PC World Plus! (NZ) 2001 May/PCW0501.iso/ebooks/Frankenstein - frank13.txt

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Frankenstein/Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley [frank10x.xxx] 84

Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus
by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

[Chapters 1-6:  mostly scanned by David Meltzer,
[e-mail],  proofread, partially typed and submitted by
Christy Phillips,  [e-mail], submitted on 9/24/93.
Proofread by Lynn Hanninen, submitted 10/93.

Frankenstein, continued (Chapters 20-24)
Scanned by Judy Boss ([e-mail])
Proofread by Christy Phillips ([e-mail])
Reproofed by Lynn Hanninen ([e-mail])
Margination and last proofing by anonymous volunteers


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Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus
by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley




Letter 1


TO Mrs. Saville, England

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17-

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

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of
Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks,
which braces my nerves and fills me with delight.  Do you understand
this feeling?  This breeze, which has travelled from the regions
towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent
and vivid.  I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat
of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the
region of beauty and delight.  There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible,
its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour.
There--for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding
navigators--there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea,
we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region
hitherto discovered on the habitable globe.  Its productions and features
may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly
are in those undiscovered solitudes.  What may not be expected in a country
of eternal light?  I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts
the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require
only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever.
I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world
never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the
foot of man.  These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer
all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this 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


To Mrs. Saville, England

Archangel, 28th March, 17-

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

But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy,
and the absence of the object of which I now feel as a most
severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret:  when I am glowing with the
enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy;
if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me
in dejection.  I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true;
but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling.
I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me,
whose eyes would reply to mine.  You may deem me romantic,
my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend.
I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of
a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are
like my own, to approve or amend my plans.  How would such a
friend repair the faults of your poor brother!  I am too ardent
in execution and too impatient of difficulties.  But it is a still
greater evil to me that I am self-educated:  for the first fourteen
years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing but our
Uncle Thomas' books of voyages.  At that age I became acquainted with
the celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it
had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important benefits
from such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming
acquainted with more languages than that of my native country.
Now I am twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than
many schoolboys of fifteen.  It is true that I have thought more
and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent, but they
want (as the painters call it) KEEPING; and I greatly need a friend
who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic,
and affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find
no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel,
among merchants and seamen.  Yet some feelings, unallied to
the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms.
My lieutenant, for instance, is a man of wonderful courage
and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or rather, to word
my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his profession.
He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional
prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest
endowments of humanity.  I first became acquainted with him on board
a whale vessel; finding that he was unemployed in this city,
I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.  The master
is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in
the ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline.
This circumstance, added to his well-known integrity and
dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him.
A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your
gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork
of my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste
to the usual brutality exercised on board ship:  I have never
believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner
equally noted for his kindliness of heart and the respect
and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly
fortunate in being able to secure his services.  I heard of him
first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him
the happiness of her life.  This, briefly, is his story.
Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate fortune,
and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father
of the girl consented to the match.  He saw his mistress
once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears,
and throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her,
confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he
was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union.
My generous friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed
of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit.
He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed
to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival,
together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock,
and then himself solicited the young woman's father to consent
to her marriage with her lover.  But the old man decidedly refused,
thinking himself bound in honour to my friend, who, when he found
the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard
that his former mistress was married according to her inclinations.
"What a noble fellow!" you will exclaim.  He is so; but then he is
wholly uneducated:  he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant
carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the
more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which
otherwise he would command.

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

I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect
of my undertaking.  It is impossible to communicate to you
a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable
and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart.
I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist and snow,"
but I shall kill no albatross; therefore do not be alarmed
for my safety or if I should come back to you as worn and woeful
as the "Ancient Mariner."  You will smile at my allusion,
but I will disclose a secret.  I have often attributed my
attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous
mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative
of modern poets.  There is something at work in my soul
which I do not understand.  I am practically industrious--
painstaking, a workman to execute with perseverance and labour--
but besides this there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in
the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me
out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and unvisited
regions I am about to explore. But to return to dearer considerations.
Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas, and returned
by the most southern cape of Africa or America?  I dare not expect such
success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture.
Continue for the present to write to me by every opportunity:  I may
receive your letters on some occasions when I need them most to support
my spirits.  I love you very tenderly.  Remember me with affection,
should you never hear from me again.

Your affectionate brother,
Robert Walton



Letter 3



To Mrs. Saville, England

July 7th, 17-


My dear Sister,

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

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

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

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

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

R.W.



Letter 4


To Mrs. Saville, England

August 5th, 17-

So strange an accident has happened to us that I cannot forbear
recording it, although it is very probable that you will see me
before these papers can come into your possession.

Last Monday (July 31st) we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed
in the ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which
she floated.  Our situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we
were compassed round by a very thick fog.  We accordingly lay to,
hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.

About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched
out in every direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which
seemed to have no end.  Some of my comrades groaned, and my
own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a
strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and diverted our
solicitude from our own situation.  We perceived a low carriage,
fixed on a sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at
the distance of half a mile; a being which had the shape of a man,
but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge and guided
the dogs.  We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our
telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.
This appearance excited our unqualified wonder.  We were, as we believed,
many hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote
that it was not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed.  Shut in,
however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his track, which we had
observed with the greatest attention.  About two hours after this
occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night the ice broke
and freed our ship.  We, however, lay to until the morning,
fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which
float about after the breaking up of the ice.  I profited of this
time to rest for a few hours.

In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck
and found all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently
talking to someone in the sea.  It was, in fact, a sledge, like that
we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a
large fragment of ice.  Only one dog remained alive; but there was a
human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel.
He was not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant
of some undiscovered island, but a European.  When I appeared on deck
the master said, "Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to
perish on the open sea."

On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with
a foreign accent.  "Before I come on board your vessel," said he,
"will you have the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?"

You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question
addressed to me from a man on the brink of destruction and to whom
I should have supposed that my vessel would have been a resource
which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth the
earth can afford.  I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of
discovery towards the northern pole.

Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied and consented to come on board.
Good God!  Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for
his safety, your surprise would have been boundless.  His limbs were
nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering.
I never saw a man in so wretched a condition.  We attempted to carry him
into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air he fainted.
We accordingly brought him back to the deck and restored him to animation
by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to swallow a small quantity.
As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and
placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove.  By slow degrees
he recovered and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

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

This aroused the stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude of
questions concerning the route which the demon, as he called him,
had pursued.  Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said,
"I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of
these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries."

"Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman 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 How 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 it highest sense, the physical secrets
of the world.

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

I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood,
before misfortune had tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of
extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.
Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record
those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery,
for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which
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 certainty
have thrown Agrippa aside and have contented my imagination,
warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies.
It is even possible that the train of my ideas would never
have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin.
But the cursory glance my father had taken of my volume
by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents,
and I continued to read with the greatest avidity.  When I returned home
my first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and
afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus.  I read and studied
the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me
treasures known to few besides myself.  I have described myself as
always having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the
secrets of nature.  In spite of the intense labour and wonderful
discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies
discontented and unsatisfied.  Sir Isaac Newton is said to have
avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great
and unexplored ocean of truth.  Those of his successors in each
branch of natural philosophy with whom I was acquainted appeared
even to my boy's apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.

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

But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper
and knew more.  I took their word for all that they averred, and I
became their disciple.  It may appear strange that such should
arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine
of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree,
self-taught with regard to my favourite studies.  My father was not
scientific, and I was left to struggle with a child's blindness,
added to a student's thirst for knowledge.  Under the guidance of
my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence into the
search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life; but the
latter soon obtained my undivided attention.  Wealth was an
inferior object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I
could banish disease from the human frame and render man invulnerable
to any but a violent death!  Nor were these my only visions.
The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded
by my favourite authors, the fulfillment of which I most eagerly sought;
and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure
rather to my own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or
fidelity in my instructors.  And thus for a time I was occupied by
exploded systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory
theories and floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious
knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and childish reasoning,
till an accident again changed the current of my ideas.  When I was
about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive,
when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm.
It advanced from behind the mountains of Jura, and the thunder burst
at once with frightful loudness from various quarters of the heavens.
I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its progress with
curiosity and delight.  As I stood at the door, on a sudden I
beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which
stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the
dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing
remained but a blasted stump.  When we visited it the next
morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner.
It was not splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin
ribbons of wood.  I never beheld anything so utterly destroyed.

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

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

It was a strong effort of the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual.
Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter
and terrible destruction.




Chapter 3


When I had attained the age of seventeen my parents resolved
that I should become a student at the university of Ingolstadt.
I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my father thought
it necessary for the completion of my education that I should be
made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country.
My departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the
day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life
occurred--an omen, as it were, of my future misery.  Elizabeth had
caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in
the greatest danger.  During her illness many arguments had been
urged to persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her.
She had at first yielded to our entreaties, but when she heard that
the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no longer control
her anxiety.  She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions
triumphed over the malignity of the distemper--Elizabeth was saved,
but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver.
On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the
most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants
prognosticated the worst event.  On her deathbed the fortitude
and benignity of this best of women did not desert her.  She joined
the hands of Elizabeth and myself.  "My children," she said,
"my firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of
your union.  This expectation will now be the consolation of your father.
Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my younger children.
Alas!  I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and beloved
as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all?  But these are not
thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully
to death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So saying, he stepped aside and wrote down a list of several books
treating of natural philosophy which he desired me to procure,
and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning of the
following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon
natural philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman,
a fellow professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days
that he omitted.

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

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

Partly from curiosity and partly from idleness, I went into
the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after.
This professor was very unlike his colleague.  He appeared about
fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest
benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the
back of his head were nearly black.  His person was short but
remarkably erect and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard.
He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry
and the various improvements made by different men of learning,
pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished discoverers.
He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science
and explained many of its elementary terms.  After having made a few
preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry,
the terms of which I shall never forget:  "The ancient teachers of this
science," said he, "promised impossibilities and performed nothing.
The modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be
transmuted and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers,
whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over
the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles.  They penetrate
into the recesses of nature and show how she works in her hiding-places.
They ascend into the heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates,
and the nature of the air we breathe.  They have acquired new and almost
unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic the
earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows."

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

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

"I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple; and if
your application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success.
Chemistry is that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest
improvements have been and may be made; it is on that account
that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time,
I have not neglected the other branches of science.  A man
would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that
department of human knowledge alone.  If your wish is to become
really a man of science and not merely a petty experimentalist,
I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural philosophy,
including mathematics."  He then took me into his laboratory and
explained to me the uses of his various machines, instructing me as
to what I ought to procure and promising me the use of his own when
I should have advanced far enough in the science not to derange
their mechanism.  He also gave me the list of books which I had
requested, and I took my leave.

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




Chapter 4


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

As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress
was rapid.  My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students,
and my proficiency that of the masters.  Professor Krempe
often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on,
whilst M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation in
my progress.  Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid
no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit
of some discoveries which I hoped to make.  None but those who
have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science.
In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you,
and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder.  A mind of moderate
capacity which closely pursues one study must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit and was solely wrapped up in this,
improved so rapidly that at the end of two years I made some
discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments,
which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university.
When I had arrived at this point and had become as well acquainted
with the theory and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the
lessons of any of the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there
being no longer conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning
to my friends and my native town, when an incident happened that
protracted my stay.

One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention
was the structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal
endued with life.  Whence, I often asked myself, did the
principle of life proceed?  It was a bold question, and one which
has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how many things
are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or
carelessness did not restrain our inquiries.  I revolved these
circumstances in my mind and determined thenceforth to apply myself
more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology.  Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have
been irksome and almost intolerable.  To examine the causes of life,
we must first have recourse to death.  I became acquainted with
the science of anatomy, but this was not sufficient; I must also
observe the natural decay and corruption of the human body.
In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions
that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors.
I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of superstition
or to have feared the apparition of a spirit.  Darkness had no effect
upon my fancy, and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of bodies
deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength,
had become food for the worm.  Now I was led to examine the cause
and progress of this decay and forced to spend days and nights
in vaults and charnel-houses.  My attention was fixed upon every
object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings.
I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld
the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life;
I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain.
I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation,
as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life,
until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me
--a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I
became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated,
I was surprised that among so many men of genius who had directed
their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should be
reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.

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

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

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

When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it.
Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation,
yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its
intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a
work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.  I doubted at first
whether I should attempt the creation of a being like myself,
or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was
too much exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of
my ability to give life to an animal as complete and wonderful as man.
The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate
to so arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should
ultimately succeed.  I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses;
my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be
imperfect, yet when I considered the improvement which every day
takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my
present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future success.
Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan
as any argument of its impracticability.  It was with these
feelings that I began the creation of a human being.  As the
minuteness of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I
resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a
gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height, and
proportionably large.  After having formed this determination and
having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging
my materials, I began.

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

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

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

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

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

But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of
my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed.  My father made no
reproach in his letters and only took notice of my science by
inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did
not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights which before
always yielded me supreme delight--so deeply was I engrossed in my
occupation.  The leaves of that year had withered before my work
drew near to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how
well I had succeeded.  But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety,
and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines,
or any other unwholesome trade than an artist occupied by his
favourite employment.  Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever,
and I became nervous to a most painful degree; the fall of
a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures as if I had
been guilty of a crime.  Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck
I perceived that I had become; the energy of my purpose alone
sustained me:  my labours would soon end, and I believed that
exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and
I promised myself both of these when my creation should be complete.




Chapter 5


It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the
accomplishment of my toils.  With an anxiety that almost
amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me,
that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that
lay at my feet.  It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered
dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when,
by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull
yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive
motion agitated its limbs.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

 [Coleridge's "Ancient Mariner."]


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

Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence
brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those
scenes of home so dear to my recollection.  I grasped his hand,
and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly,
and for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy.
I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we
walked towards my college.  Clerval continued talking for some time
about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted
to come to Ingolstadt.  "You may easily believe," said he,
"how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all
necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of
bookkeeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the
last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the
same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield:
`I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily
without Greek.'  But his affection for me at length overcame his
dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage
of discovery to the land of knowledge."

"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you
left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth."

"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear
from you so seldom.  By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon
their account myself.  But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he,
stopping short and gazing full in my face, "I did not before remark
how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had
been watching for several nights."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I trembled.  One subject!  What could it be?  Could he allude to an
object on whom I dared not even think?  "Compose yourself," said
Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I will not mention it
if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy
if they received a letter from you in your own handwriting.  They
hardly know how ill you have been and are uneasy at your long silence."

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

"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be
glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you;
it is from your cousin, I believe."




Chapter 6


Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.  It was from
my own Elizabeth:

"My dearest Cousin,

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

"Get well--and return to us.  You will find a happy, cheerful home
and friends who love you dearly.  Your father's health is vigorous,
and he asks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well;
and not a care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance.
How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest!
He is now sixteen and full of activity and spirit.  He is desirous
to be a true Swiss and to enter into foreign service, but we cannot
part with him, at least until his elder brother 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 mein 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 five 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 Sanscrit languages engaged his attention,
and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies.  Idleness had
ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection,
and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the
fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction
but consolation in the works of the orientalists.  I did not,
like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects,
for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than
temporary amusement.  I read merely to understand their meaning,
and they well repaid my labours.  Their melancholy is soothing,
and their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying
the authors of any other country.  When you read their writings,
life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses,
--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes
your own heart.  How different from the manly and heroical poetry of
Greece and Rome!

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

The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter
daily which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed
a pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid
a personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited.
I acceded with pleasure to this proposition:  I was fond of exercise,
and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the 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 my, 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 you presence will, I hope, revive our father,
who seems sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will
induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-
accusations.  --Poor William! he was our darling and our pride!"

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

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

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

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

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

"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt.  But she will be tried 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 mountaintop, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,
and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds--
they all gathered round me and bade me be at peace.

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

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


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


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

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

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

"I expected this reception," said the daemon.  "All men hate the
wretched; how, then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all
living things!  Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn me, thy
creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the
annihilation of one of us.  You purpose to kill me.  How dare you
sport thus with life?  Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine
towards you and the rest of mankind.  If you will comply with my
conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse,
I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood
of your remaining friends."

"Abhorred monster!  Fiend that thou art!  The tortures of hell are
too mild a vengeance for thy crimes.  Wretched devil!  You reproach
me with your creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the
spark which I so negligently bestowed."

My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the
feelings which can arm one being against the existence of another.

He easily eluded me and said,

"Be calm!  I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your
hatred on my devoted head.  Have I not suffered enough, that you
seek to increase my misery?  Life, although it may only be an
accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height
is superior to thine, my joints more supple.  But I will not be
tempted to set myself in opposition to thee.  I am thy creature,
and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king if
thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me.  Oh,
Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon
me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection,
is most due.  Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam,
but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed.
Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded.
I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend.  Make me happy,
and I shall again be virtuous."

"Begone!  I will not hear you.  There can be no community between
you and me; we are enemies.  Begone, or let us try our strength in
a fight, in which one must fall."

"How can I move thee?  Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a
favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and
compassion?  Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my soul
glowed with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone?
You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow
creatures, who owe me nothing?  They spurn and hate me.  The desert
mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge.  I have wandered here
many days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a
dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not grudge.
These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your
fellow beings.  If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence,
they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my destruction.
Shall I not then hate them who abhor me?  I will keep no terms with
my enemies.  I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness.
Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them from an
evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that not only
you and your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up
in the whirlwinds of its rage.  Let your compassion be moved,
and do not disdain me.  Listen to my tale; when you have heard that,
abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve.
But hear me.  The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as
they are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned.
Listen to me, Frankenstein.  You accuse me of murder, and yet you would,
with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature.  Oh, praise the
eternal justice of man!  Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me,
and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands."

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

"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated
hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I
take from thee a sight which you abhor.  Still thou canst listen to
me and grant me thy compassion.  By the virtues that I once possessed,
I demand this from you.  Hear my tale; it is long and strange,
and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations;
come to the hut upon the mountain.  The sun is yet high in the heavens;
before it descends to hide itself behind your snowy precipices and
illuminate another world, you will have heard my story and can decide.
On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighbourhood of man and
lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures
and the author of your own speedy ruin."

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




Chapter 11


"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original
era of my being; all the events of that period appear confused and
indistinct.  A strange multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I
saw, felt, heard, and smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed,
a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations
of my various senses.  By degrees, I remember, a stronger light
pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes.
Darkness then came over me and troubled me, but hardly had I felt
this when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured
in upon me again.  I walked and, I believe, descended, but I
presently found a great alteration in my sensations.  Before,
dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch
or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty,
with no obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid.
The light became more and more oppressive to me, and the heat
wearying me as I walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade.
This was the forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side
of a brook resting from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by
hunger and thirst.  This roused me from my nearly dormant state,
and I ate some berries which I found hanging on the trees or
lying on the ground.  I slaked my thirst at the brook, and then
lying down, was overcome by sleep.

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

"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens and gave me a sensation
of pleasure.  I started up and beheld a radiant form rise from among
the trees.  [The moon]  I gazed with a kind of wonder.  It moved slowly,
but it enlightened my path, and I again went out in search of berries.
I was still cold when under one of the trees I found a huge cloak,
with which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground.
No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was confused.  I felt light,
and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears,
and on all sides various scents saluted me; the only object that I could
distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure.

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

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

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

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

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

"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter;
at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless
been built for the convenience of some shepherd.  This was a new sight to me,
and I examined the structure with great curiosity.  Finding the door open,
I entered.  An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing
his breakfast.  He turned on hearing a noise, and perceiving me,
shrieked loudly, and quitting the hut, ran across the fields with
a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable.
His appearance, different from any I had ever before seen,
and his flight somewhat surprised me.  But I was enchanted by the
appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not penetrate;
the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and
divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire.  I greedily devoured
the remnants of the shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread,
cheese, milk, and wine; the latter, however, I did not like.  Then,
overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asleep.

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

"Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter,
however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man.  As soon as morning dawned I crept from my kennel,
that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could remain in the
habitation I had found.  It was situated against the back of the cottage
and surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig sty and a
clear pool of water.  One part was open, and by that I had crept in;
but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived with
stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them
on occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed came through the sty,
and that was sufficient for me.

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

"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until
something should occur which might alter my determination.
It was indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former
residence, the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth.  I ate my
breakfast with pleasure and was about to remove a plank to
procure myself a little water when I heard a step, and looking
through a small chink, I beheld a young creature, with a pail on
her head, passing before my hovel.  The girl was young and of
gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found cottagers and
farmhouse servants to be.  Yet she was meanly dressed, a coarse
blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair
hair was plaited but not adorned:  she looked patient yet sad.
I lost sight of her, and in about a quarter of an hour she returned
bearing the pail, which was now partly filled with milk.  As she
walked along, seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her,
whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence.  Uttering a few
sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head and
bore it to the cottage himself.  She followed, and they disappeared.
Presently I saw the young man again, with some tools in his hand,
cross the field behind the cottage; and the girl was also busied,
sometimes in the house and sometimes in the yard.  "On examining
my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the cottage had
formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been filled
up with wood.  In one of these was a small and almost
imperceptible chink through which the eye could just penetrate.
Through this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and
clean but very bare of furniture.  In one corner, near a small
fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a
disconsolate attitude.  The young girl was occupied in arranging
the cottage; but presently she took something out of a drawer,
which employed her hands, and she sat down beside the old man,
who, taking up an instrument, began to play and to produce sounds
sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale.  It was a
lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch who had never beheld aught
beautiful before.  The silver hair and benevolent countenance of
the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle manners of
the girl enticed my love.  He played a sweet mournful air which
I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable companion,
of which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he then
pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work,
knelt at his feet.  He raised her and smiled with such kindness and
affection that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature;
they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before
experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew
from the window, unable to bear these emotions.

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

"The old man had, in the meantime, been pensive, but on the
appearance of his companions he assumed a more cheerful air,
and they sat down to eat.  The meal was quickly dispatched.
The young woman was again occupied in arranging the cottage,
the old man walked before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes,
leaning on the arm of the youth.  Nothing could exceed in beauty
the contrast between these two excellent creatures.  One was old,
with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with benevolence and love;
the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and his features
were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his eyes and attitude
expressed the utmost sadness and despondency.  The old man returned
to the cottage, and the youth, with tools different from those he
had used in the morning, directed his steps across the fields.

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

"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time,
extinguished their lights and retired, as I conjectured, to rest."




Chapter 12


"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep.  I thought of the
occurrences of the day.  What chiefly struck me was the gentle
manners of these people, and I longed to join them, but dared not.
I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before
from the barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever course of
conduct I might hereafter think it right to pursue, that for
the present I would remain quietly in my hovel, watching and
endeavouring to discover the motives which influenced their actions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I could mention innumerable instances which, although slight,
marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers.  In the midst
of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the
first little white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground.
Early in the morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow
that obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well,
and brought the wood from the outhouse, where, to his perpetual astonishment,
he found his store always replenished by an invisible hand.  In the day,
I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he often
went forth and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with him.
At other times he worked in the garden, but as there was little to do
in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha.

"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first, but by degrees I
discovered that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read as
when he talked.  I conjectured, therefore, that he found on the
paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently
longed to comprehend these also; but how was that possible when I
did not even understand the sounds for which they stood as signs?
I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not
sufficiently to follow up any kind of conversation, although I
applied my whole mind to the endeavour, for I easily perceived that,
although I eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers,
I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become master
of their language, which knowledge might enable me to make them
overlook the deformity of my figure, for with this also the
contrast perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.

"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace,
beauty, and delicate complexions; but how was I terrified when I
viewed myself in a transparent pool!  At first I started back,
unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the
mirror; and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the
monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest sensations of
despondence and mortification.  Alas!  I did not yet entirely know
the fatal effects of this miserable deformity.

"As the sun became warmer and the light of day longer, the
snow vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and the black earth.
From this time Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving
indications of impending famine disappeared.  Their food, as I
afterwards found, was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they
procured a sufficiency of it.  Several new kinds of plants sprang
up in the garden, which they dressed; and these signs of comfort
increased daily as the season advanced.

"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it
did not rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured
forth its waters.  This frequently took place, but a high wind
quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more pleasant
than it had been.

"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform.  During the morning
I attended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were
dispersed in various occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day
was spent in observing my friends.  When they had retired to rest,
if there was any moon or the night was star-light, I went into
the woods and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage.
When I returned, as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path
from the snow and performed those offices that I had seen done by Felix.
I afterwards found that these labours, performed by an invisible hand,
greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard them, on these occasions,
utter the words `good spirit,' `wonderful'; but I did not then understand
the signification of these terms.

"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the
motives and feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive
to know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha so sad.
I thought (foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore
happiness to these deserving people.  When I slept or was absent,
the forms of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the
excellent Felix flitted before me.  I looked upon them as superior
beings who would be the arbiters of my future destiny.  I formed in
my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them,
and their reception of me.  I imagined that they would be disgusted,
until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating words, I should first
win their favour and afterwards their love.

"These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour
to the acquiring the art of language.  My organs were indeed harsh,
but supple; and although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their
tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease.
It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass whose
intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude,
deserved better treatment than blows and execration.

"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered
the aspect of the earth.  Men who before this change seemed to have
been hid in caves dispersed themselves and were employed in various
arts of cultivation.  The birds sang in more cheerful notes, and
the leaves began to bud forth on the trees.  Happy, happy earth!
Fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak,
damp, and unwholesome.  My spirits were elevated by the enchanting
appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the present
was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope and
anticipations of joy."




Chapter 13


"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story.  I shall relate
events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been,
have made me what I am.

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

"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested
from labour--the old man played on his guitar, and the children
listened to him--that I observed the countenance of Felix was
melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once his
father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he
inquired the cause of his son's sorrow.  Felix replied in a
cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music when
someone tapped at the door.

"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide.
The lady was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black veil.
Agatha asked a question, to which the stranger only replied by pronouncing,
in a sweet accent, the name of Felix.  Her voice was musical but unlike
that of either of my friends.  On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily
to the lady, who, when she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a
countenance of angelic beauty and expression.  Her hair of a shining
raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle,
although animated; her features of a regular proportion, and her
complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink.

"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of
sorrow vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree
of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have believed it capable;
his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that
moment I thought him as beautiful as the stranger.  She appeared
affected by different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely
eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously
and called her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian.
She did not appear to understand him, but smiled.  He assisted her
to dismount, and dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage.
Some conversation took place between him and his father, and the
young stranger knelt at the old man's feet and would have kissed
his hand, but he raised her and embraced her affectionately.

"I soon perceived that although the stranger uttered articulate
sounds and appeared to have a language of her own, she was
neither understood by nor herself understood the cottagers.
They made many signs which I did not comprehend, but I saw that
her presence diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their
sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists.  Felix seemed
peculiarly happy and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian.
Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger,
and pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean
that he had been sorrowful until she came.  Some hours passed thus,
while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of
which I did not comprehend.  Presently I found, by the frequent
recurrence of some sound which the stranger repeated after them,
that she was endeavouring to learn their language; and the idea
instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the same
instructions to the same end.  The stranger learned about twenty
words at the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which
I had before understood, but I profited by the others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but allow
me now to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such
various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all
terminated in additional love and reverence for my protectors
(for so I loved, in an innocent, half-painful self-deceit, to call them)."




Chapter 14


"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends.
It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind,
unfolding as it did a number of circumstances, each interesting and
wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his departure,
before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she should be united
to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in expectation of that event;
and in the meantime he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited
towards him the simplest and tenderest affection.  They conversed with
one another through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes with the
interpretation of looks; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of
her native country.

"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes
of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other plans.
He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian,
but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear lukewarm,
for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer if he
should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they inhabited.
He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled to prolong
the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and secretly to take
his daughter with him when he departed.  His plans were facilitated
by the news which arrived from Paris.

"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of
their victim and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer.
The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and 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 staglike swiftness.  Oh!  What a
miserable night I passed!  The cold stars shone in mockery, and the
bare trees waved their branches above me; now and then the sweet
voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness.
All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment; I, like the arch-fiend,
bore a hell within me, and finding myself unsympathized with, wished to
tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then
to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of
utter and stupid despair.  My protectors had departed and had broken
the only link that held me to the world.  For the first time the
feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I did not strive
to control them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the stream,
I bent my mind towards injury and death.  When I thought of my friends,
of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the
exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and a
gush of tears somewhat soothed me.  But again when I reflected
that they had spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger, and
unable to injure anything human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects.
As night advanced I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage,
and after having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden, I waited
with forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my operations.

"As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods and
quickly dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens;
the blast tore along like a mighty avalanche and produced a kind of
insanity in my spirits that burst all bounds of reason and reflection.
I lighted the dry branch of a tree and danced with fury around the
devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge
of which the moon nearly touched.  A part of its orb was at length hid,
and I waved my brand; it sank, and with a loud scream I fired the straw,
and heath, and bushes, which I had collected.  The wind fanned the fire,
and the cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it
and licked it with their forked and destroying tongues.

"As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of
the habitation, I quitted the scene and sought for refuge in the woods.

"And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps?
I resolved to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me,
hated and despised, every country must be equally horrible.
At length the thought of you crossed my mind.  I learned from your
papers that you were my father, my creator; and to whom could I
apply with more fitness than to him who had given me life?
Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed upon Safie, geography
had not been omitted; I had learned from these the relative situations
of the different countries of the earth.  You had mentioned Geneva
as the name of your native town, and towards this place I resolved
to proceed.

"But how was I to direct myself?  I knew that I must travel in a
southwesterly direction to reach my destination, but the sun was my
only guide.  I did not know the names of the towns that I was to
pass through, nor could I ask information from a single human being;
but I did not despair.  From you only could I hope for succour,
although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred.
Unfeeling, heartless creator!  You had endowed me with perceptions
and passions and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and
horror of mankind.  But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress,
and from you I determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted
to gain from any other being that wore the human form.

"My travels were long and the sufferings I endured intense.  It was
late in autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided.
I travelled only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a
human being.  Nature decayed around me, and the sun became heatless;
rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface
of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter.
Oh, earth!  How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being!
The mildness of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall
and bitterness.  The nearer I approached to your habitation,
the more deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my heart.
Snow fell, and the waters were hardened, but I rested not.  A few
incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country;
but I often wandered wide from my path.  The agony of my feelings
allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage
and misery could not extract its food; but a circumstance that
happened when I arrived on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun
had recovered its warmth and the earth again began to look green,
confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of my feelings.

"I generally rested during the day and travelled only when I was
secured by night from the view of man.  One morning, however,
finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to
continue my journey after the sun had risen; the day, which was one
of the first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its
sunshine and the balminess of the air.  I felt emotions of gentleness
and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me.
Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed
myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude
and deformity, dared to be happy.  Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks,
and I even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun,
which bestowed such joy upon me.

"I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to
its boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into
which many of the trees bent their branches, now budding with the
fresh spring.  Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to
pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to
conceal myself under the shade of a cypress.  I was scarcely hid
when a young girl came running towards the spot where I was
concealed, laughing, as if she ran from someone in sport.
She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river,
when suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream.
I rushed from my hiding-place and with extreme labour, from the force
of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore.  She was senseless,
and I endeavoured by every means in my power to restore animation,
when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic, who was
probably the person from whom she had playfully fled.  On seeing me,
he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms, hastened towards
the deeper parts of the wood.  I followed speedily, I hardly knew why;
but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried,
at my body and fired.  I sank to the ground, and my injurer, with
increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.

"This was then the reward of my benevolence!  I had saved a human
being from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed under the
miserable pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone.  The
feelings of kindness and gentleness which I had entertained but a
few moments before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of teeth.
Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.
But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He struggled violently.  `Let me go,' he cried; `monster!
Ugly wretch!  You wish to eat me and tear me to pieces.
You are an ogre.  Let me go, or I will tell my papa.'

"`Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.'

"`Hideous monster!  Let me go.  My papa is a syndic--he is
M. Frankenstein--he will punish you.  You dare not keep me.'

"`Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy--to him towards whom
I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place,
sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world
and its miseries forever.  At length I wandered towards these mountains,
and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning
passion which you alone can gratify.  We may not part until you have
promised to comply with my requisition.  I am alone and miserable;
man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible
as myself would not deny herself to me.  My companion must be of the
same species and have the same defects.  This being you must create."




Chapter 17


The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the
expectation of a reply.  But I was bewildered, perplexed, and
unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full
extent of his proposition.  He continued,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took
no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva.  Even in my own heart
I could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me
with a mountain's weight and their excess destroyed my agony
beneath them.  Thus I returned home, and entering the house,
presented myself to the family.  My haggard and wild appearance
awoke intense alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak.
I felt as if I were placed under a ban--as if I had no right to claim
their sympathies--as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them.
Yet even thus I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved
to dedicate myself to my most abhorred task.  The prospect of such
an occupation made every other circumstance of existence pass before me
like a dream, and that thought only had to me the reality of life.




Chapter 18


Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva;
and I could not collect the courage to recommence my work.  I feared
the vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome
my repugnance to the task which was enjoined me.  I found that
I could not compose a female without again devoting several months
to profound study and laborious disquisition.  I had heard
of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher,
the knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes
thought of obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this
purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay and shrank from
taking the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity
began to appear less absolute to me.  A change indeed had taken
place in me; my health, which had hitherto declined, was now much
restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my
unhappy promise, rose proportionably.  My father saw this change
with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the best method
of eradicating the remains of my melancholy, which every now and
then would return by fits, and with a devouring blackness overcast
the approaching sunshine.  At these moments I took refuge in the
most perfect solitude.  I passed whole days on the lake alone in a
little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the rippling of
the waves, silent and listless.  But the fresh air and bright sun
seldom failed to restore me to some degree of composure, and on my
return I met the salutations of my friends with a readier smile and
a more cheerful heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We travelled at the time of the vintage and heard the song of the
labourers as we glided down the stream.  Even I, depressed in mind,
and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was
pleased.  I lay at the bottom of the boat, and as I gazed on the
cloudless blue sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I
had long been a stranger.  And if these were my sensations, who can
describe those of Henry?  He felt as if he had been transported
to fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man.
"I have seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country;
I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy
mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting
black and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and
mournful appearance were it not for the most verdant islands that
believe the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake
agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water
and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great
ocean; and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where
the priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and
where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses
of the nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La Valais, and
the Pays de Vaud; but this country, Victor, pleases me more than
all those wonders.  The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic
and strange, but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river
that I never before saw equalled.  Look at that castle which
overhangs yon precipice; and that also on the island, almost
concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and now that
group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that
village half hid in the recess of the mountain.  Oh, surely the
spirit that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in
harmony with man than those who pile the glacier or retire to the
inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own country."
Clerval!  Beloved friend!  Even now it delights me to record your
words and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently
deserving.  He was a being formed in the "very poetry of nature."
His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the
sensibility of his heart.  His soul overflowed with ardent
affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous
nature that the world-minded teach us to look for only in the
imagination.  But even human sympathies were not sufficient to
satisfy his eager mind.  The scenery of external nature, which
others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:  --


     -----The sounding cataract
     Haunted him like a passion:  the tall rock,
     The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
     Their colours and their forms, were then to him
     An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
     That had no need of a remoter charm,
     By thought supplied, or any interest
     Unborrow'd from the eye.

                    [Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey".]


And where does he now exist?  Is this gentle and lovely being lost
forever?  Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations
fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence
depended on the life of its creator; --has this mind perished?
Does it now only exist in my memory?  No, it is not thus; your form
so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your
spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend.

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

Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we
resolved to post the remainder of our way, for the wind was
contrary and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us.
Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery,
but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea
to England.  It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December,
that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain.  The banks of the Thames
presented a new scene; they were flat but fertile, and almost every town
was marked by the remembrance of some story.  We saw Tilbury Fort
and remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich--
places which I had heard of even in my country.

At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's
towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history.




Chapter 19


London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain
several months in this wonderful and celebrated city.  Clerval
desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who
flourished at this time, but this was with me a secondary object;
I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the
information necessary for the completion of my promise and quickly
availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me,
addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers.

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

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

After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a
person in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva.
He mentioned the beauties of his native country and asked us if those
were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey
as far north as Perth, where he resided.  Clerval eagerly desired
to accept this invitation, and I, although I abhorred society,
wished to view again mountains and streams and all the wondrous
works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.
We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was
now February.  We accordingly determined to commence our journey
towards the north at the expiration of another month.  In this
expedition we did not intend to follow the great road to
Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the
Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this
tour about the end of July.  I packed up my chemical instruments
and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my labours
in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.

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

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

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

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

We left Oxford with regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our
next place of rest.  The country in the neighbourhood of this
village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland;
but everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the
crown of distant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains
of my native country.  We visited the wondrous cave and the little
cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed
in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix.
The latter name made me tremble when pronounced by Henry,
and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrible
scene was thus associated.

From Derby, still journeying northwards, we passed two months in
Cumberland and Westmorland.  I could now almost fancy myself among
the Swiss mountains.  The little patches of snow which yet lingered
on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing
of the rocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me.
Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat
me into happiness.  The delight of Clerval was proportionably greater
than mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of talent, and
he found in his own nature greater capacities and resources than he
could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated
with his inferiors.  "I could pass my life here," said he to me;
"and among these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland
and the Rhine."

But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain
amidst its enjoyments.  His feelings are forever on the stretch;
and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to
quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again
engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.

We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland
and Westmorland and conceived an affection for some
of the inhabitants when the period of our appointment with
our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on.
For my own part I was not sorry.  I had now neglected my promise
for some time, and I feared the effects of the daemon's disappointment.
He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance on my relatives.
This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment from which
I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace.  I waited for
my letters with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was
miserable and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they arrived
and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly
dared to read and ascertain my fate.  Sometimes I thought that the
fiend followed me and might expedite my remissness by murdering my
companion.  When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry
for a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the
fancied rage of his destroyer.  I felt as if I had committed some
great crime, the consciousness of which haunted me.  I was guiltless,
but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon my head,
as mortal as that of crime.

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

We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's,
and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us.
But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers or enter into
their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest;
and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland
alone.  "Do you," said I, "enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous.
I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions,
I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time;
and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart,
more congenial to your own temper.

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

Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote
spot of Scotland and finish my work in solitude.  I did not doubt
but that the monster followed me and would discover himself to me
when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion.
With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed
on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours.
It was a place fitted for such a work, being hardly more than a
rock whose high sides were continually beaten upon by the waves.
The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few
miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of
five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their
miserable fare.  Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in
such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from
the mainland, which was about five miles distant.

On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one
of these was vacant when I arrived.  This I hired.  It contained
but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most
miserable penury.  The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered,
and the door was off its hinges.  I ordered it to be repaired,
bought some furniture, and took possession, an incident which
would doubtless have 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 fulfillment 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 fulfillment 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 everwatchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth.  She looked
forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a
little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now
appeared certain and tangible happiness might soon dissipate into
an airy dream and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.
Preparations were made for the event, congratulatory visits were
received, and all wore a smiling appearance.  I shut up, as well as
I could, in my own heart the anxiety that preyed there and entered
with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father, although they
might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy.  Through my father's
exertions a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored
to her by the Austrian government.  A small possession on the shores
of Como belonged to her.  It was agreed that, immediately after our union,
we should proceed to Villa Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness
beside the beautiful lake near which it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution to defend my person in case
the fiend should openly attack me.  I carried pistols and a dagger
constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice,
and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity.
Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as
a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while
the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance
of certainty as the day fixed for its 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 fiendlike malice.  Hear him not; call on the names of William, Justine,
Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust
your sword into his heart.  I will hover near and direct the steel aright.


               Walton, in continuation.

                                                August 26th, 17-


You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you
not feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now
curdles mine?  Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not
continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing,
uttered with difficulty the words so replete with anguish.
His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation,
now subdued to downcast sorrow and quenched in infinite wretchedness.
Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones and related
the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every
mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would
suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage as he shrieked out
imprecations on his persecutor.
His tale is connected and told with an appearance of the simplest truth,
yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me,
and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater
conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations,
however earnest and connected.  Such a monster has, then, really existence!
I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in surprise and admiration.  Sometimes I
endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his creature's
formation, but on this point he was impenetrable. "Are you mad, my friend?"
said he.  "Or whither does your senseless curiosity lead you?  Would you
also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy?  Peace, peace!
Learn my miseries and do not seek to increase your own."  Frankenstein
discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked to see them
and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places,
but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations
he held with his enemy.  "Since you have preserved my narration,"
said he, "I would not that a mutilated one should go down to posterity."

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest
tale that ever imagination formed.  My thoughts and every feeling
of my soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which this tale
and his own elevated and gentle manners have created.  I wish to soothe him,
yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope
of consolation, to live?  Oh, no!  The only joy that he can now know will
be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death.  Yet he enjoys
one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium; he believes that when
in dreams he holds converse with his friends and derives from that communion
consolation for his miseries or excitements to his vengeance, 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."


My beloved Sister,                                  September 2nd


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.

End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of Frankenstein