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Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus

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Title: Frankenstein; Or, The Modern
Prometheus

Author: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Release date: October 1, 1993 [eBook
#84] Most recently updated: November 5,
2024

Language: English

Credits: Judith Boss, Christy Phillips,
Lynn Hanninen and David Meltzer. HTML
version by Al Haines. Further
corrections by Menno de Leeuw.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG
EBOOK FRANKENSTEIN; OR, THE MODERN
PROMETHEUS ***

Frankenstein;

or, the Modern Prometheus

by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley

CONTENTS

Letter 1

Letter 2

Letter 3

Letter 4

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Letter 1

_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 for ever visible, its broad disk
just skirting the horizon and diffusing
a perpetual splendour. There—for with
your leave, my sister, I will put some
trust in preceding navigators—there
snow and frost are banished; and,
sailing over a calm sea, we may be
wafted to a land surpassing in wonders
and in beauty every region hitherto
discovered on the habitable globe. Its
productions and features may be without
example, as the phenomena of the
heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in
those undiscovered solitudes. What may
not be expected in a country of eternal
light? I may there discover the
wondrous power which attracts the
needle and may regulate a thousand
celestial observations that require
only this voyage to render their
seeming eccentricities consistent for
ever. I shall satiate my ardent
curiosity with the sight of a part of
the world never before visited, and may
tread a land never before imprinted by
the foot of man. These are my
enticements, and they are sufficient to
conquer all fear of danger or death and
to induce me to commence this laborious
voyage with the joy a child feels when
he embarks in a little boat, with his
holiday mates, on an expedition of
discovery up his native river. But
supposing all these conjectures to be
false, you cannot contest the
inestimable benefit which I shall
confer on all mankind, to the last
generation, by discovering a passage
near the pole to those countries, to
reach which at present so many months
are requisite; or by ascertaining the
secret of the magnet, which, if at all
possible, can only be effected by an
undertaking such as mine.

These reflections have dispelled the
agitation with which I began my letter,
and I feel my heart glow with an
enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven,
for nothing contributes so much to
tranquillise the mind as a steady
purpose—a point on which the soul may
fix its intellectual eye. This
expedition has been the favourite dream
of my early years. I have read with
ardour the accounts of the various
voyages which have been made in the
prospect of arriving at the North
Pacific Ocean through the seas which
surround the pole. You may remember
that a history of all the voyages made
for purposes of discovery composed the
whole of our good Uncle Thomas’
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 sympathise with me, whose
eyes would reply to mine. You may deem
me romantic, my dear sister, but I
bitterly feel the want of a friend. I
have no one near me, gentle yet
courageous, possessed of a cultivated
as well as of a capacious mind, whose
tastes are like my own, to approve or
amend my plans. How would such a friend
repair the faults of your poor brother!
I am too ardent in execution and too
impatient of difficulties. But it is a
still greater evil to me that I am
self-educated: for the first fourteen
years of my life I ran wild on a common
and read nothing but our Uncle
Thomas’ 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 I 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
any the most trifling service, his
whole countenance is lighted up, as it
were, with a beam of benevolence and
sweetness that I never saw equalled.
But he is generally melancholy and
despairing, and sometimes he gnashes
his teeth, as if impatient of the
weight of woes that oppresses him.

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

“Certainly; it would indeed be very
impertinent and inhuman in me to
trouble you with any inquisitiveness of
mine.”

“And yet you rescued me from a
strange and perilous situation; you
have benevolently restored me to
life.”

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

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

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

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

I shall continue my journal concerning
the stranger at intervals, should I
have any fresh incidents to record.

August 13th, 17—.

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

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

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

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

“I agree with you,” replied the
stranger; “we are unfashioned
creatures, but half made up, if one
wiser, better, dearer than
ourselves—such a friend ought to
be—do not lend his aid to
perfectionate our weak and faulty
natures. I once had a friend, the most
noble of human creatures, and am
entitled, therefore, to judge
respecting friendship. You have hope,
and the world before you, and have no
cause for despair. But I—I have lost
everything and cannot begin life
anew.”

As he said this his countenance became
expressive of a calm, settled grief
that touched me to the heart. But he
was silent and presently retired to his
cabin.

Even broken in spirit as he is, no one
can feel more deeply than he does the
beauties of nature. The starry sky, the
sea, and every sight afforded by these
wonderful regions seem still to have
the power of elevating his soul from
earth. Such a man has a double
existence: he may suffer misery and be
overwhelmed by disappointments, yet
when he has retired into himself, he
will be like a celestial spirit that
has a halo around him, within whose
circle no grief or folly ventures.

Will you smile at the enthusiasm I
express concerning this divine
wanderer? You would not if you saw him.
You have been tutored and refined by
books and retirement from the world,
and you are therefore somewhat
fastidious; but this only renders you
the more fit to appreciate the
extraordinary merits of this wonderful
man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to
discover what quality it is which he
possesses that elevates him so
immeasurably above any other person I
ever knew. I believe it to be an
intuitive discernment, a quick but
never-failing power of judgment, a
penetration into the causes of things,
unequalled for clearness and precision;
add to this a facility of expression
and a voice whose varied intonations
are soul-subduing music.

August 19th, 17—.

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

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

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

He then told me that he would commence
his narrative the next day when I
should be at leisure. This promise drew
from me the warmest thanks. I have
resolved every night, when I am not
imperatively occupied by my duties, to
record, as nearly as possible in his
own words, what he has related during
the day. If I should be engaged, I will
at least make notes. This manuscript
will doubtless afford you the greatest
pleasure; but to me, who know him, and
who hear it from his own lips—with
what interest and sympathy shall I read
it in some future day! Even now, as I
commence my task, his full-toned voice
swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes
dwell on me with all their melancholy
sweetness; I see his thin hand raised
in animation, while the lineaments of
his face are irradiated by the soul
within. Strange and harrowing must be
his story, frightful the storm which
embraced the gallant vessel on its
course and wrecked it—thus!

Chapter 1

I am by birth a Genevese, and my family
is one of the most distinguished of
that republic. My ancestors had been
for many years counsellors and syndics,
and my father had filled several public
situations with honour and reputation.
He was respected by all who knew him
for his integrity and indefatigable
attention to public business. He passed
his younger days perpetually occupied
by the affairs of his country; a
variety of circumstances had prevented
his marrying early, nor was it until
the decline of life that he became a
husband and the father of a family.

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

Beaufort had taken effectual measures
to conceal himself, and it was ten
months before my father discovered his
abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he
hastened to the house, which was
situated in a mean street near the
Reuss. But when he entered, misery and
despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort
had saved but a very small sum of money
from the wreck of his fortunes, but it
was sufficient to provide him with
sustenance for some months, and in the
meantime he hoped to procure some
respectable employment in a
merchant’s house. The interval was,
consequently, spent in inaction; his
grief only became more deep and
rankling when he had leisure for
reflection, and at length it took so
fast hold of his mind that at the end
of three months he lay on a bed of
sickness, incapable of any exertion.

His daughter attended him with the
greatest tenderness, but she saw with
despair that their little fund was
rapidly decreasing and that there was
no other prospect of support. But
Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of
an uncommon mould, and her courage rose
to support her in her adversity. She
procured plain work; she plaited straw
and by various means contrived to earn
a pittance scarcely sufficient to
support life.

Several months passed in this manner.
Her father grew worse; her time was
more entirely occupied in attending
him; her means of subsistence
decreased; and in the tenth month her
father died in her arms, leaving her an
orphan and a beggar. This last blow
overcame her, and she knelt by
Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly,
when my father entered the chamber. He
came like a protecting spirit to the
poor girl, who committed herself to his
care; and after the interment of his
friend he conducted her to Geneva and
placed her under the protection of a
relation. Two years after this event
Caroline became his wife.

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone loved Elizabeth. The
passionate and almost reverential
attachment with which all regarded her
became, while I shared it, my pride and
my delight. On the evening previous to
her being brought to my home, my mother
had said playfully, “I have a pretty
present for my Victor—tomorrow he
shall have it.” And when, on the
morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me
as her promised gift, I, with childish
seriousness, interpreted her words
literally and looked upon Elizabeth as
mine—mine to protect, love, and
cherish. All praises bestowed on her I
received as made to a possession of my
own. We called each other familiarly by
the name of cousin. No word, no
expression could body forth the kind of
relation in which she stood to me—my
more than sister, since till death she
was to be mine only.

Chapter 2

We were brought up together; there was
not quite a year difference in our
ages. I need not say that we were
strangers to any species of disunion or
dispute. Harmony was the soul of our
companionship, and the diversity and
contrast that subsisted in our
characters drew us nearer together.
Elizabeth was of a calmer and more
concentrated disposition; but, with all
my ardour, I was capable of a more
intense application and was more deeply
smitten with the thirst for knowledge.
She busied herself with following the
aerial creations of the poets; and in
the majestic and wondrous scenes which
surrounded our Swiss home —the
sublime shapes of the mountains, the
changes of the seasons, tempest and
calm, the silence of winter, and the
life and turbulence of our Alpine
summers—she found ample scope for
admiration and delight. While my
companion contemplated with a serious
and satisfied spirit the magnificent
appearances of things, I delighted in
investigating their causes. The world
was to me a secret which I desired to
divine. Curiosity, earnest research to
learn the hidden laws of nature,
gladness akin to rapture, as they were
unfolded to me, are among the earliest
sensations I can remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I returned home my first care was
to procure the whole works of this
author, and afterwards of Paracelsus
and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied
the wild fancies of these writers with
delight; they appeared to me treasures
known to few 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, anatomise, and give
names; but, not to speak of a final
cause, causes in their secondary and
tertiary grades were utterly unknown to
him. I had gazed upon the
fortifications and impediments that
seemed to keep human beings from
entering the citadel of nature, and
rashly and ignorantly I had repined.

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

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

When I was about fifteen years old we
had retired to our house near Belrive,
when we witnessed a most violent and
terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from
behind the mountains of Jura, and the
thunder burst at once with frightful
loudness from various quarters of the
heavens. I remained, while the storm
lasted, watching its progress with
curiosity and delight. As I stood at
the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream
of fire issue from an old and beautiful
oak which stood about twenty yards from
our house; and so soon as the dazzling
light vanished, the oak had
disappeared, and nothing remained but a
blasted stump. When we visited it the
next morning, we found the tree
shattered in a singular manner. It was
not splintered by the shock, but
entirely reduced to thin 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 for ever—that the
brightness of a beloved eye can have
been extinguished and the sound of a
voice so familiar and dear to the ear
can be hushed, never more to be heard.
These are the reflections of the first
days; but when the lapse of time proves
the reality of the evil, then the
actual bitterness of grief commences.
Yet from whom has not that rude hand
rent away some dear connection? And why
should I describe a sorrow which all
have felt, and must feel? The time at
length arrives when grief is rather an
indulgence than a necessity; and the
smile that plays upon the lips,
although it may be deemed a sacrilege,
is not banished. My mother was dead,
but we had still duties which we ought
to perform; we must continue our course
with the rest and learn to think
ourselves fortunate whilst one remains
whom the spoiler has not seized.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

I continued walking in this manner for
some time, endeavouring by bodily
exercise to ease the load that weighed
upon my mind. I traversed the streets
without any clear conception of where I
was or what I was doing. My heart
palpitated in the sickness of fear, and
I hurried on with irregular steps, not
daring to look about me: Like one who,
on a lonely road, Doth walk in fear and
dread, And, having once turned round,
walks on, And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth
close behind him tread. [Coleridge’s
“Ancient Mariner.”]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 6

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

“My dearest Cousin,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elizabeth Lavenza.

“Geneva, March 18th, 17—.”

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

One of my first duties on my recovery
was to introduce Clerval to the several
professors of the university. In doing
this, I underwent a kind of rough
usage, ill befitting the wounds that my
mind had sustained. Ever since the
fatal night, the end of my labours, and
the beginning of my misfortunes, I had
conceived a violent antipathy even to
the name of natural philosophy. When I
was otherwise quite restored to health,
the sight of a chemical instrument
would renew all the agony of my nervous
symptoms. Henry saw this, and had
removed all my apparatus from my view.
He had also changed my apartment; for
he perceived that I had acquired a
dislike for the room which had
previously been my laboratory. But
these cares of Clerval were made of no
avail when I visited the professors. M.
Waldman inflicted torture when he
praised, with kindness and warmth, the
astonishing progress I had made in the
sciences. He soon perceived that I
disliked the subject; but not guessing
the real cause, he attributed my
feelings to modesty, and changed the
subject from my improvement, to the
science itself, with a desire, as I
evidently saw, of drawing me out. What
could I do? He meant to please, and he
tormented me. I felt as if he had
placed carefully, one by one, in my
view those instruments which were to be
afterwards used in putting me to a slow
and cruel death. I writhed under his
words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I
felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings
were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the
subject, alleging, in excuse, his total
ignorance; and the conversation took a
more general turn. I thanked my friend
from my heart, but I did not speak. I
saw plainly that he was surprised, but
he never attempted to draw my secret
from me; and although I loved him with
a mixture of affection and reverence
that knew no bounds, yet I could never
persuade myself to confide 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 sympathised in my
tastes for natural science; and his
literary pursuits differed wholly from
those which had occupied me. He came to
the university with the design of
making himself complete master of the
oriental languages, and thus he should
open a field for the plan of life he
had marked out for himself. Resolved to
pursue no inglorious career, he turned
his eyes toward the East, as affording
scope for his spirit of enterprise. The
Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit languages
engaged his attention, and I was easily
induced to enter on the same studies.
Idleness had ever been irksome to me,
and now that I wished to fly from
reflection, and hated my former
studies, I felt great relief in being
the fellow-pupil with my friend, and
found not only instruction but
consolation in the works of the
orientalists. I did not, like him,
attempt a critical knowledge of their
dialects, for I did not contemplate
making any other use of them than
temporary amusement. I read merely to
understand their meaning, and they well
repaid my labours. Their melancholy is
soothing, and their joy elevating, to a
degree I never experienced in studying
the authors of any other country. When
you read their writings, life appears
to consist in a warm sun and a garden
of roses,—in the smiles and frowns of
a fair enemy, and the fire that
consumes your own heart. How different
from the manly and heroical poetry of
Greece and Rome!

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 7

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

“My dear Victor,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your affectionate and afflicted
father,

“Alphonse Frankenstein.

“Geneva, May 12th, 17—.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My journey was very melancholy. At
first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathise with
my loved and sorrowing friends; but
when I drew near my native town, I
slackened my progress. I could hardly
sustain the multitude of feelings that
crowded into my mind. I passed through
scenes familiar to my youth, but which
I had not seen for nearly six years.
How altered every thing might be during
that time! One sudden and desolating
change had taken place; but a thousand
little circumstances might have by
degrees worked other alterations,
which, although they were done more
tranquilly, might not be the less
decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared no
advance, dreading a thousand nameless
evils that made me tremble, although I
was unable to define them.

I remained two days at Lausanne, in
this painful state of mind. I
contemplated the lake: the waters were
placid; all around was calm; and the
snowy mountains, “the palaces of
nature,” were not changed. By degrees
the calm and heavenly scene restored
me, and I continued my journey towards
Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake,
which became narrower as I approached
my native town. I discovered more
distinctly the black sides of Jura, and
the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept
like a child. “Dear mountains! my own
beautiful lake! how do you welcome your
wanderer? Your summits are clear; the
sky and lake are blue and placid. Is
this to prognosticate peace, or to mock
at my unhappiness?”

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

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

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

I quitted my seat, and walked on,
although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder
burst with a terrific crash over my
head. It was echoed from Salêve, the
Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid
flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes,
illuminating the lake, making it appear
like a vast sheet of fire; then for an
instant every thing seemed of a pitchy
darkness, until the eye recovered
itself from the preceding flash. The
storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in
various parts of the heavens. The most
violent storm hung exactly north of the
town, over the part of the lake which
lies between the promontory of Belrive
and the village of Copêt. Another
storm enlightened Jura with faint
flashes; and another darkened and
sometimes disclosed the Môle, a peaked
mountain to the east of the lake.

While I watched the tempest, so
beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on
with a hasty step. This noble war in
the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped
my hands, and exclaimed aloud,
“William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said
these words, I perceived in the gloom a
figure which stole from behind a clump
of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing
intently: I could not be mistaken. A
flash of lightning illuminated the
object, and discovered its shape
plainly to me; its gigantic stature,
and the deformity of its aspect more
hideous than belongs to humanity,
instantly informed me that it was the
wretch, the filthy dæmon, to whom I
had given life. What did he there?
Could he be (I shuddered at the
conception) the murderer of my brother?
No sooner did that idea cross my
imagination, than I became convinced of
its truth; my teeth chattered, and I
was forced to lean against a tree for
support. The figure passed me quickly,
and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in
human shape could have destroyed 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 Salêve, a
hill that bounds Plainpalais on the
south. He soon reached the summit, and
disappeared.

I remained motionless. The thunder
ceased; but the rain still continued,
and the scene was enveloped in an
impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my
mind the events which I had until now
sought to forget: the whole train of my
progress 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 Salêve?
These reflections determined me, and I
resolved to remain silent.

It was about five in the morning when I
entered my father’s house. I told the
servants not to disturb the family, and
went into the library to attend their
usual hour of rising.

Six years had elapsed, passed in a
dream but for one indelible trace, and
I stood in the same place where I had
last embraced my father before my
departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and
venerable parent! He still remained to
me. I gazed on the picture of my
mother, which stood over the
mantel-piece. It was an historical
subject, painted at my father’s
desire, and represented Caroline
Beaufort in an agony of despair,
kneeling by the coffin of her dead
father. Her garb was rustic, and her
cheek pale; but there was an air of
dignity and beauty, that hardly
permitted the sentiment of pity. Below
this picture was a miniature of
William; and my tears flowed when I
looked upon it. While I was thus
engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard
me arrive, and hastened to welcome me:
“Welcome, my dearest Victor,” said
he. “Ah! I wish you had come three
months ago, and then you would have
found us all joyous and delighted. You
come to us now to share a misery which
nothing can alleviate; yet your
presence will, I hope, revive our
father, who seems sinking under his
misfortune; and your persuasions will
induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain
and tormenting self-accusations.—Poor
William! he was our darling and our
pride!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dearest niece,” said my father,
“dry your tears. If she is, as you
believe, innocent, rely on the justice
of our laws, and the activity with
which I shall prevent the slightest
shadow of partiality.”

Chapter 8

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

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

The trial began, and after the advocate
against her had stated the charge,
several witnesses were called. Several
strange facts combined against her,
which might have staggered anyone who
had not such proof of her innocence as
I had. She had been out the whole of
the night on which the murder had been
committed and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far
from the spot where the body of the
murdered child had been afterwards
found. The woman asked her what she did
there, but she looked very strangely
and only returned a confused and
unintelligible answer. She returned to
the house about eight o’clock, and
when one inquired where she had passed
the night, she replied that she had
been looking for the child and demanded
earnestly if anything had been heard
concerning him. When shown the body,
she fell into violent hysterics and
kept her bed for several days. The
picture was then produced which the
servant had found in her pocket; and
when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice,
proved that it was the same which, an
hour before the child had been missed,
she had placed round his neck, a murmur
of horror and indignation filled the
court.

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

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

She then related that, by the
permission of Elizabeth, she had passed
the evening of the night on which the
murder had been committed at the house
of an aunt at Chêne, a village
situated at about a league from Geneva.
On her return, at about nine o’clock,
she met a man who asked her if she had
seen 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 dæmon who had (I did not for
a minute doubt) murdered my brother
also in his hellish sport have betrayed
the innocent to death and ignominy? I
could not sustain the horror of my
situation, and when I perceived that
the popular voice and the countenances
of the judges had already condemned my
unhappy victim, I rushed out of the
court in agony. The tortures of the
accused did not equal mine; she was
sustained by innocence, but the fangs
of remorse tore my bosom and would not
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 for
ever. But I was restrained, when I
thought of the heroic and suffering
Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and
whose existence was bound up in mine. I
thought also of my father and surviving
brother; should I by my base desertion
leave them exposed and unprotected to
the malice of the fiend whom I had let
loose among them?

At these moments I wept bitterly and
wished that peace would revisit my mind
only that I might afford them
consolation and happiness. But that
could not be. Remorse extinguished
every hope. I had been the author of
unalterable evils, and I lived in daily
fear lest the monster whom I had
created should perpetrate some new
wickedness. I had an obscure feeling
that all was not over and that he would
still commit some signal crime, which
by its enormity should almost efface
the recollection of the past. There was
always scope for fear so long as
anything I loved remained behind. My
abhorrence of this fiend cannot be
conceived. When I thought of him I
gnashed my teeth, my eyes became
inflamed, and I ardently wished to
extinguish that life which I had so
thoughtlessly bestowed. When I
reflected on his crimes and malice, my
hatred and revenge burst all bounds of
moderation. I would have made a
pilgrimage to the highest peak of the
Andes, could I, when there, have
precipitated him to their base. I
wished to see him again, that I might
wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence
on his head and avenge the deaths of
William and Justine.

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

“When I reflect, my dear cousin,”
said she, “on the miserable death of
Justine Moritz, I no longer see the
world and its works as they before
appeared to me. Before, I looked upon
the accounts of vice and injustice that
I read in books or heard from others as
tales of ancient days or imaginary
evils; at least they were remote and
more familiar to reason than to the
imagination; but now misery has come
home, and men appear to me as monsters
thirsting for each other’s blood. Yet
I am certainly unjust. Everybody
believed that poor girl to be guilty;
and if she could have committed the
crime for which she suffered, assuredly
she would have been the most depraved
of human creatures. For the sake of a
few jewels, to have murdered the son of
her benefactor and friend, a child whom
she had nursed from its birth, and
appeared to love as if it had been her
own! I could not consent to the death
of any human being, but certainly I
should have thought such a creature
unfit to remain in the society of men.
But she was innocent. I know, I feel
she was innocent; you are of the same
opinion, and that confirms me. Alas!
Victor, when falsehood can look so like
the truth, who can assure themselves of
certain happiness? I feel as if I were
walking on the edge of a precipice,
towards which thousands are crowding
and endeavouring to plunge me into the
abyss. William and Justine were
assassinated, and the murderer escapes;
he walks about the world free, and
perhaps respected. But even if I were
condemned to suffer on the scaffold for
the same crimes, I would not change
places with such a wretch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure
often came across me during this
journey. Some turn in the road, some
new object suddenly perceived and
recognised, reminded me of days gone
by, and were associated with the
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 tranquillised it. In some
degree, also, they diverted my mind
from the thoughts over which it had
brooded for the last month. I retired
to rest at night; my slumbers, as it
were, waited on and ministered to by
the assemblance of grand shapes which I
had contemplated during the day. They
congregated round me; the unstained
snowy mountain-top, the glittering
pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged
bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst
the clouds—they all gathered round me
and bade me be at peace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He easily eluded me and said,

“Be calm! I entreat you to hear me
before you give vent to your hatred on
my devoted head. Have I not suffered
enough, that you seek to increase my
misery? Life, although it may only be
an accumulation of anguish, is dear to
me, and I will defend it. Remember,
thou hast made me more powerful than
thyself; my height is superior to
thine, my joints more supple. But I
will not be tempted to set myself in
opposition to thee. I am thy creature,
and I will be even mild and docile to
my natural lord and king if thou wilt
also perform thy part, the which thou
owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not
equitable to every other and trample
upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and
even thy clemency and affection, is
most due. Remember that I am thy
creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I
am rather the fallen angel, whom thou
drivest from joy for no misdeed.
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 for ever the neighbourhood of man
and lead a harmless life, or become the
scourge of your fellow creatures and
the author of your own speedy ruin.”

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

Chapter 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 Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons
of hell after their sufferings in the
lake of fire. I greedily devoured the
remnants of the shepherd’s breakfast,
which consisted of bread, cheese, milk,
and wine; the latter, however, I did
not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I
lay down among some straw and fell
asleep.

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

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

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

“Being thus provided, I resolved to
reside in this hovel until something
should occur which might alter my
determination. It was indeed a paradise
compared to the bleak forest, my former
residence, the rain-dropping branches,
and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with
pleasure and was about to remove a
plank to procure myself a little water
when I heard a step, and looking
through a small chink, I beheld a young
creature, with a pail on her head,
passing before my hovel. The girl was
young and of gentle demeanour, unlike
what I have since found cottagers and
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
sympathised 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 for ever remained in my native
wood, nor known nor felt beyond the
sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!

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

“Other lessons were impressed upon me
even more deeply. I heard of the
difference of sexes, and the birth and
growth of children, how the father
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 for ever alive in my own bosom.
But I thought Werter himself a more
divine being than I had ever beheld or
imagined; his character contained no
pretension, but it 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 sympathised with and partly
understood them, but I was unformed in
mind; I was dependent on none and
related to none. ‘The path of my
departure was free,’ and there was
none to lament my annihilation. My
person was hideous and my stature
gigantic. What did this mean? Who was
I? What was I? Whence did I come? What
was my destination? These questions
continually recurred, but I was unable
to solve them.

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

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

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

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

“Several changes, in the meantime,
took place in the cottage. The presence
of Safie diffused happiness among its
inhabitants, and I also found that a
greater degree of plenty reigned there.
Felix and Agatha spent more time in
amusement and conversation, and were
assisted in their labours by servants.
They did not appear rich, but they were
contented and happy; their feelings
were serene and peaceful, while mine
became every day more tumultuous.
Increase of knowledge only discovered
to me more clearly what a wretched
outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is
true, but it vanished when I beheld my
person reflected in water or my shadow
in the moonshine, even as that frail
image and that inconstant shade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Enter,’ said De Lacey, ‘and I
will try in what manner I can 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 for ever.’

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

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

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

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

“‘Where do these friends reside?’

“‘Near this spot.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘Great God!’ exclaimed the old
man. ‘Who are you?’

“At that instant the cottage door was
opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha
entered. Who can describe their horror
and consternation on beholding me?
Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable to
attend to her friend, rushed out of the
cottage. Felix darted forward, and with
supernatural force tore me from his
father, to whose knees I clung, in a
transport of fury, he dashed me to the
ground and struck me violently with a
stick. I could have torn him limb from
limb, as the lion rends the antelope.
But my heart sank within me as with
bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw
him on the point of repeating his blow,
when, overcome by pain and anguish, I
quitted the cottage, and in the general
tumult escaped unperceived to my
hovel.”

Chapter 16

“Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I
live? Why, in that instant, did I not
extinguish the spark of existence which
you had so wantonly bestowed? I know
not; despair had not yet taken
possession of me; my feelings were
those of rage and revenge. I could with
pleasure have destroyed the cottage and
its inhabitants and have glutted myself
with their shrieks and misery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“‘It is utterly useless,’ replied
Felix; ‘we can never again inhabit
your cottage. The life of my father is
in the greatest danger, owing to the
dreadful circumstance that I have
related. My wife and my sister will
never recover 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 for
ever deprived of the delights that such
beautiful creatures could bestow and
that she whose resemblance I
contemplated would, in regarding me,
have changed that air of divine
benignity to one expressive of disgust
and affright.

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

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

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

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

Chapter 17

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His tale had occupied the whole day,
and the sun was upon the verge of the
horizon when he departed. I knew that I
ought to hasten my descent towards the
valley, as I should soon be encompassed
in darkness; but my heart was heavy,
and my steps slow. The labour of
winding among the little paths of the
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 solemnisation of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and
recent events have drawn us from that
everyday tranquillity befitting my
years and infirmities. You are younger;
yet I do not suppose, possessed as you
are of a competent fortune, that an
early marriage would at all interfere
with any future plans of honour and
utility that you may have formed. Do
not suppose, however, that I wish to
dictate happiness to you or that a
delay on your part would cause me any
serious uneasiness. Interpret my words
with candour and answer me, I conjure
you, with confidence and sincerity.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a
boat from Strasburgh to Rotterdam,
whence we might take shipping for
London. During this voyage we passed
many willowy islands and saw several
beautiful towns. We stayed a day at
Mannheim, and on the fifth from our
departure from Strasburgh, 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 relieve the eye by
their gay appearance; I have seen this
lake agitated by a tempest, when the
wind tore up whirlwinds of water and
gave you an idea of what the
water-spout must be on the great ocean;
and the waves dash with fury the base
of the mountain, where the priest and
his mistress were overwhelmed by an
avalanche and where their dying voices
are still said to be heard amid the
pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen
the mountains of La Valais, and the
Pays de Vaud; but this country, Victor,
pleases me more than all those wonders.
The mountains of Switzerland are more
majestic and strange, but there is a
charm in the banks of this divine river
that I never before saw equalled. Look
at that castle which overhangs yon
precipice; and that also on the island,
almost concealed amongst the foliage of
those lovely trees; and now that group
of labourers coming from among their
vines; and that village half hid in the
recess of the mountain. Oh, surely the
spirit that inhabits and guards this
place has a soul more in harmony with
man than those who pile the glacier or
retire to the inaccessible peaks of the
mountains of our own country.”

Clerval! Beloved friend! Even now it
delights me to record your words and to
dwell on the praise of which you are so
eminently deserving. He was a being
formed in the “very poetry of
nature.” His wild and enthusiastic
imagination was chastened by the
sensibility of his heart. His soul
overflowed with ardent affections, and
his friendship was of that devoted and
wondrous nature that the worldly-minded
teach us to look for only in the
imagination. But even human sympathies
were not sufficient to satisfy his
eager mind. The scenery of external
nature, which others regard only with
admiration, he loved with ardour:—

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

[Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”.]

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 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 for ever
busy, and the only check to his
enjoyments was my sorrowful and
dejected mind. I tried to conceal this
as much as possible, that I might not
debar him from the pleasures natural to
one who was entering on a new scene of
life, undisturbed by any care or bitter
recollection. I often refused to
accompany him, alleging another
engagement, that I might remain alone.
I now also began to collect the
materials necessary for my new
creation, and this was to me like the
torture of single drops of water
continually falling on the head. Every
thought that was devoted to it was an
extreme anguish, and every word that I
spoke in allusion to it caused my lips
to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From Derby, still journeying
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 for
ever on the stretch; and when he begins
to sink into repose, he finds himself
obliged to quit that on which he rests
in pleasure for something new, which
again engages his attention, and which
also he forsakes for other novelties.

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

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

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

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

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

With this resolution I traversed the
northern highlands and fixed on one of
the remotest of the Orkneys as the
scene of my labours. It was a place
fitted for such a work, being hardly
more than a rock whose high sides were
continually beaten upon by the waves.
The soil was barren, scarcely affording
pasture for a few miserable cows, and
oatmeal for its inhabitants, which
consisted of five persons, whose gaunt
and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their
miserable fare. Vegetables and bread,
when they indulged in such luxuries,
and even fresh water, was to be
procured from the 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 for
ever with the bitterest remorse. I was
now about to form another being of
whose dispositions I was alike
ignorant; she might become ten thousand
times more malignant than her mate and
delight, for its own sake, in murder
and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit
the neighbourhood of man and hide
himself in deserts, but she had not;
and she, who in all probability was to
become a thinking and reasoning animal,
might refuse to comply with a compact
made before her creation. They might
even hate each other; the creature who
already lived loathed his own
deformity, and might he not conceive a
greater abhorrence for it when it came
before his eyes in the female form? She
also might turn with disgust from him
to the superior beauty of man; she
might quit him, and he be again alone,
exasperated by the fresh provocation of
being deserted by one of his own
species.

Even if they were to leave Europe and
inhabit the deserts of the new world,
yet one of the first results of those
sympathies for which the dæmon
thirsted would be children, and a race
of devils would be propagated upon the
earth who might make the very existence
of the species of man a condition
precarious and full of terror. Had I
right, for my own benefit, to inflict
this curse upon everlasting
generations? I had before been moved by
the sophisms of the being I had
created; I had been struck senseless by
his fiendish threats; but now, for the
first time, the wickedness of my
promise burst upon me; I shuddered to
think that future ages might curse me
as their pest, whose selfishness had
not hesitated to buy its own peace at
the price, perhaps, of the existence of
the whole human race.

I trembled and my heart failed within
me, when, on looking up, I saw by the
light of the moon the dæmon at the
casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his
lips as he gazed on me, where I sat
fulfilling the task which he had
allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me
in my travels; he had loitered in
forests, hid himself in caves, or taken
refuge in wide and desert heaths; and
he now came to mark my progress and
claim the fulfilment of my promise.

As I looked on him, his countenance
expressed the utmost extent of malice
and treachery. I thought with a
sensation of madness on my promise of
creating another like to him, and
trembling with passion, tore to pieces
the thing on which I was engaged. The
wretch saw me destroy the creature on
whose future existence he depended for
happiness, and with a howl of devilish
despair and revenge, withdrew.

I left the room, and locking the door,
made a solemn vow in my own heart never
to resume my labours; and then, with
trembling steps, I sought my own
apartment. I was alone; none were near
me to dissipate the gloom and relieve
me from the sickening oppression of the
most terrible reveries.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The hour of my irresolution is past,
and the period of your power is
arrived. Your threats cannot move me to
do an act of wickedness; but they
confirm me in a determination of not
creating you a companion in vice. Shall
I, in cool blood, set loose upon the
earth a dæmon whose delight is in
death and wretchedness? Begone! I am
firm, and your words will only
exasperate my rage.”

The monster saw my determination in my
face and gnashed his teeth in the
impotence of anger. “Shall each
man,” cried he, “find a wife for
his bosom, and each beast have his
mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of
affection, and they were requited by
detestation and scorn. Man! You may
hate, but beware! Your hours will pass
in dread and misery, and soon the bolt
will fall which must ravish from you
your happiness for ever. Are you to be
happy while I grovel in the intensity
of my wretchedness? You can blast my
other passions, but revenge
remains—revenge, henceforth dearer
than light or food! I may die, but
first you, my tyrant and tormentor,
shall curse the sun that gazes on your
misery. Beware, for I am fearless and
therefore powerful. I will watch with
the wiliness of a snake, that I may
sting with its venom. Man, you shall
repent of the injuries you inflict.”

“Devil, cease; and do not poison the
air with these sounds of malice. I have
declared my resolution to you, and I am
no coward to bend beneath words. Leave
me; I am inexorable.”

“It is well. I go; but remember, I
shall be with you on your
wedding-night.”

I started forward and exclaimed,
“Villain! Before you sign my
death-warrant, be sure that you are
yourself safe.”

I would have seized him, but he eluded
me and quitted the house with
precipitation. In a few moments I saw
him in his boat, which shot across the
waters with an arrowy swiftness and was
soon lost amidst the waves.

All was again silent, but his words
rang in my ears. I burned with rage to
pursue the murderer of my peace and
precipitate him into the ocean. I
walked up and down my room hastily and
perturbed, while my imagination
conjured up a thousand images to
torment and sting me. Why had I not
followed him and closed with him in
mortal strife? But I had suffered him
to depart, and he had directed his
course towards the mainland. I
shuddered to think who might be the
next victim sacrificed to his insatiate
revenge. And then I thought again of
his words—“_I will be with you on
your wedding-night._” That, then, was
the period fixed for the fulfilment of
my destiny. In that hour I should die
and at once satisfy and extinguish his
malice. The prospect did not move me to
fear; yet when I thought of my beloved
Elizabeth, of her tears and endless
sorrow, when she should find her lover
so barbarously snatched from her,
tears, the first I had shed for many
months, streamed from my eyes, and I
resolved not to fall before my enemy
without a bitter struggle.

The night passed away, and the sun rose
from the ocean; my feelings became
calmer, if it may be called calmness
when the violence of rage sinks into
the depths of despair. I left the
house, the horrid scene of the last
night’s contention, and walked on the
beach of the sea, which I almost
regarded as an insuperable barrier
between me and my fellow creatures;
nay, a wish that such should prove the
fact stole across me. I desired that I
might pass my life on that barren rock,
wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted
by any sudden shock of misery. If I
returned, it was to be sacrificed or to
see those whom I most loved die under
the grasp of a dæmon whom I had myself
created.

I walked about the isle like a restless
spectre, separated from all it loved
and miserable in the separation. When
it became noon, and the sun rose
higher, I lay down on the grass and was
overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been
awake the whole of the preceding night,
my nerves were agitated, and my eyes
inflamed by watching and misery. The
sleep into which I now 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 dæmon. I had before
regarded my promise with a gloomy
despair as a thing that, with whatever
consequences, must be fulfilled; but I
now felt as if a film had been taken
from before my eyes and that I for the
first time saw clearly. The idea of
renewing my labours did not for one
instant occur to me; the threat I had
heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did
not reflect that a voluntary act of
mine could avert it. I had resolved in
my own mind that to create another like
the fiend I had first made would be an
act of the basest and most atrocious
selfishness, and I banished from my
mind every thought that could lead to a
different conclusion.

Between two and three in the morning
the moon rose; and I then, putting my
basket aboard a little skiff, sailed
out about four miles from the shore.
The scene was perfectly solitary; a few
boats were returning towards land, but
I sailed away from them. I felt as if I
was about the commission of a dreadful
crime and avoided with shuddering
anxiety any encounter with my fellow
creatures. At one time the moon, which
had before been clear, was suddenly
overspread by a thick cloud, and I took
advantage of the moment of darkness and
cast my basket into the sea; I listened
to the gurgling sound as it 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 for ever, I shudder
to reflect on it.

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

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

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

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

“You will know that soon enough,”
replied a man with a hoarse voice.
“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 gaolers,
turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable
apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning,
I remember, when I thus awoke to
understanding; I had forgotten the
particulars of what had happened and
only felt as if some great misfortune
had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I
looked around and saw the barred
windows and the squalidness of the room
in which I was, all flashed across my
memory and I groaned bitterly.

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

“Are you better now, sir?” said
she.

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

“For that matter,” replied the old
woman, “if you mean about the
gentleman you murdered, I believe that
it were better for you if you were
dead, for I fancy it will go hard with
you! However, that’s none of my
business; I am sent to nurse you and
get you well; I do my duty with a safe
conscience; it were well if everybody
did the same.”

I turned with loathing from the woman
who could utter so unfeeling a speech
to a person just saved, on the very
edge of death; but I felt languid and
unable to reflect on all that had
passed. The whole series of my life
appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes
doubted if indeed it were all true, for
it never presented itself to my mind
with the force of reality.

As the images that floated before me
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 agonising than the
strange chances that have lately
occurred. You were thrown, by some
surprising accident, on this shore,
renowned for its hospitality, seized
immediately, and charged with murder.
The first sight that was presented to
your eyes was the body of your friend,
murdered in so unaccountable a manner
and placed, as it were, by some fiend
across your path.”

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

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

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

“Your family is perfectly well,”
said Mr. Kirwin with gentleness; “and
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 for
ever before me, ghastly and murdered.
More than once the agitation into which
these reflections threw me made my
friends dread a dangerous relapse.
Alas! Why did they preserve so
miserable and detested a life? It was
surely that I might fulfil my destiny,
which is now drawing to a close. Soon,
oh, very soon, will death extinguish
these throbbings and relieve me from
the mighty weight of anguish that bears
me to the dust; and, in executing the
award of justice, I shall also sink to
rest. Then the appearance of death was
distant, although the wish was ever
present to my thoughts; and I often sat
for hours motionless and speechless,
wishing for some mighty revolution that
might bury me and my destroyer in its
ruins.

The season of the assizes approached. I
had already been three months in
prison, and although I was still weak
and in continual danger of a relapse, I
was obliged to travel nearly a hundred
miles to the 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 for ever,
and although the sun shone upon me, as
upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw
around me nothing but a dense and
frightful darkness, penetrated by no
light but the glimmer of two eyes that
glared upon me. Sometimes they were the
expressive eyes of Henry, languishing
in death, the dark orbs nearly covered
by the lids and the long black lashes
that fringed them; sometimes it was the
watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as
I first saw them in my chamber at
Ingolstadt.

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

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

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

Ever since my recovery from the fever,
I had been in the custom of taking
every night a small quantity of
laudanum, for it was by means of this
drug only that I was enabled to gain
the rest necessary for the preservation
of life. Oppressed by the recollection
of my various misfortunes, I now
swallowed double my usual quantity and
soon slept profoundly. But sleep did
not afford me respite from thought and
misery; my dreams presented a thousand
objects that scared me. Towards morning
I was possessed by a kind of nightmare;
I felt the fiend’s grasp in my neck
and could not free myself from it;
groans and cries 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
for ever have chained my tongue. But,
besides, I could not bring myself to
disclose a secret which would fill my
hearer with consternation and make fear
and unnatural horror the inmates of his
breast. I checked, therefore, my
impatient thirst for sympathy and was
silent when I would have given the
world to have confided the fatal
secret. Yet, still, words like those I
have recorded would burst
uncontrollably from me. I could offer
no explanation of them, but their truth
in part relieved the burden of my
mysterious woe.

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

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

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

As time passed away I became more calm;
misery had her dwelling in my heart,
but I no longer talked in the same
incoherent manner of my own crimes;
sufficient for me was the consciousness
of them. By the utmost self-violence I
curbed the imperious voice of
wretchedness, which sometimes desired
to declare itself to the whole world,
and my manners were calmer and more
composed than they had ever been since
my journey to the sea of ice.

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

“My dear Friend,

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

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

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

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

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

“Do not let this letter disturb you;
do not answer 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
dæmon employ every art to destroy me
and tear me from the glimpse of
happiness which promised partly to
console my sufferings. On that night he
had determined to consummate his crimes
by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly
struggle would then assuredly take
place, in which if he were victorious I
should be at peace and his power over
me be at an end. If he were vanquished,
I should be a free man. Alas! What
freedom? Such as the peasant enjoys
when his family have been massacred
before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his
lands laid waste, and he is turned
adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone,
but free. Such would be my liberty
except that in my Elizabeth I possessed
a treasure, alas, balanced by those
horrors of remorse and guilt which
would pursue me until death.

Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and
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 for
ever from my native country and
wandered a friendless outcast over the
earth than have consented to this
miserable marriage. But, as if
possessed of magic powers, the monster
had blinded me to his real intentions;
and when I thought that I had prepared
only my own death, I hastened that of a
far dearer victim.

As the period fixed for our marriage
drew nearer, whether from cowardice or
a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart
sink within me. But I concealed my
feelings by an appearance of hilarity
that brought smiles and joy to the
countenance of my father, but hardly
deceived the ever-watchful and nicer
eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to
our union with placid contentment, not
unmingled with a little fear, which
past misfortunes had impressed, that
what now appeared certain and tangible
happiness might soon dissipate into an
airy dream and leave no trace but deep
and everlasting regret.

Preparations were made for the event,
congratulatory visits were received,
and all wore a smiling appearance. I
shut up, as well as I could, in my own
heart the anxiety that preyed there and
entered with seeming earnestness into
the plans of my father, although they
might only serve as the decorations of
my tragedy. Through my father’s
exertions a part of the inheritance of
Elizabeth had been restored to her by
the Austrian government. A small
possession on the shores of Como
belonged to her. It was agreed that,
immediately after our union, we should
proceed to Villa Lavenza and spend our
first days of happiness beside the
beautiful lake near which it stood.

In the meantime I took every precaution
to defend my person in case the fiend
should openly attack me. I carried
pistols and a dagger constantly about
me and was ever on the watch to prevent
artifice, and by these means gained a
greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed,
as the period approached, the threat
appeared more as a delusion, not to be
regarded as worthy to disturb my peace,
while the happiness I hoped for in my
marriage wore a greater appearance of
certainty as the day fixed for its
solemnisation drew nearer and I heard
it continually spoken of as an
occurrence which no accident could
possibly prevent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sun 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 for ever.

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
dæmon whom I had sent abroad into the
world for my destruction. I was
possessed by a maddening rage when I
thought of him, and desired and
ardently prayed that I might have him
within my grasp to wreak a great and
signal revenge on his cursed head.

Nor did my hate long confine itself to
useless wishes; I began to reflect on
the best means of securing him; and for
this purpose, about a month after my
release, I repaired to a criminal judge
in the town and told him that I had an
accusation to make, that I knew the
destroyer of my family, and that I
required him to exert his whole
authority for the apprehension of the
murderer.

The magistrate listened to me with
attention and kindness. “Be assured,
sir,” said he, “no pains or
exertions on my part shall be spared to
discover the villain.”

“I thank you,” replied I;
“listen, therefore, to the deposition
that I have to make. It is indeed a
tale so strange that I should fear you
would not credit it were there not
something in truth which, however
wonderful, forces conviction. The story
is too connected to be mistaken for a
dream, and I have no motive for
falsehood.” My manner as I thus
addressed him was impressive but calm;
I had formed in my own heart a
resolution to pursue my destroyer to
death, and this purpose quieted my
agony and for an interval reconciled me
to life. I now related my history
briefly but with firmness and
precision, marking the dates with
accuracy and never deviating into
invective or exclamation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I broke from the house angry and
disturbed and retired to meditate on
some other mode of action.

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

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

When I quitted Geneva my first labour
was to gain some clue by which I might
trace the steps of my fiendish enemy.
But my plan was unsettled, and I
wandered many hours round the confines
of the town, uncertain what path I
should pursue. As night approached I
found myself at the entrance of the
cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and
my father reposed. I entered it and
approached the tomb which marked their
graves. Everything was silent except
the leaves of the trees, which were
gently agitated by the wind; the night
was nearly dark, and the scene would
have been solemn and affecting even to
an uninterested observer. The spirits
of the departed seemed to flit around
and to cast a shadow, which was felt
but not seen, around the head of the
mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at
first excited quickly gave way to rage
and despair. They were dead, and I
lived; their murderer also lived, and
to destroy him I must drag out my weary
existence. I knelt on the grass and
kissed the earth and with quivering
lips exclaimed, “By the sacred earth
on which I kneel, by the shades that
wander near me, by the deep and eternal
grief that I feel, I swear; and by
thee, O Night, and the spirits that
preside over thee, to pursue the dæmon
who caused this misery, until he or I
shall perish in mortal conflict. For
this purpose I will preserve my life;
to execute this dear revenge will I
again behold the sun and tread the
green herbage of earth, which otherwise
should vanish from my eyes for ever.
And I call on you, spirits of the dead,
and on you, wandering ministers of
vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my
work. Let the cursed and hellish
monster drink deep of agony; let him
feel the despair that now torments
me.”

I had begun my adjuration with
solemnity and an awe which almost
assured me that the shades of my
murdered friends heard and approved my
devotion, but the furies possessed me
as I concluded, and rage choked my
utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of
night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It
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 dæmon generally
avoided these, as it was here that the
population of the country chiefly
collected. In other places human beings
were seldom seen, and I generally
subsisted on the wild animals that
crossed my path. I had money with me
and gained the friendship of the
villagers by distributing it; or I
brought with me some food that I had
killed, which, after taking a small
part, I always presented to those who
had provided me with fire and utensils
for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed
hateful to me, and it was during sleep
alone that I could taste joy. O blessed
sleep! Often, when most miserable, I
sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me
even to rapture. The spirits that
guarded me had provided these moments,
or rather hours, of happiness that I
might retain strength to fulfil my
pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I
should have sunk under my hardships.
During the day I was sustained and
inspirited by the hope of night, for in
sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my
beloved country; again I saw the
benevolent countenance of my father,
heard the silver tones of my
Elizabeth’s voice, and beheld Clerval
enjoying health and youth. Often, when
wearied by a toilsome march, I
persuaded myself that I was dreaming
until night should come and that I
should then enjoy reality in the arms
of my dearest friends. What agonising
fondness did I feel for them! How did I
cling to their dear forms, as sometimes
they haunted even my waking hours, and
persuade myself that they still lived!
At such moments vengeance, that burned
within me, died in my heart, and I
pursued my path towards the destruction
of the dæmon more as a task enjoined
by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of
some power of which I was unconscious,
than as the ardent desire of my soul.

What his feelings were whom I pursued I
cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left
marks in writing on the barks of the
trees or cut in stone that guided me
and instigated my fury. “My reign is
not yet over”—these words were
legible in one of these
inscriptions—“you live, and my
power is complete. Follow me; I seek
the everlasting ices of the north,
where you will feel the misery of cold
and frost, to which I am impassive. You
will find near this place, if you
follow not too tardily, a dead hare;
eat and be refreshed. Come on, my
enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our
lives, but many hard and miserable
hours must you endure until that period
shall arrive.”

Scoffing devil! Again do I vow
vengeance; again do I devote thee,
miserable fiend, to torture and death.
Never will I give up my search until he
or I perish; and then with what ecstasy
shall I join my Elizabeth and my
departed friends, who even now prepare
for me the reward of my tedious toil
and horrible pilgrimage!

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

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

My courage and perseverance were
invigorated by these scoffing words; I
resolved not to fail in my purpose, and
calling on Heaven to support me, I
continued with unabated fervour to
traverse immense deserts, until the
ocean appeared at a distance and formed
the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh!
How unlike it was to the blue 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 dæmon;
but still my sight was dimmed by the
burning drops, until, giving way to the
emotions that oppressed me, I wept
aloud.

But this was not the time for delay; I
disencumbered the dogs of their dead
companion, gave them a plentiful
portion of food, and after an hour’s
rest, which was absolutely necessary,
and yet which was bitterly irksome to
me, I continued my route. The sledge
was still visible, nor did I again lose
sight of it except at the moments when
for a short time some ice-rock
concealed it with its intervening
crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on
it, and when, after nearly two days’
journey, I beheld my enemy at no more
than a mile distant, my heart bounded
within me.

But now, when I appeared almost within
grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly
extinguished, and I lost all trace of
him more utterly than I had ever done
before. A ground sea was heard; the
thunder of its progress, as the waters
rolled and swelled beneath me, became
every moment more ominous and terrific.
I pressed on, but in vain. The wind
arose; the sea roared; and, as with the
mighty shock of an earthquake, it split
and cracked with a tremendous and
overwhelming sound. The work was soon
finished; in a few minutes a tumultuous
sea rolled between me and my enemy, and
I was left drifting on a scattered
piece of ice that was continually
lessening and thus preparing for me a
hideous death.

In this manner many appalling hours
passed; several of my dogs died, and I
myself was about to sink under the
accumulation of distress when I saw
your vessel riding at anchor and
holding forth to me hopes of succour
and life. I had no conception that
vessels ever came so far north and was
astounded at the sight. I quickly
destroyed part of my sledge to
construct oars, and by these means was
enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move
my ice raft in the direction of your
ship. I had determined, if you were
going 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 dæmon, allow me
the rest I so much desire; or must I
die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to
me, Walton, that he shall not escape,
that you will seek him and satisfy my
vengeance in his death. And do I dare
to ask of you to undertake my
pilgrimage, to endure the hardships
that I have undergone? No; I am not so
selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he
should appear, if the ministers of
vengeance should conduct him to you,
swear that he shall not live—swear
that he shall not triumph over my
accumulated woes and survive to add to
the list of his dark crimes. He is
eloquent and persuasive, and once his
words had even power over my heart; but
trust him not. His soul is as hellish
as his form, full of treachery and
fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call
on the names of William, Justine,
Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of
the wretched Victor, and thrust your
sword into his heart. I will hover near
and direct the steel aright.

Walton, _in continuation._

August 26th, 17—.

You have read this strange and terrific
story, Margaret; and do you not feel
your blood congeal with horror, like
that which even now curdles mine?
Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he
could not continue his tale; at others,
his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered
with difficulty the words so replete
with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes
were now lighted up with indignation,
now subdued to downcast sorrow and
quenched in infinite wretchedness.
Sometimes he commanded his countenance
and tones and related the most horrible
incidents with a tranquil voice,
suppressing every mark of agitation;
then, like a volcano bursting forth,
his face would suddenly change to an
expression of the wildest rage as he
shrieked out imprecations on his
persecutor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thank you, Walton,” he said,
“for your kind intentions towards so
miserable a wretch; but when you speak
of new ties and fresh affections, think
you that any can replace those who are
gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval
was, or any woman another Elizabeth?
Even where the affections are not
strongly moved by any superior
excellence, the companions of our
childhood always possess a certain
power over our minds which hardly any
later friend can obtain. They know our
infantine dispositions, which, however
they may be afterwards modified, are
never eradicated; and they can judge of
our actions with more certain
conclusions as to the integrity of our
motives. A sister or a brother can
never, unless indeed such symptoms have
been shown early, suspect the other of
fraud or false dealing, when another
friend, however strongly he may be
attached, may, in spite of himself, be
contemplated with suspicion. But I
enjoyed friends, dear not only through
habit and association, but from their
own merits; and wherever I am, the
soothing voice of my Elizabeth and the
conversation of Clerval will be ever
whispered in my ear. They are dead, and
but one feeling in such a solitude can
persuade me to preserve my life. If I
were engaged in any high undertaking or
design, fraught with extensive utility
to my fellow creatures, then could I
live to fulfil it. But such is not my
destiny; I must pursue and destroy the
being to whom I gave existence; then my
lot on earth will be fulfilled and I
may die.”

My beloved Sister,

September 2d.

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 for
ever, while the irradiation of a gentle
smile passed away from his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His voice seemed suffocated, and my
first impulses, which had suggested to
me the duty of obeying the dying
request of my friend in destroying his
enemy, were now suspended by a mixture
of curiosity and compassion. I
approached this tremendous being; I
dared not again raise my eyes to his
face, there was something so scaring
and unearthly in his ugliness. I
attempted to speak, but the words died
away on my lips. The monster continued
to utter wild and incoherent
self-reproaches. At length I gathered
resolution to address him in a pause of
the tempest of his passion.

“Your repentance,” I said, “is
now superfluous. If you had listened to
the voice of conscience and heeded the
stings of remorse before you had urged
your diabolical vengeance to this
extremity, Frankenstein would yet have
lived.”

“And do you dream?” said the
dæmon. “Do you think that I was then
dead to agony and remorse? He,” he
continued, pointing to the corpse,
“he suffered not in the consummation
of the deed. Oh! Not the ten-thousandth
portion of the anguish that was mine
during the lingering detail of its
execution. A frightful selfishness
hurried me on, while my heart was
poisoned with remorse. Think you that
the groans of Clerval were music to my
ears? My heart was fashioned to be
susceptible of love and sympathy, and
when wrenched by misery to vice and
hatred, it did not endure the violence
of the change without torture such as
you cannot even imagine.

“After the murder of Clerval I
returned to Switzerland, heart-broken
and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my
pity amounted to horror; I abhorred
myself. But when I discovered that he,
the author at once of my existence and
of its unspeakable torments, dared to
hope for happiness, that while he
accumulated wretchedness and despair
upon me he sought his own enjoyment in
feelings and passions from the
indulgence of which I was for ever
barred, then impotent envy and bitter
indignation filled me with an
insatiable thirst for vengeance. I
recollected my threat and resolved that
it should be accomplished. I knew that
I was preparing for myself a deadly
torture, but I was the slave, not the
master, of an impulse which I detested
yet could not disobey. Yet when she
died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I
had cast off all feeling, subdued all
anguish, to riot in the excess of my
despair. Evil thenceforth became my
good. Urged thus far, I had no choice
but to adapt my nature to an element
which I had willingly chosen. The
completion of my demoniacal design
became an insatiable passion. And now
it is ended; there is my last
victim!”

I was at first touched by the
expressions of his misery; yet, when I
called to mind what Frankenstein had
said of his powers of eloquence and
persuasion, and when I again cast my
eyes on the lifeless form of my friend,
indignation was rekindled within me.
“Wretch!” I said. “It is well
that you come here to whine over the
desolation that you have made. You
throw a torch into a pile of buildings,
and when they are consumed, you sit
among the ruins and lament the fall.
Hypocritical fiend! If he whom you
mourn still lived, still would he be
the object, again would he become the
prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is
not pity that you feel; you lament only
because the victim of your malignity is
withdrawn from your power.”

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

“You, who call Frankenstein your
friend, seem to have a knowledge of my
crimes and his misfortunes. But in the
detail which he gave you of them he
could not sum up the hours and months
of misery which I endured wasting in
impotent passions. For while I
destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy
my own desires. They were for ever
ardent and craving; still I desired
love and fellowship, and I was still
spurned. Was there no injustice in
this? Am I to be thought the only
criminal, when all 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
for ever.

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

He sprang from the cabin-window as he
said this, upon the ice raft which lay
close to the vessel. He was soon borne
away by the waves and lost in darkness
and distance.

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