Copyright © Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus (Revised
Edition, 1831)
This work is in the public domain in its country of origin
and other countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life
plus 70 years or fewer.
This work is in the public domain in the United States
because it was published (or registered with the U.S. Copyright Office) before
January 1, 1925.
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 forever
visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendor.
There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding
navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we
may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region
hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be
without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in
those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal
light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and
may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to
render their seeming eccentricities consistent forever. I shall satiate my
ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never visited and may
tread a land never 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 tranquilize the mind as a steady
purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition
has been the favorite dream of my early years. I have read with ardor 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 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 are 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 favorable 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 endeavor to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to
paper, it is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling.
I desire the company of a man who could sympathize with me, whose eyes would
reply to mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel
the want of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed
of a cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own,
to approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your
poor brother! I am too ardent in execution and too impatient of difficulties.
But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first
fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common and read nothing, but our
Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the
celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be
in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction that I
perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that of
my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and am 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 endeavor 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 during 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 prizemoney, 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 honor 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
labor—but besides this there is a love for the marvelous, a belief in the marvelous,
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 endeavors. 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 traveler 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 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 traveler
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 equaled. But he is
generally melancholy and despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if
impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.
When my guest was a little recovered I had great trouble to
keep off the men, who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not
allow him to be tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind
whose restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the
lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle.
His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest
gloom, and he replied, “To seek one who fled from me.”
“And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same
fashion?”
“Yes.”
“Then I fancy we have seen him, for the day before we picked
you up, we saw some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice.”
This aroused the stranger’s attention, and he asked a
multitude of questions concerning the route which the demon, as he called him,
had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he said, “I have,
doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but
you are too considerate to make inquiries.”
“Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman
in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness of mine.”
“And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous
situation; you have benevolently restored me to life.”
Soon after this he inquired if I thought that the breaking
up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I replied that I could not answer
with any degree of certainty, for the ice had not broken until near midnight,
and the traveler 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 me 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 favor 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 ardor of my soul and to say, with all the fervor 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 fashioned
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 endeavored 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 marvelous.
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 honor 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 honorable 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 endeavoring 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 enough 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 mold, 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 enough 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 behavior 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 tranquility 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 folding 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, hardworking,
bent down by care and labor, 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 molding 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 Schiavo goner ferment, 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 Lavenia 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 before 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 ardor, 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 campagna on Bedrive, the
eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from
the city. We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents
were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to
attach myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my schoolfellows
in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one
among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of
singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for
its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed
heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly
adventure. He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in
which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round
Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem
the holy sepulcher from the hands of the infidels.
No human being could have passed a happier childhood than me.
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 were 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 ardor 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 ardor 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 too few besides myself. I have described myself as always
having been imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. Despite
the intense labor 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, anatomies, 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 about my favorite 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 favorite 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 unadapt, 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 Bedrive, 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 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 tranquility
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 favorite
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 me. “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 endeavor 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 endeavors to make us forget.
The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the
last evening with us. He had endeavored 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.
The day of my
departure at length arrived.
We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each
other nor persuade ourselves to say the word “Farewell!” It was said, and we
retired under the pretense 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 melancholiest reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded
by amiable companions, continually engaged in endeavoring 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 to 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 enough 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.
Kempe, 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. Kempe
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 more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Kempe
was a little squat man with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the
teacher, therefore, did not prepossess me in favor 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 retro 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. Kempe 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 fervor
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 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 yester night'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 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. Kempe 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 labors 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 labors. 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 ardor 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. Kempe 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 ardor was indeed the astonishment of the students, and
my proficiency that of the masters. Professor Kempe 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 enough; 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 analyzing
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 labor 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 labor, 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 endeavors 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 way 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 fibers, muscles, and veins, remained
a work of inconceivable difficulty and labor. 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 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 ardor. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my
person had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of
certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the
next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to
which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labors, 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 slaughterhouse 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 my father’s feelings would be,
but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome, 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 tranquility. 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 tranquility of his domestic affections, Greece
had not been enslaved, Caesar would have spared his country, America would have
been discovered more gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been
destroyed.
But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting
part of my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed.
My father made no reproach in his letters and only took
notice of my silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than
before. Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labors; 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 favorite
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 labors 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.
"By the
glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull, yellow eye of the
creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs,
... I rushed out of the room."
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how
delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored 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 luxuriance's only formed a more
horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same color as
the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shriveled 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 ardor that far exceeded
moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and
breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of
the being I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time
traversing my bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length
lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on
the bed in my clothes, endeavoring 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, endeavoring
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 around, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
[Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner.”]
Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at
which the various diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused; I
knew not why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that
was coming towards me from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I
observed that it was the Swiss diligence; it stopped just where I was standing,
and on the door being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me,
instantly sprung out. “My dear Frankenstein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to
see you! How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my
alighting!”
Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his
presence brought back to my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes
of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot
my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many
months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most
cordial manner, and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for
some time about our mutual friends and his own good fortune in being permitted
to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily believe,” said he, “how great was the
difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not comprised
in the noble art of book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him incredulous
to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties was the same as
that of the Dutch schoolmaster in The Vicar of Wakefield: ‘I have ten thousand
florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.’ But his affection
for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to
undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge.”
“It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me
how you left my father, brothers, and Elizabeth.”
“Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they
hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their
account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein,” continued he, stopping short and
gazing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so
thin and pale; you look as if you had been watching for several nights.”
“You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply
engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as
you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an
end and that I am at length free.”
I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and
far less to allude to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a
quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought
made me shiver, that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still
be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster, but I
feared still more that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to
remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own
room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself.
I then paused, and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly
open, as children are accustomed to do when they expect a specter 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 will you be! 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 specter glide into the room; “he can tell. Oh,
save me! Save me!” I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously
and fell 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 color,
“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 you will 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 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 favorite 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 favorite of yours;
and I recollect you once remarked that if you were in an ill humor, 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 endeavored to imitate her phraseology and manners, so that
even now she often reminds me of her.
“When my dearest aunt died everyone 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, except
for her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was
troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favorites 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 forever. 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 favorite, 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. Dillard,
the rich banker, last autumn. Your favorite schoolfellow, Louis Manor, 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 Manor; but she is very much admired, and a favorite 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 Lavenia.
“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 labors, 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. Kempe 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 outstrip 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. Kempe had now commenced a eulogy on himself, which
happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.
Clerval had never sympathized in my tastes for natural
science; and his literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had
occupied me. He came to the university with the design of making himself
complete master of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a field for
the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no
inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for
his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit languages engaged
his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness
had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and
hated my former studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my
friend, and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the
orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their
dialects, for I did not contemplate making any other use of them than temporary
amusement. I read merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labors.
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 favorite
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 endeavor 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 endeavors to throw
them off, with an invincible burden.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized 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 favorite 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 everyone 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 Plain Palais. 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, 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 extremist 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 endeavored 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 forever. 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 sympathize 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 everything 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 Sheron, 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 Plain Palais. 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 Salve, the Juris, 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 everything 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 Bedrive and the village of Coped. Another
storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes
disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.
While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I
wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I
clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, “William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a
figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing
intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object,
and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity
of its aspect more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that
it was the wretch, the filthy demon, 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 Salve, a hill that bounds Plain Palais on the south. He soon
reached the summit and disappeared.
I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain 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 Salve?
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 remained
to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantelpiece.
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; everyone 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 behavior 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 endeavored 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 the murderer of poor William was.”
“We do also, unfortunately,” replied my father, “for indeed
I had rather have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity
and ingratitude in one I valued so highly.”
“My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent.”
“If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She
is to be tried 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; it's
astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did anyone
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 candor, the same vivacity, but it was
allied to an expression fuller 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! everyone else believes in
her guilt, and that made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to
see everyone 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 tranquility 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 defense. 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 favorable
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 Chine, 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 endeavor
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 favor
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 were
extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could
the demon who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother also in
his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not
sustain the horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the popular voice
and the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy victim, I
rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal
mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom
and would not forgo their hold.
I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I
went to the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal
question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my visit. The
ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was condemned.
I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before
experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavored 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 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 than ten innocents 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 honored, 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 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 to 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 endeavored 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 endeavor
to hide myself from his view.
About this time, we retired to our house at Bedrive. This
change was particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at
ten o’clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour had
rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now
free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I took the
boat and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was
carried by the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I
left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable
reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the
only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and
heavenly—if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted
croaking was heard only when I approached the shore—often, I say, I was tempted
to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me and my
calamities forever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic and
suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in
mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother; should I buy 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 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 endeavoring 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 extremist agony. I,
not indeed, 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 center 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 Chamonix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years
had passed since then: I was a wreck, but naught 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 Rave. 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 pony mountains, the impetuous Rave, 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, who's 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 Pelisse, 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 Chamonix. This valley is more
wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque as that of Servo,
through which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate
boundaries, but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense
glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling
avalanche and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and
magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its
tremendous dome overlooked the valley.
A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me
during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived
and recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the
lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing accents,
and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again, the kindly influence
ceased to act—I found myself fettered again to grief and indulging in all the
misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget the
world, my fears, and more than all, myself—or, in a more desperate fashion, I
alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and despair.
At length I arrived at the village of Chamonix. 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 Rave,
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 Aveiro, 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 could
receive. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling, and although they did
not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquilized 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 Montaner. I remembered the effect that the view of the
tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw
it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave wings to the soul
and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of
the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnizing my
mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go
without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of
another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.
The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into
continual and short windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity
of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the
traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and
strewed on the ground, some 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 somber 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 wandering
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;
Naught 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 Montaner 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 demon. “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 owe 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 drive 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 favorable 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 defense before they are condemned. Listen to me,
Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied
conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man!
Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me, and then, if you can, and if you
will, destroy the work of your hands.”
“Why do you call to my remembrance,” I rejoined,
“circumstances of which I shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable
origin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw
light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have
made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power to consider
whether I am just to you or not. Begone! Relieve me from the sight of your
detested form.”
“Thus, I relieve thee, my creator,” he said, and placed his
hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; “thus I take
from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me and grant me
thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you.
Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not
fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is
yet high in the heavens; before it descends to hide itself behind your snowy
precipices and illuminate another world, you will have heard my story and can
decide. On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighborhood 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 offal's that
the travelers had left had been roasted, and tasted much more savory than the
berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food in the
same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were
spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots much improved.
“Food, however, became scarce, and I often spent the whole
day searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I
found this, I resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek
for one where the few wants, I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In
this emigration I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had
obtained through accident and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several
hours to the serious consideration of this difficulty, but I was obliged to
relinquish all attempt to supply it, and wrapping myself up in my cloak, I
struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these
rambles and at length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had
taken place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the
appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance
that covered the ground.
“It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain
food and shelter; at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which
had doubtless been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new
sight to me, and I examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the
door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was
preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise, and perceiving me,
shrieked loudly, and quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of
which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different
from any I had ever before seen, and his flight somewhat surprised me. But I
was enchanted by the appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain could not
penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and divine
a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell after their sufferings
in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherd’s
breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the latter,
however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some straw
and fell asleep.
“It was noon when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the
sun, which shone brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my
travels; and, depositing the remains of the peasant’s breakfast in a wallet I
found, I proceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I
arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear! The huts, the neater
cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the
gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the
cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered, but I had
hardly placed my foot within the door before the children shrieked, and one of
the women fainted. The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me,
until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I
escaped to the open country and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite
bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the
village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant
appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I dared not enter it.
My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low that I could with difficulty
sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which formed the
floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by innumerable chinks,
I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.
“Here, then, I retreated and lay down happy to have found a
shelter, however miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more
from the barbarity of man. As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel,
that I might view the adjacent cottage and discover if I could remain in the
habitation I had found. It was situated against the back of the cottage and
surrounded on the sides which were exposed by a pig sty and a clear pool of
water. One part was open, and by that I had crept in; but now I covered every
crevice by which I might be perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a
manner that I might move them on occasion to pass out; all the light I enjoyed
came through the sty, and that was sufficient for me.
“Having thus arranged my dwelling and carpeted it with clean
straw, I retired, for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered
too well my treatment the night before to trust myself in his power. I had
first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day by a loaf of coarse
bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink more conveniently
than from my hand of the pure water which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a
little raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the
chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm.
“Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel
until something should occur which might alter my determination. It was indeed
a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the rain-dropping
branches, and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure and was about to
remove a plank to procure myself a little water when I heard a step, and
looking through a small chink, I beheld a young creature, with a pail on her
head, passing before my hovel. The girl was young and of gentle demeanor, 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 molded 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 neighbors. 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 endeavoring
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 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 neighboring wood.
“I discovered also another means through which I was enabled
to assist their labors. 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 yet to understand or apply them, such as good, dearest, unhappy.
“I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and
beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to me; when they were unhappy, I
felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized in their joys. I saw few
human beings besides them, and if any other happened to enter the cottage,
their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior
accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavored
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 endeavored 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 unpracticed
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. During 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 neighboring 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 endeavor, 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 starlight,
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 labors, 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
demeanor and conciliating words, I should first win their favor and afterwards
their love.
“These thoughts exhilarated me and led me to apply with
fresh ardor 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 lapdog; 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 parts 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 labor—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 endeavoring 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 Sofie.’ 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 endeavored to explain to Sofie,
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. Sofie 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 Sofie was Volley'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 Asiatic, 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 Sofie 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 honor 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 ignorant,
but I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was,
besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even
of the same nature as man. I was more agile than they and could subsist upon
coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my
frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around, I saw and heard of
none like me. Was I, then, a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men
fled and whom all men disowned?
“I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections
inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with
knowledge. Oh, that I had forever remained in my native wood, nor known nor
felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!
“Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the
mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen on the rock. I wished
sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was,
but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death—a state
which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings and
loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers, but I was shut
out from intercourse with them, except through means which I obtained by
stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and which rather increased than
satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words
of Agatha and the animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not for me. The
mild exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of the loved Felix
were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!
“Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I
heard of the difference of sexes, and the birth and growth of children, how the
father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older
child, how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up in the precious
charge, how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge, of brother,
sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human being to another
in mutual bonds.
“But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched
my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they
had, all my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished
nothing. From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height and
proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me or who claimed any
intercourse with me. What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered
only with groans.
“I will soon explain to what these feelings tended, but
allow me now to return to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various
feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in
additional love and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an
innocent, half-painful self-deceit, to call them).”
Chapter 14
“Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my
friends. It was one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind,
unfolding as it did several 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 Sofie 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 Sofie 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 favor. The
Turk, amazed and delighted, endeavored 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 Sofie, 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 endeavored 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.
“Sofie 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 Sofie, 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 Sofie, 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 could take a rank in society was enchanting to her.
“The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed, but on the
night before 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 pretense 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 favorable
opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.
“Sofie 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 Sofie 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 favorable opportunity for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Sofie
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 failed. 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 honor 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 need of his virtue,
he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the Turk and the loss of his beloved Sofie
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 Sofie 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, Sofie 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. Sofie 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 Sofie
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 neighboring
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 Werther. 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 Werther, besides the interest of its simple and affecting story,
so many opinions are canvassed and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto
been to me obscure subjects that I found in it a never-ending source of
speculation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners it described,
combined with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object
something out of self, accorded well with my experience among my protectors and
with the wants which were forever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werther
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 the
merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction
I wept, without precisely understanding it.
“As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own
feelings and condition. I found myself similar yet at the same time strangely
unlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to whose conversation I was a
listener. I sympathized with and partly understood them, but I was unformed in
mind; I was dependent on none and related to none. ‘The path of my departure
was free,’ and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous
and my stature gigantic. What did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did
I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I
was unable to solve them.
“The volume of Plutarch’s Lives which I possessed contained
the histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a
far different effect upon me from the Sorrows of Werther. I learned from Werther'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 ardor 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, Noma, 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 Sofie 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 labors
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 endeavored to crush these fears and to fortify myself for
the trial which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed
my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and
dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing with my feelings and
cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation.
But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was
alone. I remembered Adam’s supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He
had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.
“Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the
leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance
it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not
heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for
the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the
flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me,
I turned with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not
decreased by the absence of summer. They loved and sympathized with one
another; and their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the
casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater
became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be
known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks directed
towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not
think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that
stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater
treasures than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I
did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it.
“The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the
seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My attention at this time was
solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my
protectors. I revolved many projects, but that on which I finally fixed was to
enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity
enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief
object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although
harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if in the absence
of his children I could gain the good will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I
might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors.
“One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed
the ground and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Sofie, Agatha,
and Felix departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own desire,
was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his
guitar and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than
I had ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with
pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length,
laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.
“My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial,
which would decide my hopes or realize my fears. The servants were gone to a neighboring
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 traveler
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 favor 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 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 forbids! Even if you were criminal, for that can
only drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am
unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent; judge,
therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’
“‘How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From
your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall
be forever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with those
friends whom I am on the point of meeting.’
“‘May I know the names and residence of those friends?’
“I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision,
which was to rob me of or bestow happiness on me forever. I struggled vainly
for firmness enough 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, Sofie,
and Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on
beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Sofie, 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 howling's. 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 sympathized 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 tranquility; and when I considered what had passed at the
cottage, I could not help believing that I had been too hasty in my
conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that my
conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having
exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to have familiarized
the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered myself to the rest of
his family, when they should have been prepared for my approach. But I did not
believe my errors to be irretrievable, and after much consideration I resolved
to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by my representations win him
to my party.
“These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon, I sank into
a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by
peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the preceding day was forever acting
before my eyes; the females were flying and the enraged Felix tearing me from
his father’s feet. I awoke exhausted, and finding that it was already night, I
crept forth from my hiding-place, and went in search of food.
“When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards
the well-known path that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace. I
crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation of the accustomed hour
when the family arose. That hour passed, the sun mounted high in the heavens,
but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently, apprehending some
dreadful misfortune. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion;
I cannot describe the agony of this suspense.
“Presently two countrymen passed by, but pausing near the
cottage, they entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I
did not understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country,
which differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix
approached with another man; I was surprised, as I knew that he had not quitted
the cottage that morning and waited anxiously to discover from his discourse
the meaning of these unusual appearances.
“‘Do you consider,’ said his companion to him, ‘that you
will be obliged to pay three months’ rent and to lose the produce of your garden?
I do not wish to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore that you will
take some days to consider of your determination.’
“‘It is utterly useless,’ replied Felix; ‘we can never again
inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing to
the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and my sister will never
recover from their horror. I entreat you not to reason with me anymore. 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 Sofie, 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 succor, 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 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 labor,
from the force of the current, saved her and dragged her to shore. She was
senseless, and I endeavored 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, endeavoring
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 labors 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. Despite my
malignity, it softened and attracted me. For a few moments I gazed with delight
on her dark eyes, fringed by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my
rage returned; I remembered that I was forever deprived of the delights that
such beautiful creatures could bestow and that she whose resemblance I
contemplated would, in regarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity
to one expressive of disgust and affright.
“Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage?
I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in
exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish in the attempt
to destroy them.
“While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot
where I had committed the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I
entered a barn which had appeared to me to be empty. A woman was sleeping on
some straw; she was young, not indeed so beautiful as her whose portrait I
held, but of an agreeable aspect and blooming in the loveliness of youth and
health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose joy-imparting smiles are
bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over her and whispered, ‘Awake,
fairest, thy lover is near—he who would give his life but to obtain one look of
affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!’
“The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me.
Should she indeed awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus,
would she assuredly act if her darkened eyes opened, and she beheld me. The
thought was madness; it stirred the fiend within me—not I, but she, shall
suffer; the murder I have committed because I am forever robbed of all that she
could give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her; be hers the
punishment! Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I
had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her and placed the portrait
securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled.
“For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had
taken place, sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world
and its miseries forever. At length I wandered towards these mountains, and
have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion which
you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have promised to comply with
my requisition. I am alone and miserable; man will not associate with me; but
one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My
companion must be of the same species and have the same defects. This being you
must create.”
Chapter 17
The being finished speaking and fixed his looks upon me in
the expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to
arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition.
He continued,
“You must create a female for me with whom I can live in the
interchange of those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do,
and I demand it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede.”
The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger
that had died away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and
as he said this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me.
“I do refuse it,” I replied; “and no torture shall ever
extort a consent from me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you
shall never make me base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself,
whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you;
you may torture me, but I will never consent.”
“You are in the wrong,” replied the fiend; “and instead of
threatening, I am content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am
miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would
tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man
more than he pities me? You would not call it murder if you could precipitate
me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my frame, the work of your own
hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let him live with me in the
interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would bestow every benefit
upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the
human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the
submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries; if I cannot inspire
love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my archenemy, because my
creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care; I will work at your
destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse
the hour of your birth.”
A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was
wrinkled into contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently
he calmed himself and proceeded—
“I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me,
for you do not reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If any being felt
emotions of benevolence towards me, I should return them a hundred and a
hundredfold; for that one creature’s sake I would make peace with the whole
kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realized. What I ask
of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as
hideous as myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive,
and it shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the
world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives
will not be happy, but they will be harmless and free from the misery I now
feel. Oh! My creator makes 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 enough 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 favorable
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 neighborhood of man and
dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will
have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly away, and
in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker.”
His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassionated him
and sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when I looked upon him, when I
saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my feelings
were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these sensations;
I thought that as I could not sympathize with him, I had no right to withhold
from him the small portion of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow.
“You swear,” I said, “to be harmless; but have you not
already shown a degree of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you?
May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph by affording a
wider scope for your revenge?”
“How is this? I must not be trifled with, and I demand an
answer. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my
portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall
become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant. My vices are the
children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues will necessarily
arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a
sensitive being and become linked to the chain of existence and events from
which I am now excluded.”
I paused some time to reflect on all he had related and the
various arguments which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues
which he had displayed on the opening of his existence and the subsequent
blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had
manifested towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my
calculations; a creature who could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers and
hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices was a
being possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause of
reflection, I concluded that the justice due both to him and my fellow
creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request. Turning to him,
therefore, I said,
“I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit
Europe for ever, and every other place in the neighborhood 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 labors; 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 labor 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 naught; 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 sirocco on its way to
consume me.
Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamonix;
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 pretense 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 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 honor to Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion
the poignant misery which you appear to feel.”
“My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin
tenderly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does,
my warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and prospects are entirely
bound up in the expectation of our union.”
“The expression of your sentiments of this subject, my dear
Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you feel
thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast a gloom over
us. But it is this gloom which appears to have taken so strong a hold of your
mind that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an immediate
solemnization of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have
drawn us from that everyday tranquility 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 of honor 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 candor 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 endeavored 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 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 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 forever.
These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed
a wish to visit England, but concealing the true reasons of this request, I
clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I urged my
desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to comply. After so
long a period of an absorbing melancholy that resembled madness in its intensity
and effects, he was glad to find that I was capable of taking pleasure in the
idea of such a journey, and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement
would, before my return, have restored me entirely to myself.
The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few
months, or at most a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal kind
precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without previously
communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval
should join me at Strasburg. 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 decided 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 but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my
friends. I was agonized with the idea of the possibility that the reverse of
this might happen. But through the whole period during which I was the slave of
my creature I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of the moment; and
my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend would follow me and
exempt my family from the danger of his machinations.
It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted
my native country. My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth
therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of my
suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief. It had been her care
which provided me a companion in Clerval—and yet a man is blind to a thousand-minute
circumstances which call forth a woman’s sedulous attention. She longed to bid
me hasten my return; a thousand conflicting emotions rendered her mute as she
bade me a tearful, silent farewell.
I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away,
hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around. I
remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to
order that my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me. Filled with
dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes, but
my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could only think of the Bourne of my
travels and the work which was to occupy me whilst they endured.
After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I
traversed many leagues, I arrived at Strasburg, 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 happier
when he beheld it rise and recommence a new day. He pointed out to me the
shifting colors 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 Strasburg
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 Strasburg, 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 laborer's 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 tranquility 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 Fairyland 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 stranger, but there is a
charm in the banks of this divine river that I never saw equaled. 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 laborer's
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 enough to satisfy his eager mind. The
scenery of external nature, which others regard only with admiration, he loved
with ardor: —
——The sounding cataract
Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colors 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
Unborrowed from the eye.
[Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey”.]
And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being
lost forever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and
magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life of its creator;
—has this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it is not
thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but
your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend.
Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but
a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart,
overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will proceed with
my tale.
Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we
resolved to post the remainder of our way, for the wind was contrary and the
stream of the river was too gentle to aid us.
Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful
scenery, but we arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea
to England. It was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I
first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new
scene; they were flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the
remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish
Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich—places which I had heard of even in
my country.
At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s
towering above all, and the Tower famed in English history.
Chapter 19
London was our present point of rest; we determined to
remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired
the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at this time,
but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied with the
means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of my promise
and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought
with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers.
If this journey had taken place during my days of study and
happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had
come over my existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the
information they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so
terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind
with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could
thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous
faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed
between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William
and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my
soul with anguish.
But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was
inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of
manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and
amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design
was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various
languages, and in the views, he had taken of its society, the means of
materially assisting the progress of European colonization and trade. In
Britain only could he further the execution of his plan. He was forever busy,
and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I
tried to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the
pleasures natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed
by any care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging
another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials
necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single
drops of water continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted
to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it
caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.
After passing some months in London, we received a letter
from a person in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He
mentioned the beauties of his native country and asked us if those were not enough
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 labors 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 enough 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 endeavoring 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 neighborhood 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 pony 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 Servo and Chamonix.
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 traveler's life is one that includes
much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the stretch; and
when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on
which he rests in pleasure for something new, which again engages his
attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.
We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and
Westmorland and conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants when the
period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them
to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise
for some time, and I feared the effects of the demon'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 Couper, 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 their
feelings or plans with the good humor 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 labors. 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 unflustered, 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 unglazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance
of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suffer blunt even the coarsest
sensations of men.
In this retreat I devoted the morning to labor; 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 roaring of the giant ocean.
In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first
arrived, but as I proceeded in my labor, 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 labor, 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 meantime, I worked on, and my labor 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 labor 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 friend whose unparalleled barbarity had
desolated my heart and filled it forever with the bitterest remorse. I was now
about to form another being of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she
might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate and delight, for
its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighborhood
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 demon
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 demon 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 labors; 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 someone endeavored 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 endeavor to
fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot.
Presently I heard 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 demon whose delight is in
death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate
my rage.”
The monster saw my determination in my face and gnashed his
teeth in the impotence of anger. “Shall each man,” cried he, “find a wife for
his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of
affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! You may hate,
but beware! Your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will
fall which must ravish from you your happiness forever. Are you to be happy
while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other
passions, but revenge remains—revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I
may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes
on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless and therefore powerful. I will watch
with the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall
repent of the injuries you inflict.”
“Devil cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of
malice. I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend
beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable.”
“It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your
wedding-night.”
I started forward and exclaimed, “Villain! Before you sign
my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe.”
I would have seized him, but he eluded me and quitted the
house with precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot
across the waters with an arrow 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 the next victim might be 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 demon whom I had myself created.
I walked about the isle like a restless specter, 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 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 enough 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 demon. 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 labors 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 endeavored to change my course but quickly found
that if I again made the attempt the boat would be instantly filled with water.
Thus situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I
felt a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me and was so slenderly
acquainted with the geography of this part of the world that the sun was of
little benefit to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic and feel all the
tortures of starvation or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that
roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours and felt the
torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the
heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew before the wind, only to be
replaced by others; I looked upon the sea; it was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I
exclaimed, “your task is already fulfilled!” I thought of Elizabeth, of my father,
and of Clerval—all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his
sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie so
despairing and frightful that even now, when the scene is on the point of
closing before me forever, I shudder to reflect on it.
Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined
towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze and the sea became
free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell; I felt sick and
hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards
the south.
Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue and the dreadful suspense
I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood
of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.
How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that
clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery! I constructed
another sail with a part of my dress and eagerly steered my course towards the
land. It had a wild and rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer, I easily
perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore and found
myself suddenly transported back to the neighborhood of civilized man. I
carefully traced the windings of the land and hailed a steeple which I at
length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of
extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place
where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately, I had money with
me. As I turned the promontory, I perceived a small neat town and a good harbor,
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. Kirwan's to
give an account of yourself.”
“Who is Mr. Kirwan? Why am I to give an account of myself?
Is not this a free country?”
“Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwan 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 harbor, 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 endeavored, 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 unfavorable 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 harbor ignorant of the distance of the town of —— from the place where
I had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwan, 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. Kirwan alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were
enough 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 goalers,
turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning,
I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars
of what had happened and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly
overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the
squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory and I
groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a
chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and
her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that
class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons
accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed
her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me
as one that I had heard during my sufferings.
“Are you better now, sir?” said she.
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, “I
believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that
I am still alive to feel this misery and horror.”
“For that matter,” replied the old woman, “if you mean about
the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were
dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that’s none of my
business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty with a safe
conscience; it was 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.
Kirwan 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. Kirwan entered. His
countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine
and addressed me in French,
“I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do
anything to make you more comfortable?”
“I thank you, but all that you mention is nothing to me; on
the whole earth there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving.”
“I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little
relief to one borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I
hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can easily be
brought to free you from the criminal charge.”
“That is my least concern; I am, by a course of strange
events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am
and have been, can death be any evil to me?”
“Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonizing than
the strange chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some
surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality, seized
immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to
your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner
and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path.”
As Mr. Kirwan 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. Kirwan 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. Kirwan 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. Kirwan 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 were
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 endeavored,
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 tranquility. Mr. Kirwan 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 ending. Soon, oh, very soon, will death
extinguish these throbbing 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. Kirwan charged himself with every care of
collecting witnesses and arranging my defense. I was spared the disgrace of
appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before the court
that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being
proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was
found; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison.
My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the
vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh
atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country. I did not participate
in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike
hateful. The cup of life was poisoned forever, and although the sun shone upon
me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and
frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that
glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing
in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long black lashes
that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as
I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection.
He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but
these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for
happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved cousin or longed,
with a devouring maladies 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 endeavored 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 endeavored 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 would forever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I
could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with
consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I
checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy and was silent when I
would have given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet, still, words
like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no
explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved the burden of my
mysterious woe.
Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of
unbounded wonder, “My dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I
entreat you never to make such an assertion again.”
“I am not mad,” I cried energetically; “the sun and the
heavens, who have viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the
assassin of those most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A
thousand times would I have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved
their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole
human race.”
The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my
ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation
and endeavored 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 calmer; misery had her
dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of
my own crimes; enough 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 tranquility.
“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 before 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 favorite
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 honor 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 cruelest misfortunes,
you may stifle, by the word honor, 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 tranquility.
“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 Lavenia.
“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 demon 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 centered in you.
Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life and my endeavors
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 tranquility 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 endeavor 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 the hellish
intention of my fiendish adversary might be, 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 Lavenia 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 tranquility. Indeed, as the period approached,
the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb
my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater
appearance of certainty as the day fixed for its solemnization drew nearer and
I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could
possibly prevent.
Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanor contributed
greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my
destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and
perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal
to her on the following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed, and, in
the bustle of preparation, only recognized in the melancholy of his niece the
diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony was performed a large party assembled at
my father’s, but it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey
by water, sleeping that night at Evian and continuing our voyage on the
following day. The day was fair, the wind favorable; 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 Salve, the
pleasant banks of Montenegro, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful
Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavor 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 endeavor
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 endeavored 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 Durance
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 amphitheater
of mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under
the woods that surrounded it and the range of mountain above mountain by which
it was overhung.
The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing
rapidity, sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water
and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from
which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sank
beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore, I felt those
cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to me forever.
Chapter 23
It was eight o’clock when we landed; we walked for a short
time on the shore, enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn
and contemplated the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in
darkness, yet still displaying their black outlines.
The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great
violence in the west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens and was
beginning to descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the
vulture and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy
heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to
rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.
I had been calm during the day, but so soon as night
obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious
and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my
bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I would sell my life
dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or that of my
adversary was extinguished.
Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and
fearful silence, but there was something in my glance which communicated terror
to her, and trembling, she asked, “What is it that agitates you, my dear
Victor? What is it you fear?”
“Oh! Peace, peace, my love,” replied I; “this night, and all
will be safe; but this night is dreadful, very dreadful.”
I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I
reflected how fearful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my
wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until
I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.
She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down
the passages of the house and inspecting every corner that might afford a
retreat to my adversary. But I discovered no trace of him and was beginning to
conjecture that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution
of his menaces when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from
the room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth
rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fiber 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 feel 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 ardor, 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 unfavorable, 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 demon 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 endeavored
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 molded my feelings and allowed me to be
calculating and calm at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have
been my portion.
My first resolution was to quit Geneva forever; my country,
which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity,
became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few
jewels which had belonged to my mother and departed.
And now my wanderings began which are to cease but with
life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth and have endured all the
hardships which travelers 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 labor 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 demon who caused this misery, until he or I
shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose, I will preserve my life; to
execute this dear revenge will I again behold the sun and tread the green
herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes forever. And I
call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance,
to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep
of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me.”
I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which
almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my
devotion, but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my
utterance.
I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and
fiendish laugh. It rang on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed
it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely
in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy and have destroyed my
miserable existence but that my vow was heard and that I was reserved for
vengeance. The laughter died away, when a well-known and abhorred voice,
apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper, “I am
satisfied, miserable wretch! You have determined to live, and I am satisfied.”
I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded,
but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose and
shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he fled with more than
mortal speed.
I pursued him, and for many months this has been my task.
Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The
blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by
night and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage
in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not how.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still
evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by
this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who feared
that if I lost all trace of him, I should despair and die, left some mark to
guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step
on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new and
agony unknown, how can you understand what I have felt and still feel? Cold,
want, and fatigue were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was
cursed by some devil and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a
spirit of good followed and directed my steps and when I most murmured would
suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes,
when nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion, a repast was
prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me. The fare was,
indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but I will not doubt
that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when
all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud
would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish.
I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the
demon generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the
country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen, and I
generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with
me and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or I brought
with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always
presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.
My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it
was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! Often, when
most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The
spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of
happiness that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of
this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was
sustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep I saw my friends,
my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my
father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s voice, and beheld Clerval
enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded
myself that I was dreaming until night should come and that I should then enjoy
reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing fondness did I feel
for them! How did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even
my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments
vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path
towards the destruction of the demon 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 hardiest 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 labors.
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 fervor 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
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 fight 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 demon; 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 succor
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 vigor
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 demon,
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 Sofie, 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 endeavored
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 endeavors to move
the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he
have been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in
ruin! He seems to feel his own worth and the greatness of his fall.
“When younger,” said he, “I believed myself destined for
some great enterprise. My feelings are profound, but I possessed a coolness of
judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the
worth of my nature supported me when others would have been oppressed, for I
deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be
useful to my fellow creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no
less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not
rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which
supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me
lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing, and like the
archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My
imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense;
by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea and executed the creation
of a man. Even now I cannot recollect without passion my reveries while the
work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers,
now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with
high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had
known me as I once was, you would not recognize me in this state of
degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear
me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise.”
Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a
friend; I have sought one who would sympathize with and love me. Behold, on
these desert seas I have found such a one, but I fear I have gained him only to
know his value and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the
idea.
“I thank you, Walton,” he said, “for your kind intentions
towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties and fresh
affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be
to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections
are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our
childhood always possess a certain power over our minds which hardly any later
friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they
may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our
actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A
sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown
early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend,
however strongly he may be attached, may, despite 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 visiting's 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 endeavors 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 despite 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 vigor. 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 honorable
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 honor
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 honor, 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 endeavor 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 roaring's 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 endeavored 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 tranquility 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 color and apparent texture like that of a
mummy. When he heard 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 endeavored to recollect what were my duties about 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 love. 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 demon. “Do you think that I was
then dead to agony and remorse? He,” he continued, pointing to the corpse, “he
suffered not in the consummation of the deed. Oh! Not the ten-thousandth
portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its
execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned
with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My
heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy, and when wrenched
by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change
without torture such as you cannot even imagine.
“After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland,
heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I
abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my
existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness, that
while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me he sought his own
enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was forever
barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable
thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat and resolved that it should be
accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I
was the slave, not the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not
disobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all
feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil
thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my
nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my
demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is
my last victim!”
I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery;
yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of
eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of
my friend, indignation was rekindled within me. “Wretch!” I said. “It is well
that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You throw a
torch into a pile of buildings, and when they are consumed, you sit among the
ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! If he whom you mourn still
lived, still would he be the object, again would he become the prey, of your
accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the
victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power.”
“Oh, it is not thus—not thus,” interrupted the being. “Yet
such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport
of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I
ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of
happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to
be participated. But now that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that
happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what
should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone while my sufferings
shall endure; when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium
should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of
fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings who, pardoning
my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable
of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honor and devotion. But now
crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no
malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the
frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature
whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the
beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes
a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and
associates in his desolation; I am alone.
“You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a
knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in the detail which he gave you
of them he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured
wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not
satisfy my own desires. They were forever ardent and craving; still I desired
love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this?
Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all humankind sinned against me? Why
do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why
do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the savior 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 has not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not
desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou
wert, my agony was still superior to thine, for the bitter sting of remorse
will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them forever.
“But soon,” he cried with sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I
shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries
will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly and exult in the
agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away;
my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in
peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell.”
He sprang from the cabin-window as he said this, upon the
ice raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves and
lost in darkness and distance.
Frankenstein or, the Modern Prometheus by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
Reviewed by bsm
on
August 06, 2019
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