in

him, although they have had very little communication with him. For my own

part, I begin to love him as a brother, and his constant and deep grief fills

me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble creature in his

better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable. I said in one

of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide

ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by

misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my

heart.



I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I

have any fresh incidents to record.



August 13th, 17--



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

admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a

creature destroyed by misery without feeling the most poignant grief? He is

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

although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with

rapidity and unparalleled eloquence. He is now much recovered from his

illness and is continually on the deck, apparently watching for the sledge

that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied

by his own misery but that he interests himself deeply in the projects of

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

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

arguments in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail of

the measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which

he evinced to use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning

ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly

I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance

of my enterprise. One man's life or death were but a small price to pay for

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

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

gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first I perceived that he

tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my

voice quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his

fingers; a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length he spoke,

in broken accents: "Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also

of the intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will

dash the cup from your lips!"



Such words, you may imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm

of grief that had seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many

hours of repose and tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his

composure. Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to

despise himself for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny

of despair, he led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He

asked me the history of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told, but it

awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a

friend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had

ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could boast of

little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing. "I agree with you," replied

the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser,

better, dearer than ourselves--such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid

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

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

friendship. You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for

despair. But I--I have lost everything and cannot begin life anew."



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

that touched me to the heart. But he was silent and presently retired to his

cabin.



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

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

these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of elevating his soul

from earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery and be

overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when he has retired into himself, he will

be like a celestial spirit that has a halo around him, within whose circle no

grief or folly ventures.



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

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

retirement from the world, and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but

this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of

this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it

is which he possesses that elevates him so immeasurably above any other

person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but

never-failing power of judgment, a penetration into the causes of things,

unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression

and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.



August 19, 17--



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

that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at

one time that the memory of these evils should die with me, but you have won

me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once

did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a

serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my

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

the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me

what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that

may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of

failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous.

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

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

these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter of those

unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt but that

my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of

which it is composed."



You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered

communication, yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a

recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the

promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from a strong desire to

ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my

answer.



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

nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace.

I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving that I wished to

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

name you; nothing can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will

perceive how irrevocably it is determined."



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

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

resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to

record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during

the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript

will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who know him, and

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

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

swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy

sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of

his face are irradiated by the soul within.



Strange and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced

the gallant vessel on its course and wrecked it--thus!



Chapter 1

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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

that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics,

and my father had filled several public situations with honour and

reputation. He was respected by all who knew him for his integrity and

indefatigable attention to public business. He passed his younger days

perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a variety of

circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the decline

of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.



As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot

refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant

who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into

poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending

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

country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and

magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable

manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived

unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest

friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate

circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a

conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time

in endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the

world again through his credit and assistance. Beaufort had taken effectual

measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before my father

discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house,

which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered,

misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small

sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide

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

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

consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling

when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his

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

of any exertion.



His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with

despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no

other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an

uncommon mould, and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She

procured plain work; she plaited straw and by various means contrived to earn

a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.



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

more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased;

and in the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and

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

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

protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and

after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her

under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline

became his wife.



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

circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection.

There was a sense of justice in my father's upright mind which rendered it

necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during

former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one

beloved and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was

a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing

wholly from the doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for

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

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

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

convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the

gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her with all that could

tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her

health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been

shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed

previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his

public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant

climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour

through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame.



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

at Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for

several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other,

they seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of

love to bestow them upon me. My mother's tender caresses and my father's

smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first recollections. I

was their plaything and their idol, and something better--their child, the

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

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

misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep

consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given

life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be

imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson

of patience, of charity, and of self-control, I was so guided by a silken

cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. For a long time I was

their only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I

continued their single offspring. When I was about five years old, while

making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the

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

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

was a necessity, a passion--remembering what she had suffered, and how she

had been relieved--for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the

afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale

attracted their notice as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of

half-clothed children gathered about it spoke of penury in its worst shape.

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

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

bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry

babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the

rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed,

hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair was the

brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set

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

eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of

sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her

as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp

in all her features. The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes

of wonder and admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her

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

mother was a German and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been

placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They had

not been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father

of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique

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

obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of its weakness.

Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not

known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and a beggar.

She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer

than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles. When my father returned from

Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer than

pictured cherub--a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and

whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The

apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her

rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet

orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to

her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence afforded her such

powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was

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

sister--the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my

pleasures.



Everyone loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment

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

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

had said playfully, "I have a pretty present for my Victor--tomorrow he shall

have it." And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her

promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally

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

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

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

could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me--my more than

sister, since till death she was to be mine only.



Chapter 2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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

ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or

dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and

contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth

was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I

was capable of a more intense application and was more deeply smitten with

the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial

creations of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which

surrounded our Swiss home --the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes

of the seasons, tempest and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and

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

delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit

the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their

causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity,

earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to

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

remember.



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

entirely their wandering life and fixed themselves in their native country.

We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore

of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We

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

considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach

myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows

in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one

among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy

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

for its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He

composed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and

knightly adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into

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

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

shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels.



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

were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that

they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the

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

with other families I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot

was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love.



My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in

my temperature they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager

desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that

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

politics of various states possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets

of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward

substance of things or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of

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

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



Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of

things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men

were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those

whose names are recorded in story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors

of our species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated

lamp in our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice,

the sweet glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate

us. She was the living spirit of love to soften and attract; I might have

become sullen in my study, rought through the ardour of my nature, but that

she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval

--could aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not

have been so perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity, so full of

kindness and tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she

not unfolded to him the real loveliness of beneficence and made the doing

good the end and aim of his soaring ambition.



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

before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of

extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides,

in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which

led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would

account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my

destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost

forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent

which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural

philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in

this narration, to state those facts which led to my predilection for that

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

to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain

a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the

works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he

attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed

this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and

bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked

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

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



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

that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded and that a modern

system of science had been introduced which possessed much greater powers

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

those of the former were real and practical, under such circumstances I

should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination,

warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It

is even possible that the train of my ideas would never have received the

fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken

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

and I continued to read with the greatest avidity. When I returned home my

first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of

Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these

writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few besides

myself. I have described myself as always having been imbued with a fervent

longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour

and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my

studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed

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

ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy

with whom I was acquainted appeared even to my boy's apprehensions as tyros

engaged in the same pursuit.



The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with

their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had

partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still

a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomize, and give names; but, not

to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were

utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments

that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and

rashly and ignorantly I had repined.



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

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

disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth

century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of

Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite

studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a

child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the

guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence into the

search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon

obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object, but what

glory would attend the discovery if I could banish disease from the human

frame and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death! Nor were these

my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally

accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly

sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the

failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or

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

systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories and

floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by

an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed

the current of my ideas. When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to

our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most violent and terrible

thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder

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

remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and

delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue

from an old and beautiful oak which stood about twenty yards from our house;

and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and

nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we

found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the

shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never beheld anything

so utterly destroyed.



Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity.

On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us,

and excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory

which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at

once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade

Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my

imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me

to pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could

ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew

despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most

subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations, set down

natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and

entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science which could never

even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I

betook myself to the mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to

that science as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my

consideration.



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

bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this

almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion

of the guardian angel of my life--the last effort made by the spirit of

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

ready to envelop me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and

gladness of soul which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly

tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil

with their prosecution, happiness with their disregard.



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

was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible

destruction.



Chapter 3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I should

become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the

schools of Geneva, but my father thought it necessary for the completion of

my education that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those

of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but

before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life

occurred--an omen, as it were, of my future misery. Elizabeth had caught the

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

During her illness many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to

refrain from attending upon her. She had at first yielded to our entreaties,

but when she heard that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no

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

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

consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day

my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms,

and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On

her deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert

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

"my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your

union. This expectation will now be the consolation of your father.

Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas! I

regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it

not hard to quit you all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will

endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope of

meeting you in another world."



She died calmly, and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I

need not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that

most irreparable evil, the void that presents itself to the soul, and the

despair that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind

can persuade itself that she whom we saw every day and whose very existence

appeared a part of our own can have departed forever--that the brightness of

a beloved eye can have been extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar

and dear to the ear can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the

reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality

of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has

not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? And why should I describe

a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length arrives when

grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon

the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother

was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to perform; we must continue

our course with the rest and learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one

remains whom the spoiler has not seized.



My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now

again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It

appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the

house of mourning and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to sorrow,

but it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those

that remained to me, and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in

some degree consoled.



She indeed veiled her grief and strove to act the comforter to us all. She

looked steadily on life and assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She

devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her uncle and

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

sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot even her own regret

in her endeavours to make us forget.



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

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

me and to become my fellow student, but in vain. His father was a narrow-

minded trader and saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of

his son. Henry deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal

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

in his animated glance a restrained but firm resolve not to be chained to the

miserable details of commerce.



We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other nor persuade

ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said, and we retired under the

pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the other was deceived; but

when at morning's dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me

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

hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often

and to bestow the last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.



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

most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable

companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure--I

was now alone. In the university whither I was going I must form my own

friends and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably

secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible repugnance to new

countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were "old

familiar faces," but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of

strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I

proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of

knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my

youth cooped up in one place and had longed to enter the world and take my

station among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it

would, indeed, have been folly to repent.



I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my

journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white

steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted and was conducted to my solitary

apartment to spend the evening as I pleased.



The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction and paid a visit to

some of the principal professors. Chance--or rather the evil influence, the

Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment

I turned my reluctant steps from my father's door--led me first to M. Krempe,

professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in

the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my

progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural

philosophy. I replied carelessly, and partly in contempt, mentioned the names

of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor

stared. "Have you," he said, "really spent your time in studying such

nonsense?"



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

warmth, "every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and

entirely lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and

useless names. Good God! In what desert land have you lived, where no one was

kind enough to inform you that these fancies which you have so greedily

imbibed are a thousand years old and as musty as they are ancient? I little

expected, in this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of

Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies

entirely anew."



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

of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure, and dismissed me after

mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to

commence a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general

relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow professor, would lecture upon

chemistry the alternate days that he omitted.



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

those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned not at

all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a

little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher,

therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too

philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the

conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had

not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of

natural science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my

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

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

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

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

masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although

futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the

inquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which

my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange

chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth.



Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence

at Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the

localities and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing

week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me

concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that

little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what

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

of town.



Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing

room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike

his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect

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

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

remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his

lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry and the various

improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the

names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of

the present state of the science and explained many of its elementary terms.

After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a

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

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

and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that

metals cannot be transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but

these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their

eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles.

They penetrate into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her

hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the

blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired

new and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven,

mimic the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own

shadows."



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

--enounced to destroy me. As he went on I felt as if my soul were grappling

with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were touched which formed

the mechanism of my being; chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind

was filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been

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

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

unknown powers, and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.



I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of

insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I had no

power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I

awoke, and my yesternight's thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a

resolution to return to my ancient studies and to devote myself to a science

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

paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and

attractive than in public, for there was a certain dignity in his mien during

his lecture which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability

and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits

as I had given to his fellow professor. He heard with attention the little

narration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa

and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He

said that "These were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers

were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left

to us, as an easier task, to give new names and arrange in connected

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

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

erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid

advantage of mankind." I listened to his statement, which was delivered

without any presumption or affectation, and then added that his lecture had

removed my prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured

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

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

of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his

advice concerning the books I ought to procure.



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

application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry

is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have

been and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar

study; but at the same time, I have not neglected the other branches of

science. A man would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that

department of human knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man

of science and not merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to

apply to every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics." He then

took me into his laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various

machines, instructing me as to what I ought to procure and promising me the

use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science not to

derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had

requested, and I took my leave.



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



Chapter 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most

comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read

with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern

inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures and

cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science of the university, and I

found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information,

combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on

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

gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism, and his instructions were given

with an air of frankness and good nature that banished every idea of

pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for me the path of knowledge and

made the most abstruse inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My

application was at first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I

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

disappeared in the light of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my

laboratory.



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

rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my

proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly

smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman expressed the most

heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during

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

pursuit of some discoveries which I hoped to make. None but those who have

experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies

you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to

know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and

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

infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually

sought the attainment of one object of pursuit and was solely wrapped up in

this, improved so rapidly that at the end of two years I made some

discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured

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

point and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of

natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at

Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements,

I thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident

happened that protracted my stay.



One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the

structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life.

Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a

bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with

how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or

carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved these circumstances

in my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to

those branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had

been animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this

study would have been irksome and almost intolerable. To examine the causes

of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the

science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the

natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had

taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no

supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of

superstition or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no

effect upon my fancy, and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of

bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength,

had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress

of this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and charnel-

houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to

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

degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming

cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain.

I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as

exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from

the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me--a light so

brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the

immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so

many men of genius who had directed their inquiries towards the same science,

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



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

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

miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct

and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I

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

became myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.



The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave

place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to

arrive at once at the summit of my desires was the most gratifying

consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming

that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were

obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire

of the wisest men since the creation of the world was now within my grasp.

Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information

I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I

should point them towards the object of my search than to exhibit that object

already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the

dead and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering and seemingly

ineffectual light.



I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my

friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am

acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story, and

you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead

you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and

infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my

example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge and how much happier

that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires

to become greater than his nature will allow.



When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a

long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I

possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the

reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins,

still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at

first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of

simpler organization; but my imagination was too much exalted by my first

success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as

complex and wonderful as man. The materials at present within my command

hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that

I should ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses;

my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect,

yet when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science

and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least

lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and

complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was with

these feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness

of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my

first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, that is to say,

about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed

this determination and having spent some months in successfully collecting

and arranging my materials, I began.



No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a

hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me

ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light

into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source;

many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could

claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs.

Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon

lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it

impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to

corruption.



These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with

unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had

become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty,

I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour

might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had

dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with

unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places.

Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled among the

unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate the

lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance;

but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed

to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed

but a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon

as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old

habits. I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane

fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or

rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all the other

apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation;

my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to the details of

my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house furnished many of

my materials; and often did my human nature turn with loathing from my

occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which perpetually

increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.



The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one

pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more

plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage, but my eyes

were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me

neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were

so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my

silence disquieted them, and I well remembered the words of my father: "I

know that while you are pleased with yourself you will think of us with

affection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You must pardon me if I

regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other

duties are equally neglected."



I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings, but I could not

tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken

an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were, to

procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the great

object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.



I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to

vice or faultiness on my part, but I am now convinced that he was justified

in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame. A human being

in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind and never to

allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not

think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the

study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections

and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can

possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not

befitting the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man

allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his

domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Caesar would have spared

his country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the

empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.



But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my tale,

and your looks remind me to proceed. My father made no reproach in his

letters and only took notice of my silence by inquiring into my occupations

more particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer passed away during

my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights

which before always yielded me supreme delight--so deeply was I engrossed in

my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near

to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had

succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather

like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome

trade than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was

oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; the

fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures as if I had

been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck I perceived

that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone sustained me: my labours

would soon end, and I believed that exercise and amusement would then drive

away incipient disease; and I promised myself both of these when my creation

should be complete.



Chapter 5

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my

toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the

instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the

lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the

rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out,

when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow

eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated

its limbs.



How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the

wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His

limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful.

Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles

and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his

teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid

contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the

dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and

straight black lips.



The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of

human nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of

infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest

and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but

now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless

horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being

I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversing

my bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude

succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed

in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it

was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I

thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of

Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her, but as I imprinted the

first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features

appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in

my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in

the folds of the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew

covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed;

when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through

the window shutters, I beheld the wretch--the miserable monster whom I had

created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be

called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate

sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not

hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped and

rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house

which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up

and down in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and

fearing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal

corpse to which I had so miserably given life.



Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again

endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on

him while unfinished; he was ugly then, but when those muscles and joints

were rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could

not have conceived.



I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly

that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the

ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt

the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant

rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so

rapid, the overthrow so complete!



Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and

aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which

indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had

that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with

quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning

of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the

apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched

by the rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky.



I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring by bodily

exercise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets

without any clear conception of where I was or what I was doing. My heart

palpitated in the sickness of fear, and I hurried on with irregular steps,

not daring to look about me:



Like one who, on a lonely road,

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And, having once turned round, walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.



[Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."]



Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various

diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but

I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards

me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer I observed that it was

the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing, and on the door

being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung

out. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! How

fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"



Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back

to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to

my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and

misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm

and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner,

and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time

about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted to come

to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he, "how great was the

difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not

comprised in the noble art of 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 bedroom was also freed from its

hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have

befallen me, but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I

clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.



We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I

was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt

my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I

was unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over

the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed

my unusual spirits to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more

attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account, and

my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.



"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not

laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?"



"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I

saw the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "HE can tell. Oh, save me! Save

me!" I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously and fell

down in a fit.



Poor Clerval! What must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he

anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not

the witness of his grief, for I was lifeless and did not recover my senses

for a long, long time.



This was the commencement of a nervous fever which confined me for several

months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned

that, knowing my father's advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey,

and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief

by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more

kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my

recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the

kindest action that he could towards them.



But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and

unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form

of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was forever before my eyes,

and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry;

he at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination,

but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject

persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and

terrible event.



By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses that alarmed and grieved my

friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing

outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves

had disappeared and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees

that shaded my window. It was a divine spring, and the season contributed

greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection

revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as

cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.



"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me. This

whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has

been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the

greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion,

but you will forgive me."



"You will repay me entirely if you do not discompose yourself, but get well

as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to

you on one subject, may I not?"



I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on

whom I dared not even think? "Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed

my change of colour, "I will not mention it if it agitates you; but your

father and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in

your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy

at your long silence."



"Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought

would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love and who are so

deserving of my love?"



"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a

letter that has been lying here some days for you; it is from your cousin, I

believe."



Chapter 6

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own

Elizabeth:



"My dearest Cousin,



"You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind

Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. You are forbidden to

write--to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to

calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought that each post would

bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle from undertaking

a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his encountering the inconveniences

and perhaps dangers of so long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not

being able to perform it myself! I figure to myself that the task of

attending on your sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nurse, who could

never guess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection of

your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that indeed you are

getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon

in your own handwriting.



"Get well--and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and friends

who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see

you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever cloud his

benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of

our Ernest! He is now sixteen and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous

to be a true Swiss and to enter into foreign service, but we cannot part with

him, at least until his elder brother returns 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

judgement 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 just 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 expression 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 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 your self; and, I entreat you, write!



"Elizabeth Lavenza.



"Geneva, March 18, 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 in 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 sympathized in my tastes for natural science; and his

literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He came

to the university with the design of making himself complete master of the

oriental languages, and 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 Sanskrit languages engaged his

attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness

had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection,

and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil

with my friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works

of the orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of

their dialects, for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than

temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well

repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to

a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.

When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a

garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that

consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical poetry of

Greece and Rome!



Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed

for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter

and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was

retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I

longed to see my native town and my beloved friends. My return had only been

delayed so long, from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place,

before he had become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter,

however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late,

when it came its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.



The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which

was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in

the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the

country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition:

I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in

the ramble 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 you did 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 7

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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



"My dear Victor,



"You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your

return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines, merely

mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would be a cruel

kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my son, when you

expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and

wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot

have rendered you callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict

pain on my long absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woeful news, but I

know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page to seek the

words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.



"William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my

heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!



"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the circumstances

of the transaction.



"Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in

Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk

farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning; and

then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not

to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return.

Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen his brother; he said, that

he had been playing with him, that William had run away to hide himself, and

that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for a long time, but

that he did not return.



"This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until

night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned to the

house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not

rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to

all the damps and dews of night; Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish.

About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I

had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and

motionless; the print of the murder's finger was on his neck.



"He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance

betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At

first I attempted to prevent her but she persisted, and entering the room

where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands

exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered my darling child!'



"She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived,

it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening William had

teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of

your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which

urged the 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 the joy I at first expressed on

receiving new from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered

my face with my hands.



"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with

bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has

happened?"



I motioned him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room in

the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he

read the account of my misfortune.



"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster is

irreparable. What do you intend to do?"



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



During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; he

could only express his heartfelt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "dear

lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him

bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss!

To die so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp! How much more a murdered

that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only

consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang

is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form,

and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve

that for his miserable survivors."



Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words impressed

themselves on my mind and I remembered them afterwards in solitude. But now,

as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell

to my friend.



My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed

to console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I

drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the

multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes

familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How

altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden and desolating

change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances might have by

degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were done more

tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared no

advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I

was unable to define them. I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful

state of mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around

was calm; and the snowy mountains, 'the palaces of nature,' were not changed.

By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my

journey towards Geneva.



The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached

my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the

bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! my own

beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the

sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock

at my unhappiness?"



I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these

preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative happiness, and I

think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native

can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains,

and, more than all, thy lovely lake!



Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also

closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still

more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I

foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human

beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance,

that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the

hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure. It was completely

dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of the town were

already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village at

the distance of half a league from the city. The sky was serene; and, as I

was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had

been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross

the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw

the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful

figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended

a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were

clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its

violence quickly increased.



I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased

every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It

was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of

lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like a

vast sheet of fire; then for an instant every thing seemed of a pitchy

darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the preceding flash. The storm,

as is often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the

heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over the part

of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of

Copet. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another

darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of

the lake.



While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a

hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my

hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this

thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which

stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I

could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and

discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity

of its aspect more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me

that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon, to whom I had given life. What did

he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my

brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became

convinced of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against

a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom.



Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the fair child. HE was the

murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an

irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would

have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the

rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that bounds

Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared.



I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued, and

the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind

the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole train of my

progress toward the creation; the appearance of the works of my own hands at

my bedside; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night

on which he first received life; and was this his first crime? Alas! I had

turned loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage

and misery; had he not murdered my brother?



No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night,

which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the

inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and

despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed

with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which

he had now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let

loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me.



Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were open,

and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to discover what I

knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when

I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had

formed, and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the precipices of

an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever with which I

had been seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would

give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well

knew that if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have

looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the

animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade

my relatives to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Who could

arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Saleve?

These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.



It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I told the

servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library to attend their

usual hour of rising.



Six years had elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I

stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my

departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained to

me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantel-piece.

It was an historical subject, painted at my father's desire, and represented

Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead

father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of

dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this

picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon

it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and

hastened to welcome me: "Welcome, my dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish

you had come three months ago, and then you would have found us all joyous

and delighted. You come to us now to share a misery which nothing can

alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our father, who seems

sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will induce poor Elizabeth

to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.--Poor William! he was our

darling and our pride!"



Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony

crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness of my

desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terrible,

disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutely concerning my

father, and here I named my cousin.



"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accused herself of

having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But

since the murderer has been discovered--"



"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to

pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or

confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last

night!"



"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents of wonder, "but

to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would believe

it at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding

all the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so

amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly become so capable of so

frightful, so appalling a crime?"



"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully;

every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?"



"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost

forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so confused, as to

add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt.

But she will be tried today, and you will then hear all."



He then related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had

been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for

several days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to examine

the apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her

pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation

of the murderer. The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who,

without saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon

their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact,

the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme

confusion of manner.



This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied

earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good

Justine, is innocent."



At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his

countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had

exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than

that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God, papa! Victor says

that he knows who was the murderer of poor William."



"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father, "for indeed I had rather have

been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ungratitude

in one I valued so highly."



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



"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried

today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted."



This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine,

and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear,

therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong

enough to convict her. My tale was not one to announce publicly; its

astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one

indeed exist, except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses

convinced him, in the existence of the living monument of presumption and

rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the world?



We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld

her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish

years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an

expression more full of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me with the

greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin," said she, "fills me with

hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine.

Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as

certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have

not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely

love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never

shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I

shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William."



"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved; fear

nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal."



"How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and

that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every

one else prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and

despairing." She wept.



"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you believe,

innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity with which I

shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."



Chapter 8

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



We passed a few sad hours until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to

commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend as

witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this wretched

mockery of justice I suffered living torture. It was to be decided whether

the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the death of two

of my fellow beings: one a smiling babe full of innocence and joy, the other

far more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of infamy that could

make the murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl of merit and

possessed qualities which promised to render her life happy; now all was to

be obliterated in an ignominious grave, and I the cause! A thousand times

rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine,

but I was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have

been considered as the ravings of a madman and would not have exculpated her

who suffered through me.



The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning, and her

countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her feelings,

exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in innocence and did not

tremble, although gazed on and execrated by thousands, for all the kindness

which her beauty might otherwise have excited was obliterated in the minds of

the spectators by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have

committed. She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained;

and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she

worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court

she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were seated. A

tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us, but she quickly recovered

herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter

guiltlessness.



The trial began, and after the advocate against her had stated the charge,

several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her,

which might have staggered anyone who had not such proof of her innocence as

I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been

committed and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman not far

from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found.

The woman asked her what she did there, but she looked very strangely and

only returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house

about eight o'clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night,

she replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly if

anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into

violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days. The picture was then

produced which the servant had found in her pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a

faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an hour before the child

had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and

indignation filled the court.



Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her

countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly

expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but when she was desired

to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in an audible although variable

voice.



"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend that

my protestations should acquit me; I rest my innocence on a plain and simple

explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me, and I hope the

character I have always borne will incline my judges to a favourable

interpretation where any circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious."



She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed the

evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the house of

an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league from Geneva. On her

return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man who asked her if she had seen

anything of the child who was lost. She was alarmed by this account and

passed several hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut,

and she was forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging

to a cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was

well known. Most of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she

believed that she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she

awoke. It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again

endeavour to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body

lay, it was without her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when

questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed a

sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning

the picture she could give no account.



"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this one

circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining it; and

when I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to conjecture

concerning the probabilities by which it might have been placed in my pocket.

But here also I am checked. I believe that I have no enemy on earth, and none

surely would have been so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer

place it there? I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I

had, why should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?



"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I

beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character, and

if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be

condemned, although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence."



Several witnesses were called who had known her for many years, and they

spoke well of her; but fear and hatred of the crime of which they supposed

her guilty rendered them timorous and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth

saw even this last resource, her excellent dispositions and irreproachable

conduct, about to fail the accused, when, although violently agitated, she

desired permission to address the court.



"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or

rather his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents ever

since and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in

me to come forward on this occasion, but when I see a fellow creature about

to perish through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be

allowed to speak, that I may say what I know of her character. I am well

acquainted with the accused. I have lived in the same house with her, at one

time for five and at another for nearly two years. During all that period she

appeared to me the most amiable and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed

Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest

affection and care and afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious

illness, in a manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her, after

which she again lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved by all the

family. She was warmly attached to the child who is now dead and acted

towards him like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not

hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her,

I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such

an action; as to the bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had

earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to her, so much do I

esteem and value her."



A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal, but

it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor

Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence,

charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth

spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish was extreme

during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the

demon who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother also in his

hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not

sustain the horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular

voice and the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy

victim, I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did

not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore

my bosom and would not forgo their hold.



I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the

court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal question,

but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots

had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was condemned.



I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced

sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate

expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair

that I then endured. The person to whom I addressed myself added that Justine

had already confessed her guilt. "That evidence," he observed, "was hardly

required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our

judges like to condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so

decisive."



This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had my eyes

deceived me? And was I really as mad as the whole world would believe me to

be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I hastened to return home, and

Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.



"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected; all judges

had rather that ten innocent should suffer than that one guilty should

escape. But she has confessed."



This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon

Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she. "How shall I ever again believe in

human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could

she put on those smiles of innocence only to betray? Her mild eyes seemed

incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has committed a murder."



Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my

cousin. My father wished her not to go but said that he left it to her own

judgment and feelings to decide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go, although

she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me; I cannot go alone." The

idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. We entered the

gloomy prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some straw at the farther

end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on her knees. She rose on

seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at

the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also.



"Oh, Justine!" said she. "Why did you rob me of my last consolation? I relied

on your innocence, and although I was then very wretched, I was not so

miserable as I am now."



"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also join

with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?" Her voice was

suffocated with sobs.



"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth; "why do you kneel, if you are innocent?

I am not one of your enemies, I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every

evidence, until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt. That

report, you say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can

shake my confidence in you for a moment, but your own confession."



"I did confess, but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain

absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other

sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor

has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost began to think

that I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and

hell fire in my last moments if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none

to support me; all looked on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition.

What could I do? In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I

truly miserable."



She paused, weeping, and then continued, "I thought with horror, my sweet

lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so

highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a crime which

none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest

blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all be

happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death."



"Oh, Justine! Forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why did

you confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I will proclaim, I

will prove your innocence. I will melt the stony hearts of your enemies by my

tears and prayers. You shall not die! You, my playfellow, my companion, my

sister, perish on the scaffold! No! No! I never could survive so horrible a

misfortune."



Justine shook her head mournfully. "I do not fear to die," she said; "that

pang is past. God raises my weakness and gives me courage to endure the

worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember me and think of me

as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn

from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to the will of heaven!"



During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison room, where

I could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk

of that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary

between life and death, felt not, as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I

gnashed my teeth and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my

inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who it was, she approached me and

said, "Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe

that I am guilty?"



I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is more convinced of

your innocence than I was, for even when he heard that you had confessed, he

did not credit it."



"I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude

towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection of

others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my misfortune, and

I feel as if I could die in peace now that my innocence is acknowledged by

you, dear lady, and your cousin."



Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained

the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying

worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth

also wept and was unhappy, but hers also was the misery of innocence, which,

like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot

tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of

my heart; I bore a hell within me which nothing could extinguish. We stayed

several hours with Justine, and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth

could tear herself away. "I wish," cried she, "that I were to die with you; I

cannot live in this world of misery."



Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty repressed

her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth and said in a voice of half-

suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and

only friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and preserve you; may this be

the last misfortune that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make

others so."



And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence failed to

move the judges from their settled conviction in the criminality of the

saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeals were lost upon them.

And when I received their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling

reasoning of these men, my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might

proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched

victim. She perished on the scaffold as a murderess!



From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and

voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my father's woe,

and the desolation of that late so smiling home all was the work of my

thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones, but these are not your last

tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your

lamentations shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your

kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop of

blood for your sakes, who has no thought nor sense of joy except as it is

mirrored also in your dear countenances, who would fill the air with

blessings and spend his life in serving you--he bids you weep, to shed

countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be

satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave have

succeeded to your sad torments!



Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I

beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and

Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.



Chapter 9

~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Nothing is more painful to the human mind than, after the feelings have been

worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and

certainty which follows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine

died, she rested, and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a

weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart which nothing could remove.

Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed

deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I

persuaded myself) was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and

the love of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted

for the moment when I should put them in practice and make myself useful to

my fellow beings. Now all was blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience

which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from

thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense

of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures such as no

language can describe.



This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely

recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man;

all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only

consolation--deep, dark, deathlike solitude.



My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and

habits and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene

conscience and guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me

the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think,

Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more

than I loved your brother"--tears came into his eyes as he spoke--"but is it

not a duty to the survivors that we should refrain from augmenting their

unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to

yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the

discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."



This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should

have been the first to hide my grief and console my friends if remorse had

not mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm, with my other sensations.

Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair and endeavour to

hide myself from his view.



About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was

particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten

o'clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour had

rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was

now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I

took the boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails

set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle

of the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own

miserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me,

and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful

and heavenly--if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted

croaking was heard only when I approached the shore--often, I say, I was

tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me

and my calamities forever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic

and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound

up in mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother; should I by my

base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend

whom I had let loose among them?



At these moments I wept bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my mind

only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not

be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable

evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster whom I had created should

perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not

over and that he would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity

should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was always scope for

fear so long as anything I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend

cannot be conceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became

inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so

thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred

and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to

the highest peak of the Andes, could I when there have precipitated him to

their base. I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent

of abhorrence on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine. Our

house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken by the

horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no longer

took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her

sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the

just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no

longer that happy creature who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks

of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of

those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited her, and

its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.



"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of

Justine Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before

appeared to me. Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice that

I read in books or heard from others as tales of ancient days or imaginary

evils; at least they were remote and more familiar to reason than to the

imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters

thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody

believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she could have committed the

crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved

of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of

her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and

appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent to the death

of any human being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit

to remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was

innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor,

when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of

certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice,

towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring to plunge me into the

abyss. William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he

walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were

condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change

places with such a wretch."



I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in

effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance,

and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you must calm yourself.

These events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched

as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in

your countenance that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark

passions. Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you.

Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we

are true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native

country, we may reap every tranquil blessing--what can disturb our peace?"



And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other

gift of fortune suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even

as she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment

the destroyer had been near to rob me of her.



Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of

heaven, could redeem my soul from woe; the very accents of love were

ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence could

penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden

brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but

a type of me.



Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but

sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily

exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable sensations.

It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and

bending my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence,

the eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because

human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix.

I had visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years had passed since

then: _I_ was a wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring

scenes.



I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a

mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receive injury on these

rugged roads. The weather was fine; it was about the middle of the month of

August, nearly two months after the death of Justine, that miserable epoch

from which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly

lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense

mountains and precipices that overhung me on every side, the sound of the

river raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke

of a power mighty as Omnipotence--and I ceased to fear or to bend before any

being less almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here

displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the

valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles

hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottages

every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of

singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty

Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as

belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.



I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river forms,

opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon

after, I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and

sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox, through

which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate

boundaries, but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense

glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling

avalanche and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and

magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its

tremendous dome overlooked the valley.



A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this

journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and

recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the

lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing accents,

and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence

ceased to act--I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all

the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget

the world, my fears, and more than all, myself--or, in a more desperate

fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and

despair.



At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the

extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short

space of time I remained at the window watching the pallid lightnings that

played above Mont Blanc and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which

pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to

my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept

over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.



Chapter 10

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside the

sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that with slow

pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to barricade the valley.

The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy wall of the

glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the

solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial nature was

broken only by the brawling waves or the fall of some vast fragment, the

thunder sound of the avalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the

mountains, of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of

immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a

plaything in their hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me

the greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me

from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief,

they subdued and tranquillized it. In some degree, also, they diverted my

mind from the thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I

retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered

to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the

day. They congregated round me; the unstained snowy 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

solemnizing my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I

determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path,

and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.



The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short

windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain.

It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the

winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the

ground, some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks

of the mountain or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend

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 daemon. "All men hate the wretched;

how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet

you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by

ties only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill

me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do

mine towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my

conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will

glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining

friends."



"Abhorred monster! Fiend that thou art! The tortures of hell are too mild a

vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! You reproach me with your creation,

come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently

bestowed."



My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings

which can arm one being against the existence of another.



He easily eluded me and said,



"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred on my

devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase my

misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to

me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than

thyself; my height is superior to thine, my joints more supple. But I will

not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I

will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also

perform thy part, the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable

to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy

clemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature; I ought

to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy

for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably

excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy,

and I shall again be virtuous."



"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and me;

we are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in which one

must fall."



"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye

upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me,

Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am

I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I

gather from your fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate

me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered

here many days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to

me, and the only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for

they are kinder to me than your fellow beings. If the multitude of mankind

knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my

destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms

with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it

is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it

only remains for you to make so great, that not only you and your family, but

thousands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let

your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale; when you

have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I

deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they

are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to me,

Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied

conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man!

Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me, and then, if you can, and if you

will, destroy the work of your hands."



"Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances of which I

shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and author? Cursed

be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I

curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond

expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or

not. Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your detested form."



"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated hands before

my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I take from thee a sight

which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me and grant me thy compassion.

By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale;

it is long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to

your fine sensations; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high

in the heavens; before it descends to hide itself behind your snowy

precipices and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story and can

decide. On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighbourhood of man and

lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures and the

author of your own speedy ruin."



As he said this he led the way across the ice; I followed. My heart was full,

and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded, I weighed the various arguments

that he had used and determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly

urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto

supposed him to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a

confirmation or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what

the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and that I ought to render

him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to

comply with his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the

opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend; we

entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart

and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen, and seating myself by the

fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.



Chapter 11

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my

being; all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A

strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and

smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to

distinguish between the operations of my various senses. By degrees, I

remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to

shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me and troubled me, but hardly had I

felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in

upon me again. I walked and, I believe, descended, but I presently found a

great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies had

surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight; but I now found that I could

wander on at liberty, with no obstacles which I could not either surmount or

avoid. The light became more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying

me as I walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the

forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my

fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me from my

nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found hanging on the

trees or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the brook, and then lying

down, was overcome by sleep.



"It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half frightened, as it were,

instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted your

apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some clothes,

but these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of night. I was a

poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing; but

feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept.



"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation of

pleasure. I started up and beheld a radiant form rise from among the trees.

[The moon] I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightened

my path, and I again went out in search of berries. I was still cold when

under one of the trees I found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself, and

sat down upon the ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was

confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable

sounds rang in my ears, and on all sides various scents saluted me; the only

object that I could distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on

that with pleasure.



"Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had greatly

lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each other. I

gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with drink and the

trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted when I first

discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears, proceeded from

the throats of the little winged animals who had often intercepted the light

from my eyes. I began also to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that

surrounded me and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light

which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the

birds but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own

mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened

me into silence again.



"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened form,

showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations had by

this time become distinct, and my mind received every day additional ideas.

My eyes became accustomed to the light and to perceive objects in their right

forms; I distinguished the insect from the herb, and by degrees, one herb

from another. I found that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst

those of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing.



"One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by

some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I

experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but

quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that

the same cause should produce such opposite effects! I examined the materials

of the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly

collected some branches, but they were wet and would not burn. I was pained

at this and sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood which

I had placed near the heat dried and itself became inflamed. I reflected on

this, and by touching the various branches, I discovered the cause and busied

myself in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a

plentiful supply of fire. When night came on and brought sleep with it, I was

in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered it

carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches upon it; and then,

spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank into sleep.



"It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I

uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed

this also and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the embers when they

were nearly extinguished. When night came again I found, with pleasure, that

the fire gave light as well as heat and that the discovery of this element

was useful to me in my food, for I found some of the offals that the

travellers had left had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the

berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food in

the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were

spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots much improved.



"Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole day searching in

vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found this, I

resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one

where the few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this

emigration I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained

through accident and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to

the serious consideration of this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish

all attempt to supply it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across

the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles and at

length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the

night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appearance was

disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance that

covered the ground.



"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter;

at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless

been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me,

and I examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I

entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing his

breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise, and perceiving me, shrieked loudly,

and quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his

debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any

I had ever before seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me. But I was

enchanted by the appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not

penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and

divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell after their

sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the

shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the

latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among

some straw and fell asleep.



"It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun, which shone

brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my travels; and,

depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I

proceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a

village. How miraculous did this appear! The huts, the neater cottages, and

stately houses engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens,

the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages,

allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered, but I had hardly

placed my foot within the door before the children shrieked, and one of the

women fainted. The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me,

until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons,

I escaped to the open country and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite

bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the

village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant

appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I dared not enter it.

My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low that I could with

difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the earth,

which formed the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by

innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.



"Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter, however

miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more from the

barbarity of man. As soon as morning dawned I crept from my kennel, that I

might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could remain in the

habitation I had found. It was situated against the back of the cottage and

surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig sty and a clear pool of

water. One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now I covered every

crevice by which I might be perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a

manner that I might move them on occasion to pass out; all the light I

enjoyed came through the sty, and that was sufficient for me.



"Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw, I

retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered too

well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power. I had first,

however, provided for my sustenance for that day by a loaf of coarse bread,

which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink more conveniently than

from my hand of the pure water which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a

little raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the

chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm.



"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until something

should occur which might alter my determination. It was indeed a paradise

compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the rain-dropping

branches, and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure and was about to

remove a plank to procure myself a little water when I heard a step, and

looking through a small chink, I beheld a young creature, with a pail on her

head, passing before my hovel. The girl was young and of gentle demeanour,

unlike what I have since found cottagers and farmhouse servants to be. Yet

she was meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her

only garb; her fair hair was plaited but not adorned: she looked patient yet

sad. I lost sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned

bearing the pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along,

seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose countenance

expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with an air of

melancholy, he took the pail from her head and bore it to the cottage

himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the young man

again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the cottage; and

the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house and sometimes in the yard.



"On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the cottage had

formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been filled up with wood.

In one of these was a small and almost imperceptible chink through which the

eye could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small room was visible,

whitewashed and clean but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small

fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate

attitude. The young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently

she took something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat

down beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play and to

produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It

was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch who had never beheld aught

beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of the aged

cottager won my reverence, while the gentle manners of the girl enticed my

love. He played a sweet mournful air which I perceived drew tears from the

eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice, until she

sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature,

leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised her and smiled with such

kindness and affection that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering

nature; they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before

experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from

the window, unable to bear these emotions.



"Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his shoulders a load of

wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him of his burden, and

taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and

the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he showed her a large

loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased and went into the garden for

some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then upon the fire. She

afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man went into the garden and

appeared busily employed in digging and pulling up roots. After he had been

employed thus about an hour, the young woman joined him and they entered the

cottage together.



"The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance of his

companions he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal

was quickly dispatched. The young woman was again occupied in arranging the

cottage, the old man walked before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes,

leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast

between these two excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a

countenance beaming with benevolence and love; the younger was slight and

graceful in his figure, and his features were moulded with the finest

symmetry, yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and

despondency. The old man returned to the cottage, and the youth, with tools

different from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across

the fields.



"Night quickly shut in, but to my extreme wonder, I found that the cottagers

had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was delighted to

find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I

experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening the young girl

and her companion were employed in various occupations which I did not

understand; and the old man again took up the instrument which produced the

divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had

finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were

monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument

nor the songs of the birds; I since found that he read aloud, but at that

time I knew nothing of the science of words or letters.



"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time, extinguished

their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest."



Chapter 12

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences of

the day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these people, and I

longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had

suffered the night before from the barbarous villagers, and resolved,

whatever course of conduct I might hereafter think it right to pursue, that

for the present I would remain quietly in my hovel, watching and endeavouring

to discover the motives which influenced their actions.



"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman

arranged the cottage and prepared the food, and the youth departed after the

first meal.



"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The young

man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various laborious

occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed

his leisure hours on his instrument or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed

the love and respect which the younger cottagers exhibited towards their

venerable companion. They performed towards him every little office of

affection and duty with gentleness, and he rewarded them by his benevolent

smiles.



"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often went

apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness, but I was

deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less

strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why

were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house (for such

it was in my eyes) and every luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill

and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes;

and, still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging

each day looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did

they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions, but

perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which were at

first enigmatic.



"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the

uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty, and they suffered that

evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of

the vegetables of their garden and the milk of one cow, which gave very

little during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to

support it. They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very

poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers, for several times they

placed food before the old man when they reserved none for themselves.



"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the

night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption, but when I

found that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained and

satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots which I gathered from a

neighbouring wood.



"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist their

labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting

wood for the family fire, and during the night I often took his tools, the

use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the

consumption of several days.



"I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened

the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile

of wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth

joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he

did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage and

cultivating the garden.



"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these

people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to

one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke

sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds and

countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I

ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every

attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and the words

they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was

unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their

reference. By great application, however, and after having remained during

the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the

names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I

learned and applied the words, 'fire,' 'milk,' 'bread,' and 'wood.' I learned

also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had

each of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was 'father.'

The girl was called 'sister' or 'Agatha,' and the youth 'Felix,' 'brother,'

or 'son.' I cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas

appropriated to each of these sounds and was able to pronounce them. I

distinguished several other words without being able as yet to understand or

apply them, such as 'good,' 'dearest,' 'unhappy.'



"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the

cottagers greatly endeared them to me; when they were unhappy, I felt

depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized in their joys. I saw few human

beings besides them, and if any other happened to enter the cottage, their

harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments

of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage

his children, as sometimes I found that he called them, to cast off their

melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an expression of

goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened with respect,

her eyes sometimes filled with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away

unperceived; but I generally found that her countenance and tone were more

cheerful after having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not

thus with Felix. He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my

unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his

friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more

cheerful than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old man.



"I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight, marked the

dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and want,

Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white flower that

peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she

had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-

house, drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the outhouse,

where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always replenished

by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a

neighbouring farmer, because he often went forth and did not return until

dinner, yet brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden,

but as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man

and Agatha.



"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees I discovered

that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as when he talked. I

conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs for speech which he

understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend these also; but how was that

possible when I did not even understand the sounds for which they stood as

signs? I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to

follow up any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the

endeavour, for I easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover

myself to the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first

become master of their language, which knowledge might enable me to make them

overlook the deformity of my figure, for with this also the contrast

perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.



"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace, beauty, and

delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed myself in a

transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that it was

indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced

that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest

sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas! I did not yet entirely

know the fatal effects of this miserable deformity.



"As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the snow vanished, and

I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this time Felix was more

employed, and the heart-moving indications of impending famine disappeared.

Their food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they

procured a sufficiency of it. Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the

garden, which they dressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the

season advanced.



"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did not

rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its waters. This

frequently took place, but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the

season became far more pleasant than it had been.



"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning I attended the

motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispersed in various

occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent in observing my

friends. When they had retired to rest, if there was any moon or the night

was star-light, I went into the woods and collected my own food and fuel for

the cottage. When I returned, as often as it was necessary, I cleared their

path from the snow and performed those offices that I had seen done by Felix.

I afterwards found that these labours, performed by an invisible hand,

greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard them, on these occasions,

utter the words 'good spirit,' 'wonderful'; but I did not then understand the

signification of these terms.



"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the motives and

feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to know why Felix

appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it

might be in my power to restore happiness to these deserving people. When I

slept or was absent, the forms of the venerable blind father, the gentle

Agatha, and the excellent Felix flitted before me. I looked upon them as

superior beings who would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in

my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their

reception of me. I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle

demeanour and conciliating words, I should first win their favour and

afterwards their love.



"These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to the

acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but supple; and

although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I

pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease. It was as the ass

and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose intentions were

affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved better treatment than

blows and execration.



"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the aspect

of the earth. Men who before this change seemed to have been hid in caves

dispersed themselves and were employed in various arts of cultivation. The

birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began to bud forth on the

trees. Happy, happy earth! Fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time

before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the

enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the

present was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and

anticipations of joy."



Chapter 13

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events that

impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been, have made me what I

am.



"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies cloudless. It

surprised me that what before was desert and gloomy should now bloom with the

most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed by

a thousand scents of delight and a thousand sights of beauty.



"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from

labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to him--

that I observed the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression; he

sighed frequently, and once his father paused in his music, and I conjectured

by his manner that he inquired the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied

in a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music when someone

tapped at the door.



"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide. The

lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black veil. Agatha

asked a question, to which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a

sweet accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was musical but unlike that of

either of my friends. On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the

lady, who, when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of

angelic beauty and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and

curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated; her

features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each

cheek tinged with a lovely pink.



"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of sorrow

vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic joy,

of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his

cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as beautiful as

the stranger. She appeared affected by different feelings; wiping a few tears

from her lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it

rapturously and called her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet

Arabian. She did not appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to

dismount, and dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some

conversation took place between him and his father, and the young stranger

knelt at the old man's feet and would have kissed his hand, but he raised her

and embraced her affectionately.



"I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds and

appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood by nor

herself understood the cottagers. They made many signs which I did not

comprehend, but I saw that her presence diffused gladness through the

cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists.

Felix seemed peculiarly happy and with smiles of delight welcomed his

Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely

stranger, and pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to

mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus, while

they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not

comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which

the stranger repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their

language; and the idea instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the

same instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at

the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had before

understood, but I profited by the others.



"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they separated

Felix kissed the hand of the stranger and said, 'Good night sweet Safie.' He

sat up much longer, conversing with his father, and by the frequent

repetition of her name I conjectured that their lovely guest was the subject

of their conversation. I ardently desired to understand them, and bent every

faculty towards that purpose, but found it utterly impossible.



"The next morning Felix went out to his work, and after the usual occupations

of Agatha were finished, the Arabian sat at the feet of the old man, and

taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly beautiful that they at

once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her voice

flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away like a nightingale of the

woods.



"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first declined

it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in sweet accents,

but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old man appeared

enraptured and said some words which Agatha endeavoured to explain to Safie,

and by which he appeared to wish to express that she bestowed on him the

greatest delight by her music.



"The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration that

joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends. Safie was

always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the knowledge of

language, so that in two months I began to comprehend most of the words

uttered by my protectors.



"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and the

green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the scent and the

eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods; the sun became

warmer, the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme

pleasure to me, although they were considerably shortened by the late setting

and early rising of the sun, for I never ventured abroad during daylight,

fearful of meeting with the same treatment I had formerly endured in the

first village which I entered.



"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily master the

language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than the Arabian, who

understood very little and conversed in broken accents, whilst I comprehended

and could imitate almost every word that was spoken.



"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters as it was

taught to the stranger, and this opened before me a wide field for wonder and

delight.



"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's Ruins of Empires. I

should not have understood the purport of this book had not Felix, in reading

it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this work, he said, because

the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the Eastern authors. Through

this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of history and a view of the several

empires at present existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the

manners, governments, and religions of the different nations of the earth. I

heard of the slothful Asiatics, of the stupendous genius and mental activity

of the Grecians, of the wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans--of

their subsequent degenerating--of the decline of that mighty empire, of

chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the American

hemisphere and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original

inhabitants.



"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man,

indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous and magnificent, yet so vicious and

base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle and at

another as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great and

virtuous man appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being;

to be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared the lowest

degradation, a condition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless

worm. For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth to

murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and governments; but when I

heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased and I turned away with

disgust and loathing.



"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While I

listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian, the

strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard of the division

of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty, of rank, descent, and

noble blood.



"The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the possessions

most esteemed by your fellow creatures were high and unsullied descent united

with riches. A man might be respected with only one of these advantages, but

without either he was considered, except in very rare instances, as a

vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the profits of the

chosen few! And what was I? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely

ignorant, but I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of

property. I was, besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and

loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was more agile than

they and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and

cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I

looked around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot

upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?



"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me;

I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I

had forever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the

sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!



"Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has

once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off

all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one means to

overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state which I feared

yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings and loved the

gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers, but I was shut out from

intercourse with them, except through means which I obtained by stealth, when

I was unseen and unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the

desire I had of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha and

the animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me. The mild

exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of the loved Felix

were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!



"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the

difference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children, how the father

doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older child,

how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up in the precious

charge, how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge, of brother,

sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human being to

another in mutual bonds.



"But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my infant

days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all

my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished

nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height and

proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me or who claimed any

intercourse with me. What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered

only with groans.



"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow me now to

return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings of

indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in additional love

and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half-painful

self-deceit, to call them)."



Chapter 14

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was one

which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding as it did

a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to one so utterly

inexperienced as I was.



"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good family in

France, where he had lived for many years in affluence, respected by his

superiors and beloved by his equals. His son was bred in the service of his

country, and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the highest distinction. A few

months before my arrival they had lived in a large and luxurious city called

Paris, surrounded by friends and possessed of every enjoyment which virtue,

refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could

afford.



"The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish

merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some reason which

I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government. He was seized and

cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join

him. He was tried and condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence was

very flagrant; all Paris was indignant; and it was judged that his religion

and wealth rather than the crime alleged against him had been the cause of

his condemnation.



"Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and indignation

were uncontrollable when he heard the decision of the court. He made, at that

moment, a solemn vow to deliver him and then looked around for the means.

After many fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the prison, he found a

strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the building, which lighted

the dungeon of the unfortunate Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains, waited in

despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at

night and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk,

amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by

promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt, yet

when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father and who by

her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the youth could not help owning

to his own mind that the captive possessed a treasure which would fully

reward his toil and hazard.



"The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made on the

heart of Felix and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in his interests

by the promise of her hand in marriage so soon as he should be conveyed to a

place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this offer, yet he looked

forward to the probability of the event as to the consummation of his

happiness.



"During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for the

escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several letters that

he received from this lovely girl, who found means to express her thoughts in

the language of her lover by the aid of an old man, a servant of her father

who understood French. She thanked him in the most ardent terms for his

intended services towards her parent, and at the same time she gently

deplored her own fate.



"I have copies of these letters, for I found means, during my residence in

the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters were often

in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart I will give them to you;

they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the sun is already

far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the substance of them to you.



"Safie related that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a slave

by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of the father

of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic

terms of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the bondage to which she

was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion

and taught her to aspire to higher powers of intellect and an independence of

spirit forbidden to the female followers of Muhammad. This lady died, but her

lessons were indelibly impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the

prospect of again returning to Asia and being immured within the walls of a

harem, allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill-suited

to the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble

emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian and remaining in a

country where women were allowed to take a rank in society was enchanting to

her.



"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the night previous

to it he quitted his prison and before morning was distant many leagues from

Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of his father, sister, and

himself. He had previously communicated his plan to the former, who aided the

deceit by quitting his house, under the pretence of a journey and concealed

himself, with his daughter, in an obscure part of Paris.



"Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons and across Mont Cenis

to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable opportunity

of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.



"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his departure,

before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she should be united to

his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in expectation of that event; and

in the meantime he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards

him the simplest and tenderest affection. They conversed with one another

through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of

looks; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country.



"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes of the

youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other plans. He loathed

the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian, but he feared the

resentment of Felix if he should appear lukewarm, for he knew that he was

still in the power of his deliverer if he should choose to betray him to the

Italian state which they inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he

should be enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer

necessary, and secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed. His

plans were facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.



"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their victim

and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot of Felix was

quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news

reached Felix and roused him from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged

father and his gentle sister lay in a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed the

free air and the society of her whom he loved. This idea was torture to him.

He quickly arranged with the Turk that if the latter should find a favourable

opportunity for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should

remain as a boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely

Arabian, he hastened to Paris and delivered himself up to the vengeance of

the law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.



"He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the trial

took place, the result of which deprived them of their fortune and condemned

them to a perpetual exile from their native country.



"They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered

them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom he and his

family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer

was thus reduced to poverty and ruin, became a traitor to good feeling and

honour and had quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a

pittance of money to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.



"Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered him,

when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could have endured

poverty, and while this distress had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried

in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss of his beloved Safie were

misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now

infused new life into his soul.



"When the news reached Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth and

rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her lover, but

to prepare to return to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was

outraged by this command; she attempted to expostulate with her father, but

he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate.



"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment and told her

hastily that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been

divulged and that he should speedily be delivered up to the French

government; he had consequently hired a vessel to convey him to

Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He intended to

leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant, to follow at her

leisure with the greater part of his property, which had not yet arrived at

Leghorn.



"When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it would

become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent

to her; her religion and her feelings were alike averse to it. By some papers

of her father which fell into her hands she heard of the exile of her lover

and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided. She hesitated some

time, but at length she formed her determination. Taking with her some jewels

that belonged to her and a sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant,

a native of Leghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, and

departed for Germany.



"She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage of De

Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the

most devoted affection, but the poor girl died, and the Arabian was left

alone, unacquainted with the language of the country and utterly ignorant of

the customs of the world. She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had

mentioned the name of the spot for which they were bound, and after her death

the woman of the house in which they had lived took care that Safie should

arrive in safety at the cottage of her lover."



Chapter 15

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I

learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire their

virtues and to deprecate the vices of mankind.



"As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil, benevolence and generosity

were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor

in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were called forth and

displayed. But in giving an account of the progress of my intellect, I must

not omit a circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month of

August of the same year.



"One night during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood where I

collected my own food and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on

the ground a leathern portmanteau containing several articles of dress and

some books. I eagerly seized the prize and returned with it to my hovel.

Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I

had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of

Plutarch's Lives, and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these

treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my

mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary

occupations.



"I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced in me

an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstasy,

but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of

Werter, besides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many

opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto been

to me obscure subjects that I found in it a never-ending source of

speculation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners it described,

combined with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object

something out of self, accorded well with my experience among my protectors

and with the wants which were forever alive in my own bosom. But I thought

Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his

character contained no pretension, but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon

death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend

to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of

the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it.



"As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and

condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely unlike to

the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I was a listener.

I sympathized with and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind; I

was dependent on none and related to none. 'The path of my departure was

free,' and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous

and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence

did I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred,

but I was unable to solve them.



"The volume of Plutarch's Lives which I possessed contained the histories of

the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a far different

effect upon me from the Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter's

imaginations despondency and gloom, but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he

elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and

love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my understanding

and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of

country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted

with towns and large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had

been the only school in which I had studied human nature, but this book

developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in

public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest

ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I

understood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I

applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of

course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in

preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors

caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first

introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for glory

and slaughter, I should have been imbued with different sensations.



"But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I

had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history.

It moved every feeling of wonder and awe that the picture of an omnipotent

God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred the

several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I

was apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his

state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth

from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by

the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with and acquire

knowledge from beings of a superior nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and

alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition,

for often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter

gall of envy rose within me.



"Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon after

my arrival in the hovel I discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress

which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had neglected them, but

now that I was able to decipher the characters in which they were written, I

began to study them with diligence. It was your journal of the four months

that preceded my creation. You minutely described in these papers every step

you took in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with accounts

of domestic occurrences. You doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are.

Everything is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin;

the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it

is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is

given, in language which painted your own horrors and rendered mine

indelible. I sickened as I read. 'Hateful day when I received life!' I

exclaimed in agony. 'Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous

that even YOU turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and

alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more

horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, fellow

devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am solitary and abhorred.'



"These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when

I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent

dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with

my admiration of their virtues they would compassionate me and overlook my

personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous,

who solicited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to

despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them which

would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some months longer, for

the importance attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should

fail. Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every

day's experience that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a

few more months should have added to my sagacity.



"Several changes, in the meantime, took place in the cottage. The presence of

Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants, and I also found that a

greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in

amusement and conversation, and were assisted in their labours by servants.

They did not appear rich, but they were contented and happy; their feelings

were serene and peaceful, while mine became every day more tumultuous.

Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched

outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished when I beheld my

person reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail

image and that inconstant shade.



"I endeavoured to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial which

in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts,

unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy

amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing with my feelings and cheering my

gloom; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was

all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I

remembered Adam's supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had

abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.



"Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and

fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had worn

when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the

bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for the

endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the

flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted

me, I turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was

not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved and sympathized with one

another; and their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the

casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater

became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to

be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks

directed towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambition. I

dared not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror.

The poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is

true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest: I required kindness

and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it.



"The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place

since I awoke into life. My attention at this time was solely directed

towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my protectors. I

revolved many projects, but that on which I finally fixed was to enter the

dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough to

discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief object of

horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had

nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if in the absence of his

children I could gain the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I

might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors.



"One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground and

diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix

departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left

alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his guitar

and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I

had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with

pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at

length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.



"My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would

decide my hopes or realize my fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring

fair. All was silent in and around the cottage; it was an excellent

opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me and

I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and exerting all the firmness of which I

was master, removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal

my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and with renewed determination I

approached the door of their cottage.



"I knocked. 'Who is there?' said the old man. 'Come in.'



"I entered. 'Pardon this intrusion,' said I; 'I am a traveller in want of a

little rest; you would greatly oblige me if you would allow me to remain a

few minutes before the fire.'



"'Enter,' said De Lacey, 'and I will try in what manner I can to relieve your

wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and as I am blind, I am

afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.'



"'Do not trouble yourself, my kind host; I have food; it is warmth and rest

only that I need.'



"I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to

me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the interview, when

the old man addressed me. 'By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my

countryman; are you French?'



"'No; but I was educated by a French family and understand that language

only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends, whom I

sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.'



"'Are they Germans?'



"'No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and

deserted creature, I look around and I have no relation or friend upon earth.

These amiable people to whom I go have never seen me and know little of me. I

am full of fears, for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the world forever.'



"'Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but the

hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of

brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these

friends are good and amiable, do not despair.'



"'They are kind--they are the most excellent creatures in the world; but,

unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my

life has been hitherto harmless and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal

prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind

friend, they behold only a detestable monster.'



"'That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot you

undeceive them?'



"'I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I feel so

many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I have, unknown to

them, been for many months in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but

they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice which I

wish to overcome.'



"'Where do these friends reside?'



"'Near this spot.'



"The old man paused and then continued, 'If you will unreservedly confide to

me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them.

I am blind and cannot judge of your countenance, but there is something in

your words which persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile,

but it will afford me true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human

creature.'



"'Excellent man! I thank you and accept your generous offer. You raise me

from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be

driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow creatures.'



"'Heaven forbid! Even if you were really criminal, for that can only drive

you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I

and my family have been condemned, although innocent; judge, therefore, if I

do not feel for your misfortunes.'



"'How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips first have

I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be forever

grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with those friends

whom I am on the point of meeting.'



"'May I know the names and residence of those friends?'



"I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me

of or bestow happiness on me forever. I struggled vainly for firmness

sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my remaining strength;

I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my

younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose, but seizing the hand of the

old man, I cried, 'Now is the time! Save and protect me! You and your family

are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!'



"'Great God!' exclaimed the old man. 'Who are you?'



"At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha

entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on beholding me?

Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the

cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his

father, to whose knees I clung, in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the

ground and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from

limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sank within me as with

bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his

blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the

general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel."



Chapter 16

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



"Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not

extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I know

not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my feelings were those of

rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its

inhabitants and have glutted myself with their shrieks and misery.



"When night came I quitted my retreat and wandered in the wood; and now, no

longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in

fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken the toils,

destroying the objects that obstructed me and ranging through the wood with a

stag-like swiftness. Oh! What a miserable night I passed! The cold stars

shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches above me; now and

then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness.

All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend, bore a

hell within me, and finding myself unsympathized with, wished to tear up the

trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and

enjoyed the ruin.



"But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became fatigued

with excess of bodily exertion and sank on the damp grass in the sick

impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men that existed

who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies?

No; from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species, and more

than all, against him who had formed me and sent me forth to this

insupportable misery.



"The sun rose; I heard the voices of men and knew that it was impossible to

return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some thick

underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours to reflection on my

situation.



"The pleasant sunshine and the pure air of day restored me to some degree of

tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the cottage, I could

not help believing that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had

certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that my conversation had

interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having exposed my

person to the horror of his children. I ought to have familiarized the old De

Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered myself to the rest of his

family, when they should have been prepared for my approach. But I did not

believe my errors to be irretrievable, and after much consideration I

resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by my

representations win him to my party.



"These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound sleep;

but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by peaceful dreams.

The horrible scene of the preceding day was forever acting before my eyes;

the females were flying and the enraged Felix tearing me from his father's

feet. I awoke exhausted, and finding that it was already night, I crept forth

from my hiding-place, and went in search of food.



"When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the well-known path

that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace. I crept into my hovel

and remained in silent expectation of the accustomed hour when the family

arose. That hour passed, the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the

cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful

misfortune. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I

cannot describe the agony of this suspense.



"Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage, they

entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not

understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country, which

differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix approached

with another man; I was surprised, as I knew that he had not quitted the

cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover from his discourse the

meaning of these unusual appearances.



"'Do you consider,' said his companion to him, 'that you will be obliged to

pay three months' rent and to lose the produce of your garden? I do not wish

to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore that you will take some

days to consider of your determination.'



"'It is utterly useless,' replied Felix; 'we can never again inhabit your

cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing to the

dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and my sister will never

recover from their horror. I entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take

possession of your tenement and let me fly from this place.'



"Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion entered the

cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then departed. I never

saw any of the family of De Lacey more.



"I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of utter and

stupid despair. My protectors had departed and had broken the only link that

held me to the world. For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred

filled my bosom, and I did not strive to control them, but allowing myself to

be borne away by the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death. When I

thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of

Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and

a gush of tears somewhat soothed me. But again when I reflected that they had

spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to

injure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As night

advanced I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage, and after

having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden, I waited with

forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my operations.



"As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods and quickly

dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens; the blast tore along

like a mighty avalanche and produced a kind of insanity in my spirits that

burst all bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a tree

and danced with fury around the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the

western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly touched. A part of its orb

was at length hid, and I waved my brand; it sank, and with a loud scream I

fired the straw, and heath, and bushes, which I had collected. The wind

fanned the fire, and the cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which

clung to it and licked it with their forked and destroying tongues.



"As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of the

habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.



"And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps? I

resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated and

despised, every country must be equally horrible. At length the thought of

you crossed my mind. I learned from your papers that you were my father, my

creator; and to whom could I apply with more fitness than to him who had

given me life? Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed upon Safie,

geography had not been omitted; I had learned from these the relative

situations of the different countries of the earth. You had mentioned Geneva

as the name of your native town, and towards this place I resolved to

proceed.



"But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel in a southwesterly

direction to reach my destination, but the sun was my only guide. I did not

know the names of the towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask

information from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you only

could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no sentiment but that

of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! You had endowed me with perceptions

and passions and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of

mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I

determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from any

other being that wore the human form.



"My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense. It was late in

autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided. I travelled

only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a human being. Nature

decayed around me, and the sun became heatless; rain and snow poured around

me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface of the earth was hard and chill,

and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! How often did I imprecate curses

on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled, and all within

me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer I approached to your

habitation, the more deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my

heart. Snow fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not. A few

incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but

I often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed me no

respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract

its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines of

Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth and the earth again began

to look green, confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of

my feelings.



"I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was secured by

night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding that my path lay

through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had

risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the

loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of

gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half

surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne

away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.

Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with

thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which bestowed such joy upon me.



"I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its

boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many of the

trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused,

not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices,

that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was

scarcely hid when a young girl came running towards the spot where I was

concealed, laughing, as if she ran from someone in sport. She continued her

course along the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot

slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place

and with extreme labour, from the force of the current, saved her and dragged

her to shore. She was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means in my power

to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a

rustic, who was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On

seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms, hastened

towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew why;

but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my

body and fired. I sank to the ground, and my injurer, with increased

swiftness, escaped into the wood.



"This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being from

destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the miserable pain of a

wound which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and

gentleness which I had entertained but a few moments before gave place to

hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred

and vengeance to all mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me; my

pulses paused, and I fainted.



"For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to cure the

wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not

whether it had remained there or passed through; at any rate I had no means

of extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense

of the injustice and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for

revenge--a deep and deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate for the

outrages and anguish I had endured.



"After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The labours I

endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes

of spring; all joy was but a mockery which insulted my desolate state and

made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment of

pleasure.



"But my toils now drew near a close, and in two months from this time I

reached the environs of Geneva.



"It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the

fields that surround it to meditate in what manner I should apply to you. I

was oppressed by fatigue and hunger and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle

breezes of evening or the prospect of the sun setting behind the stupendous

mountains of Jura.



"At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection, which

was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came running into the

recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I

gazed on him, an idea seized me that this little creature was unprejudiced

and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If,

therefore, I could seize him and educate him as my companion and friend, I

should not be so desolate in this peopled earth.



"Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed and drew him towards

me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before his eyes and

uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forcibly from his face and said,

'Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to

me.'



"He struggled violently. 'Let me go,' he cried; 'monster! Ugly wretch! You

wish to eat me and tear me to pieces. You are an ogre. Let me go, or I will

tell my papa.'



"'Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.'



"'Hideous monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic--he is M. Frankenstein--he

will punish you. You dare not keep me.'



"'Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy--to him towards whom I have sworn

eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.'



"The child still struggled and loaded me with epithets which carried despair

to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a moment he lay dead

at my feet.



"I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish

triumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed, 'I too can create desolation; my

enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and a

thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him.'



"As I fixed my eyes on the child, I saw something glittering on his breast. I

took it; it was a portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite of my malignity,

it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I gazed with delight on her

dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my rage

returned; I remembered that I was forever deprived of the delights that such

beautiful creatures could bestow and that she whose resemblance I

contemplated would, in regarding me, have changed that air of divine

benignity to one expressive of disgust and affright.



"Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage? I only wonder

that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in exclamations and

agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish in the attempt to destroy

them.



"While 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 forever robbed of all that she could

give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her; be hers the

punishment! Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I

had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her and placed the portrait

securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled.



"For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,

sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and its

miseries forever. At length I wandered towards these mountains, and have

ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion which

you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have promised to comply with

my requisition. I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but

one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My

companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being

you must create."



Chapter 17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the expectation of

a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas

sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued,



"You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the interchange of

those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do, and I demand

it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede."



The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died

away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and as he said

this I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me.



"I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a consent from

me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me

base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint

wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you may

torture me, but I will never consent."



"You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and instead of threatening, I am

content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not

shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces

and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he

pities me? You would not call it murder if you could precipitate me into one

of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I

respect man when he condemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of

kindness, and instead of injury I would bestow every benefit upon him with

tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses

are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the

submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire

love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my 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 a hundred and a hundredfold; for

that one creature's sake I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now

indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I ask of you is

reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous

as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and

it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the

world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our

lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless and free from the misery I

now feel. Oh! My creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you

for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing

thing; do not deny me my request!"



I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of my

consent, but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His tale and

the feelings he now expressed proved him to be a creature of fine sensations,

and did I not as his maker owe him all the portion of happiness that it was

in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling and continued,



"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us

again; I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that of

man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and

berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same

nature as myself and will be content with the same fare. We shall make our

bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man and will ripen our

food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel

that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless

as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize

the favourable moment and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."



"You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in

those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only companions. How

can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile?

You will return and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their

detestation; your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a

companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be; cease to

argue the point, for I cannot consent."



"How inconstant are your feelings! But a moment ago you were moved by my

representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints? I

swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that

with the companion you bestow I will quit the neighbourhood of man and dwell,

as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have

fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly away, and in

my dying moments I shall not curse my maker."



His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him and sometimes

felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy

mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened and my feelings were altered to

those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought

that as I could not sympathize with him, I had no right to withhold from him

the small portion of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow.



"You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shown a degree

of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not even this be a

feint that will increase your triumph by affording a wider scope for your

revenge?"



"How is this? I must not be trifled with, and I demand an answer. If I have

no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the love of

another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing of

whose existence everyone will be ignorant. My vices are the children of a

forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will necessarily arise when I

live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive

being and 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 forever, and

every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver

into your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile."



"I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the

fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they

exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home and commence your

labours; I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not

but that when you are ready I shall appear."



Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my

sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight

of an eagle, and quickly lost among the undulations of the sea of ice.



His tale had occupied the whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of the

horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards

the valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was

heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the

mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I

was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was

far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place and seated myself

beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals as the clouds passed from

over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken

tree lay on the ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred

strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony,

I exclaimed, "Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock me; if

ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but

if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness."



These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you how the

eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened to every

blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.



Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest,

but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no

expression to my sensations--they weighed on me with a mountain's weight and

their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and

entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild

appearance awoke intense alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I

speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban--as if I had no right to claim

their sympathies--as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet

even thus I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate

myself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation made

every other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream, and that

thought only had to me the reality of life.



Chapter 18

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and I

could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the vengeance

of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the

task which was enjoined me. I found that I could not compose a female without

again devoting several months to profound study and laborious disquisition. I

had heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher, the

knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes thought of

obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung

to every pretence of delay and shrank from taking the first step in an

undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to me. A

change indeed had taken place in me; my health, which had hitherto declined,

was now much restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my

unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this change with

pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the best method of eradicating

the remains of my melancholy, which every now and then would return by fits,

and with a devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At these

moments I took refuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on

the lake alone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the

rippling of the waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun

seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure, and on my return I

met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile and a more cheerful

heart.



It was after my return from one of these rambles that my father, calling me

aside, thus addressed me,



"I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former

pleasures and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still unhappy

and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in conjecture as to the

cause of this, but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it is well founded, I

conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point would be not only useless,

but draw down treble misery on us all."



I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued--"I confess, my

son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage with our dear

Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort and the stay of my declining

years. You were attached to each other from your earliest infancy; you

studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and tastes, entirely suited

to one another. But so blind is the experience of man that what I conceived

to be the best assistants to my plan may have entirely destroyed it. You,

perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any wish that she might become

your wife. Nay, you may have met with another whom you may love; and

considering yourself as bound in honour to Elizabeth, this struggle may

occasion the poignant misery which you appear to feel."



"My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and sincerely.

I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration

and affection. My future hopes and prospects are entirely bound up in the

expectation of our union."



"The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor, gives me

more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you feel thus, we

shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast a gloom over us.

But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so strong a hold of your

mind that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an

immediate solemnization of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent

events have drawn us from that everyday tranquillity 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

a union from which I expected peace.



I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to

England or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers of

that country whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable use to me

in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the desired

intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory; besides, I had an

insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task

in my father's house while in habits of familiar intercourse with those I

loved. I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest of

which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror. I

was aware also that I should often lose all self-command, all capacity of

hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of

my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved while thus

employed. Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be

restored to my family in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the

monster would depart forever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident

might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my slavery forever.



These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to visit

England, but concealing the true reasons of this request, I clothed my

desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I urged my desire

with an earnestness that easily induced my father to comply. After so long a

period of an absorbing melancholy that resembled madness in its intensity and

effects, he was glad to find that I was capable of taking pleasure in the

idea of such a journey, and he hoped that change of scene and varied

amusement would, before my return, have restored me entirely to myself.



The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or at

most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal kind precaution he had

taken to ensure my having a companion. Without previously communicating with

me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me

at Strasbourg. This interfered with the solitude I coveted for the

prosecution of my task; yet at the commencement of my journey the presence of

my friend could in no way be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I

should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henry might

stand between me and the intrusion of my foe. If I were alone, would he not

at times force his abhorred presence on me to remind me of my task or to

contemplate its progress?



To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union with

Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return. My father's age

rendered him extremely averse to delay. For myself, there was one reward I

promised myself from my detested toils--one consolation for my unparalleled

sufferings; it was the prospect of that day when, enfranchised from my

miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth and forget the past in my union

with her.



I now made arrangements for my journey, but one feeling haunted me which

filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should leave my

friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy and unprotected from his

attacks, exasperated as he might be by my departure. But he had promised to

follow me wherever I might go, and would he not accompany me to England? This

imagination was dreadful in itself, but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the

safety of my friends. I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that

the reverse of this might happen. But through the whole period during which I

was the slave of my creature I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses

of the moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend

would follow me and exempt my family from the danger of his machinations.



It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native country.

My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth therefore acquiesced,

but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of my suffering, away from her,

the inroads of misery and grief. It had been her care which provided me a

companion in Clerval--and yet a man is blind to a thousand minute

circumstances which call forth a woman's sedulous attention. She longed to

bid me hasten my return; a thousand conflicting emotions rendered her mute as

she bade me a tearful, silent farewell.



I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly knowing

whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around. I remembered

only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to order that

my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me. Filled with dreary

imaginations, I passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes, but my

eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could only think of the bourne of my

travels and the work which was to occupy me whilst they endured.



After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed many

leagues, I arrived at Strasbourg, where I waited two days for Clerval. He

came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He was alive to every new

scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy

when he beheld it rise and recommence a new day. He pointed out to me the

shifting colours of the landscape and the appearances of the sky. "This is

what it is to live," he cried; "how I enjoy existence! But you, my dear

Frankenstein, wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful!" In truth, I was

occupied by gloomy thoughts and neither saw the descent of the evening star

nor the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine. And you, my friend, would be

far more amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an

eye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a

miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment.



We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasbourg to Rotterdam,

whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage we passed many

willowy islands and saw several beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Mannheim,

and on the fifth from our departure from Strasbourg, arrived at Mainz. The

course of the Rhine below Mainz becomes much more picturesque. The river

descends rapidly and winds between hills, not high, but steep, and of

beautiful forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of

precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of

the Rhine, indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot

you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with

the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,

flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river and

populous towns occupy the scene.



We travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song of the labourers

as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits

continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the

bottom of the boat, and as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to

drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these

were my sensations, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had

been transported to fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man.

"I have seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country; I have

visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend

almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black and impenetrable shades,

which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance were it not for the most

verdant islands that believe the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen

this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water

and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean; and

the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his

mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and where their dying voices are

still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the

mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud; but this country, Victor,

pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more

majestic and strange, but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river

that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon

precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage

of those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers coming from among

their vines; and that village half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh,

surely the spirit that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in

harmony with man than those who pile the glacier or retire to the

inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own country." Clerval! Beloved

friend! Even now it delights me to record your words and to dwell on the

praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a being formed in the

"very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened

by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections,

and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the world-

minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But even human

sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of

external nature, which others regard only with admiration, he loved with

ardour:--



----The sounding cataract

Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to him

An appetite; a feeling, and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, or any interest

Unborrow'd from the eye.



[Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey".]



And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost forever?

Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent,

which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life of its

creator;--has this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it

is not thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has

decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend.



Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight tribute

to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart, overflowing with

the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale.



Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to post

the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the stream of the

river was too gentle to aid us. Our journey here lost the interest arising

from beautiful scenery, but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we

proceeded by sea to England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of

December, that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the

Thames presented a new scene; they were flat but fertile, and almost every

town was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and

remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich--places

which I had heard of even in my country.



At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's towering above

all, and the Tower famed in English history.



Chapter 19

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several months

in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the

men of genius and talent who flourished at this time, but this was with me a

secondary object; I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the

information necessary for the completion of my promise and quickly availed

myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed

to the most distinguished natural philosophers.



If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it

would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my

existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information

they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly

profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with

the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could

thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous

faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier

placed between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood

of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those

names filled my soul with anguish.



But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive and

anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners which

he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement.

He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design was to

visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various

languages, and in the views he had taken of its society, the means of

materially assisting the progress of European colonization and trade. In

Britain only could he further the execution of his plan. He was forever busy,

and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I

tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from

the pleasures natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life,

undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany

him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began

to collect the materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me

like the torture of single drops of water continually falling on the head.

Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word

that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to

palpitate.



After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in

Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the

beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not sufficient

allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth, where

he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation, and I,

although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams and

all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.

We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now

February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the north

at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to

follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock,

and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour

about the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments and the materials

I had collected, resolving to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the

northern highlands of Scotland.



We quitted London on the 27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor,

rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers;

the majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer were

all novelties to us.



From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city our minds were

filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted there more

than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had collected

his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation

had forsaken his cause to join the standard of Parliament and liberty. The

memory of that unfortunate king and his companions, the amiable Falkland, the

insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part

of the city which they might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of

elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If

these feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of

the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The

colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost magnificent; and

the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure,

is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic

assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees.



I enjoyed this scene, and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory

of the past and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for peaceful

happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my mind, and if I

was ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in nature or the

study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man could always

interest my heart and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a

blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should

survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to be--a miserable spectacle of

wrecked humanity, pitiable to others and intolerable to myself.



We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs and

endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most animating

epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were often

prolonged by the successive objects that presented themselves. We visited the

tomb of the illustrious Hampden and the field on which that patriot fell. For

a moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and miserable fears to

contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and self sacrifice of which these

sights were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to

shake off my chains and look around me with a free and lofty spirit, but the

iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into

my miserable self.



We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place

of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village resembled, to a

greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but everything is on a lower

scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant white Alps which always

attend on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous

cave and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are

disposed in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix.

The latter name made me tremble when pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to

quit Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated.



From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in Cumberland

and Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself among the Swiss mountains.

The little patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of the

mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky streams were all familiar

and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost

contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval was

proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of

talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities and resources than

he could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his

inferiors. "I could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among these

mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine."



But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst

its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch; and when he begins

to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests

in pleasure for something new, which again engages his attention, and which

also he forsakes for other novelties.



We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland and

conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the period of our

appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on.

For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some

time, and I feared the effects of the daemon's disappointment. He might

remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea

pursued me and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have

snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience;

if they were delayed I was miserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and

when they arrived and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I

hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the

fiend followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion.

When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but

followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his

destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness

of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible

curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.



I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might have

interested the most unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well as

Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But

the beauty and regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle

and its environs, the most delightful in the world, Arthur's Seat, St.

Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills compensated him for the change and

filled him with cheerfulness and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at

the termination of my journey.



We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's, and along

the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no

mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into their feelings or plans

with the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval

that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. "Do you," said I, "enjoy

yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but

do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and

solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a

lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper."



Henry wished to dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to

remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. "I had rather be with you," he

said, "in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not

know; hasten, then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself

somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence."



Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of

Scotland and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster

followed me and would discover himself to me when I should have finished,

that he might receive his companion. With this resolution I traversed the

northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the

scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more

than a rock whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves. The

soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable cows, and

oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and

scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when

they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from

the mainland, which was about five miles distant.



On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was

vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these

exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had

fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I

ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession, an

incident which would doubtless have 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 20

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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 forever with the bitterest remorse. I was

now about to form another being of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant;

she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate and delight,

for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the

neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she had not; and she,

who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might

refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even

hate each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity,

and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his

eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the

superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone,

exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one of his own

species. Even if they were to leave Europe and inhabit the deserts of the new

world, yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the daemon

thirsted would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the

earth who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition

precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit, to inflict

this curse upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved by the

sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck senseless by his

fiendish threats; but now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise

burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their

pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price,

perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race.



I trembled and my heart failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by the

light of the moon the daemon at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his

lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted

to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid

himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came

to mark my progress and claim the fulfilment of my promise.



As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and

treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating

another like to him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on

which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future

existence he depended for happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and

revenge, withdrew.



I left the room, and locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart

never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own

apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the gloom and relieve

me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries.



Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it was

almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under

the eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and

now and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices as the fishermen

called to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of

its extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of

oars near the shore, and a person landed close to my house.



In a few minutes after, I heard the creaking of my door, as if some one

endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a

presentiment of who it was and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt

in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of

helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour

to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I

heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the

wretch whom I dreaded appeared.



Shutting the door, he approached me and said in a smothered voice, "You have

destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do you dare

to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery; I left Switzerland

with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands and

over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of

England and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable

fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?"



"Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself,

equal in deformity and wickedness."



"Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of

my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable,

but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you.

You are my creator, but I am your master; obey!"



"The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is

arrived. Your threats cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but they

confirm me in a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall

I, in cool blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon whose delight is in death

and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my

rage."



The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in the

impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom,

and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection,

and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! You may hate, but

beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall

which must ravish from you your happiness forever. 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 rang 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 mainland. 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 daemon

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 sank

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 rang in my ears like a

death-knell; they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a

reality.



The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my

appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a

fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it

contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval entreating me to join

him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he was, that

letters from the friends he had formed in London desired his return to

complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian enterprise. He

could not any longer delay his departure; but as his journey to London might

be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he

entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could spare. He

besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle and to meet him at Perth,

that we might proceed southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled

me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.

Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to

reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I must

enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle

those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at

daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage and unlocked the door of my

laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed,

lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living

flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself and then entered the

chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room, but

I reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work to excite the

horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly put them into a

basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying them up, determined to

throw them into the sea that very night; and in the meantime I sat upon the

beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus.



Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place in my

feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon. 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 sank

and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded, but the air was

pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze that was then rising. But it

refreshed me and filled me with such agreeable sensations that I resolved to

prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a direct position,

stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, everything

was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as its keel cut through

the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do

not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found that

the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the waves

continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind

was northeast 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 forever, I shudder to reflect on it.



Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the

horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze and the sea became free from

breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick and hardly able

to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the

south.



Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue and the dreadful suspense I endured for

several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy

to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.



How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have

of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a part

of my dress and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and

rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer I easily perceived the traces of

cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore and found myself suddenly

transported back to the neighbourhood of civilized man. I 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. "Maybe

you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste, but you will

not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you."



I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger,

and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and angry countenances

of his companions. "Why do you answer me so roughly?" I replied. "Surely it

is not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably."



"I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be, but it

is the custom of the Irish to hate villains." While this strange dialogue

continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a

mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed and in some degree alarmed me.



I inquired the way to the inn, but no one replied. I then moved forward, and

a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me,

when an ill-looking man approaching tapped me on the shoulder and said,

"Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's to give an account of

yourself."



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

country?"



"Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate, and you

are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered

here last night."



This answer startled me, but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent;

that could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my conductor in silence

and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from

fatigue and hunger, but being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to

rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into

apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that

was in a few moments to overwhelm me and extinguish in horror and despair all

fear of ignominy or death. I must pause here, for it requires all my

fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I am about to

relate, in proper detail, to my recollection.



Chapter 21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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 doting 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 jailers,

turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was

morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the

particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some great misfortune

had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw the barred

windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my

memory and I groaned bitterly.



This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She

was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance

expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The

lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see

without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire

indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one

that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" said she.



I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if

it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive

to feel this misery and horror."



"For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman

you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I

fancy it will go hard with you! However, that's none of my business; I am

sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it

were well if everybody did the same."



I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech

to a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt languid and

unable to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life

appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true,

for it never presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.



As the images that floated before me 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 anything to make you more

comfortable?"



"I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on the whole earth

there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving."



"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one

borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon

quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can easily be brought to

free you from the criminal charge."



"That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange events, become the

most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can

death be any evil to me?"



"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange

chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising

accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality, seized immediately,

and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was

the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner and placed, as

it were, by some fiend across your path."



As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this

retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the

knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was

exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say, "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

someone, 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 forever 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 country 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 forever, and although the sun shone upon me, as

upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and

frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that

glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing

in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes

that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster,

as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.



My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of

Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words

only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness

and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved cousin or longed, with a

devouring maladie du pays, to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone,

that had been so dear to me in early childhood; but my general state of

feeling was a torpor in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the

divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted but by

paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put

an end to the existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance and

vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.



Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over

my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return without delay to

Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I so fondly loved and to lie

in wait for the murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his

concealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I might, with

unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the monstrous image which I had

endued with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still

desired to delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues

of a journey, for I was a shattered wreck--the shadow of a human being. My

strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever night and day preyed upon

my wasted frame. Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude

and impatience, my father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on

board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace and sailed with a fair wind from the

Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the deck looking at the stars and

listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut

Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected

that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a

frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from

the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me told me too

forcibly that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my friend and

dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation.

I repassed, in my memory, my whole life--my quiet happiness while residing

with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for

Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on

to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in which

he first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand

feelings pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever since my recovery from

the fever I had been in the custom of taking every night a small quantity of

laudanum, for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain

the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the

recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual

quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from

thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me.

Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend's

grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rang 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 22

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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 forever 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 tomorrow, or the next day,

or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news

of your health, and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet,

occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other

happiness.



"Elizabeth Lavenza



"Geneva, May 18th, 17--"



This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of

the fiend--"I WILL BE WITH YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT!" Such was my sentence,

and on that night would the daemon employ every art to destroy me and tear me

from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings.

On that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well,

be it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he

were victorious I should be at peace and his power over me be at an end. If

he were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the

peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his

cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless,

penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty except that in my

Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by those horrors of remorse

and guilt which would pursue me until death.



Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some softened

feelings stole into my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love

and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive

me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed

his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my

marriage would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few

months sooner, but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it,

influenced by his menaces, he would surely find other and perhaps more

dreadful means of revenge.



He had vowed TO BE WITH ME ON MY WEDDING-NIGHT, yet he did not consider that

threat as binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that he

was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after

the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate

union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my father's happiness,

my adversary's designs against my life should not retard it a single hour.



In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and

affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little happiness remains

for us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase

away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life and my endeavours

for contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed

to you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being

surprised at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have

endured. I will confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after

our marriage shall take place, for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect

confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or

allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply."



In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter we returned to

Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection, yet tears were in her

eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in

her also. She was thinner and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that

had before charmed me; but her gentleness and soft looks of compassion made

her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was. The

tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with

it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me;

sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I

neither spoke nor looked at anyone, 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

forever 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 meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case the fiend

should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about me

and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice, and by these means gained a

greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat

appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my

peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater

appearance of certainty as the day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer

and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could

possibly prevent.



Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to calm her

mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was

melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she

thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the

following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed and in the bustle of

preparation only recognized in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of

a bride.



After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at my father's, but

it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water,

sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our voyage on the following day.

The day was fair, the wind favourable; all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.



Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of

happiness. We passed rapidly along; the sun was hot, but we were sheltered

from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene,

sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant

banks of Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont

Blanc and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate

her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing

its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and an

almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.



I took the hand of Elizabeth. "You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If you knew

what I have suffered and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to let me

taste the quiet and freedom from despair that this one day at least permits

me to enjoy."



"Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I hope, nothing to

distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not painted in my face,

my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the

prospect that is opened before us, but I will not listen to such a sinister

voice. Observe how fast we move along and how the clouds, which sometimes

obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of

beauty still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are

swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies

at the bottom. What a divine day! How happy and serene all nature appears!"



Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all

reflection upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating; joy for

a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to

distraction and reverie.



The sun sank 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, sank 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 sank 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 forever.



Chapter 23

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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 on earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the

bed, her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features half covered

by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless arms and

relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this

and live? Alas! Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated.

For a moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.



When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their

countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of others appeared

only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from

them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately

living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I

had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a

handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her

asleep. I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but the deadly

languor and coldness of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had

ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark

of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from

her lips. While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to

look up. The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind

of panic on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber.

The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror not to be

described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A

grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish

finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window,

and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his

station, and running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.



The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot

where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats; nets were

cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of

my companions believing it to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After

having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in

different directions among the woods and vines.



I attempted to accompany them and proceeded a short distance from the house,

but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken man, I fell

at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin

was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back and

placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered

round the room as if to seek something that I had lost.



After an interval I arose, and as if by instinct, crawled into the room where

the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around; I hung over it

and joined my sad tears to theirs; all this time no distinct idea presented

itself to my mind, but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting

confusedly on my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of

wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, the murder

of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not that my

only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my father

even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his

feet. This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action. I started up and

resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.



There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the

wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly

morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row

and took an oar myself, for I had always experienced relief from mental

torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the

excess of agitation that I endured rendered me incapable of any exertion. I

threw down the oar, and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every

gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw 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 doted 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 a useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to

reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past

misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the monster

whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the

world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought

of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp

to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head.



Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on

the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my

release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town and told him that I had

an accusation to make, that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I

required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the

murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness.



"Be assured, sir," said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared

to discover the villain."



"I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have

to make. It is indeed a tale so strange that I should fear you would not

credit it were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces

conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have

no motive for falsehood." My manner as I thus addressed him was impressive

but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to

death, and this purpose quieted my agony and for an interval reconciled me to

life. I now related my history briefly but with firmness and precision,

marking the dates with accuracy and never deviating into invective or

exclamation.



The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he

became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with

horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on

his countenance. When I had concluded my narration I said, "This is the being

whom I accuse and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert

your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope

that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those

functions on this occasion." This address caused a considerable change in the

physiognomy of my own auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of

belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when

he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide of his

incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford

you every aid in your pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to

have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an

animal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where no

man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the

commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has

wandered or what region he may now inhabit."



"I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if he has

indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois and

destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts; you do not credit

my narrative and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which

is his desert." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was

intimidated. "You are mistaken," said he. "I will exert myself, and if it is

in my power to seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment

proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself

described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable; and thus,

while every proper measure is pursued, you should make up your mind to

disappointment."



"That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge

is of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it

is the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable when I

reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still

exists. You refuse my just demand; I have but one resource, and I devote

myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction."



I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy in my

manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness which the

martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose

mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this

elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to

soothe me as a nurse does a child and reverted to my tale as the effects of

delirium.



"Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you

know not what it is you say."



I broke from the house angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on some

other mode of action.



Chapter 24

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~



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 forever; my country, which, when I was

happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I

provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had

belonged to my mother, and departed. And now my wanderings began which are to

cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth and have

endured all the hardships which travellers in deserts and barbarous countries

are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched

my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and prayed for death. But revenge kept

me alive; I dared not die and leave my adversary in being.



When I quitted Geneva my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might

trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled, and I

wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I

should pursue. As night approached I found myself at the entrance of the

cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it and

approached the tomb which marked their graves. Everything was silent except

the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night

was nearly dark, and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to

an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around

and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the

mourner.



The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage

and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to

destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass and

kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on

which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal

grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that

preside over thee, to pursue the daemon who caused this misery, until he or I

shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life; to

execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun and tread the green

herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes forever. 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 rang 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, sank under the exhaustion, a repast was

prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me. The fare was,

indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but I will not doubt

that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often,

when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a

slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and

vanish.



I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the daemon generally

avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly

collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen, and I generally

subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me and

gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or I brought with

me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always

presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.



My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep

alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when most miserable, I

sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that

guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness that I

might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I

should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and

inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and

my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father,

heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying

health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself

that I was dreaming until night should come and that I should then enjoy

reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I feel

for them! How did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even

my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments

vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path

towards the destruction of the daemon more as a task enjoined by heaven, as

the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the

ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot

know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees

or cut in stone that guided me and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet

over"--these words were legible in one of these inscriptions--"you live, and

my power is complete. 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 seasons of the south! Covered with ice, it was only

to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The

Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of

Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep,

but I knelt down and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit for

conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my

adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him.



Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus

traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend

possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as before I had daily lost

ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that when I first saw

the ocean he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept

him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed

on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired

of the inhabitants concerning the fiend and gained accurate information. A

gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun

and many pistols, putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage

through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of

winter food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a

numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to

the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the

sea in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must

speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice or frozen by the eternal

frosts.



On hearing this information I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had

escaped me, and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey

across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst cold that few of the

inhabitants could long endure and which I, the native of a genial and sunny

climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should

live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and like a mighty

tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which

the spirits of the dead hovered round and instigated me to toil and revenge,

I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for

the inequalities of the frozen ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of

provisions, I departed from land.



I cannot guess how many days have passed since then, but I have endured

misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning

within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged

mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of

the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came and

made the paths of the sea secure.



By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had

passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of hope,

returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and

grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should

soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals that

conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice

mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse

before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the

dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be and uttered a

wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge and the distorted

proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! With what a burning gush did

hope revisit my heart! Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away,

that they might not intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my

sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that

oppressed me, I wept aloud.



But this was not the time for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their dead

companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food, and after an hour's rest,

which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I

continued my route. The sledge was still visible, nor did I again lose sight

of it except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it

with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it, and when,

after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile

distant, my heart bounded within me.



But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were

suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had

ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the

waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and

terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as

with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split and cracked with a

tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished; in a few

minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left

drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening and thus

preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed;

several of my dogs died, and I myself was about to sink under the

accumulation of distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding

forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever

came so far north and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of

my sledge to construct oars, and by these means was enabled, with infinite

fatigue, to move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined,

if you were going southwards, 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 northwards. You took me

on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my

multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is

unfulfilled.



Oh! When will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon, allow me the

rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me,

Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him and satisfy my

vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my

pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so

selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if the ministers of

vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live--swear that

he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes and survive to add to the list

of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive, and once his words had

even power over my heart; but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his

form, full of treachery and fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the

names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched

Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near and direct

the steel aright.



Walton, in continuation.



August 26th, 17--



You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel

your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles mine?

Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his tale; at

others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so

replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with

indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow and quenched in infinite

wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones and related

the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of

agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly

change to an expression of the wildest rage as he shrieked out imprecations

on his persecutor.



His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth, yet

I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the

apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater

conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however

earnest and connected. Such a monster has, then, really existence! I cannot

doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured

to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his creature's formation, but on

this point he was impenetrable. "Are you mad, my friend?" said he. "Or

whither does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for

yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my miseries

and do not seek to increase your own." Frankenstein discovered that I made

notes concerning his history; he asked to see them and then himself corrected

and augmented them in many places, but principally in giving the life and

spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. "Since you have preserved

my narration," said he, "I would not that a mutilated one should go down to

posterity."



Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that

ever imagination formed. My thoughts and every feeling of my soul have been

drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale and his own elevated

and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him, yet can I counsel one

so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live?

Oh, no! The only joy that he can now know will be when he composes his

shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring

of solitude and delirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse

with his friends and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries

or excitements to his vengeance, 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 recognize me

in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high

destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise." Must

I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have sought

one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I

have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his value

and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.



"I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so

miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh affections,

think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as

Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are

not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our

childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any

later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however

they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of

our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives.

A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been 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 2nd



My beloved Sister,



I write to you, encompassed by peril and ignorant whether I am ever doomed to

see again dear England and the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am

surrounded by mountains of ice which admit of no escape and threaten every

moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows whom I have persuaded to be my

companions look towards me for aid, but I have none to bestow. There is

something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do

not desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men

are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.



And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my

destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you

will have visitings of despair and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! My beloved

sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is, in

prospect, more terrible to me than my own death.



But you have a husband and lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven bless

you and make you so!



My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He endeavours

to fill me with hope and talks as if life were a possession which he valued.

He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other navigators

who have attempted this sea, and in spite of myself, he fills me with

cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence; when he

speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their energies, and while they hear

his voice they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills which will

vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day

of expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny

caused by this despair.



September 5th



A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest that, although it is highly

probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear

recording it.



We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of

being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my

unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of

desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire still

glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly roused to any

exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness.



I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This

morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend--his eyes half

closed and his limbs hanging listlessly--I was roused by half a dozen of the

sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their

leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by

the other sailors to come in deputation to me to make me a requisition which,

in justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice and should probably

never escape, but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should

dissipate and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue

my voyage and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have

surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn

promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course

southwards.



This speech troubled me. I had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived the

idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in

possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered, when

Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared hardly to

have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his

cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said, "What

do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you, then, so easily

turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition?



"And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as

a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror, because at

every new incident your fortitude was to be called forth and your courage

exhibited, because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to

brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable

undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your

species, your names adored as belonging to brave men who encountered death

for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first

imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial

of your courage, you shrink away and are content to be handed down as men who

had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they

were chilly and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires not this

preparation; ye need not have come thus far and dragged your captain to the

shame of a defeat merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more

than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made

of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you

if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma

of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and

conquered and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe." He

spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in

his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you

wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another and were unable

to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire and consider of what had been said,

that I would not lead them farther north if they strenuously desired the

contrary, but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return.

They retired and I turned towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and

almost deprived of life.



How all this will terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than return

shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men,

unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to

endure their present hardships.



September 7th



The die is cast; I have consented to return if we are not destroyed. Thus are

my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and

disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess to bear this

injustice with patience.



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 sprang from

the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly

free. When the sailors saw this and that their return to their native country

was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and

long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and asked the cause of

the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England."



"Do you, then, really return?"



"Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly

to danger, and I must return."



"Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine

is assigned to me by heaven, and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the

spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength."

Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too

great for him; he fell back and fainted.



It was long before he was restored, and I often thought that life was

entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty

and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught and ordered

us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime he told me that my friend had

certainly not many hours to live.



His sentence was pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by

his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but

presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near, said,

"Alas! The strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and

he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that

in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred and ardent

desire of revenge I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring

the death of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in

examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit of

enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature and was bound towards him

to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being.



"This was my duty, but there was another still paramount to that. My duties

towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to my attention

because they included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by

this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for

the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness in evil;

he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who possessed

exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst

for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that he may render no other

wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have

failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to

undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now, when I am only

induced by reason and virtue.



"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends to fulfil this

task; and now that you are returning to England, you will have little chance

of meeting with him. But the consideration of these points, and the well

balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and

ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you

to do what I think right, for I may still be misled by passion.



"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other

respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the only happy

one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the beloved dead

flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness

in tranquillity and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently

innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why

do I say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may

succeed."



His voice became fainter as he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his effort,

he sank into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted again to

speak but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed forever,

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 daemon. "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 forever 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 forever 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 humankind 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 humankind 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 forever.



"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 sprang 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.



::



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.. _Letter 1: #letter1

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