CONTENTS

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.

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
new from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with
my hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased
every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was
echoed from 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.

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.