Mary Shelley’s early life was a mess.
Her mother, a noted
feminist, died days after Mary was born. Mary had a half-sister from an affair
that her mother had been involved in. When her father remarried, Mary’s new
stepmother didn't think that Mary should be sent to school. (Even though she
sent her own biological children to school)
According to Mary, in an
effort to educate herself, she would spend hours reading at her mother’s grave
where she learned how to write by tracing the letters on her gravestone (That
parts a bit doubtful) and, so she said, she later lost her virginity at the
gravesite as well.
Mary published her first
poem at the age of 11. (Well, sort of, the poem was "Mounseer Nongtongpaw," and she published it through her father's company) .Five years later, in 1812, she met the poet Percy
Shelley who was married and had a child. Regardless, Percy and Mary eloped and
two years later they had a child together.
But, while Mary may have
come up with the concept for Frankenstein, did she actually write it or did Percy write it for her?
Frankenstein.
Letter 1
To Mrs. Saville, England.
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th,
17—.
You will rejoice to hear
that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you
have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my
first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in
the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of
London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern
breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight.
Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the
regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid.
I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and
desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty
and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its broad disk just
skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There—for with your
leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and
frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land
surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the
habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the
phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered
solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light? I may there
discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a
thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their
seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity
with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a
land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and
they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to
commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a
little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his
native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot
contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the
last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to
reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the
secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an
undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have
dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow
with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much
to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix
its intellectual eye. This expedition has been the favourite dream of my early
years. I have read with ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have
been made in the prospect of arriving at the North Pacific Ocean through the
seas which surround the pole. You may remember that a history of all the
voyages made for purposes of discovery composed the whole of our good Uncle
Thomas’ library. My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of
reading. These volumes were my study day and night, and my familiarity with
them increased that regret which I had felt, as a child, on learning that my
father’s dying injunction had forbidden my uncle to allow me to embark in a
seafaring life.
These visions faded when I
perused, for the first time, those poets whose effusions entranced my soul and
lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and for one year lived in a paradise
of my own creation; I imagined that I also might obtain a niche in the temple
where the names of Homer and Shakespeare are consecrated. You are well
acquainted with my failure and how heavily I bore the disappointment. But just
at that time I inherited the fortune of my cousin, and my thoughts were turned
into the channel of their earlier bent.
Six years have passed since
I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even now, remember the hour from
which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. I commenced by inuring my
body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on several expeditions to the
North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, thirst, and want of sleep; I
often worked harder than the common sailors during the day and devoted my
nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of medicine, and those branches
of physical science from which a naval adventurer might derive the greatest
practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as an under-mate in a
Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I felt a
little proud when my captain offered me the second dignity in the vessel and
entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness, so valuable did he consider
my services.
And now, dear Margaret, do
I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My life might have been passed
in ease and luxury, but I preferred glory to every enticement that wealth
placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice would answer in the
affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my hopes fluctuate, and
my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on a long and difficult
voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my fortitude: I am required
not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain my own, when
theirs are failing.
This is the most favourable
period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in their
sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than
that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not excessive, if you are wrapped in
furs—a dress which I have already adopted, for there is a great difference
between walking the deck and remaining seated motionless for hours, when no
exercise prevents the blood from actually freezing in your veins. I have no
ambition to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and
Archangel.
I shall depart for the
latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my intention is to hire a ship
there, which can easily be done by paying the insurance for the owner, and to
engage as many sailors as I think necessary among those who are accustomed to
the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail until the month of June; and when
shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I answer this question? If I succeed,
many, many months, perhaps years, will pass before you and I may meet. If I
fail, you will see me again soon, or never.
Farewell, my dear,
excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, and save me, that I
may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love and kindness.
Your affectionate brother,
R. Walton
Letter 2
To Mrs. Saville, England.
Archangel, 28th March, 17—.
How slowly the time passes
here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! Yet a second step is taken towards
my enterprise. I have hired a vessel and am occupied in collecting my sailors;
those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend and are
certainly possessed of dauntless courage.
But I have one want which I
have never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I
now feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing
with the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I
am assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me in
dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that is a poor
medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a man who
could sympathise with me, whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem me
romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have no
one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as of a
capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans. How
would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent in
execution and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil to
me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran wild
on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas’ books of voyages. At that
age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country; but it
was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important
benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming
acquainted with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am
twenty-eight and am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen.
It is true that I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended and
magnificent, but they want (as the painters call it) keeping; and I greatly
need a friend who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and
affection enough for me to endeavour to regulate my mind.
Well, these are useless
complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here
in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the
dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for instance,
is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory, or
rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement in his
profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional
prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments
of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel;
finding that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in
my enterprise.
The master is a person of
an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness and
the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, added to his well-known
integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous to engage him. A youth
passed in solitude, my best years spent under your gentle and feminine
fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character that I cannot overcome
an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on board ship: I have
never believed it to be necessary, and when I heard of a mariner equally noted
for his kindliness of heart and the respect and obedience paid to him by his
crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being able to secure his services.
I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him
the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved
a young Russian lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable sum
in prize-money, the father of the girl consented to the match. He saw his
mistress once before the destined ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and
throwing herself at his feet, entreated him to spare her, confessing at the
same time that she loved another, but that he was poor, and that her father
would never consent to the union. My generous friend reassured the suppliant,
and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly abandoned his
pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his money, on which he had designed
to pass the remainder of his life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival,
together with the remains of his prize-money to purchase stock, and then
himself solicited the young woman’s father to consent to her marriage with her
lover. But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour to
my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, nor
returned until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her
inclinations. “What a noble fellow!” you will exclaim. He is so; but then he is
wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant
carelessness attends him, which, while it renders his conduct the more
astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would
command.
Yet do not suppose, because
I complain a little or because I can conceive a consolation for my toils which
I may never know, that I am wavering in my resolutions. Those are as fixed as
fate, and my voyage is only now delayed until the weather shall permit my
embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully severe, but the spring promises
well, and it is considered as a remarkably early season, so that perhaps I may
sail sooner than I expected. I shall do nothing rashly: you know me
sufficiently to confide in my prudence and considerateness whenever the safety
of others is committed to my care.
I cannot describe to you my
sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. It is impossible to
communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable
and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart. I am going to unexplored
regions, to “the land of mist and snow,” but I shall kill no albatross;
therefore do not be alarmed for my safety or if I should come back to you as
worn and woeful as the “Ancient Mariner.” You will smile at my allusion, but I
will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate
enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that production of the most
imaginative of modern poets. There is something at work in my soul which I do
not understand. I am practically industrious—painstaking, a workman to execute
with perseverance and labour—but besides this there is a love for the
marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, intertwined in all my projects, which
hurries me out of the common pathways of men, even to the wild sea and
unvisited regions I am about to explore.
But to return to dearer
considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having traversed immense seas,
and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or America? I dare not expect
such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the picture. Continue
for the present to write to me by every opportunity: I may receive your letters
on some occasions when I need them most to support my spirits. I love you very
tenderly. Remember me with affection, should you never hear from me again.
Your affectionate brother,
Robert Walton
Letter 3
To Mrs. Saville, England.
July 7th, 17—.
My dear Sister,
I write a few lines in
haste to say that I am safe—and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will
reach England by a merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more
fortunate than I, who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I
am, however, in good spirits: my men are bold and apparently firm of purpose,
nor do the floating sheets of ice that continually pass us, indicating the
dangers of the region towards which we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We
have already reached a very high latitude; but it is the height of summer, and
although not so warm as in England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily
towards those shores which I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of
renovating warmth which I had not expected.
No incidents have hitherto
befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales and
the springing of a leak are accidents which experienced navigators scarcely
remember to record, and I shall be well content if nothing worse happen to us
during our voyage.
Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be
assured that for my own sake, as well as yours, I will not rashly encounter
danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.
But success shall crown my
endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, tracing a secure way over the
pathless seas, the very stars themselves being witnesses and testimonies of my
triumph. Why not still proceed over the untamed yet obedient element? What can
stop the determined heart and resolved will of man?
My swelling heart
involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish. Heaven bless my beloved
sister!
R.W.
Letter 4
To Mrs. Saville, England.
August 5th, 17—.
So strange an accident has
happened to us that I cannot forbear recording it, although it is very probable
that you will see me before these papers can come into your possession.
Last Monday (July 31st) we
were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the ship on all sides, scarcely
leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat
dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We
accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take place in the atmosphere
and weather.
About two o’clock the mist
cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and
irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades
groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a
strange sight suddenly attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from
our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a sledge and drawn by
dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a mile; a being which
had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stature, sat in the sledge
and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our
telescopes until he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice.
This appearance excited our
unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many hundred miles from any land;
but this apparition seemed to denote that it was not, in reality, so distant as
we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it was impossible to follow his
track, which we had observed with the greatest attention.
About two hours after this
occurrence we heard the ground sea, and before night the ice broke and freed
our ship. We, however, lay to until the morning, fearing to encounter in the
dark those large loose masses which float about after the breaking up of the
ice. I profited of this time to rest for a few hours.
In the morning, however, as
soon as it was light, I went upon deck and found all the sailors busy on one
side of the vessel, apparently talking to someone in the sea. It was, in fact,
a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night
on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog remained alive; but there was a human
being within it whom the sailors were persuading to enter the vessel. He was
not, as the other traveller seemed to be, a savage inhabitant of some
undiscovered island, but a European. When I appeared on deck the master said,
“Here is our captain, and he will not allow you to perish on the open sea.”
On perceiving me, the
stranger addressed me in English, although with a foreign accent. “Before I
come on board your vessel,” said he, “will you have the kindness to inform me
whither you are bound?”
You may conceive my
astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me from a man on the brink
of destruction and to whom I should have supposed that my vessel would have
been a resource which he would not have exchanged for the most precious wealth
the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we were on a voyage of discovery
towards the northern pole.
Upon hearing this he
appeared satisfied and consented to come on board. Good God! Margaret, if you
had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, your surprise would have
been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his body dreadfully emaciated
by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so wretched a condition. We
attempted to carry him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh
air he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to the deck and restored him to
animation by rubbing him with brandy and forcing him to swallow a small
quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we wrapped him up in blankets and
placed him near the chimney of the kitchen stove. By slow degrees he recovered
and ate a little soup, which restored him wonderfully.
Two days passed in this
manner before he was able to speak, and I often feared that his sufferings had
deprived him of understanding. When he had in some measure recovered, I removed
him to my own cabin and attended on him as much as my duty would permit. I
never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes have generally an expression of
wildness, and even madness, but there are moments when, if anyone performs an
act of kindness towards him or does him any the most trifling service, his
whole countenance is lighted up, as it were, with a beam of benevolence and
sweetness that I never saw equalled. But he is generally melancholy and
despairing, and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, as if impatient of the weight
of woes that oppresses him.
When my guest was a little
recovered I had great trouble to keep off the men, who wished to ask him a
thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be tormented by their idle
curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose restoration evidently depended upon
entire repose. Once, however, the lieutenant asked why he had come so far upon
the ice in so strange a vehicle.
His countenance instantly
assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom, and he replied, “To seek one who fled
from me.”
“And did the man whom you
pursued travel in the same fashion?”
“Yes.”
“Then I fancy we have seen
him, for the day before we picked you up we saw some dogs drawing a sledge,
with a man in it, across the ice.”
This aroused the stranger’s
attention, and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the route which the
dæmon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with me, he
said, “I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of these good
people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.”
“Certainly; it would indeed
be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness
of mine.”
“And yet you rescued me
from a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently restored me to
life.”
Soon after this he inquired
if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge. I
replied that I could not answer with any degree of certainty, for the ice had
not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at a place
of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge.
From this time a new spirit
of life animated the decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested the greatest
eagerness to be upon deck to watch for the sledge which had before appeared;
but I have persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he is far too weak to
sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have promised that someone should
watch for him and give him instant notice if any new object should appear in
sight.
Such is my journal of what
relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has
gradually improved in health but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone
except myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle
that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little
communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and
his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have
been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive
and amiable.
I said in one of my
letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on the wide ocean; yet
I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken by misery, I should
have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my heart.
I shall continue my journal
concerning the stranger at intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to
record.
August 13th, 17—.
My affection for my guest
increases every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an
astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery
without feeling the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind
is so cultivated, and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the
choicest art, yet they flow with rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.
He is now much recovered
from his illness and is continually on the deck, apparently watching for the
sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although unhappy, he is not so utterly
occupied by his own misery but that he interests himself deeply in the projects
of others. He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have
communicated to him without disguise. He entered attentively into all my
arguments in favour of my eventual success and into every minute detail of the
measures I had taken to secure it. I was easily led by the sympathy which he
evinced to use the language of my heart, to give utterance to the burning
ardour of my soul and to say, with all the fervour that warmed me, how gladly I
would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance of
my enterprise. One man’s life or death were but a small price to pay for the
acquirement of the knowledge which I sought, for the dominion I should acquire
and transmit over the elemental foes of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom
spread over my listener’s countenance. At first I perceived that he tried to
suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my voice
quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fingers;
a groan burst from his heaving breast. I paused; at length he spoke, in broken
accents: “Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the
intoxicating draught? Hear me; let me reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup
from your lips!”
Such words, you may
imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of grief that had
seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and
tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.
Having conquered the
violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself for being the slave of
passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he led me again to converse
concerning myself personally. He asked me the history of my earlier years. The
tale was quickly told, but it awakened various trains of reflection. I spoke of
my desire of finding a friend, of my thirst for a more intimate sympathy with a
fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a
man could boast of little happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.
“I agree with you,” replied
the stranger; “we are unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser,
better, dearer than ourselves—such a friend ought to be—do not lend his aid to
perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble
of human creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship.
You have hope, and the world before you, and have no cause for despair. But I—I
have lost everything and cannot begin life anew.”
As he said this his
countenance became expressive of a calm, settled grief that touched me to the
heart. But he was silent and presently retired to his cabin.
Even broken in spirit as he
is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry
sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to
have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double
existence: he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when
he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that has a halo
around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.
Will you smile at the
enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would not if you saw
him. You have been tutored and refined by books and retirement from the world,
and you are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more
fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I
have endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that
elevates him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it
to be an intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a
penetration into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision;
add to this a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations are
soul-subduing music.
August 19th, 17—.
Yesterday the stranger said
to me, “You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and
unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at one time that the memory of these
evils should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You
seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the
gratification of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has
been. I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you;
yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to
the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may
deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in
your undertaking and console you in case of failure. Prepare to hear of
occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes
of nature I might fear to encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but
many things will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which
would provoke the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of
nature; nor can I doubt but that my tale conveys in its series internal
evidence of the truth of the events of which it is composed.”
You may easily imagine that
I was much gratified by the offered communication, yet I could not endure that
he should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest
eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from
a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed
these feelings in my answer.
“I thank you,” he replied,
“for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait but
for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your feeling,”
continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; “but you are mistaken,
my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing can alter my destiny;
listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it is determined.”
He then told me that he
would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This
promise drew from me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am
not imperatively occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his
own words, what he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will
at least make notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest
pleasure; but to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lips—with what
interest and sympathy shall I read it in some future day! Even now, as I
commence my task, his full-toned voice swells in my ears; his lustrous eyes
dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; I see his thin hand raised in
animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by the soul within. Strange
and harrowing must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced the gallant
vessel on its course and wrecked it—thus!
Chapter 1
I am by birth a Genevese,
and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic. My ancestors
had been for many years counsellors and syndics, and my father had filled
several public situations with honour and reputation. He was respected by all who
knew him for his integrity and indefatigable attention to public business. He
passed his younger days perpetually occupied by the affairs of his country; a
variety of circumstances had prevented his marrying early, nor was it until the
decline of life that he became a husband and the father of a family.
As the circumstances of his
marriage illustrate his character, I cannot refrain from relating them. One of
his most intimate friends was a merchant who, from a flourishing state, fell,
through numerous mischances, into poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort,
was of a proud and unbending disposition and could not bear to live in poverty
and oblivion in the same country where he had formerly been distinguished for
his rank and magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most
honourable manner, he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where
he lived unknown and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest
friendship and was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate
circumstances. He bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a
conduct so little worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in
endeavouring to seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the
world again through his credit and assistance.
Beaufort had taken
effectual measures to conceal himself, and it was ten months before my father
discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he hastened to the house,
which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But when he entered, misery
and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of
money from the wreck of his fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with
sustenance for some months, and in the meantime he hoped to procure some
respectable employment in a merchant’s house. The interval was, consequently,
spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankling when he had
leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of his mind that at
the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable of any exertion.
His daughter attended him
with the greatest tenderness, but she saw with despair that their little fund
was rapidly decreasing and that there was no other prospect of support. But
Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an uncommon mould, and her courage rose
to support her in her adversity. She procured plain work; she plaited straw and
by various means contrived to earn a pittance scarcely sufficient to support
life.
Several months passed in
this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more entirely occupied in
attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her
father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a beggar. This last blow
overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort’s coffin weeping bitterly, when my
father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit to the poor girl,
who committed herself to his care; and after the interment of his friend he
conducted her to Geneva and placed her under the protection of a relation. Two
years after this event Caroline became his wife.
There was a considerable
difference between the ages of my parents, but this circumstance seemed to
unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of
justice in my father’s upright mind which rendered it necessary that he should
approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during former years he had suffered
from the late-discovered unworthiness of one beloved and so was disposed to set
a greater value on tried worth. There was a show of gratitude and worship in
his attachment to my mother, differing wholly from the doting fondness of age,
for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to be the means
of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but which
gave inexpressible grace to his behaviour to her. Everything was made to yield
to her wishes and her convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic
is sheltered by the gardener, from every rougher wind and to surround her with
all that could tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent
mind. Her health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit,
had been shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had
elapsed previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his
public functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant
climate of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour
through that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame.
From Italy they visited
Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at Naples, and as an infant
accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for several years their only
child. Much as they were attached to each other, they seemed to draw
inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to bestow them upon
me. My mother’s tender caresses and my father’s smile of benevolent pleasure
while regarding me are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their
idol, and something better—their child, the innocent and helpless creature
bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose future lot it
was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as they
fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep consciousness of what they
owed towards the being to which they had given life, added to the active spirit
of tenderness that animated both, it may be imagined that while during every
hour of my infant life I received a lesson of patience, of charity, and of
self-control, I was so guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of
enjoyment to me.
For a long time I was their
only care. My mother had much desired to have a daughter, but I continued their
single offspring. When I was about five years old, while making an excursion
beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a week on the shores of the Lake of
Como. Their benevolent disposition often made them enter the cottages of the
poor. This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a
passion—remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved—for
her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their
walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly
disconsolate, while the number of half-clothed children gathered about it spoke
of penury in its worst shape. One day, when my father had gone by himself to
Milan, my mother, accompanied by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant
and his wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty
meal to five hungry babes. Among these there was one which attracted my mother
far above all the rest. She appeared of a different stock. The four others were
dark-eyed, hardy little vagrants; this child was thin and very fair. Her hair
was the brightest living gold, and despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed
to set a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her
blue eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of
sensibility and sweetness that none could behold her without looking on her as
of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp in
all her features.
The peasant woman,
perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and admiration on this lovely
girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not her child, but the daughter
of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German and had died on giving her
birth. The infant had been placed with these good people to nurse: they were
better off then. They had not been long married, and their eldest child was but
just born. The father of their charge was one of those Italians nursed in the
memory of the antique glory of Italy—one among the schiavi ognor frementi, who
exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his country. He became the victim of
its weakness. Whether he had died or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria
was not known. His property was confiscated; his child became an orphan and a
beggar. She continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode,
fairer than a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.
When my father returned
from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of our villa a child fairer
than pictured cherub—a creature who seemed to shed radiance from her looks and
whose form and motions were lighter than the chamois of the hills. The
apparition was soon explained. With his permission my mother prevailed on her
rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They were fond of the sweet
orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them, but it would be unfair to
her to keep her in poverty and want when Providence afforded her such powerful
protection. They consulted their village priest, and the result was that
Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents’ house—my more than
sister—the beautiful and adored companion of all my occupations and my
pleasures.
Everyone loved Elizabeth.
The passionate and almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her
became, while I shared it, my pride and my delight. On the evening previous to
her being brought to my home, my mother had said playfully, “I have a pretty
present for my Victor—tomorrow he shall have it.” And when, on the morrow, she
presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childish seriousness,
interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine—mine to
protect, love, and cherish. All praises bestowed on her I received as made to a
possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No
word, no expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to
me—my more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.
Chapter 2
We were brought up
together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need not say
that we were strangers to any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the
soul of our companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our
characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth was of a calmer and more
concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I was capable of a more
intense application and was more deeply smitten with the thirst for knowledge.
She busied herself with following the aerial creations of the poets; and in the
majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swiss home —the sublime
shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tempest and calm, the
silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine summers—she found
ample scope for admiration and delight. While my companion contemplated with a
serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted
in investigating their causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to
divine. Curiosity, earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature,
gladness akin to rapture, as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest
sensations I can remember.
On the birth of a second
son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up entirely their wandering life
and fixed themselves in their native country. We possessed a house in Geneva,
and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of
rather more than a league from the city. We resided principally in the latter,
and the lives of my parents were passed in considerable seclusion. It was my
temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a few. I was
indifferent, therefore, to my school-fellows in general; but I united myself in
the bonds of the closest friendship to one among them. Henry Clerval was the
son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of singular talent and fancy. He
loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger for its own sake. He was deeply
read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed heroic songs and began to
write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure. He tried to make us
act plays and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were drawn
from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round Table of King Arthur, and the
chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulchre from the
hands of the infidels.
No human being could have
passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the very
spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that they were not the tyrants to
rule our lot according to their caprice, but the agents and creators of all the
many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled with other families I distinctly
discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot was, and gratitude assisted the
development of filial love.
My temper was sometimes
violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in my temperature they were
turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to learn, and not
to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structure of
languages, nor the code of governments, nor the politics of various states
possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets of heaven and earth that I
desired to learn; and whether it was the outward substance of things or the
inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of man that occupied me, still
my inquiries were directed to the metaphysical, or in its highest sense, the
physical secrets of the world.
Meanwhile Clerval occupied
himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of things. The busy stage of
life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men were his theme; and his
hope and his dream was to become one among those whose names are recorded in
story as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our species. The saintly
soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in our peaceful home. Her
sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet glance of her celestial
eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was the living spirit of
love to soften and attract; I might have become sullen in my study, rough
through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a
semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval—could aught ill entrench on the
noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so perfectly humane, so
thoughtful in his generosity, so full of kindness and tenderness amidst his
passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to him the real
loveliness of beneficence and made the doing good the end and aim of his
soaring ambition.
I feel exquisite pleasure
in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune had tainted my
mind and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into gloomy and
narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days,
I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of
misery, for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which
afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from
ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became
the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.
Natural philosophy is the
genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to
state those facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was
thirteen years of age we all went on a party of pleasure to the baths near
Thonon; the inclemency of the weather obliged us to remain a day confined to
the inn. In this house I chanced to find a volume of the works of Cornelius
Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the theory which he attempts to demonstrate
and the wonderful facts which he relates soon changed this feeling into
enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I
communicated my discovery to my father. My father looked carelessly at the
title page of my book and said, “Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not
waste your time upon this; it is sad trash.”
If, instead of this remark,
my father had taken the pains to explain to me that the principles of Agrippa
had been entirely exploded and that a modern system of science had been
introduced which possessed much greater powers than the ancient, because the
powers of the latter were chimerical, while those of the former were real and
practical, under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa
aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning with
greater ardour to my former studies. It is even possible that the train of my
ideas would never have received the fatal impulse that led to my ruin. But the
cursory glance my father had taken of my volume by no means assured me that he
was acquainted with its contents, and I continued to read with the greatest
avidity.
When I returned home my
first care was to procure the whole works of this author, and afterwards of
Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied the wild fancies of these
writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures known to few besides
myself. I have described myself as always having been imbued with a fervent
longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of the intense labour and
wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always came from my studies
discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to have avowed that he
felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and unexplored ocean of
truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with whom I
was acquainted appeared even to my boy’s apprehensions as tyros engaged in the
same pursuit.
The untaught peasant beheld
the elements around him and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most
learned philosopher knew little more. He had partially unveiled the face of
Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might
dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes
in their secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed
upon the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human beings from
entering the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined.
But here were books, and
here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took their word for
all that they averred, and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that
such should arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine
of education in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught
with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was
left to struggle with a child’s blindness, added to a student’s thirst for
knowledge. Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest
diligence into the search of the philosopher’s stone and the elixir of life;
but the latter soon obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior
object, but what glory would attend the discovery if I could banish disease
from the human frame and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!
Nor were these my only
visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise liberally accorded by my
favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most eagerly sought; and if my
incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed the failure rather to my
own inexperience and mistake than to a want of skill or fidelity in my instructors.
And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded systems, mingling, like an
unadept, a thousand contradictory theories and floundering desperately in a
very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by an ardent imagination and
childish reasoning, till an accident again changed the current of my ideas.
When I was about fifteen
years old we had retired to our house near Belrive, when we witnessed a most
violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from behind the mountains of
Jura, and the thunder burst at once with frightful loudness from various
quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm lasted, watching its
progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the door, on a sudden I
beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood about
twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the
oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump. When we visited
it the next morning, we found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not
splintered by the shock, but entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood. I never
beheld anything so utterly destroyed.
Before this I was not
unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. On this occasion a man
of great research in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this
catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on
the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at once new and astonishing
to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade Cornelius Agrippa,
Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my imagination; but by some
fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to pursue my accustomed
studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could ever be known. All that
had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those
caprices of the mind which we are perhaps most subject to in early youth, I at
once gave up my former occupations, set down natural history and all its
progeny as a deformed and abortive creation, and entertained the greatest
disdain for a would-be science which could never even step within the threshold
of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myself to the mathematics and
the branches of study appertaining to that science as being built upon secure
foundations, and so worthy of my consideration.
Thus strangely are our
souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity or
ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this almost miraculous change of
inclination and will was the immediate suggestion of the guardian angel of my
life—the last effort made by the spirit of preservation to avert the storm that
was even then hanging in the stars and ready to envelop me. Her victory was
announced by an unusual tranquillity and gladness of soul which followed the
relinquishing of my ancient and latterly tormenting studies. It was thus that I
was to be taught to associate evil with their prosecution, happiness with their
disregard.
It was a strong effort of
the spirit of good, but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her
immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.
Chapter 3
When I had attained the age
of seventeen my parents resolved that I should become a student at the
university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the schools of Geneva, but my
father thought it necessary for the completion of my education that I should be
made acquainted with other customs than those of my native country. My
departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day resolved
upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred—an omen, as it
were, of my future misery.
Elizabeth had caught the
scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in the greatest danger.
During her illness many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to
refrain from attending upon her. She had at first yielded to our entreaties,
but when she heard that the life of her favourite was menaced, she could no
longer control her anxiety. She attended her sickbed; her watchful attentions
triumphed over the malignity of the distemper—Elizabeth was saved, but the
consequences of this imprudence were fatal to her preserver. On the third day
my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarming symptoms,
and the looks of her medical attendants prognosticated the worst event. On her
deathbed the fortitude and benignity of this best of women did not desert her.
She joined the hands of Elizabeth and myself. “My children,” she said, “my
firmest hopes of future happiness were placed on the prospect of your union.
This expectation will now be the consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love,
you must supply my place to my younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken
from you; and, happy and beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you
all? But these are not thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself
cheerfully to death and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world.”
She died calmly, and her
countenance expressed affection even in death. I need not describe the feelings
of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most irreparable evil, the void
that presents itself to the soul, and the despair that is exhibited on the
countenance. It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she whom we
saw every day and whose very existence appeared a part of our own can have
departed for ever—that the brightness of a beloved eye can have been
extinguished and the sound of a voice so familiar and dear to the ear can be
hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the first days;
but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil, then the actual
bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand rent away
some dear connection? And why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt,
and must feel? The time at length arrives when grief is rather an indulgence
than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the lips, although it may be
deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had still
duties which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest and
learn to think ourselves fortunate whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not
seized.
My departure for
Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now again determined
upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It appeared to me
sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the house of mourning
and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to sorrow, but it did not the
less alarm me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those that remained to me,
and above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in some degree consoled.
She indeed veiled her grief
and strove to act the comforter to us all. She looked steadily on life and
assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She devoted herself to those whom she
had been taught to call her uncle and cousins. Never was she so enchanting as
at this time, when she recalled the sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon
us. She forgot even her own regret in her endeavours to make us forget.
The day of my departure at
length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with us. He had endeavoured to
persuade his father to permit him to accompany me and to become my fellow
student, but in vain. His father was a narrow-minded trader and saw idleness
and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of his son. Henry deeply felt the
misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education. He said little, but when
he spoke I read in his kindling eye and in his animated glance a restrained but
firm resolve not to be chained to the miserable details of commerce.
We sat late. We could not
tear ourselves away from each other nor persuade ourselves to say the word
“Farewell!” It was said, and we retired under the pretence of seeking repose,
each fancying that the other was deceived; but when at morning’s dawn I
descended to the carriage which was to convey me away, they were all there—my
father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once more, my Elizabeth to
renew her entreaties that I would write often and to bestow the last feminine
attentions on her playmate and friend.
I threw myself into the chaise
that was to convey me away and indulged in the most melancholy reflections. I,
who had ever been surrounded by amiable companions, continually engaged in
endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure—I was now alone. In the university
whither I was going I must form my own friends and be my own protector. My life
had hitherto been remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me
invincible repugnance to new countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and
Clerval; these were “old familiar faces,” but I believed myself totally
unfitted for the company of strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced
my journey; but as I proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired
the acquisition of knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to
remain during my youth cooped up in one place and had longed to enter the world
and take my station among other human beings. Now my desires were complied
with, and it would, indeed, have been folly to repent.
I had sufficient leisure
for these and many other reflections during my journey to Ingolstadt, which was
long and fatiguing. At length the high white steeple of the town met my eyes. I
alighted and was conducted to my solitary apartment to spend the evening as I
pleased.
The next morning I delivered
my letters of introduction and paid a visit to some of the principal
professors. Chance—or rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction,
which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant
steps from my father’s door—led me first to M. Krempe, professor of natural
philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in the secrets of his
science. He asked me several questions concerning my progress in the different
branches of science appertaining to natural philosophy. I replied carelessly,
and partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the principal
authors I had studied. The professor stared. “Have you,” he said, “really spent
your time in studying such nonsense?”
I replied in the
affirmative. “Every minute,” continued M. Krempe with warmth, “every instant
that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely lost. You have
burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names. Good God! In what
desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to inform you that
these fancies which you have so greedily imbibed are a thousand years old and
as musty as they are ancient? I little expected, in this enlightened and
scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus. My dear
sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew.”
So saying, he stepped aside
and wrote down a list of several books treating of natural philosophy which he
desired me to procure, and dismissed me after mentioning that in the beginning
of the following week he intended to commence a course of lectures upon natural
philosophy in its general relations, and that M. Waldman, a fellow professor,
would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted.
I returned home not
disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered those authors useless
whom the professor reprobated; but I returned not at all the more inclined to
recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a little squat man with a
gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, therefore, did not
prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too philosophical and
connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the conclusions I had
come to concerning them in my early years. As a child I had not been content with
the results promised by the modern professors of natural science. With a
confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme youth and my want of
a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of knowledge along the paths of
time and exchanged the discoveries of recent inquirers for the dreams of
forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt for the uses of modern natural
philosophy. It was very different when the masters of the science sought
immortality and power; such views, although futile, were grand; but now the
scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seemed to limit itself to the
annihilation of those visions on which my interest in science was chiefly
founded. I was required to exchange chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities
of little worth.
Such were my reflections
during the first two or three days of my residence at Ingolstadt, which were
chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the localities and the principal
residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing week commenced, I thought of the
information which M. Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although
I could not consent to go and hear that little conceited fellow deliver
sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what he had said of M. Waldman, whom I
had never seen, as he had hitherto been out of town.
Partly from curiosity and
partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman entered
shortly after. This professor was very unlike his colleague. He appeared about
fifty years of age, but with an aspect expressive of the greatest benevolence;
a few grey hairs covered his temples, but those at the back of his head were
nearly black. His person was short but remarkably erect and his voice the
sweetest I had ever heard. He began his lecture by a recapitulation of the
history of chemistry and the various improvements made by different men of
learning, pronouncing with fervour the names of the most distinguished
discoverers. He then took a cursory view of the present state of the science
and explained many of its elementary terms. After having made a few preparatory
experiments, he concluded with a panegyric upon modern chemistry, the terms of
which I shall never forget:
“The ancient teachers of
this science,” said he, “promised impossibilities and performed nothing. The
modern masters promise very little; they know that metals cannot be transmuted
and that the elixir of life is a chimera but these philosophers, whose hands
seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their eyes to pore over the microscope or
crucible, have indeed performed miracles. They penetrate into the recesses of
nature and show how she works in her hiding-places. They ascend into the
heavens; they have discovered how the blood circulates, and the nature of the
air we breathe. They have acquired new and almost unlimited powers; they can
command the thunders of heaven, mimic the earthquake, and even mock the
invisible world with its own shadows.”
Such were the professor’s
words—rather let me say such the words of the fate—enounced to destroy me. As
he went on I felt as if my soul were grappling with a palpable enemy; one by
one the various keys were touched which formed the mechanism of my being; chord
after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was filled with one thought, one
conception, one purpose. So much has been done, exclaimed the soul of
Frankenstein—more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps already
marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the
world the deepest mysteries of creation.
I closed not my eyes that
night. My internal being was in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt
that order would thence arise, but I had no power to produce it. By degrees, after
the morning’s dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight’s thoughts were as
a dream. There only remained a resolution to return to my ancient studies and
to devote myself to a science for which I believed myself to possess a natural
talent. On the same day I paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were
even more mild and attractive than in public, for there was a certain dignity
in his mien during his lecture which in his own house was replaced by the
greatest affability and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account of
my former pursuits as I had given to his fellow professor. He heard with
attention the little narration concerning my studies and smiled at the names of
Cornelius Agrippa and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had
exhibited. He said that “These were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern
philosophers were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They
had left to us, as an easier task, to give new names and arrange in connected
classifications the facts which they in a great degree had been the instruments
of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius, however erroneously
directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid advantage of
mankind.” I listened to his statement, which was delivered without any
presumption or affectation, and then added that his lecture had removed my
prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms, with
the modesty and deference due from a youth to his instructor, without letting
escape (inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any of the enthusiasm
which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his advice concerning the
books I ought to procure.
“I am happy,” said M.
Waldman, “to have gained a disciple; and if your application equals your
ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is that branch of natural
philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been and may be made; it is
on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; but at the same time, I
have not neglected the other branches of science. A man would make but a very
sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human knowledge alone. If
your wish is to become really a man of science and not merely a petty
experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch of natural
philosophy, including mathematics.”
He then took me into his
laboratory and explained to me the uses of his various machines, instructing me
as to what I ought to procure and promising me the use of his own when I should
have advanced far enough in the science not to derange their mechanism. He also
gave me the list of books which I had requested, and I took my leave.
Thus ended a day memorable
to me; it decided my future destiny.
Chapter 4
From this day natural
philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most comprehensive sense of the
term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read with ardour those works, so full
of genius and discrimination, which modern inquirers have written on these
subjects. I attended the lectures and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of
science of the university, and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound
sense and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy
and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a
true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism, and his instructions
were given with an air of frankness and good nature that banished every idea of
pedantry. In a thousand ways he smoothed for me the path of knowledge and made
the most abstruse inquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application
was at first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and
soon became so ardent and eager that the stars often disappeared in the light
of morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.
As I applied so closely, it
may be easily conceived that my progress was rapid. My ardour was indeed the
astonishment of the students, and my proficiency that of the masters. Professor
Krempe often asked me, with a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst
M. Waldman expressed the most heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years
passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged,
heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries which I hoped to make. None
but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science.
In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is
nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for
discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate capacity which closely pursues one
study must infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who
continually sought the attainment of one object of pursuit and was solely
wrapped up in this, improved so rapidly that at the end of two years I made
some discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which
procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived
at this point and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of
natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at
Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I
thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident
happened that protracted my stay.
One of the phenomena which
had peculiarly attracted my attention was the structure of the human frame,
and, indeed, any animal endued with life. Whence, I often asked myself, did the
principle of life proceed? It was a bold question, and one which has ever been
considered as a mystery; yet with how many things are we upon the brink of
becoming acquainted, if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our
inquiries. I revolved these circumstances in my mind and determined thenceforth
to apply myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost supernatural
enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irksome and almost
intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to
death. I became acquainted with the science of anatomy, but this was not
sufficient; I must also observe the natural decay and corruption of the human
body. In my education my father had taken the greatest precautions that my mind
should be impressed with no supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to
have trembled at a tale of superstition or to have feared the apparition of a
spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fancy, and a churchyard was to me merely
the receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty
and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause
and progress of this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and
charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most insupportable
to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was
degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming
cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I
paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified
in the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst of
this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me—a light so brilliant and
wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the immensity of the
prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that among so many men of genius
who had directed their inquiries towards the same science, that I alone should
be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.
Remember, I am not
recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more certainly shine in the
heavens than that which I now affirm is true. Some miracle might have produced
it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and probable. After days and
nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause
of generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.
The astonishment which I
had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delight and
rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to arrive at once at the
summit of my desires was the most gratifying consummation of my toils. But this
discovery was so great and overwhelming that all the steps by which I had been
progressively led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What
had been the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world
was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at
once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather to direct my
endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the object of my search than
to exhibit that object already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had
been buried with the dead and found a passage to life, aided only by one
glimmering and seemingly ineffectual light.
I see by your eagerness and
the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be
informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen
patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am
reserved upon that subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I
then was, to your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by
my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be
the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow.
When I found so astonishing
a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long time concerning the manner
in which I should employ it. Although I possessed the capacity of bestowing
animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception of it, with all its
intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained a work of
inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I should
attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler organization;
but my imagination was too much exalted by my first success to permit me to
doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man.
The materials at present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so
arduous an undertaking, but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I
prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly
baffled, and at last my work be imperfect, yet when I considered the
improvement which every day takes place in science and mechanics, I was encouraged
to hope my present attempts would at least lay the foundations of future
success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and complexity of my plan as any
argument of its impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the
creation of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great
hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to make the
being of a gigantic stature, that is to say, about eight feet in height, and
proportionably large. After having formed this determination and having spent
some months in successfully collecting and arranging my materials, I began.
No one can conceive the
variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the first
enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I
should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A
new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent
natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his
child so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections, I
thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in
process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had
apparently devoted the body to corruption.
These thoughts supported my
spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardour. My cheek had
grown pale with study, and my person had become emaciated with confinement.
Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the
hope which the next day or the next hour might realise. One secret which I
alone possessed was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon
gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I
pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my
secret toil as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured
the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my
eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless and almost frantic
impulse urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or sensation but for
this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance, that only made me feel
with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I
had returned to my old habits. I collected bones from charnel-houses and
disturbed, with profane fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In
a solitary chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from
all the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of
filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in attending to
the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the slaughter-house
furnished many of my materials; and often did my human nature turn with
loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by an eagerness which
perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.
The summer months passed
while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful
season; never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield
a more luxuriant vintage, but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature.
And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also
to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen
for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I well remembered
the words of my father: “I know that while you are pleased with yourself you
will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You must
pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof that
your other duties are equally neglected.”
I knew well therefore what
would be my father’s feelings, but I could not tear my thoughts from my
employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my
imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my
feelings of affection until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of
my nature, should be completed.
I then thought that my
father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice or faultiness on my
part, but I am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I should
not be altogether free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to
preserve a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory
desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of
knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself
has a tendency to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for those
simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is
certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule
were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere
with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved,
Cæsar would have spared his country, America would have been discovered more
gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.
But I forget that I am
moralizing in the most interesting part of my tale, and your looks remind me to
proceed.
My father made no reproach
in his letters and only took notice of my silence by inquiring into my
occupations more particularly than before. Winter, spring, and summer passed
away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding
leaves—sights which before always yielded me supreme delight—so deeply was I
engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work
drew near to a close, and now every day showed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather
like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade
than an artist occupied by his favourite employment. Every night I was
oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; the
fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures as if I had been
guilty of a crime. Sometimes I grew alarmed at the wreck I perceived that I had
become; the energy of my purpose alone sustained me: my labours would soon end,
and I believed that exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient
disease; and I promised myself both of these when my creation should be
complete.
Chapter 5
It was on a dreary night of
November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that
almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I
might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It
was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes,
and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the
half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it
breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.
How can I describe my
emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such
infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in
proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God!
His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his
hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but
these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that
seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were
set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.
The different accidents of
life are not so changeable as the feelings of human nature. I had worked hard
for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of infusing life into an inanimate
body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with
an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but now that I had finished, the beauty
of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.
Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the
room and continued a long time traversing my bed-chamber, unable to compose my
mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to the tumult I had before
endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to seek a
few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was
disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of
health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. Delighted and surprised, I
embraced her, but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid
with the hue of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I
held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and
I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of the flannel. I started from my
sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my forehead, my teeth chattered, and
every limb became convulsed; when, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as
it forced its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch—the
miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain of the bed; and
his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he
muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might
have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seemingly to
detain me, but I escaped and rushed downstairs. I took refuge in the courtyard
belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained during the rest of
the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, listening
attentively, catching and fearing each sound as if it were to announce the
approach of the demoniacal corpse to which I had so miserably given life.
Oh! No mortal could support
the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not
be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinished; he was ugly
then, but when those muscles and joints were rendered capable of motion, it
became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.
I passed the night
wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly that I felt the
palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the ground through
languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness
of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a
space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow
so complete!
Morning, dismal and wet, at
length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the church of
Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth hour. The
porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asylum, and
I issued into the streets, pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to
avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of the street would present to my
view. I did not dare return to the apartment which I inhabited, but felt impelled
to hurry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and
comfortless sky.
I continued walking in this
manner for some time, endeavouring by bodily exercise to ease the load that
weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets without any clear conception of
where I was or what I was doing. My heart palpitated in the sickness of fear,
and I hurried on with irregular steps, not daring to look about me:
Like one who, on a lonely
road,
Doth walk in fear and
dread,
And, having once turned
round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a
frightful fiend
Doth close behind him
tread.
[Coleridge’s “Ancient
Mariner.”]
Continuing thus, I came at
length opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages
usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some minutes
with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me from the other end of
the street. As it drew nearer I observed that it was the Swiss diligence; it
stopped just where I was standing, and on the door being opened, I perceived
Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung out. “My dear Frankenstein,”
exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here
at the very moment of my alighting!”
Nothing could equal my
delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to my thoughts my father,
Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my recollection. I grasped
his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and
for the first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my
friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, and we walked towards my
college. Clerval continued talking for some time about our mutual friends and
his own good fortune in being permitted to come to Ingolstadt. “You may easily
believe,” said he, “how great was the difficulty to persuade my father that all
necessary knowledge was not comprised in the noble art of book-keeping; and,
indeed, I believe I left him incredulous to the last, for his constant answer
to my unwearied entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in
The Vicar of Wakefield: ‘I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I
eat heartily without Greek.’ But his affection for me at length overcame his
dislike of learning, and he has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery
to the land of knowledge.”
“It gives me the greatest
delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, brothers, and
Elizabeth.”
“Very well, and very happy,
only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. By the by, I mean to
lecture you a little upon their account myself. But, my dear Frankenstein,”
continued he, stopping short and gazing full in my face, “I did not before
remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been
watching for several nights.”
“You have guessed right; I
have lately been so deeply engaged in one occupation that I have not allowed
myself sufficient rest, as you see; but I hope, I sincerely hope, that all
these employments are now at an end and that I am at length free.”
I trembled excessively; I
could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occurrences of the
preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my college.
I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, that the creature whom I had
left in my apartment might still be there, alive and walking about. I dreaded
to behold this monster, but I feared still more that Henry should see him.
Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of the stairs,
I darted up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door
before I recollected myself. I then paused, and a cold shivering came over me.
I threw the door forcibly open, as children are accustomed to do when they
expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them on the other side; but nothing
appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment was empty, and my bedroom was
also freed from its hideous guest. I could hardly believe that so great a good
fortune could have befallen me, but when I became assured that my enemy had
indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.
We ascended into my room,
and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to contain myself.
It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of
sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was unable to remain for a single
instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and
laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual spirits to joy on his
arrival, but when he observed me more attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes
for which he could not account, and my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter
frightened and astonished him.
“My dear Victor,” cried he,
“what, for God’s sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you
are! What is the cause of all this?”
“Do not ask me,” cried I,
putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dreaded spectre glide
into the room; “he can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!” I imagined that the monster
seized me; I struggled furiously and fell down in a fit.
Poor Clerval! What must
have been his feelings? A meeting, which he anticipated with such joy, so
strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his grief, for I
was lifeless and did not recover my senses for a long, long time.
This was the commencement
of a nervous fever which confined me for several months. During all that time
Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father’s
advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness
would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my
disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than
himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that,
instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards
them.
But I was in reality very
ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my
friend could have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had
bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning
him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the
wanderings of my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity with which I
continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed
owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event.
By very slow degrees, and
with frequent relapses that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I
remember the first time I became capable of observing outward objects with any
kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that
the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was
a divine spring, and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt
also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared,
and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal
passion.
“Dearest Clerval,”
exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead
of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick
room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the
disappointment of which I have been the occasion, but you will forgive me.”
“You will repay me entirely
if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since
you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?”
I trembled. One subject!
What could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?
“Compose yourself,” said
Clerval, who observed my change of colour, “I will not mention it if it
agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a
letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly know how ill you have been
and are uneasy at your long silence.”
“Is that all, my dear
Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those
dear, dear friends whom I love and who are so deserving of my love?”
“If this is your present
temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying
here some days for you; it is from your cousin, I believe.”
Chapter 6
Clerval then put the
following letter into my hands. It was from my own Elizabeth:
“My dearest Cousin,
“You have been ill, very
ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to
reassure me on your account. You are forbidden to write—to hold a pen; yet one
word from you, dear Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long
time I have thought that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions
have restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have
prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a
journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform it myself! I
figure to myself that the task of attending on your sickbed has devolved on
some mercenary old nurse, who could never guess your wishes nor minister to
them with the care and affection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over now:
Clerval writes that indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will
confirm this intelligence soon in your own handwriting.
“Get well—and return to us.
You will find a happy, cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your
father’s health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you, but to be assured that
you are well; and not a care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance. How
pleased you would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest! He is now sixteen
and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous to be a true Swiss and to enter
into foreign service, but we cannot part with him, at least until his elder
brother returns to us. My uncle is not pleased with the idea of a military
career in a distant country, but Ernest never had your powers of application.
He looks upon study as an odious fetter; his time is spent in the open air,
climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear that he will become an idler
unless we yield the point and permit him to enter on the profession which he
has selected.
“Little alteration, except
the growth of our dear children, has taken place since you left us. The blue
lake and snow-clad mountains—they never change; and I think our placid home and
our contented hearts are regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling
occupations take up my time and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions
by seeing none but happy, kind faces around me. Since you left us, but one
change has taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what
occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably you do not; I will relate
her history, therefore in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a widow
with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been
the favourite of her father, but through a strange perversity, her mother could
not endure her, and after the death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt
observed this, and when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her
mother to allow her to live at our house. The republican institutions of our
country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in
the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction between
the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither so
poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in
Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in France and England.
Justine, thus received in our family, learned the duties of a servant, a
condition which, in our fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance
and a sacrifice of the dignity of a human being.
“Justine, you may remember,
was a great favourite of yours; and I recollect you once remarked that if you
were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same
reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica—she looked so
frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which
she was induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at
first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most grateful
little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any professions I
never heard one pass her lips, but you could see by her eyes that she almost
adored her protectress. Although her disposition was gay and in many respects
inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt.
She thought her the model of all excellence and endeavoured to imitate her
phraseology and manners, so that even now she often reminds me of her.
“When my dearest aunt died
every one was too much occupied in their own grief to notice poor Justine, who
had attended her during her illness with the most anxious affection. Poor
Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved for her.
“One by one, her brothers
and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglected daughter,
was left childless. The conscience of the woman was troubled; she began to
think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgement from heaven to chastise
her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed
the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your
departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor
girl! She wept when she quitted our house; she was much altered since the death
of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to her manners,
which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her residence at her
mother’s house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very
vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged Justine to forgive her
unkindness, but much oftener accused her of having caused the deaths of her
brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting at length threw Madame Moritz into a
decline, which at first increased her irritability, but she is now at peace for
ever. She died on the first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this
last winter. Justine has just returned to us; and I assure you I love her
tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned
before, her mien and her expression continually remind me of my dear aunt.
“I must say also a few
words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William. I wish you could see
him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes,
and curling hair. When he smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek,
which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two little wives, but
Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.
“Now, dear Victor, I dare
say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the good people of
Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already received the congratulatory
visits on her approaching marriage with a young Englishman, John Melbourne,
Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last
autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several
misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already
recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a lively
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older than
Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with everybody.
“I have written myself into
better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety returns upon me as I conclude.
Write, dearest Victor,—one line—one word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand
thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection, and his many letters; we are
sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of yourself; and, I entreat
you, write!
“Elizabeth Lavenza.
“Geneva, March 18th, 17—.”
“Dear, dear Elizabeth!” I
exclaimed, when I had read her letter: “I will write instantly and relieve them
from the anxiety they must feel.” I wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued
me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another
fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.
One of my first duties on
my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the
university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the
wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my
labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent
antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite
restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the
agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus
from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired
a dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares
of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M. Waldman
inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the astonishing
progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that I disliked the
subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed my feelings to modesty,
and changed the subject from my improvement, to the science itself, with a
desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to
please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one,
in my view those instruments which were to be afterwards used in putting me to
a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the
pain I felt. Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning
the sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total
ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend
from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he
never attempted to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a
mixture of affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never
persuade myself to confide in him that event which was so often present to my
recollection, but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more
deeply.
M. Krempe was not equally
docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable
sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the
benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. “D—n the fellow!” cried he; “why, M.
Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it
is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in
Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head
of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of
countenance.—Ay, ay,” continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering,
“M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men
should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself when
young; but that wears out in a very short time.”
M. Krempe had now commenced
an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that
was so annoying to me.
Clerval had never
sympathised in my tastes for natural science; and his literary pursuits
differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He came to the university
with the design of making himself complete master of the oriental languages,
and thus he should open a field for the plan of life he had marked out for
himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the
East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and
Sanskrit languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to enter on
the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to me, and now that I wished
to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, I felt great relief in
being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not only instruction but
consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, like him, attempt a
critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not contemplate making any
other use of them than temporary amusement. I read merely to understand their
meaning, and they well repaid my labours. Their melancholy is soothing, and
their joy elevating, to a degree I never experienced in studying the authors of
any other country. When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a
warm sun and a garden of roses,—in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and
the fire that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and
heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!
Summer passed away in these
occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for the latter end of autumn;
but being delayed by several accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were
deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt
this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long, from an unwillingness to
leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted with any of
its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the
spring was uncommonly late, when it came its beauty compensated for its
dilatoriness.
The month of May had
already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the date of
my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in the environs of
Ingolstadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the country I had so long
inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise,
and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in the ramble of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.
We passed a fortnight in
these perambulations: my health and spirits had long been restored, and they
gained additional strength from the salubrious air I breathed, the natural
incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded
me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me to
love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent
friend! how sincerely you did love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind until
it was on a level with your own. A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me,
until your gentleness and affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the
same happy creature who, a few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no
sorrow or care. When happy, inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me
the most delightful sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with
ecstasy. The present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in
the hedges, while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding
my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible burden.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety,
and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he exerted himself to amuse me, while
he expressed the sensations that filled his soul. The resources of his mind on
this occasion were truly astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination;
and very often, in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented
tales of wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great ingenuity.
We returned to our college
on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing, and every one we met appeared
gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I bounded along with feelings of
unbridled joy and hilarity.
Chapter 7
On my return, I found the
following letter from my father:—
“My dear Victor,
“You have probably waited
impatiently for a letter to fix the date of your return to us; and I was at
first tempted to write only a few lines, merely mentioning the day on which I
should expect you. But that would be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it.
What would be your surprise, my son, when you expected a happy and glad
welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor,
can I relate our misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our
joys and griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on my long absent son? I wish to
prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is impossible; even now your eye
skims over the page to seek the words which are to convey to you the horrible
tidings.
“William is dead!—that sweet
child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my heart, who was so gentle, yet so
gay! Victor, he is murdered!
“I will not attempt to
console you; but will simply relate the circumstances of the transaction.
“Last Thursday (May 7th),
I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in Plainpalais. The evening
was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk farther than usual. It was
already dusk before we thought of returning; and then we discovered that
William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not to be found. We
accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. Presently Ernest came,
and enquired if we had seen his brother; he said, that he had been playing with
him, that William had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for
him, and afterwards waited for a long time, but that he did not return.
“This account rather
alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until night fell, when Elizabeth
conjectured that he might have returned to the house. He was not there. We
returned again, with torches; for I could not rest, when I thought that my
sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to all the damps and dews of night;
Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered
my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health,
stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the print of the murder’s finger
was on his neck.
“He was conveyed home, and
the anguish that was visible in my countenance betrayed the secret to
Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At first I attempted to
prevent her but she persisted, and entering the room where it lay, hastily
examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, ‘O God! I
have murdered my darling child!’
“She fainted, and was
restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived, it was only to weep and
sigh. She told me, that that same evening William had teased her to let him
wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of your mother. This picture
is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed.
We have no trace of him at present, although our exertions to discover him are
unremitted; but they will not restore my beloved William!
“Come, dearest Victor; you
alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps continually, and accuses herself
unjustly as the cause of his death; her words pierce my heart. We are all
unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, my son, to return
and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she
did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!
“Come, Victor; not brooding
thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings of peace and
gentleness, that will heal, instead of festering, the wounds of our minds.
Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with kindness and affection for
those who love you, and not with hatred for your enemies.
“Your affectionate and
afflicted father,
“Alphonse Frankenstein.
“Geneva, May 12th, 17—.”
Clerval, who had watched my
countenance as I read this letter, was surprised to observe the despair that
succeeded the joy I at first expressed on receiving new from my friends. I
threw the letter on the table, and covered my face with my hands.
“My dear Frankenstein,”
exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with bitterness, “are you always to
be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened?”
I motioned him to take up
the letter, while I walked up and down the room in the extremest agitation.
Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he read the account of my
misfortune.
“I can offer you no
consolation, my friend,” said he; “your disaster is irreparable. What do you
intend to do?”
“To go instantly to Geneva:
come with me, Henry, to order the horses.”
During our walk, Clerval
endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; he could only express his
heartfelt sympathy. “Poor William!” said he, “dear lovely child, he now sleeps
with his angel mother! Who that had seen him bright and joyous in his young
beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! To die so miserably; to feel the
murderer’s grasp! How much more a murdered that could destroy radiant
innocence! Poor little fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and
weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for
ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a
subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors.”
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried
through the streets; the words impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered
them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried
into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.
My journey was very
melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to console and
sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native
town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings
that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but
which I had not seen for nearly six years. How altered every thing might be
during that time! One sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a
thousand little circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations,
which, although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive.
Fear overcame me; I dared no advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that
made me tremble, although I was unable to define them.
I remained two days at
Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters
were placid; all around was calm; and the snowy mountains, “the palaces of
nature,” were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me,
and I continued my journey towards Geneva.
The road ran by the side of
the lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered
more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I
wept like a child. “Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome
your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is
this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?”
I fear, my friend, that I
shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but
they were days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My
country, my beloved country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in
again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely
lake!
Yet, as I drew nearer home,
grief and fear again overcame me. Night also closed around; and when I could
hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared
a vast and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to
become the most wretched of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed
only in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded,
I did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.
It was completely dark when
I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of the town were already shut;
and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a village at the distance of
half a league from the city. The sky was serene; and, as I was unable to rest,
I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William had been murdered. As I
could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to
arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightning playing on
the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm appeared to
approach rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill, that I might observe
its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and I soon felt the rain
coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly increased.
I quitted my seat, and
walked on, although the darkness and storm increased every minute, and the
thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Salêve,
the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes,
illuminating the lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an
instant every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland,
appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most violent storm hung
exactly north of the town, over the part of the lake which lies between the
promontory of Belrive and the village of Copêt. Another storm enlightened Jura
with faint flashes; and another darkened and sometimes disclosed the Môle, a
peaked mountain to the east of the lake.
While I watched the
tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a hasty step. This noble
war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud,
“William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge!” As I said these
words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of
trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash
of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me;
its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs
to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy dæmon, to
whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the
conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my
imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I
was forced to lean against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly,
and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in human shape could have destroyed the
fair child. He was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the
idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but
it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging
among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Salêve, a hill that
bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared.
I remained motionless. The
thunder ceased; but the rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an
impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now
sought to forget: the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the
appearance of the works of my own hands at my bedside; its departure. Two years
had now nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was
this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved
wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my
brother?
No one can conceive the
anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night, which I spent, cold and
wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my
imagination was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom
I had cast among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect
purposes of horror, such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light
of my own vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to
destroy all that was dear to me.
Day dawned; and I directed
my steps towards the town. The gates were open, and I hastened to my father’s
house. My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause
instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I
had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me
at midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also
the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time that I dated my
creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so
utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated such a
relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity.
Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I
were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it. And then of
what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the
overhanging sides of Mont Salêve? These reflections determined me, and I
resolved to remain silent.
It was about five in the
morning when I entered my father’s house. I told the servants not to disturb
the family, and went into the library to attend their usual hour of rising.
Six years had elapsed,
passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I stood in the same place
where I had last embraced my father before my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved
and venerable parent! He still remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my
mother, which stood over the mantel-piece. It was an historical subject,
painted at my father’s desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of
despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and
her cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly
permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of William;
and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus engaged, Ernest
entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me: “Welcome, my
dearest Victor,” said he. “Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then
you would have found us all joyous and delighted. You come to us now to share a
misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive our
father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will
induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations.—Poor
William! he was our darling and our pride!”
Tears, unrestrained, fell
from my brother’s eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept over my frame. Before, I
had only imagined the wretchedness of my desolated home; the reality came on me
as a new, and a not less terrible, disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired
more minutely concerning my father, and here I named my cousin.
“She most of all,” said
Ernest, “requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused the death
of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the murderer has been
discovered—”
“The murderer discovered!
Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to pursue him? It is impossible;
one might as well try to overtake the winds, or confine a mountain-stream with
a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night!”
“I do not know what you
mean,” replied my brother, in accents of wonder, “but to us the discovery we
have made completes our misery. No one would believe it at first; and even now
Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who
would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the
family, could suddenly become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a
crime?”
“Justine Moritz! Poor, poor
girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; every one knows that; no one
believes it, surely, Ernest?”
“No one did at first; but
several circumstances came out, that have almost forced conviction upon us; and
her own behaviour has been so confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a
weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried today, and
you will then hear all.”
He then related that, the
morning on which the murder of poor William had been discovered, Justine had
been taken ill, and confined to her bed for several days. During this interval,
one of the servants, happening to examine the apparel she had worn on the night
of the murder, had discovered in her pocket the picture of my mother, which had
been judged to be the temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly showed
it to one of the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went
to a magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being
charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure
by her extreme confusion of manner.
This was a strange tale,
but it did not shake my faith; and I replied earnestly, “You are all mistaken;
I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good Justine, is innocent.”
At that instant my father
entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his countenance, but he
endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had exchanged our mournful
greeting, would have introduced some other topic than that of our disaster, had
not Ernest exclaimed, “Good God, papa! Victor says that he knows who was the
murderer of poor William.”
“We do also,
unfortunately,” replied my father, “for indeed I had rather have been for ever
ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ungratitude in one I valued
so highly.”
“My dear father, you are
mistaken; Justine is innocent.”
“If she is, God forbid that
she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried today, and I hope, I sincerely
hope, that she will be acquitted.”
This speech calmed me. I
was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and indeed every human being,
was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial
evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her. My tale was not
one to announce publicly; its astounding horror would be looked upon as madness
by the vulgar. Did any one indeed exist, except I, the creator, who would
believe, unless his senses convinced him, in the existence of the living
monument of presumption and rash ignorance which I had let loose upon the
world?
We were soon joined by
Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld her; it had endowed her
with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish years. There was the same
candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an expression more full of
sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me with the greatest affection. “Your
arrival, my dear cousin,” said she, “fills me with hope. You perhaps will find
some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be
convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as certainly as I do upon my own.
Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling
boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a
worse fate. If she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not,
I am sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad death
of my little William.”
“She is innocent, my
Elizabeth,” said I, “and that shall be proved; fear nothing, but let your
spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal.”
“How kind and generous you
are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made me wretched, for I
knew that it was impossible: and to see every one else prejudiced in so deadly
a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing.” She wept.
“Dearest niece,” said my
father, “dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, innocent, rely on the
justice of our laws, and the activity with which I shall prevent the slightest
shadow of partiality.”
Chapter 8
We passed a few sad hours
until eleven o’clock, when the trial was to commence. My father and the rest of
the family being obliged to attend as witnesses, I accompanied them to the
court. During the whole of this wretched mockery of justice I suffered living
torture. It was to be decided whether the result of my curiosity and lawless
devices would cause the death of two of my fellow beings: one a smiling babe
full of innocence and joy, the other far more dreadfully murdered, with every
aggravation of infamy that could make the murder memorable in horror. Justine
also was a girl of merit and possessed qualities which promised to render her
life happy; now all was to be obliterated in an ignominious grave, and I the
cause! A thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the
crime ascribed to Justine, but I was absent when it was committed, and such a
declaration would have been considered as the ravings of a madman and would not
have exculpated her who suffered through me.
The appearance of Justine
was calm. She was dressed in mourning, and her countenance, always engaging,
was rendered, by the solemnity of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she
appeared confident in innocence and did not tremble, although gazed on and
execrated by thousands, for all the kindness which her beauty might otherwise
have excited was obliterated in the minds of the spectators by the imagination
of the enormity she was supposed to have committed. She was tranquil, yet her
tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her confusion had before been
adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearance of
courage. When she entered the court she threw her eyes round it and quickly
discovered where we were seated. A tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us,
but she quickly recovered herself, and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to
attest her utter guiltlessness.
The trial began, and after
the advocate against her had stated the charge, several witnesses were called.
Several strange facts combined against her, which might have staggered anyone
who had not such proof of her innocence as I had. She had been out the whole of
the night on which the murder had been committed and towards morning had been
perceived by a market-woman not far from the spot where the body of the
murdered child had been afterwards found. The woman asked her what she did
there, but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused and
unintelligible answer. She returned to the house about eight o’clock, and when
one inquired where she had passed the night, she replied that she had been
looking for the child and demanded earnestly if anything had been heard concerning
him. When shown the body, she fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for
several days. The picture was then produced which the servant had found in her
pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same
which, an hour before the child had been missed, she had placed round his neck,
a murmur of horror and indignation filled the court.
Justine was called on for
her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her countenance had altered. Surprise,
horror, and misery were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her
tears, but when she was desired to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in
an audible although variable voice.
“God knows,” she said, “how
entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend that my protestations should
acquit me; I rest my innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the facts
which have been adduced against me, and I hope the character I have always
borne will incline my judges to a favourable interpretation where any
circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious.”
She then related that, by
the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed the evening of the night on which
the murder had been committed at the house of an aunt at Chêne, a village
situated at about a league from Geneva. On her return, at about nine o’clock,
she met a man who asked her if she had seen anything of the child who was lost.
She was alarmed by this account and passed several hours in looking for him,
when the gates of Geneva were shut, and she was forced to remain several hours
of the night in a barn belonging to a cottage, being unwilling to call up the
inhabitants, to whom she was well known. Most of the night she spent here
watching; towards morning she believed that she slept for a few minutes; some
steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It was dawn, and she quitted her asylum,
that she might again endeavour to find my brother. If she had gone near the
spot where his body lay, it was without her knowledge. That she had been
bewildered when questioned by the market-woman was not surprising, since she
had passed a sleepless night and the fate of poor William was yet uncertain.
Concerning the picture she could give no account.
“I know,” continued the
unhappy victim, “how heavily and fatally this one circumstance weighs against
me, but I have no power of explaining it; and when I have expressed my utter
ignorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning the probabilities by which
it might have been placed in my pocket. But here also I am checked. I believe
that I have no enemy on earth, and none surely would have been so wicked as to
destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it there? I know of no opportunity
afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why should he have stolen the jewel,
to part with it again so soon?
“I commit my cause to the
justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I beg permission to have a
few witnesses examined concerning my character, and if their testimony shall
not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge
my salvation on my innocence.”
Several witnesses were
called who had known her for many years, and they spoke well of her; but fear
and hatred of the crime of which they supposed her guilty rendered them
timorous and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth saw even this last resource,
her excellent dispositions and irreproachable conduct, about to fail the
accused, when, although violently agitated, she desired permission to address
the court.
“I am,” said she, “the
cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or rather his sister, for I was
educated by and have lived with his parents ever since and even long before his
birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this
occasion, but when I see a fellow creature about to perish through the
cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to speak, that I may
say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted with the accused. I have
lived in the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for
nearly two years. During all that period she appeared to me the most amiable
and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my aunt, in
her last illness, with the greatest affection and care and afterwards attended
her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited the
admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my uncle’s
house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was warmly attached to the
child who is now dead and acted towards him like a most affectionate mother.
For my own part, I do not hesitate to say that, notwithstanding all the
evidence produced against her, I believe and rely on her perfect innocence. She
had no temptation for such an action; as to the bauble on which the chief proof
rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to
her, so much do I esteem and value her.”
A murmur of approbation
followed Elizabeth’s simple and powerful appeal, but it was excited by her
generous interference, and not in favour of poor Justine, on whom the public
indignation was turned with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest
ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My
own agitation and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her
innocence; I knew it. Could the dæmon who had (I did not for a minute doubt)
murdered my brother also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to
death and ignominy? I could not sustain the horror of my situation, and when I
perceived that the popular voice and the countenances of the judges had already
condemned my unhappy victim, I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of
the accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs
of remorse tore my bosom and would not forgo their hold.
I passed a night of
unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the court; my lips and throat
were parched. I dared not ask the fatal question, but I was known, and the
officer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were
all black, and Justine was condemned.
I cannot pretend to
describe what I then felt. I had before experienced sensations of horror, and I
have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot
convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person
to whom I addressed myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt.
“That evidence,” he observed, “was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I
am glad of it, and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a criminal upon
circumstantial evidence, be it ever so decisive.”
This was strange and
unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had my eyes deceived me? And was I
really as mad as the whole world would believe me to be if I disclosed the
object of my suspicions? I hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly
demanded the result.
“My cousin,” replied I, “it
is decided as you may have expected; all judges had rather that ten innocent
should suffer than that one guilty should escape. But she has confessed.”
This was a dire blow to
poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon Justine’s innocence. “Alas!”
said she. “How shall I ever again believe in human goodness? Justine, whom I
loved and esteemed as my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innocence
only to betray? Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and
yet she has committed a murder.”
Soon after we heard that
the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my cousin. My father wished her
not to go but said that he left it to her own judgment and feelings to decide.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor,
shall accompany me; I cannot go alone.” The idea of this visit was torture to
me, yet I could not refuse.
We entered the gloomy
prison chamber and beheld Justine sitting on some straw at the farther end; her
hands were manacled, and her head rested on her knees. She rose on seeing us
enter, and when we were left alone with her, she threw herself at the feet of
Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also.
“Oh, Justine!” said she.
“Why did you rob me of my last consolation? I relied on your innocence, and
although I was then very wretched, I was not so miserable as I am now.”
“And do you also believe
that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also join with my enemies to crush me,
to condemn me as a murderer?” Her voice was suffocated with sobs.
“Rise, my poor girl,” said
Elizabeth; “why do you kneel, if you are innocent? I am not one of your
enemies, I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every evidence, until I
heard that you had yourself declared your guilt. That report, you say, is
false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can shake my confidence in
you for a moment, but your own confession.”
“I did confess, but I
confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain absolution; but now that
falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other sins. The God of heaven
forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor has besieged me; he
threatened and menaced, until I almost began to think that I was the monster
that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and hell fire in my last
moments if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to support me; all
looked on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. What could I do? In
an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I truly miserable.”
She paused, weeping, and
then continued, “I thought with horror, my sweet lady, that you should believe
your Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured, and whom you
loved, was a creature capable of a crime which none but the devil himself could
have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you
again in heaven, where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I
am to suffer ignominy and death.”
“Oh, Justine! Forgive me
for having for one moment distrusted you. Why did you confess? But do not
mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I will proclaim, I will prove your innocence. I
will melt the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears and prayers. You shall
not die! You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, perish on the scaffold!
No! No! I never could survive so horrible a misfortune.”
Justine shook her head
mournfully. “I do not fear to die,” she said; “that pang is past. God raises my
weakness and gives me courage to endure the worst. I leave a sad and bitter
world; and if you remember me and think of me as of one unjustly condemned, I
am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn from me, dear lady, to submit in
patience to the will of heaven!”
During this conversation I
had retired to a corner of the prison room, where I could conceal the horrid
anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk of that? The poor victim,
who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary between life and death, felt
not, as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I gnashed my teeth and ground them
together, uttering a groan that came from my inmost soul. Justine started. When
she saw who it was, she approached me and said, “Dear sir, you are very kind to
visit me; you, I hope, do not believe that I am guilty?”
I could not answer. “No,
Justine,” said Elizabeth; “he is more convinced of your innocence than I was,
for even when he heard that you had confessed, he did not credit it.”
“I truly thank him. In
these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude towards those who think of me
with kindness. How sweet is the affection of others to such a wretch as I am!
It removes more than half my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace
now that my innocence is acknowledged by you, dear lady, and your cousin.”
Thus the poor sufferer
tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained the resignation she
desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom,
which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhappy,
but hers also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over
the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and
despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within me which
nothing could extinguish. We stayed several hours with Justine, and it was with
great difficulty that Elizabeth could tear herself away. “I wish,” cried she,
“that I were to die with you; I cannot live in this world of misery.”
Justine assumed an air of
cheerfulness, while she with difficulty repressed her bitter tears. She
embraced Elizabeth and said in a voice of half-suppressed emotion, “Farewell,
sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend; may heaven, in its
bounty, bless and preserve you; may this be the last misfortune that you will
ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others so.”
And on the morrow Justine
died. Elizabeth’s heart-rending eloquence failed to move the judges from their
settled conviction in the criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate
and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And when I received their cold
answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my purposed
avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim myself a madman, but not
revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. She perished on the
scaffold as a murderess!
From the tortures of my own
heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my Elizabeth.
This also was my doing! And my father’s woe, and the desolation of that late so
smiling home all was the work of my thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy
ones, but these are not your last tears! Again shall you raise the funeral
wail, and the sound of your lamentations shall again and again be heard!
Frankenstein, your son, your kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who
would spend each vital drop of blood for your sakes, who has no thought nor
sense of joy except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances, who would
fill the air with blessings and spend his life in serving you—he bids you weep,
to shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be
satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave have
succeeded to your sad torments!
Thus spoke my prophetic
soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I beheld those I loved spend
vain sorrow upon the graves of William and Justine, the first hapless victims
to my unhallowed arts.
Chapter 9
Nothing is more painful to
the human mind than, after the feelings have been worked up by a quick
succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and certainty which follows
and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I
was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and
remorse pressed on my heart which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my
eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief
beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself) was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness and the love of virtue. I had
begun life with benevolent intentions and thirsted for the moment when I should
put them in practice and make myself useful to my fellow beings. Now all was
blasted; instead of that serenity of conscience which allowed me to look back
upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from thence to gather promise of new
hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me away to
a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe.
This state of mind preyed
upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely recovered from the first shock
it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency
was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation—deep, dark, deathlike
solitude.
My father observed with
pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits and endeavoured by
arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life
to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark
cloud which brooded over me. “Do you think, Victor,” said he, “that I do not
suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother”—tears
came into his eyes as he spoke—“but is it not a duty to the survivors that we
should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate
grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents
improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without
which no man is fit for society.”
This advice, although good,
was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have been the first to hide my
grief and console my friends if remorse had not mingled its bitterness, and
terror its alarm, with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father
with a look of despair and endeavour to hide myself from his view.
About this time we retired
to our house at Belrive. This change was particularly agreeable to me. The
shutting of the gates regularly at ten o’clock and the impossibility of
remaining on the lake after that hour had rendered our residence within the
walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of
the family had retired for the night, I took the boat and passed many hours
upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails set, I was carried by the wind; and
sometimes, after rowing into the middle of the lake, I left the boat to pursue
its own course and gave way to my own miserable reflections. I was often
tempted, when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that
wandered restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly—if I except some bat, or
the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I
approached the shore—often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent
lake, that the waters might close over me and my calamities for ever. But I was
restrained, when I thought of the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I
tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound up in mine. I thought also of my
father and surviving brother; should I by my base desertion leave them exposed
and unprotected to the malice of the fiend whom I had let loose among them?
At these moments I wept
bitterly and wished that peace would revisit my mind only that I might afford
them consolation and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished
every hope. I had been the author of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily
fear lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness.
I had an obscure feeling that all was not over and that he would still commit
some signal crime, which by its enormity should almost efface the recollection
of the past. There was always scope for fear so long as anything I loved
remained behind. My abhorrence of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I
thought of him I gnashed my teeth, my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently
wished to extinguish that life which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I
reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of
moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to the highest peak of the Andes,
could I, when there, have precipitated him to their base. I wished to see him
again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of abhorrence on his head and
avenge the deaths of William and Justine.
Our house was the house of
mourning. My father’s health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent
events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no longer took delight in her
ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal
woe and tears she then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence
so blasted and destroyed. She was no longer that happy creature who in earlier
youth wandered with me on the banks of the lake and talked with ecstasy of our
future prospects. The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the
earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.
“When I reflect, my dear
cousin,” said she, “on the miserable death of Justine Moritz, I no longer see
the world and its works as they before appeared to me. Before, I looked upon
the accounts of vice and injustice that I read in books or heard from others as
tales of ancient days or imaginary evils; at least they were remote and more
familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and
men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each other’s blood. Yet I am
certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl to be guilty; and if she
could have committed the crime for which she suffered, assuredly she would have
been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to
have murdered the son of her benefactor and friend, a child whom she had nursed
from its birth, and appeared to love as if it had been her own! I could not consent
to the death of any human being, but certainly I should have thought such a
creature unfit to remain in the society of men. But she was innocent. I know, I
feel she was innocent; you are of the same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas!
Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of
certain happiness? I feel as if I were walking on the edge of a precipice,
towards which thousands are crowding and endeavouring to plunge me into the
abyss. William and Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he
walks about the world free, and perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned
to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I would not change places with
such a wretch.”
I listened to this
discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true
murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, and kindly taking my
hand, said, “My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. These events have
affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched as you are. There
is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in your countenance that
makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark passions. Remember the friends
around you, who centre all their hopes in you. Have we lost the power of
rendering you happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true to each other, here
in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may reap every
tranquil blessing—what can disturb our peace?”
And could not such words
from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune suffice to
chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to
her, as if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to
rob me of her.
Thus not the tenderness of
friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven, could redeem my soul from
woe; the very accents of love were ineffectual. I was encompassed by a cloud
which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The wounded deer dragging its
fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had
pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.
Sometimes I could cope with
the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but sometimes the whirlwind passions of
my soul drove me to seek, by bodily exercise and by change of place, some
relief from my intolerable sensations. It was during an access of this kind
that I suddenly left my home, and bending my steps towards the near Alpine
valleys, sought in the magnificence, the eternity of such scenes, to forget
myself and my ephemeral, because human, sorrows. My wanderings were directed
towards the valley of Chamounix. I had visited it frequently during my boyhood.
Six years had passed since then: I was a wreck, but nought had changed in those
savage and enduring scenes.
I performed the first part
of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed
and least liable to receive injury on these rugged roads. The weather was fine;
it was about the middle of the month of August, nearly two months after the
death of Justine, that miserable epoch from which I dated all my woe. The
weight upon my spirit was sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the
ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipices that overhung me on every
side, the sound of the river raging among the rocks, and the dashing of the
waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as Omnipotence—and I ceased to fear
or to bend before any being less almighty than that which had created and ruled
the elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended
higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined
castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and
cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene
of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty
Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as
belonging to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.
I passed the bridge of
Pélissier, where the ravine, which the river forms, opened before me, and I
began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after, I entered the
valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so
beautiful and picturesque as that of Servox, through which I had just passed.
The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no more
ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; I
heard the rumbling thunder of the falling avalanche and marked the smoke of its
passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from
the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous dôme overlooked the valley.
A tingling long-lost sense
of pleasure often came across me during this journey. Some turn in the road,
some new object suddenly perceived and recognised, reminded me of days gone by,
and were associated with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds
whispered in soothing accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then
again the kindly influence ceased to act—I found myself fettered again to grief
and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal,
striving so to forget the world, my fears, and more than all, myself—or, in a
more desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down
by horror and despair.
At length I arrived at the
village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both of body
and of mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the
window watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and
listening to the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The
same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed
my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed
the giver of oblivion.
Chapter 10
I spent the following day
roaming through the valley. I stood beside the sources of the Arveiron, which
take their rise in a glacier, that with slow pace is advancing down from the
summit of the hills to barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains
were before me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines
were scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber
of imperial Nature was broken only by the brawling waves or the fall of some
vast fragment, the thunder sound of the avalanche or the cracking, reverberated
along the mountains, of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent working
of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a
plaything in their hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the
greatest consolation that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all
littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued
and tranquillised it. In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the
thoughts over which it had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at
night; my slumbers, as it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance
of grand shapes which I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round
me; the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods,
and ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds—they all gathered
round me and bade me be at peace.
Where had they fled when
the next morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark
melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick
mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of
those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them in
their cloudy retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to
the door, and I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered
the effect that the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced
upon my mind when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy
that gave wings to the soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to
light and joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always
the effect of solemnising my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of
life. I determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path,
and the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.
The ascent is precipitous,
but the path is cut into continual and short windings, which enable you to
surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically
desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be
perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the ground, some entirely
destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain or
transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend higher, is intersected
by ravines of snow, down which stones continually roll from above; one of them
is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, such as even speaking in a
loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient to draw destruction upon
the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are
sombre and add an air of severity to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath;
vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran through it and curling in thick
wreaths around the opposite mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform
clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky and added to the melancholy
impression I received from the objects around me. Alas! Why does man boast of
sensibilities superior to those apparent in the brute; it only renders them
more necessary beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and
desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every wind that blows
and a chance word or scene that that word may convey to us.
We rest; a dream has power
to poison sleep.
We rise; one wand’ring thought pollutes
the day.
We feel, conceive, or
reason; laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
It is the same: for, be it
joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man’s yesterday may ne’er
be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!
It was nearly noon when I
arrived at the top of the ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock that
overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding
mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the
glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea,
descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is
almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The
opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I now stood
Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a league; and above it rose
Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on
this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice,
wound among its dependent mountains, whose aerial summits hung over its
recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks shone in the sunlight over the clouds.
My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled with something like joy; I
exclaimed, “Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your
narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take me, as your companion, away
from the joys of life.”
As I said this I suddenly
beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing towards me with
superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had
walked with caution; his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that
of man. I was troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize
me, but I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived,
as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the
wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait
his approach and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his
countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while
its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I
scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance,
and I recovered only to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious
detestation and contempt.
“Devil,” I exclaimed, “do
you dare approach me? And do not you fear the fierce vengeance of my arm
wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay, that I
may trample you to dust! And, oh! That I could, with the extinction of your
miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so diabolically
murdered!”
“I expected this
reception,” said the dæmon. “All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be
hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest
and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by
the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus
with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest
of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at
peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated
with the blood of your remaining friends.”
“Abhorred monster! Fiend
that thou art! The tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes.
Wretched devil! You reproach me with your creation, come on, then, that I may
extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed.”
My rage was without bounds;
I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against
the existence of another.
He easily eluded me and
said,
“Be calm! I entreat you to
hear me before you give vent to your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not
suffered enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may
only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.
Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior
to thine, my joints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in
opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my
natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest
me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon me
alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due.
Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the
fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see
bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good;
misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous.”
“Begone! I will not hear
you. There can be no community between you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or
let us try our strength in a fight, in which one must fall.”
“How can I move thee? Will
no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who
implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was
benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am I not alone,
miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your
fellow creatures, who owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert
mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here many days;
the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only
one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to
me than your fellow beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence,
they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my destruction. Shall I not
then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am
miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to
recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you to
make so great, that not only you and your family, but thousands of others,
shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be
moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale; when you have heard that, abandon
or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty
are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defence
before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder,
and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh,
praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me,
and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of your hands.”
“Why do you call to my
remembrance,” I rejoined, “circumstances of which I shudder to reflect, that I
have been the miserable origin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil,
in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands
that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me
no power to consider whether I am just to you or not. Begone! Relieve me from
the sight of your detested form.”
“Thus I relieve thee, my
creator,” he said, and placed his hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from
me with violence; “thus I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou
canst listen to me and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once
possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and
the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to
the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it
descends to hide itself behind your snowy precipices and illuminate another
world, you will have heard my story and can decide. On you it rests, whether I
quit for ever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless life, or become the
scourge of your fellow creatures and the author of your own speedy ruin.”
As he said this he led the
way across the ice; I followed. My heart was full, and I did not answer him,
but as I proceeded, I weighed the various arguments that he had used and
determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and
compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the
murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this
opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards
his creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of
his wickedness. These motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed
the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the
rain again began to descend; we entered the hut, the fiend with an air of
exultation, I with a heavy heart and depressed spirits. But I consented to
listen, and seating myself by the fire which my odious companion had lighted,
he thus began his tale.
Chapter 11
“It is with considerable
difficulty that I remember the original era of my being; all the events of that
period appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations
seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt at the same time; and it was,
indeed, a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations of
my various senses. By degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my
nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me and
troubled me, but hardly had I felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now
suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I walked and, I believe, descended,
but I presently found a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and
opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight; but I now
found that I could wander on at liberty, with no obstacles which I could not
either surmount or avoid. The light became more and more oppressive to me, and
the heat wearying me as I walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade.
This was the forest near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook
resting from my fatigue, until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This
roused me from my nearly dormant state, and I ate some berries which I found
hanging on the trees or lying on the ground. I slaked my thirst at the brook,
and then lying down, was overcome by sleep.
“It was dark when I awoke;
I felt cold also, and half frightened, as it were, instinctively, finding
myself so desolate. Before I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of
cold, I had covered myself with some clothes, but these were insufficient to
secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I
knew, and could distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides,
I sat down and wept.
“Soon a gentle light stole
over the heavens and gave me a sensation of pleasure. I started up and beheld a
radiant form rise from among the trees. [The moon] I gazed with a kind of
wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path, and I again went out in
search of berries. I was still cold when under one of the trees I found a huge
cloak, with which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground. No distinct
ideas occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst,
and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears, and on all sides various
scents saluted me; the only object that I could distinguish was the bright
moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure.
“Several changes of day and
night passed, and the orb of night had greatly lessened, when I began to
distinguish my sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear
stream that supplied me with drink and the trees that shaded me with their
foliage. I was delighted when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which
often saluted my ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals
who had often intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with
greater accuracy, the forms that surrounded me and to perceive the boundaries
of the radiant roof of light which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate
the pleasant songs of the birds but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express
my sensations in my own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which
broke from me frightened me into silence again.
“The moon had disappeared
from the night, and again, with a lessened form, showed itself, while I still
remained in the forest. My sensations had by this time become distinct, and my
mind received every day additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the
light and to perceive objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect
from the herb, and by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the sparrow
uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and thrush were
sweet and enticing.
“One day, when I was
oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wandering
beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In
my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again
with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce
such opposite effects! I examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy
found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches, but they
were wet and would not burn. I was pained at this and sat still watching the
operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried and
itself became inflamed. I reflected on this, and by touching the various
branches, I discovered the cause and busied myself in collecting a great
quantity of wood, that I might dry it and have a plentiful supply of fire. When
night came on and brought sleep with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my
fire should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wood and leaves
and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay on the
ground and sank into sleep.
“It was morning when I
awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle
breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed this also and contrived a fan
of branches, which roused the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When
night came again I found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as
heat and that the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I
found some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and
tasted much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I tried,
therefore, to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on the live embers.
I found that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots
much improved.
“Food, however, became
scarce, and I often spent the whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to
assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found this, I resolved to quit the place
that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I
experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this emigration I exceedingly
lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained through accident and knew
not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of
this difficulty, but I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply it, and
wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across the wood towards the setting
sun. I passed three days in these rambles and at length discovered the open
country. A great fall of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields
were of one uniform white; the appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet
chilled by the cold damp substance that covered the ground.
“It was about seven in the
morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter; at length I perceived a small
hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless been built for the convenience of
some shepherd. This was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with
great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near a
fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise,
and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the hut, ran across the fields
with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His
appearance, different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight somewhat
surprised me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the hut; here the snow
and rain could not penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then
as exquisite and divine a retreat as Pandæmonium appeared to the dæmons of hell
after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of
the shepherd’s breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the
latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among
some straw and fell asleep.
“It was noon when I awoke,
and allured by the warmth of the sun, which shone brightly on the white ground,
I determined to recommence my travels; and, depositing the remains of the
peasant’s breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across the fields for
several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this
appear! The huts, the neater cottages, and stately houses engaged my admiration
by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, the milk and cheese that I saw placed
at the windows of some of the cottages, allured my appetite. One of the best of
these I entered, but I had hardly placed my foot within the door before the
children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused;
some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously bruised by stones and many other
kinds of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country and fearfully took
refuge in a low hovel, quite bare, and making a wretched appearance after the
palaces I had beheld in the village. This hovel however, joined a cottage of a
neat and pleasant appearance, but after my late dearly bought experience, I
dared not enter it. My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low that
I could with difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the
earth, which formed the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it
by innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.
“Here, then, I retreated
and lay down happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, from the
inclemency of the season, and still more from the barbarity of man. As soon as
morning dawned I crept from my kennel, that I might view the adjacent cottage
and discover if I could remain in the habitation I had found. It was situated
against the back of the cottage and surrounded on the sides which were exposed
by a pig sty and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and by that I had
crept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived with
stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to
pass out; all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and that was sufficient
for me.
“Having thus arranged my
dwelling and carpeted it with clean straw, I retired, for I saw the figure of a
man at a distance, and I remembered too well my treatment the night before to
trust myself in his power. I had first, however, provided for my sustenance for
that day by a loaf of coarse bread, which I purloined, and a cup with which I
could drink more conveniently than from my hand of the pure water which flowed
by my retreat. The floor was a little raised, so that it was kept perfectly
dry, and by its vicinity to the chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm.
“Being thus provided, I
resolved to reside in this hovel until something should occur which might alter
my determination. It was indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my
former residence, the rain-dropping branches, and dank earth. I ate my
breakfast with pleasure and was about to remove a plank to procure myself a
little water when I heard a step, and looking through a small chink, I beheld a
young creature, with a pail on her head, passing before my hovel. The girl was
young and of gentle demeanour, unlike what I have since found cottagers and
farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat
and a linen jacket being her only garb; her fair hair was plaited but not
adorned: she looked patient yet sad. I lost sight of her, and in about a
quarter of an hour she returned bearing the pail, which was now partly filled
with milk. As she walked along, seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man
met her, whose countenance expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few
sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pail from her head and bore it to
the cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the
young man again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the
cottage; and the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house and sometimes in
the yard.
“On examining my dwelling,
I found that one of the windows of the cottage had formerly occupied a part of
it, but the panes had been filled up with wood. In one of these was a small and
almost imperceptible chink through which the eye could just penetrate. Through
this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean but very bare of
furniture. In one corner, near a small fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on
his hands in a disconsolate attitude. The young girl was occupied in arranging
the cottage; but presently she took something out of a drawer, which employed
her hands, and she sat down beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument,
began to play and to produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the
nightingale. It was a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch who had never
beheld aught beautiful before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of
the aged cottager won my reverence, while the gentle manners of the girl
enticed my love. He played a sweet mournful air which I perceived drew tears
from the eyes of his amiable companion, of which the old man took no notice,
until she sobbed audibly; he then pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature,
leaving her work, knelt at his feet. He raised her and smiled with such
kindness and affection that I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering
nature; they were a mixture of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before
experienced, either from hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from
the window, unable to bear these emotions.
“Soon after this the young
man returned, bearing on his shoulders a load of wood. The girl met him at the
door, helped to relieve him of his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the
cottage, placed it on the fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook
of the cottage, and he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She
seemed pleased and went into the garden for some roots and plants, which she
placed in water, and then upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work,
whilst the young man went into the garden and appeared busily employed in
digging and pulling up roots. After he had been employed thus about an hour,
the young woman joined him and they entered the cottage together.
“The old man had, in the
meantime, been pensive, but on the appearance of his companions he assumed a
more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal was quickly dispatched.
The young woman was again occupied in arranging the cottage, the old man walked
before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes, leaning on the arm of the
youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast between these two excellent
creatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a countenance beaming with
benevolence and love; the younger was slight and graceful in his figure, and
his features were moulded with the finest symmetry, yet his eyes and attitude
expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man returned to the
cottage, and the youth, with tools different from those he had used in the
morning, directed his steps across the fields.
“Night quickly shut in, but
to my extreme wonder, I found that the cottagers had a means of prolonging
light by the use of tapers, and was delighted to find that the setting of the
sun did not put an end to the pleasure I experienced in watching my human
neighbours. In the evening the young girl and her companion were employed in
various occupations which I did not understand; and the old man again took up
the instrument which produced the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the
morning. So soon as he had finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter
sounds that were monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the old
man’s instrument nor the songs of the birds; I since found that he read aloud,
but at that time I knew nothing of the science of words or letters.
“The family, after having
been thus occupied for a short time, extinguished their lights and retired, as
I conjectured, to rest.”
Chapter 12
“I lay on my straw, but I
could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences of the day. What chiefly struck
me was the gentle manners of these people, and I longed to join them, but dared
not. I remembered too well the treatment I had suffered the night before from
the barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever course of conduct I might
hereafter think it right to pursue, that for the present I would remain quietly
in my hovel, watching and endeavouring to discover the motives which influenced
their actions.
“The cottagers arose the
next morning before the sun. The young woman arranged the cottage and prepared
the food, and the youth departed after the first meal.
“This day was passed in the
same routine as that which preceded it. The young man was constantly employed
out of doors, and the girl in various laborious occupations within. The old
man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed his leisure hours on his
instrument or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed the love and respect which
the younger cottagers exhibited towards their venerable companion. They
performed towards him every little office of affection and duty with
gentleness, and he rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.
“They were not entirely
happy. The young man and his companion often went apart and appeared to weep. I
saw no cause for their unhappiness, but I was deeply affected by it. If such
lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperfect and
solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why were these gentle beings unhappy?
They possessed a delightful house (for such it was in my eyes) and every
luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill and delicious viands when
hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, still more, they enjoyed
one another’s company and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and
kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at
first unable to solve these questions, but perpetual attention and time
explained to me many appearances which were at first enigmatic.
“A considerable period
elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable
family: it was poverty, and they suffered that evil in a very distressing
degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden
and the milk of one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its
masters could scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe,
suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger
cottagers, for several times they placed food before the old man when they
reserved none for themselves.
“This trait of kindness
moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of
their store for my own consumption, but when I found that in doing this I
inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries,
nuts, and roots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.
“I discovered also another
means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the youth
spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and
during the night I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered,
and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.
“I remember, the first time
that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning,
appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She
uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also
expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest
that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden.
“By degrees I made a
discovery of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method
of communicating their experience and feelings to one another by articulate
sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or
pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was
indeed a godlike science, and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it.
But I was baffled in every attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation
was quick, and the words they uttered, not having any apparent connection with
visible objects, I was unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the
mystery of their reference. By great application, however, and after having
remained during the space of several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I
discovered the names that were given to some of the most familiar objects of
discourse; I learned and applied the words, fire, milk, bread, and wood. I
learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion
had each of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was father.
The girl was called sister or Agatha, and the youth Felix, brother, or son. I
cannot describe the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to
each of these sounds and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several
other words without being able as yet to understand or apply them, such as
good, dearest, unhappy.
“I spent the winter in this
manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them to
me; when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised
in their joys. I saw few human beings besides them, and if any other happened
to enter the cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the
superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often
endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that he called
them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an
expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened
with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears, which she endeavoured to
wipe away unperceived; but I generally found that her countenance and tone were
more cheerful after having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was
not thus with Felix. He was always the saddest of the group, and even to my
unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his friends.
But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful than
that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old man.
“I could mention
innumerable instances which, although slight, marked the dispositions of these
amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and want, Felix carried with
pleasure to his sister the first little white flower that peeped out from
beneath the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she had risen, he
cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house, drew water
from the well, and brought the wood from the outhouse, where, to his perpetual
astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an invisible hand. In
the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring farmer, because he
often went forth and did not return until dinner, yet brought no wood with him.
At other times he worked in the garden, but as there was little to do in the
frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha.
“This reading had puzzled
me extremely at first, but by degrees I discovered that he uttered many of the
same sounds when he read as when he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he
found on the paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed
to comprehend these also; but how was that possible when I did not even
understand the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however,
sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of
conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the endeavour, for I easily
perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers,
I ought not to make the attempt until I had first become master of their
language, which knowledge might enable me to make them overlook the deformity
of my figure, for with this also the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes
had made me acquainted.
“I had admired the perfect
forms of my cottagers—their grace, beauty, and delicate complexions; but how
was I terrified when I viewed myself in a transparent pool! At first I started
back, unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror;
and when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am,
I was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification.
Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fatal effects of this miserable
deformity.
“As the sun became warmer
and the light of day longer, the snow vanished, and I beheld the bare trees and
the black earth. From this time Felix was more employed, and the heart-moving
indications of impending famine disappeared. Their food, as I afterwards found,
was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they procured a sufficiency of it.
Several new kinds of plants sprang up in the garden, which they dressed; and
these signs of comfort increased daily as the season advanced.
“The old man, leaning on
his son, walked each day at noon, when it did not rain, as I found it was
called when the heavens poured forth its waters. This frequently took place,
but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the season became far more
pleasant than it had been.
“My mode of life in my
hovel was uniform. During the morning I attended the motions of the cottagers,
and when they were dispersed in various occupations, I slept; the remainder of
the day was spent in observing my friends. When they had retired to rest, if
there was any moon or the night was star-light, I went into the woods and
collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I returned, as often as it
was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow and performed those offices
that I had seen done by Felix. I afterwards found that these labours, performed
by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; and once or twice I heard them,
on these occasions, utter the words good spirit, wonderful; but I did not then
understand the signification of these terms.
“My thoughts now became
more active, and I longed to discover the motives and feelings of these lovely
creatures; I was inquisitive to know why Felix appeared so miserable and Agatha
so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore
happiness to these deserving people. When I slept or was absent, the forms of
the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excellent Felix flitted
before me. I looked upon them as superior beings who would be the arbiters of
my future destiny. I formed in my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting
myself to them, and their reception of me. I imagined that they would be
disgusted, until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating words, I should first
win their favour and afterwards their love.
“These thoughts exhilarated
me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to the acquiring the art of language.
My organs were indeed harsh, but supple; and although my voice was very unlike
the soft music of their tones, yet I pronounced such words as I understood with
tolerable ease. It was as the ass and the lap-dog; yet surely the gentle ass
whose intentions were affectionate, although his manners were rude, deserved
better treatment than blows and execration.
“The pleasant showers and
genial warmth of spring greatly altered the aspect of the earth. Men who before
this change seemed to have been hid in caves dispersed themselves and were
employed in various arts of cultivation. The birds sang in more cheerful notes,
and the leaves began to bud forth on the trees. Happy, happy earth! Fit
habitation for gods, which, so short a time before, was bleak, damp, and
unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the enchanting appearance of nature;
the past was blotted from my memory, the present was tranquil, and the future
gilded by bright rays of hope and anticipations of joy.”
Chapter 13
“I now hasten to the more
moving part of my story. I shall relate events that impressed me with feelings
which, from what I had been, have made me what I am.
“Spring advanced rapidly;
the weather became fine and the skies cloudless. It surprised me that what
before was desert and gloomy should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers
and verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed by a thousand scents of
delight and a thousand sights of beauty.
“It was on one of these
days, when my cottagers periodically rested from labour—the old man played on
his guitar, and the children listened to him—that I observed the countenance of
Felix was melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently, and once his
father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner that he inquired
the cause of his son’s sorrow. Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old
man was recommencing his music when someone tapped at the door.
“It was a lady on
horseback, accompanied by a country-man as a guide. The lady was dressed in a
dark suit and covered with a thick black veil. Agatha asked a question, to
which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet accent, the name of
Felix. Her voice was musical but unlike that of either of my friends. On
hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady, who, when she saw him,
threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and expression.
Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were dark,
but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular proportion, and her
complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a lovely pink.
“Felix seemed ravished with
delight when he saw her, every trait of sorrow vanished from his face, and it
instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic joy, of which I could hardly have
believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his cheek flushed with pleasure; and
at that moment I thought him as beautiful as the stranger. She appeared
affected by different feelings; wiping a few tears from her lovely eyes, she
held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it rapturously and called her, as well
as I could distinguish, his sweet Arabian. She did not appear to understand
him, but smiled. He assisted her to dismount, and dismissing her guide,
conducted her into the cottage. Some conversation took place between him and
his father, and the young stranger knelt at the old man’s feet and would have
kissed his hand, but he raised her and embraced her affectionately.
“I soon perceived that
although the stranger uttered articulate sounds and appeared to have a language
of her own, she was neither understood by nor herself understood the cottagers.
They made many signs which I did not comprehend, but I saw that her presence
diffused gladness through the cottage, dispelling their sorrow as the sun
dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed peculiarly happy and with smiles of
delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of
the lovely stranger, and pointing to her brother, made signs which appeared to
me to mean that he had been sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus,
while they, by their countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not
comprehend. Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which
the stranger repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their
language; and the idea instantly occurred to me that I should make use of the
same instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at
the first lesson; most of them, indeed, were those which I had before
understood, but I profited by the others.
“As night came on, Agatha
and the Arabian retired early. When they separated Felix kissed the hand of the
stranger and said, ‘Good night sweet Safie.’ He sat up much longer, conversing
with his father, and by the frequent repetition of her name I conjectured that
their lovely guest was the subject of their conversation. I ardently desired to
understand them, and bent every faculty towards that purpose, but found it
utterly impossible.
“The next morning Felix
went out to his work, and after the usual occupations of Agatha were finished,
the Arabian sat at the feet of the old man, and taking his guitar, played some
airs so entrancingly beautiful that they at once drew tears of sorrow and
delight from my eyes. She sang, and her voice flowed in a rich cadence,
swelling or dying away like a nightingale of the woods.
“When she had finished, she
gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first declined it. She played a simple air,
and her voice accompanied it in sweet accents, but unlike the wondrous strain
of the stranger. The old man appeared enraptured and said some words which
Agatha endeavoured to explain to Safie, and by which he appeared to wish to
express that she bestowed on him the greatest delight by her music.
“The days now passed as
peaceably as before, with the sole alteration that joy had taken place of
sadness in the countenances of my friends. Safie was always gay and happy; she
and I improved rapidly in the knowledge of language, so that in two months I
began to comprehend most of the words uttered by my protectors.
“In the meanwhile also the
black ground was covered with herbage, and the green banks interspersed with
innumerable flowers, sweet to the scent and the eyes, stars of pale radiance
among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the nights clear and balmy;
and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure to me, although they were
considerably shortened by the late setting and early rising of the sun, for I
never ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of meeting with the same
treatment I had formerly endured in the first village which I entered.
“My days were spent in
close attention, that I might more speedily master the language; and I may
boast that I improved more rapidly than the Arabian, who understood very little
and conversed in broken accents, whilst I comprehended and could imitate almost
every word that was spoken.
“While I improved in
speech, I also learned the science of letters as it was taught to the stranger,
and this opened before me a wide field for wonder and delight.
“The book from which Felix
instructed Safie was Volney’s Ruins of Empires. I should not have understood
the purport of this book had not Felix, in reading it, given very minute
explanations. He had chosen this work, he said, because the declamatory style
was framed in imitation of the Eastern authors. Through this work I obtained a
cursory knowledge of history and a view of the several empires at present
existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners, governments, and
religions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful
Asiatics, of the stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians, of the
wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans—of their subsequent
degenerating—of the decline of that mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity,
and kings. I heard of the discovery of the American hemisphere and wept with
Safie over the hapless fate of its original inhabitants.
“These wonderful narrations
inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so
virtuous and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a
mere scion of the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived of
noble and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour
that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record
have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that
of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not conceive how
one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and
governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased
and I turned away with disgust and loathing.
“Every conversation of the
cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While I listened to the instructions
which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian, the strange system of human society was
explained to me. I heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and
squalid poverty, of rank, descent, and noble blood.
“The words induced me to
turn towards myself. I learned that the possessions most esteemed by your
fellow creatures were high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man
might be respected with only one of these advantages, but without either he was
considered, except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to
waste his powers for the profits of the chosen few! And what was I? Of my
creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I possessed no
money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure
hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I
was more agile than they and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the
extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded
theirs. When I looked around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a
monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men
disowned?
“I cannot describe to you
the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but
sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I had for ever remained in my
native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and
heat!
“Of what a strange nature
is knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen
on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling, but I
learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and
that was death—a state which I feared yet did not understand. I admired virtue
and good feelings and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities of my
cottagers, but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through means
which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and which rather
increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my fellows. The
gentle words of Agatha and the animated smiles of the charming Arabian were not
for me. The mild exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of the
loved Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!
“Other lessons were impressed
upon me even more deeply. I heard of the difference of sexes, and the birth and
growth of children, how the father doted on the smiles of the infant, and the
lively sallies of the older child, how all the life and cares of the mother
were wrapped up in the precious charge, how the mind of youth expanded and
gained knowledge, of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which
bind one human being to another in mutual bonds.
“But where were my friends
and relations? No father had watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me
with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all my past life was now a blot, a
blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. From my earliest remembrance I
had been as I then was in height and proportion. I had never yet seen a being
resembling me or who claimed any intercourse with me. What was I? The question
again recurred, to be answered only with groans.
“I will soon explain to
what these feelings tended, but allow me now to return to the cottagers, whose
story excited in me such various feelings of indignation, delight, and wonder,
but which all terminated in additional love and reverence for my protectors
(for so I loved, in an innocent, half-painful self-deceit, to call them).”
Chapter 14
“Some time elapsed before I
learned the history of my friends. It was one which could not fail to impress
itself deeply on my mind, unfolding as it did a number of circumstances, each
interesting and wonderful to one so utterly inexperienced as I was.
“The name of the old man
was De Lacey. He was descended from a good family in France, where he had lived
for many years in affluence, respected by his superiors and beloved by his
equals. His son was bred in the service of his country, and Agatha had ranked
with ladies of the highest distinction. A few months before my arrival they had
lived in a large and luxurious city called Paris, surrounded by friends and
possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or taste,
accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.
“The father of Safie had
been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish merchant and had inhabited Paris
for many years, when, for some reason which I could not learn, he became
obnoxious to the government. He was seized and cast into prison the very day that
Safie arrived from Constantinople to join him. He was tried and condemned to
death. The injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was
indignant; and it was judged that his religion and wealth rather than the crime
alleged against him had been the cause of his condemnation.
“Felix had accidentally
been present at the trial; his horror and indignation were uncontrollable when
he heard the decision of the court. He made, at that moment, a solemn vow to
deliver him and then looked around for the means. After many fruitless attempts
to gain admittance to the prison, he found a strongly grated window in an
unguarded part of the building, which lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate
Muhammadan, who, loaded with chains, waited in despair the execution of the
barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night and made known to the
prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted,
endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises of reward and
wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt, yet when he saw the lovely
Safie, who was allowed to visit her father and who by her gestures expressed
her lively gratitude, the youth could not help owning to his own mind that the
captive possessed a treasure which would fully reward his toil and hazard.
“The Turk quickly perceived
the impression that his daughter had made on the heart of Felix and endeavoured
to secure him more entirely in his interests by the promise of her hand in
marriage so soon as he should be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too
delicate to accept this offer, yet he looked forward to the probability of the
event as to the consummation of his happiness.
“During the ensuing days,
while the preparations were going forward for the escape of the merchant, the
zeal of Felix was warmed by several letters that he received from this lovely
girl, who found means to express her thoughts in the language of her lover by
the aid of an old man, a servant of her father who understood French. She
thanked him in the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her
parent, and at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.
“I have copies of these
letters, for I found means, during my residence in the hovel, to procure the
implements of writing; and the letters were often in the hands of Felix or
Agatha. Before I depart I will give them to you; they will prove the truth of
my tale; but at present, as the sun is already far declined, I shall only have
time to repeat the substance of them to you.
“Safie related that her
mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a slave by the Turks; recommended
by her beauty, she had won the heart of the father of Safie, who married her.
The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in
freedom, spurned the bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her
daughter in the tenets of her religion and taught her to aspire to higher
powers of intellect and an independence of spirit forbidden to the female
followers of Muhammad. This lady died, but her lessons were indelibly impressed
on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again returning to Asia
and being immured within the walls of a harem, allowed only to occupy herself
with infantile amusements, ill-suited to the temper of her soul, now accustomed
to grand ideas and a noble emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a
Christian and remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in
society was enchanting to her.
“The day for the execution
of the Turk was fixed, but on the night previous to it he quitted his prison
and before morning was distant many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured
passports in the name of his father, sister, and himself. He had previously
communicated his plan to the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his
house, under the pretence of a journey and concealed himself, with his
daughter, in an obscure part of Paris.
“Felix conducted the
fugitives through France to Lyons and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, where the
merchant had decided to wait a favourable opportunity of passing into some part
of the Turkish dominions.
“Safie resolved to remain
with her father until the moment of his departure, before which time the Turk
renewed his promise that she should be united to his deliverer; and Felix
remained with them in expectation of that event; and in the meantime he enjoyed
the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and
tenderest affection. They conversed with one another through the means of an
interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie sang to
him the divine airs of her native country.
“The Turk allowed this
intimacy to take place and encouraged the hopes of the youthful lovers, while
in his heart he had formed far other plans. He loathed the idea that his
daughter should be united to a Christian, but he feared the resentment of Felix
if he should appear lukewarm, for he knew that he was still in the power of his
deliverer if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they
inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled to
prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and secretly to take
his daughter with him when he departed. His plans were facilitated by the news
which arrived from Paris.
“The government of France
were greatly enraged at the escape of their victim and spared no pains to
detect and punish his deliverer. The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and
De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news reached Felix and roused
him from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged father and his gentle sister
lay in a noisome dungeon while he enjoyed the free air and the society of her
whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with the Turk
that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for escape before Felix
could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a boarder at a convent at
Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian, he hastened to Paris and
delivered himself up to the vengeance of the law, hoping to free De Lacey and
Agatha by this proceeding.
“He did not succeed. They
remained confined for five months before the trial took place, the result of
which deprived them of their fortune and condemned them to a perpetual exile
from their native country.
“They found a miserable
asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered them. Felix soon learned
that the treacherous Turk, for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of
oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and
ruin, became a traitor to good feeling and honour and had quitted Italy with
his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him, as he
said, in some plan of future maintenance.
“Such were the events that
preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered him, when I first saw him, the most
miserable of his family. He could have endured poverty, and while this distress
had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried in it; but the ingratitude of the
Turk and the loss of his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and
irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his soul.
“When the news reached
Leghorn that Felix was deprived of his wealth and rank, the merchant commanded
his daughter to think no more of her lover, but to prepare to return to her
native country. The generous nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she
attempted to expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating
his tyrannical mandate.
“A few days after, the Turk
entered his daughter’s apartment and told her hastily that he had reason to
believe that his residence at Leghorn had been divulged and that he should
speedily be delivered up to the French government; he had consequently hired a
vessel to convey him to Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few
hours. He intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential
servant, to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which
had not yet arrived at Leghorn.
“When alone, Safie resolved
in her own mind the plan of conduct that it would become her to pursue in this
emergency. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and her
feelings were alike averse to it. By some papers of her father which fell into
her hands she heard of the exile of her lover and learnt the name of the spot
where he then resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her
determination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her and a sum of
money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, a native of Leghorn, but who
understood the common language of Turkey, and departed for Germany.
“She arrived in safety at a
town about twenty leagues from the cottage of De Lacey, when her attendant fell
dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the most devoted affection, but the poor
girl died, and the Arabian was left alone, unacquainted with the language of
the country and utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell,
however, into good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for
which they were bound, and after her death the woman of the house in which they
had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at the cottage of her
lover.”
Chapter 15
“Such was the history of my
beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I learned, from the views of social
life which it developed, to admire their virtues and to deprecate the vices of
mankind.
“As yet I looked upon crime
as a distant evil, benevolence and generosity were ever present before me,
inciting within me a desire to become an actor in the busy scene where so many
admirable qualities were called forth and displayed. But in giving an account
of the progress of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred
in the beginning of the month of August of the same year.
“One night during my
accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood where I collected my own food and
brought home firing for my protectors, I found on the ground a leathern
portmanteau containing several articles of dress and some books. I eagerly
seized the prize and returned with it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were
written in the language, the elements of which I had acquired at the cottage;
they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch’s Lives, and the Sorrows
of Werter. The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now
continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories, whilst my
friends were employed in their ordinary occupations.
“I can hardly describe to
you the effect of these books. They produced in me an infinity of new images
and feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me
into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter, besides the interest of
its simple and affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed and so many
lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found
in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and
domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and feelings,
which had for their object something out of self, accorded well with my
experience among my protectors and with the wants which were for ever alive in
my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever
beheld or imagined; his character contained no pretension, but it sank deep.
The disquisitions upon death and suicide were calculated to fill me with
wonder. I did not pretend to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined
towards the opinions of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely
understanding it.
“As I read, however, I
applied much personally to my own feelings and condition. I found myself
similar yet at the same time strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I
read and to whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathised with and partly
understood them, but I was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and
related to none. ‘The path of my departure was free,’ and there was none to
lament my annihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did
this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination?
These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.
“The volume of Plutarch’s
Lives which I possessed contained the histories of the first founders of the
ancient republics. This book had a far different effect upon me from the
Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter’s imaginations despondency and gloom,
but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere
of my own reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things
I read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused
knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and boundless
seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns and large assemblages of men.
The cottage of my protectors had been the only school in which I had studied
human nature, but this book developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read
of men concerned in public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I
felt the greatest ardour for virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as
far as I understood the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as
I applied them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of
course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in
preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors
caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first
introduction to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for glory
and slaughter, I should have been imbued with different sensations.
“But Paradise Lost excited
different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I had read the other volumes
which had fallen into my hands, as a true history. It moved every feeling of
wonder and awe that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures
was capable of exciting. I often referred the several situations, as their
similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was apparently united by no link
to any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in
every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect
creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he
was allowed to converse with and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior
nature, but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan
as the fitter emblem of my condition, for often, like him, when I viewed the
bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me.
“Another circumstance
strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon after my arrival in the hovel I
discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress which I had taken from your
laboratory. At first I had neglected them, but now that I was able to decipher
the characters in which they were written, I began to study them with
diligence. It was your journal of the four months that preceded my creation.
You minutely described in these papers every step you took in the progress of
your work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences. You
doubtless recollect these papers. Here they are. Everything is related in them
which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole detail of that series of
disgusting circumstances which produced it is set in view; the minutest
description of my odious and loathsome person is given, in language which
painted your own horrors and rendered mine indelible. I sickened as I read.
‘Hateful day when I received life!’ I exclaimed in agony. ‘Accursed creator!
Why did you form a monster so hideous that even you turned from me in disgust?
God, in pity, made man beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form
is a filthy type of yours, more horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan
had his companions, fellow devils, to admire and encourage him, but I am
solitary and abhorred.’
“These were the reflections
of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when I contemplated the virtues of
the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself
that when they should become acquainted with my admiration of their virtues
they would compassionate me and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn
from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and
friendship? I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit
myself for an interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this
attempt for some months longer, for the importance attached to its success
inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found that my
understanding improved so much with every day’s experience that I was unwilling
to commence this undertaking until a few more months should have added to my
sagacity.
“Several changes, in the
meantime, took place in the cottage. The presence of Safie diffused happiness
among its inhabitants, and I also found that a greater degree of plenty reigned
there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were
assisted in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were
contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while mine became
every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more
clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true, but it
vanished when I beheld my person reflected in water or my shadow in the
moonshine, even as that frail image and that inconstant shade.
“I endeavoured to crush
these fears and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few months I
resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason,
to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely
creatures sympathising with my feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic
countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve
soothed my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam’s
supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me, and in
the bitterness of my heart I cursed him.
“Autumn passed thus. I saw,
with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the
barren and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the
lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better
fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief
delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of
summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the
cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer. They
loved and sympathised with one another; and their joys, depending on each
other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place around them. The
more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to claim their protection and
kindness; my heart yearned to be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to
see their sweet looks directed towards me with affection was the utmost limit
of my ambition. I dared not think that they would turn them from me with
disdain and horror. The poor that stopped at their door were never driven away.
I asked, it is true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest: I
required kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy
of it.
“The winter advanced, and
an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My
attention at this time was solely directed towards my plan of introducing
myself into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects, but that on
which I finally fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should
be alone. I had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of
my person was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me.
My voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore,
that if in the absence of his children I could gain the good will and mediation
of the old De Lacey, I might by his means be tolerated by my younger
protectors.
“One day, when the sun
shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground and diffused cheerfulness,
although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country
walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When
his children had departed, he took up his guitar and played several mournful
but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before.
At first his countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued,
thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument,
he sat absorbed in reflection.
“My heart beat quick; this
was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes or realise my
fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in and
around the cottage; it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to
execute my plan, my limbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose, and
exerting all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had
placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me, and
with renewed determination I approached the door of their cottage.
“I knocked. ‘Who is there?’
said the old man. ‘Come in.’
“I entered. ‘Pardon this
intrusion,’ said I; ‘I am a traveller in want of a little rest; you would
greatly oblige me if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before the
fire.’
“‘Enter,’ said De Lacey,
‘and I will try in what manner I can to relieve your wants; but, unfortunately,
my children are from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall find it
difficult to procure food for you.’
“‘Do not trouble yourself,
my kind host; I have food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.’
“I sat down, and a silence
ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute
in what manner to commence the interview, when the old man addressed me.
‘By your language,
stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you French?’
“‘No; but I was educated by
a French family and understand that language only. I am now going to claim the
protection of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have
some hopes.’
“‘Are they Germans?’
“‘No, they are French. But
let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted creature, I look
around and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable people to
whom I go have never seen me and know little of me. I am full of fears, for if
I fail there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.’
“‘Do not despair. To be
friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced
by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely,
therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and amiable, do not
despair.’
“‘They are kind—they are
the most excellent creatures in the world; but, unfortunately, they are
prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto
harmless and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their
eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a
detestable monster.’
“‘That is indeed
unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot you undeceive them?’
“‘I am about to undertake
that task; and it is on that account that I feel so many overwhelming terrors.
I tenderly love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months in
the habits of daily kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to
injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.’
“‘Where do these friends
reside?’
“‘Near this spot.’
“The old man paused and
then continued, ‘If you will unreservedly confide to me the particulars of your
tale, I perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge
of your countenance, but there is something in your words which persuades me
that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true
pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.’
“‘Excellent man! I thank
you and accept your generous offer. You raise me from the dust by this
kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society
and sympathy of your fellow creatures.’
“‘Heaven forbid! Even if
you were really criminal, for that can only drive you to desperation, and not instigate
you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned,
although innocent; judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.’
“‘How can I thank you, my
best and only benefactor? From your lips first have I heard the voice of
kindness directed towards me; I shall be for ever grateful; and your present
humanity assures me of success with those friends whom I am on the point of
meeting.’
“‘May I know the names and
residence of those friends?’
“I paused. This, I thought,
was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of or bestow happiness on me
for ever. I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the
effort destroyed all my remaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed
aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a
moment to lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, ‘Now is the time!
Save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not
you desert me in the hour of trial!’
“‘Great God!’ exclaimed the
old man. ‘Who are you?’
“At that instant the
cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe
their horror and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie,
unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted
forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I
clung, in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me
violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends
the antelope. But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and I
refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain
and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped
unperceived to my hovel.”
Chapter 16
“Cursed, cursed creator!
Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of
existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet
taken possession of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could
with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted
myself with their shrieks and misery.
“When night came I quitted
my retreat and wandered in the wood; and now, no longer restrained by the fear
of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild
beast that had broken the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and
ranging through the wood with a stag-like swiftness. Oh! What a miserable night
I passed! The cold stars shone in mockery, and the bare trees waved their
branches above me; now and then the sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst
the universal stillness. All, save I, were at rest or in enjoyment; I, like the
arch-fiend, bore a hell within me, and finding myself unsympathised with,
wished to tear up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then
to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.
“But this was a luxury of
sensation that could not endure; I became fatigued with excess of bodily
exertion and sank on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There was
none among the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist me; and should
I feel kindness towards my enemies? No; from that moment I declared everlasting
war against the species, and more than all, against him who had formed me and
sent me forth to this insupportable misery.
“The sun rose; I heard the
voices of men and knew that it was impossible to return to my retreat during
that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining to
devote the ensuing hours to reflection on my situation.
“The pleasant sunshine and
the pure air of day restored me to some degree of tranquillity; and when I
considered what had passed at the cottage, I could not help believing that I
had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It was
apparent that my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and I was
a fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought to
have familiarised the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered
myself to the rest of his family, when they should have been prepared for my
approach. But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable, and after much
consideration I resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by my
representations win him to my party.
“These thoughts calmed me,
and in the afternoon I sank into a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood
did not allow me to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the
preceding day was for ever acting before my eyes; the females were flying and
the enraged Felix tearing me from his father’s feet. I awoke exhausted, and
finding that it was already night, I crept forth from my hiding-place, and went
in search of food.
“When my hunger was
appeased, I directed my steps towards the well-known path that conducted to the
cottage. All there was at peace. I crept into my hovel and remained in silent
expectation of the accustomed hour when the family arose. That hour passed, the
sun mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not appear. I trembled
violently, apprehending some dreadful misfortune. The inside of the cottage was
dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot describe the agony of this suspense.
“Presently two countrymen
passed by, but pausing near the cottage, they entered into conversation, using
violent gesticulations; but I did not understand what they said, as they spoke
the language of the country, which differed from that of my protectors. Soon
after, however, Felix approached with another man; I was surprised, as I knew
that he had not quitted the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to
discover from his discourse the meaning of these unusual appearances.
“‘Do you consider,’ said
his companion to him, ‘that you will be obliged to pay three months’ rent and
to lose the produce of your garden? I do not wish to take any unfair advantage,
and I beg therefore that you will take some days to consider of your
determination.’
“‘It is utterly useless,’
replied Felix; ‘we can never again inhabit your cottage. The life of my father
is in the greatest danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related.
My wife and my sister will never recover from their horror. I entreat you not
to reason with me any more. Take possession of your tenement and let me fly
from this place.’
“Felix trembled violently
as he said this. He and his companion entered the cottage, in which they
remained for a few minutes, and then departed. I never saw any of the family of
De Lacey more.
“I continued for the
remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of utter and stupid despair. My
protectors had departed and had broken the only link that held me to the world.
For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred filled my bosom, and I
did not strive to control them, but allowing myself to be borne away by the
stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death. When I thought of my friends,
of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of Agatha, and the exquisite
beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished and a gush of tears somewhat
soothed me. But again when I reflected that they had spurned and deserted me,
anger returned, a rage of anger, and unable to injure anything human, I turned
my fury towards inanimate objects. As night advanced, I placed a variety of
combustibles around the cottage, and after having destroyed every vestige of
cultivation in the garden, I waited with forced impatience until the moon had
sunk to commence my operations.
“As the night advanced, a
fierce wind arose from the woods and quickly dispersed the clouds that had
loitered in the heavens; the blast tore along like a mighty avalanche and
produced a kind of insanity in my spirits that burst all bounds of reason and
reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a tree and danced with fury around the
devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which
the moon nearly touched. A part of its orb was at length hid, and I waved my
brand; it sank, and with a loud scream I fired the straw, and heath, and
bushes, which I had collected. The wind fanned the fire, and the cottage was
quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to it and licked it with their
forked and destroying tongues.
“As soon as I was convinced
that no assistance could save any part of the habitation, I quitted the scene
and sought for refuge in the woods.
“And now, with the world
before me, whither should I bend my steps? I resolved to fly far from the scene
of my misfortunes; but to me, hated and despised, every country must be equally
horrible. At length the thought of you crossed my mind. I learned from your
papers that you were my father, my creator; and to whom could I apply with more
fitness than to him who had given me life? Among the lessons that Felix had
bestowed upon Safie, geography had not been omitted; I had learned from these
the relative situations of the different countries of the earth. You had mentioned
Geneva as the name of your native town, and towards this place I resolved to
proceed.
“But how was I to direct
myself? I knew that I must travel in a southwesterly direction to reach my
destination, but the sun was my only guide. I did not know the names of the
towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask information from a single
human being; but I did not despair. From you only could I hope for succour,
although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling,
heartless creator! You had endowed me with perceptions and passions and then
cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mankind. But on you only
had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I determined to seek that
justice which I vainly attempted to gain from any other being that wore the
human form.
“My travels were long and
the sufferings I endured intense. It was late in autumn when I quitted the
district where I had so long resided. I travelled only at night, fearful of
encountering the visage of a human being. Nature decayed around me, and the sun
became heatless; rain and snow poured around me; mighty rivers were frozen; the
surface of the earth was hard and chill, and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh,
earth! How often did I imprecate curses on the cause of my being! The mildness
of my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness. The
nearer I approached to your habitation, the more deeply did I feel the spirit
of revenge enkindled in my heart. Snow fell, and the waters were hardened, but
I rested not. A few incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map
of the country; but I often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my
feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and
misery could not extract its food; but a circumstance that happened when I
arrived on the confines of Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth
and the earth again began to look green, confirmed in an especial manner the
bitterness and horror of my feelings.
“I generally rested during
the day and travelled only when I was secured by night from the view of man.
One morning, however, finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured
to continue my journey after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the
first of spring, cheered even me by the loveliness of its sunshine and the
balminess of the air. I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long
appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these
sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude
and deformity, dared to be happy. Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I
even raised my humid eyes with thankfulness towards the blessed sun, which
bestowed such joy upon me.
“I continued to wind among
the paths of the wood, until I came to its boundary, which was skirted by a
deep and rapid river, into which many of the trees bent their branches, now
budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, not exactly knowing what path to
pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, that induced me to conceal myself
under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely hid when a young girl came running
towards the spot where I was concealed, laughing, as if she ran from someone in
sport. She continued her course along the precipitous sides of the river, when
suddenly her foot slipped, and she fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my
hiding-place and with extreme labour, from the force of the current, saved her
and dragged her to shore. She was senseless, and I endeavoured by every means
in my power to restore animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the
approach of a rustic, who was probably the person from whom she had playfully
fled. On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms,
hastened towards the deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly
knew why; but when the man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried,
at my body and fired. I sank to the ground, and my injurer, with increased
swiftness, escaped into the wood.
“This was then the reward
of my benevolence! I had saved a human being from destruction, and as a
recompense I now writhed under the miserable pain of a wound which shattered
the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and gentleness which I had
entertained but a few moments before gave place to hellish rage and gnashing of
teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred and vengeance to all mankind.
But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses paused, and I fainted.
“For some weeks I led a
miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to cure the wound which I had
received. The ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not whether it had
remained there or passed through; at any rate I had no means of extracting it.
My sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the injustice and
ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge—a deep and
deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate for the outrages and anguish I
had endured.
“After some weeks my wound
healed, and I continued my journey. The labours I endured were no longer to be
alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was but a
mockery which insulted my desolate state and made me feel more painfully that I
was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure.
“But my toils now drew near
a close, and in two months from this time I reached the environs of Geneva.
“It was evening when I
arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the fields that surround it to
meditate in what manner I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and
hunger and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle breezes of evening or the
prospect of the sun setting behind the stupendous mountains of Jura.
“At this time a slight
sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection, which was disturbed by the
approach of a beautiful child, who came running into the recess I had chosen,
with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I gazed on him, an idea
seized me that this little creature was unprejudiced and had lived too short a
time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him
and educate him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in this
peopled earth.
“Urged by this impulse, I
seized on the boy as he passed and drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my
form, he placed his hands before his eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew
his hand forcibly from his face and said, ‘Child, what is the meaning of this?
I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me.’
“He struggled violently.
‘Let me go,’ he cried; ‘monster! Ugly wretch! You wish to eat me and tear me to
pieces. You are an ogre. Let me go, or I will tell my papa.’
“‘Boy, you will never see
your father again; you must come with me.’
“‘Hideous monster! Let me
go. My papa is a syndic—he is M. Frankenstein—he will punish you. You dare not
keep me.’
“‘Frankenstein! you belong
then to my enemy—to him towards whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you shall be
my first victim.’
“The child still struggled
and loaded me with epithets which carried despair to my heart; I grasped his
throat to silence him, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet.
“I gazed on my victim, and
my heart swelled with exultation and hellish triumph; clapping my hands, I
exclaimed, ‘I too can create desolation; my enemy is not invulnerable; this
death will carry despair to him, and a thousand other miseries shall torment
and destroy him.’
“As I fixed my eyes on the
child, I saw something glittering on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait
of a most lovely woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted me.
For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep
lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my rage returned; I remembered that
I was for ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could
bestow and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in regarding me,
have changed that air of divine benignity to one expressive of disgust and
affright.
“Can you wonder that such
thoughts transported me with rage? I only wonder that at that moment, instead
of venting my sensations in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among
mankind and perish in the attempt to destroy them.
“While I was overcome by
these feelings, I left the spot where I had committed the murder, and seeking a
more secluded hiding-place, I entered a barn which had appeared to me to be
empty. A woman was sleeping on some straw; she was young, not indeed so
beautiful as her whose portrait I held, but of an agreeable aspect and blooming
in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I thought, is one of those whose
joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over her and
whispered, ‘Awake, fairest, thy lover is near—he who would give his life but to
obtain one look of affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!’
“The sleeper stirred; a
thrill of terror ran through me. Should she indeed awake, and see me, and curse
me, and denounce the murderer? Thus would she assuredly act if her darkened
eyes opened and she beheld me. The thought was madness; it stirred the fiend
within me—not I, but she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I
am for ever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime
had its source in her; be hers the punishment! Thanks to the lessons of Felix
and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over
her and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress. She
moved again, and I fled.
“For some days I haunted
the spot where these scenes had taken place, sometimes wishing to see you,
sometimes resolved to quit the world and its miseries for ever. At length I
wandered towards these mountains, and have ranged through their immense
recesses, consumed by a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not
part until you have promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone and
miserable; man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as
myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species
and have the same defects. This being you must create.”
Chapter 17
The being finished speaking
and fixed his looks upon me in the expectation of a reply. But I was
bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to
understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued,
“You must create a female
for me with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary
for my being. This you alone can do, and I demand it of you as a right which
you must not refuse to concede.”
The latter part of his tale
had kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narrated his
peaceful life among the cottagers, and as he said this I could no longer
suppress the rage that burned within me.
“I do refuse it,” I
replied; “and no torture shall ever extort a consent from me. You may render me
the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes.
Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate the
world. Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never
consent.”
“You are in the wrong,”
replied the fiend; “and instead of threatening, I am content to reason with
you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all
mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember that,
and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not call it
murder if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy my
frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me? Let
him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I would
bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But
that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet
mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries;
if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my
arch-enemy, because my creator, do I swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a
care; I will work at your destruction, nor finish until I desolate your heart,
so that you shall curse the hour of your birth.”
A fiendish rage animated
him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into contortions too horrible for
human eyes to behold; but presently he calmed himself and proceeded—
“I intended to reason. This
passion is detrimental to me, for you do not reflect that you are the cause of
its excess. If any being felt emotions of benevolence towards me, I should
return them a hundred and a hundredfold; for that one creature’s sake I would
make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that
cannot be realised. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small,
but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall
be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more
attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless
and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me happy; let me feel
gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of
some existing thing; do not deny me my request!”
I was moved. I shuddered
when I thought of the possible consequences of my consent, but I felt that
there was some justice in his argument. His tale and the feelings he now
expressed proved him to be a creature of fine sensations, and did I not as his
maker owe him all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow?
He saw my change of feeling and continued,
“If you consent, neither
you nor any other human being shall ever see us again; I will go to the vast
wilds of South America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb
and the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient
nourishment. My companion will be of the same nature as myself and will be
content with the same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will
shine on us as on man and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is
peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the
wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now
see compassion in your eyes; let me seize the favourable moment and persuade
you to promise what I so ardently desire.”
“You propose,” replied I,
“to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the beasts
of the field will be your only companions. How can you, who long for the love
and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return and again seek
their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions
will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of
destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent.”
“How inconstant are your
feelings! But a moment ago you were moved by my representations, and why do you
again harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I
inhabit, and by you that made me, that with the companion you bestow, I will
quit the neighbourhood of man and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage
of places. My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My
life will flow quietly away, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my
maker.”
His words had a strange
effect upon me. I compassionated him and sometimes felt a wish to console him,
but when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked,
my heart sickened and my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I
tried to stifle these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathise with
him, I had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which
was yet in my power to bestow.
“You swear,” I said, “to be
harmless; but have you not already shown a degree of malice that should
reasonably make me distrust you? May not even this be a feint that will
increase your triumph by affording a wider scope for your revenge?”
“How is this? I must not be
trifled with, and I demand an answer. If I have no ties and no affections,
hatred and vice must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause
of my crimes, and I shall become a thing of whose existence everyone will be
ignorant. My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my
virtues will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall
feel the affections of a sensitive being and become linked to the chain of
existence and events from which I am now excluded.”
I paused some time to
reflect on all he had related and the various arguments which he had employed.
I thought of the promise of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of
his existence and the subsequent blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing
and scorn which his protectors had manifested towards him. His power and
threats were not omitted in my calculations; a creature who could exist in the
ice-caves of the glaciers and hide himself from pursuit among the ridges of
inaccessible precipices was a being possessing faculties it would be vain to
cope with. After a long pause of reflection I concluded that the justice due
both to him and my fellow creatures demanded of me that I should comply with
his request. Turning to him, therefore, I said,
“I consent to your demand,
on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever, and every other place in the
neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who
will accompany you in your exile.”
“I swear,” he cried, “by
the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my
heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold me
again. Depart to your home and commence your labours; I shall watch their
progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready I
shall appear.”
Saying this, he suddenly
quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend
the mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost
among the undulations of the sea of ice.
His tale had occupied the
whole day, and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I
knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be
encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour
of winding among the little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as
I advanced perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the
occurrences of the day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the
halfway resting-place and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at
intervals as the clouds passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me,
and every here and there a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene of
wonderful solemnity and stirred strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly,
and clasping my hands in agony, I exclaimed, “Oh! stars and clouds and winds,
ye are all about to mock me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory;
let me become as nought; but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness.”
These were wild and
miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of
the stars weighed upon me and how I listened to every blast of wind as if it
were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.
Morning dawned before I
arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immediately
to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my
sensations—they weighed on me with a mountain’s weight and their excess
destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and entering the house,
presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance awoke intense
alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were
placed under a ban—as if I had no right to claim their sympathies—as if never
more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet even thus I loved them to
adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate myself to my most abhorred
task. The prospect of such an occupation made every other circumstance of
existence pass before me like a dream, and that thought only had to me the
reality of life.
Chapter 18
Day after day, week after
week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and I could not collect the courage
to recommence my work. I feared the vengeance of the disappointed fiend, yet I
was unable to overcome my repugnance to the task which was enjoined me. I found
that I could not compose a female without again devoting several months to
profound study and laborious disquisition. I had heard of some discoveries
having been made by an English philosopher, the knowledge of which was material
to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father’s consent to
visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay and
shrank from taking the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity
began to appear less absolute to me. A change indeed had taken place in me; my
health, which had hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits,
when unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My
father saw this change with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the
best method of eradicating the remains of my melancholy, which every now and
then would return by fits, and with a devouring blackness overcast the
approaching sunshine. At these moments I took refuge in the most perfect
solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in a little boat, watching the
clouds and listening to the rippling of the waves, silent and listless. But the
fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to restore me to some degree of
composure, and on my return I met the salutations of my friends with a readier
smile and a more cheerful heart.
It was after my return from
one of these rambles that my father, calling me aside, thus addressed me,
“I am happy to remark, my
dear son, that you have resumed your former pleasures and seem to be returning
to yourself. And yet you are still unhappy and still avoid our society. For
some time I was lost in conjecture as to the cause of this, but yesterday an
idea struck me, and if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on
such a point would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all.”
I trembled violently at his
exordium, and my father continued—
“I confess, my son, that I
have always looked forward to your marriage with our dear Elizabeth as the tie
of our domestic comfort and the stay of my declining years. You were attached
to each other from your earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared,
in dispositions and tastes, entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the
experience of man that what I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan
may have entirely destroyed it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister,
without any wish that she might become your wife. Nay, you may have met with
another whom you may love; and considering yourself as bound in honour to
Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion the poignant misery which you appear to
feel.”
“My dear father, reassure
yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who
excited, as Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration and affection. My future
hopes and prospects are entirely bound up in the expectation of our union.”
“The expression of your
sentiments of this subject, my dear Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have
for some time experienced. If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy,
however present events may cast a gloom over us. But it is this gloom which
appears to have taken so strong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate.
Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an immediate solemnisation of the
marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us from that
everyday tranquillity befitting my years and infirmities. You are younger; yet
I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a competent fortune, that an early
marriage would at all interfere with any future plans of honour and utility
that you may have formed. Do not suppose, however, that I wish to dictate
happiness to you or that a delay on your part would cause me any serious
uneasiness. Interpret my words with candour and answer me, I conjure you, with
confidence and sincerity.”
I listened to my father in
silence and remained for some time incapable of offering any reply. I revolved
rapidly in my mind a multitude of thoughts and endeavoured to arrive at some
conclusion. Alas! To me the idea of an immediate union with my Elizabeth was
one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise which I had not yet
fulfilled and dared not break, or if I did, what manifold miseries might not
impend over me and my devoted family! Could I enter into a festival with this
deadly weight yet hanging round my neck and bowing me to the ground? I must
perform my engagement and let the monster depart with his mate before I allowed
myself to enjoy the delight of a union from which I expected peace.
I remembered also the
necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to England or entering into a
long correspondence with those philosophers of that country whose knowledge and
discoveries were of indispensable use to me in my present undertaking. The
latter method of obtaining the desired intelligence was dilatory and
unsatisfactory; besides, I had an insurmountable aversion to the idea of
engaging myself in my loathsome task in my father’s house while in habits of
familiar intercourse with those I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful
accidents might occur, the slightest of which would disclose a tale to thrill
all connected with me with horror. I was aware also that I should often lose
all self-command, all capacity of hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess
me during the progress of my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself from
all I loved while thus employed. Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved,
and I might be restored to my family in peace and happiness. My promise
fulfilled, the monster would depart for ever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some
accident might meanwhile occur to destroy him and put an end to my slavery for
ever.
These feelings dictated my
answer to my father. I expressed a wish to visit England, but concealing the
true reasons of this request, I clothed my desires under a guise which excited
no suspicion, while I urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced
my father to comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy that
resembled madness in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find that I was
capable of taking pleasure in the idea of such a journey, and he hoped that
change of scene and varied amusement would, before my return, have restored me
entirely to myself.
The duration of my absence
was left to my own choice; a few months, or at most a year, was the period
contemplated. One paternal kind precaution he had taken to ensure my having a
companion. Without previously communicating with me, he had, in concert with
Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me at Strasburgh. This interfered
with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the
commencement of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be an
impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many hours of
lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henry might stand between me and the
intrusion of my foe. If I were alone, would he not at times force his abhorred
presence on me to remind me of my task or to contemplate its progress?
To England, therefore, I
was bound, and it was understood that my union with Elizabeth should take place
immediately on my return. My father’s age rendered him extremely averse to
delay. For myself, there was one reward I promised myself from my detested
toils—one consolation for my unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of
that day when, enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth
and forget the past in my union with her.
I now made arrangements for
my journey, but one feeling haunted me which filled me with fear and agitation.
During my absence I should leave my friends unconscious of the existence of
their enemy and unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my
departure. But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and would he
not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in itself, but
soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends. I was agonised with
the idea of the possibility that the reverse of this might happen. But through
the whole period during which I was the slave of my creature I allowed myself
to be governed by the impulses of the moment; and my present sensations
strongly intimated that the fiend would follow me and exempt my family from the
danger of his machinations.
It was in the latter end of
September that I again quitted my native country. My journey had been my own
suggestion, and Elizabeth therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with
disquiet at the idea of my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and
grief. It had been her care which provided me a companion in Clerval—and yet a
man is blind to a thousand minute circumstances which call forth a woman’s
sedulous attention. She longed to bid me hasten my return; a thousand
conflicting emotions rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent
farewell.
I threw myself into the
carriage that was to convey me away, hardly knowing whither I was going, and
careless of what was passing around. I remembered only, and it was with a
bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to order that my chemical instruments
should be packed to go with me. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed
through many beautiful and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and
unobserving. I could only think of the bourne of my travels and the work which was
to occupy me whilst they endured.
After some days spent in
listless indolence, during which I traversed many leagues, I arrived at
Strasburgh, where I waited two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was
the contrast between us! He was alive to every new scene, joyful when he saw the
beauties of the setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise and
recommence a new day. He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the
landscape and the appearances of the sky. “This is what it is to live,” he
cried; “now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you
desponding and sorrowful!” In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts and
neither saw the descent of the evening star nor the golden sunrise reflected in
the Rhine. And you, my friend, would be far more amused with the journal of
Clerval, who observed the scenery with an eye of feeling and delight, than in
listening to my reflections. I, a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that
shut up every avenue to enjoyment.
We had agreed to descend
the Rhine in a boat from Strasburgh to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping
for London. During this voyage we passed many willowy islands and saw several
beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our
departure from Strasburgh, arrived at Mainz. The course of the Rhine below
Mainz becomes much more picturesque. The river descends rapidly and winds
between hills, not high, but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many ruined
castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and
inaccessible. This part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a singularly variegated
landscape. In one spot you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking
tremendous precipices, with the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden
turn of a promontory, flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a
meandering river and populous towns occupy the scene.
We travelled at the time of
the vintage and heard the song of the labourers as we glided down the stream.
Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy
feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the boat, and as I gazed
on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I had
long been a stranger. And if these were my sensations, who can describe those
of Henry? He felt as if he had been transported to Fairy-land and enjoyed a
happiness seldom tasted by man. “I have seen,” he said, “the most beautiful
scenes of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where
the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black
and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance
were it not for the most verdant islands that relieve the eye by their gay
appearance; I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up
whirlwinds of water and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on the
great ocean; and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the
priest and his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and where their dying
voices are still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have
seen the mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud; but this country,
Victor, pleases me more than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland
are more majestic and strange, but there is a charm in the banks of this divine
river that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon
precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of
those lovely trees; and now that group of labourers coming from among their
vines; and that village half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely the
spirit that inhabits and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man
than those who pile the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the
mountains of our own country.”
Clerval! Beloved friend!
Even now it delights me to record your words and to dwell on the praise of
which you are so eminently deserving. He was a being formed in the “very poetry
of nature.” His wild and enthusiastic imagination was chastened by the
sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent affections, and his
friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that the worldly-minded
teach us to look for only in the imagination. But even human sympathies were
not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of external nature, which
others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:—
——The sounding cataract
Haunted him like a passion:
the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep
and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their
forms, were then to him
An appetite; a feeling, and
a love,
That had no need of a
remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any
interest
Unborrow’d from the eye.
[Wordsworth’s “Tintern
Abbey”.]
And where does he now
exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for ever? Has this mind, so replete
with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose
existence depended on the life of its creator;—has this mind perished? Does it
now only exist in my memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought,
and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles
your unhappy friend.
Pardon this gush of sorrow;
these ineffectual words are but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of
Henry, but they soothe my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his
remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale.
Beyond Cologne we descended
to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to post the remainder of our way, for
the wind was contrary and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us.
Our journey here lost the
interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we arrived in a few days at
Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England. It was on a clear morning, in
the latter days of December, that I first saw the white cliffs of Britain. The
banks of the Thames presented a new scene; they were flat but fertile, and
almost every town was marked by the remembrance of some story. We saw Tilbury
Fort and remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and
Greenwich—places which I had heard of even in my country.
At length we saw the
numerous steeples of London, St. Paul’s towering above all, and the Tower famed
in English history.
Chapter 19
London was our present
point of rest; we determined to remain several months in this wonderful and
celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and
talent who flourished at this time, but this was with me a secondary object; I
was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the information necessary
for the completion of my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of
introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished
natural philosophers.
If this journey had taken
place during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me
inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only
visited these people for the sake of the information they might give me on the
subject in which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to
me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the
voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory
peace. But busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart.
I saw an insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow men; this
barrier was sealed with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the
events connected with those names filled my soul with anguish.
But in Clerval I saw the
image of my former self; he was inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and
instruction. The difference of manners which he observed was to him an
inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an
object he had long had in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief
that he had in his knowledge of its various languages, and in the views he had
taken of its society, the means of materially assisting the progress of
European colonization and trade. In Britain only could he further the execution
of his plan. He was for ever busy, and the only check to his enjoyments was my
sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal this as much as possible, that
I might not debar him from the pleasures natural to one who was entering on a
new scene of life, undisturbed by any care or bitter recollection. I often
refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement, that I might remain
alone. I now also began to collect the materials necessary for my new creation,
and this was to me like the torture of single drops of water continually
falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it was an extreme
anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused my lips to
quiver, and my heart to palpitate.
After passing some months
in London, we received a letter from a person in Scotland who had formerly been
our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native country and
asked us if those were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our
journey as far north as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to
accept this invitation, and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view
again mountains and streams and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns
her chosen dwelling-places.
We had arrived in England
at the beginning of October, and it was now February. We accordingly determined
to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration of another month.
In this expedition we did not intend to follow the great road to Edinburgh, but
to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes, resolving to
arrive at the completion of this tour about the end of July. I packed up my
chemical instruments and the materials I had collected, resolving to finish my
labours in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.
We quitted London on the
27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful
forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the
quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer were all novelties to us.
From thence we proceeded to
Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds were filled with the remembrance of
the events that had been transacted there more than a century and a half
before. It was here that Charles I. had collected his forces. This city had
remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join
the standard of Parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king and
his companions, the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and son,
gave a peculiar interest to every part of the city which they might be supposed
to have inhabited. The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we
delighted to trace its footsteps. If these feelings had not found an imaginary
gratification, the appearance of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty
to obtain our admiration. The colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets
are almost magnificent; and the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows
of exquisite verdure, is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which
reflects its majestic assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed
among aged trees.
I enjoyed this scene, and
yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory of the past and the
anticipation of the future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my
youthful days discontent never visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by
ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in nature or the study of what is
excellent and sublime in the productions of man could always interest my heart
and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has
entered my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall
soon cease to be—a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others
and intolerable to myself.
We passed a considerable
period at Oxford, rambling among its environs and endeavouring to identify
every spot which might relate to the most animating epoch of English history.
Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged by the successive objects
that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of the illustrious Hampden and
the field on which that patriot fell. For a moment my soul was elevated from
its debasing and miserable fears to contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and
self-sacrifice of which these sights were the monuments and the remembrancers.
For an instant I dared to shake off my chains and look around me with a free
and lofty spirit, but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again,
trembling and hopeless, into my miserable self.
We left Oxford with regret
and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The country in the
neighbourhood of this village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of
Switzerland; but everything is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the
crown of distant white Alps which always attend on the piny mountains of my
native country. We visited the wondrous cave and the little cabinets of natural
history, where the curiosities are disposed in the same manner as in the
collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble when
pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrible
scene was thus associated.
From Derby, still journeying
northwards, we passed two months in Cumberland and Westmorland. I could now
almost fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The little patches of snow which
yet lingered on the northern sides of the mountains, the lakes, and the dashing
of the rocky streams were all familiar and dear sights to me. Here also we made
some acquaintances, who almost contrived to cheat me into happiness. The
delight of Clerval was proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded in
the company of men of talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities
and resources than he could have imagined himself to have possessed while he
associated with his inferiors. “I could pass my life here,” said he to me; “and
among these mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine.”
But he found that a
traveller’s life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His
feelings are for ever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose,
he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for
something new, which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes
for other novelties.
We had scarcely visited the
various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland and conceived an affection for some
of the inhabitants when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend
approached, and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I
had now neglected my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the
dæmon’s disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland and wreak his vengeance
on my relatives. This idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment from
which I might otherwise have snatched repose and peace. I waited for my letters
with feverish impatience; if they were delayed I was miserable and overcome by
a thousand fears; and when they arrived and I saw the superscription of
Elizabeth or my father, I hardly dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes
I thought that the fiend followed me and might expedite my remissness by
murdering my companion. When these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit
Henry for a moment, but followed him as his shadow, to protect him from the
fancied rage of his destroyer. I felt as if I had committed some great crime,
the consciousness of which haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn
down a horrible curse upon my head, as mortal as that of crime.
I visited Edinburgh with
languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might have interested the most
unfortunate being. Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford, for the antiquity
of the latter city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity of
the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle and its environs, the most
delightful in the world, Arthur’s Seat, St. Bernard’s Well, and the Pentland
Hills, compensated him for the change and filled him with cheerfulness and
admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.
We left Edinburgh in a
week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew’s, and along the banks of the Tay, to
Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk
with strangers or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected
from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of
Scotland alone. “Do you,” said I, “enjoy yourself, and let this be our
rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my
motions, I entreat you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time; and
when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your
own temper.”
Henry wished to dissuade
me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to
write often. “I had rather be with you,” he said, “in your solitary rambles,
than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my dear
friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which I
cannot do in your absence.”
Having parted from my
friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland and finish my work
in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster followed me and would
discover himself to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his
companion.
With this resolution I
traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of the
Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a work,
being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were continually beaten upon by
the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few miserable
cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons, whose
gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and
bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be
procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant.
On the whole island there
were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This
I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of
the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were
unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired,
bought some furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have
occasioned some surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed
by want and squalid poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested,
hardly thanked for the pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does
suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men.
In this retreat I devoted
the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked
on the stony beach of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed
at my feet. It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of
Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling landscape.
Its hills are covered with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the
plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when troubled by the
winds, their tumult is but as the play of a lively infant when compared to the
roarings of the giant ocean.
In this manner I
distributed my occupations when I first arrived, but as I proceeded in my
labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could
not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other
times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a
filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of
enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was
intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the
horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart
often sickened at the work of my hands.
Thus situated, employed in
the most detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for
an instant call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my
spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to
meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing
to raise them lest they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to
behold. I feared to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when
alone he should come to claim his companion.
In the mean time I worked
on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its
completion with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to
question but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my
heart sicken in my bosom.
Chapter 20
I sat one evening in my
laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea; I had
not sufficient light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of
consideration of whether I should leave my labour for the night or hasten its
conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection
occurred to me which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing.
Three years before, I was engaged in the same manner and had created a fiend
whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my heart and filled it for ever with
the bitterest remorse. I was now about to form another being of whose
dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might become ten thousand times more
malignant than her mate and delight, for its own sake, in murder and
wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in
deserts, but she had not; and she, who in all probability was to become a
thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to comply with a compact made
before her creation. They might even hate each other; the creature who already
lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorrence
for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn
with disgust from him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he
be again alone, exasperated by the fresh provocation of being deserted by one
of his own species.
Even if they were to leave
Europe and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first results
of those sympathies for which the dæmon thirsted would be children, and a race
of devils would be propagated upon the earth who might make the very existence
of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right,
for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations? I had
before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been struck
senseless by his fiendish threats; but now, for the first time, the wickedness
of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse
me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at
the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race.
I trembled and my heart
failed within me, when, on looking up, I saw by the light of the moon the dæmon
at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I
sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in
my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge
in wide and desert heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the
fulfilment of my promise.
As I looked on him, his
countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with
a sensation of madness on my promise of creating another like to him, and
trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on which I was engaged. The
wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future existence he depended for
happiness, and with a howl of devilish despair and revenge, withdrew.
I left the room, and
locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart never to resume my labours;
and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own apartment. I was alone; none
were near me to dissipate the gloom and relieve me from the sickening
oppression of the most terrible reveries.
Several hours passed, and I
remained near my window gazing on the sea; it was almost motionless, for the
winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under the eye of the quiet moon. A
few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now and then the gentle breeze
wafted the sound of voices as the fishermen called to one another. I felt the
silence, although I was hardly conscious of its extreme profundity, until my
ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars near the shore, and a person
landed close to my house.
In a few minutes after, I
heard the creaking of my door, as if some one endeavoured to open it softly. I
trembled from head to foot; I felt a presentiment of who it was and wished to
rouse one of the peasants who dwelt in a cottage not far from mine; but I was
overcome by the sensation of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams,
when you in vain endeavour to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to
the spot.
Presently I heard the sound
of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the wretch whom I dreaded
appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me and said in a smothered voice,
“You have destroyed the
work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do you dare to break your
promise? I have endured toil and misery; I left Switzerland with you; I crept
along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow islands and over the summits of
its hills. I have dwelt many months in the heaths of England and among the
deserts of Scotland. I have endured incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger;
do you dare destroy my hopes?”
“Begone! I do break my
promise; never will I create another like yourself, equal in deformity and
wickedness.”
“Slave, I before reasoned
with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of my condescension. Remember
that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so
wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. You are my creator, but
I am your master; obey!”
“The hour of my
irresolution is past, and the period of your power is arrived. Your threats
cannot move me to do an act of wickedness; but they confirm me in a
determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool blood,
set loose upon the earth a dæmon whose delight is in death and wretchedness?
Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage.”
The monster saw my
determination in my face and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger.
“Shall each man,” cried he, “find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his
mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by
detestation and scorn. Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in
dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your
happiness for ever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my
wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge remains—revenge,
henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die, but first you, my tyrant and
tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your misery. Beware, for I am fearless
and therefore powerful. I will watch with the wiliness of a snake, that I may
sting with its venom. Man, you shall repent of the injuries you inflict.”
“Devil, cease; and do not
poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have declared my resolution to
you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave me; I am inexorable.”
“It is well. I go; but
remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night.”
I started forward and
exclaimed, “Villain! Before you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are
yourself safe.”
I would have seized him,
but he eluded me and quitted the house with precipitation. In a few moments I
saw him in his boat, which shot across the waters with an arrowy swiftness and
was soon lost amidst the waves.
All was again silent, but
his words rang in my ears. I burned with rage to pursue the murderer of my
peace and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked up and down my room hastily
and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand images to torment
and sting me. Why had I not followed him and closed with him in mortal strife?
But I had suffered him to depart, and he had directed his course towards the
mainland. I shuddered to think who might be the next victim sacrificed to his
insatiate revenge. And then I thought again of his words—“I will be with you on
your wedding-night.” That, then, was the period fixed for the fulfilment of my
destiny. In that hour I should die and at once satisfy and extinguish his
malice. The prospect did not move me to fear; yet when I thought of my beloved
Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow, when she should find her lover so
barbarously snatched from her, tears, the first I had shed for many months,
streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not to fall before my enemy without a
bitter struggle.
The night passed away, and
the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may be called
calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of despair. I left the
house, the horrid scene of the last night’s contention, and walked on the beach
of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my
fellow creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across me.
I desired that I might pass my life on that barren rock, wearily, it is true,
but uninterrupted by any sudden shock of misery. If I returned, it was to be
sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die under the grasp of a dæmon
whom I had myself created.
I walked about the isle
like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved and miserable in the
separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the
grass and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the
preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and
misery. The sleep into which I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again
felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like myself, and I began to
reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; yet still the words of the
fiend rang in my ears like a death-knell; they appeared like a dream, yet
distinct and oppressive as a reality.
The sun had far descended,
and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become
ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and
one of the men brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one
from Clerval entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away his
time fruitlessly where he was, that letters from the friends he had formed in
London desired his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for
his Indian enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as his
journey to London might be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by
his longer voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I
could spare. He besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle and to meet
him at Perth, that we might proceed southwards together. This letter in a
degree recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the
expiration of two days.
Yet, before I departed,
there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to reflect; I must pack up my
chemical instruments, and for that purpose I must enter the room which had been
the scene of my odious work, and I must handle those utensils the sight of
which was sickening to me. The next morning, at daybreak, I summoned sufficient
courage and unlocked the door of my laboratory. The remains of the
half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered on the floor, and I
almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to
collect myself and then entered the chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the
instruments out of the room, but I reflected that I ought not to leave the
relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of the peasants; and I
accordingly put them into a basket, with a great quantity of stones, and laying
them up, determined to throw them into the sea that very night; and in the
meantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging my chemical
apparatus.
Nothing could be more
complete than the alteration that had taken place in my feelings since the
night of the appearance of the dæmon. I had before regarded my promise with a
gloomy despair as a thing that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled;
but I now felt as if a film had been taken from before my eyes and that I for
the first time saw clearly. The idea of renewing my labours did not for one
instant occur to me; the threat I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did
not reflect that a voluntary act of mine could avert it. I had resolved in my
own mind that to create another like the fiend I had first made would be an act
of the basest and most atrocious selfishness, and I banished from my mind every
thought that could lead to a different conclusion.
Between two and three in
the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff,
sailed out about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary; a
few boats were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as
if I was about the commission of a dreadful crime and avoided with shuddering
anxiety any encounter with my fellow creatures. At one time the moon, which had
before been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took
advantage of the moment of darkness and cast my basket into the sea; I listened
to the gurgling sound as it sank and then sailed away from the spot. The sky
became clouded, but the air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze
that was then rising. But it refreshed me and filled me with such agreeable
sensations that I resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder
in a direct position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid
the moon, everything was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as its
keel cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept
soundly.
I do not know how long I
remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found that the sun had already
mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the waves continually threatened
the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was northeast and must
have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured to
change my course but quickly found that if I again made the attempt the boat
would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to
drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had
no compass with me and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this
part of the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven
into the wide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation or be swallowed
up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already
been out many hours and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my
other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that
flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others; I looked upon the sea; it
was to be my grave. “Fiend,” I exclaimed, “your task is already fulfilled!” I
thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clerval—all left behind, on whom the
monster might satisfy his sanguinary and merciless passions. This idea plunged
me into a reverie so despairing and frightful that even now, when the scene is
on the point of closing before me for ever, I shudder to reflect on it.
Some hours passed thus; but
by degrees, as the sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a
gentle breeze and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a
heavy swell; I felt sick and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I
saw a line of high land towards the south.
Almost spent, as I was, by
fatigue and the dreadful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden
certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed
from my eyes.
How mutable are our
feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the
excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a part of my dress and
eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance,
but as I approached nearer I easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw
vessels near the shore and found myself suddenly transported back to the
neighbourhood of civilised man. I carefully traced the windings of the land and
hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from behind a small promontory.
As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved to sail directly towards
the town, as a place where I could most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately
I had money with me. As I turned the promontory I perceived a small neat town
and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with joy at my
unexpected escape.
As I was occupied in fixing
the boat and arranging the sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They
seemed much surprised at my appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance,
whispered together with gestures that at any other time might have produced in
me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke
English, and I therefore addressed them in that language. “My good friends,”
said I, “will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town and inform me
where I am?”
“You will know that soon
enough,” replied a man with a hoarse voice. “Maybe you are come to a place that
will not prove much to your taste, but you will not be consulted as to your quarters,
I promise you.”
I was exceedingly surprised
on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger, and I was also disconcerted on
perceiving the frowning and angry countenances of his companions. “Why do you
answer me so roughly?” I replied. “Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen to
receive strangers so inhospitably.”
“I do not know,” said the
man, “what the custom of the English may be, but it is the custom of the Irish
to hate villains.”
While this strange dialogue
continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a
mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed and in some degree alarmed me. I
inquired the way to the inn, but no one replied. I then moved forward, and a
murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed and surrounded me, when
an ill-looking man approaching tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come, sir,
you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin’s to give an account of yourself.”
“Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am
I to give an account of myself? Is not this a free country?”
“Ay, sir, free enough for
honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate, and you are to give an account of the
death of a gentleman who was found murdered here last night.”
This answer startled me,
but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent; that could easily be proved;
accordingly I followed my conductor in silence and was led to one of the best
houses in the town. I was ready to sink from fatigue and hunger, but being
surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to rouse all my strength, that no
physical debility might be construed into apprehension or conscious guilt.
Little did I then expect the calamity that was in a few moments to overwhelm me
and extinguish in horror and despair all fear of ignominy or death.
I must pause here, for it
requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of the frightful events which I
am about to relate, in proper detail, to my recollection.
Chapter 21
I was soon introduced into
the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man with calm and mild
manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree of severity, and then,
turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as witnesses on this
occasion.
About half a dozen men came
forward; and, one being selected by the magistrate, he deposed that he had been
out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent,
when, about ten o’clock, they observed a strong northerly blast rising, and
they accordingly put in for port. It was a very dark night, as the moon had not
yet risen; they did not land at the harbour, but, as they had been accustomed,
at a creek about two miles below. He walked on first, carrying a part of the
fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some distance. As he was
proceeding along the sands, he struck his foot against something and fell at
his length on the ground. His companions came up to assist him, and by the
light of their lantern they found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who
was to all appearance dead. Their first supposition was that it was the corpse of
some person who had been drowned and was thrown on shore by the waves, but on
examination they found that the clothes were not wet and even that the body was
not then cold. They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near
the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to be
a handsome young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently
been strangled, for there was no sign of any violence except the black mark of
fingers on his neck.
The first part of this
deposition did not in the least interest me, but when the mark of the fingers
was mentioned I remembered the murder of my brother and felt myself extremely
agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which obliged me to
lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of
course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner.
The son confirmed his
father’s account, but when Daniel Nugent was called he swore positively that
just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it,
at a short distance from the shore; and as far as he could judge by the light
of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed.
A woman deposed that she
lived near the beach and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting for
the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery of
the body, when she saw a boat with only one man in it push off from that part
of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found.
Another woman confirmed the
account of the fishermen having brought the body into her house; it was not
cold. They put it into a bed and rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an
apothecary, but life was quite gone.
Several other men were
examined concerning my landing, and they agreed that, with the strong north
wind that had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten
about for many hours and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot
from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had
brought the body from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear
to know the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance
of the town of —— from the place where I had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this
evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for
interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce
upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited
when the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by
the magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being
struck by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful
night; but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the
island I had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was
perfectly tranquil as to the consequences of the affair.
I entered the room where
the corpse lay and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations
on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that
terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of
the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the
lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and
throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, “Have my murderous machinations
deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed;
other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor—”
The human frame could no
longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in
strong convulsions.
A fever succeeded to this.
I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard,
were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of
Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of
the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the
monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror.
Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but
my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses.
Why did I not die? More
miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and
rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their
doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom
of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of
what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like
the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture?
But I was doomed to live
and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched
on a wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the
miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke
to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only
felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked
around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I
was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old
woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of
one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities
which often characterise that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude,
like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathising in sights of
misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in
English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings.
“Are you better now, sir?”
said she.
I replied in the same
language, with a feeble voice, “I believe I am; but if it be all true, if
indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery
and horror.”
“For that matter,” replied
the old woman, “if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it
were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you!
However, that’s none of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I
do my duty with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same.”
I turned with loathing from
the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the
very edge of death; but I felt languid and unable to reflect on all that had
passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes
doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind
with the force of reality.
As the images that floated
before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me;
no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand
supported me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman
prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the
expression of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who
could be interested in the fate of a murderer but the hangman who would gain
his fee?
These were my first
reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness.
He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched
indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse.
It is true, he seldom came to see me, for although he ardently desired to
relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not wish to be present
at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore,
sometimes to see that I was not neglected, but his visits were short and with
long intervals.
One day, while I was
gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open and my cheeks
livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery and often
reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me
was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not
declare myself guilty and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than
poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was
opened and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and
compassion; he drew a chair close to mine and addressed me in French,
“I fear that this place is
very shocking to you; can I do anything to make you more comfortable?”
“I thank you, but all that
you mention is nothing to me; on the whole earth there is no comfort which I am
capable of receiving.”
“I know that the sympathy
of a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so
strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode,
for doubtless evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal
charge.”
“That is my least concern;
I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals.
Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?”
“Nothing indeed could be
more unfortunate and agonising than the strange chances that have lately
occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned
for its hospitality, seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight
that was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so
unaccountable a manner and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path.”
As Mr. Kirwin said this,
notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I
also felt considerable surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess
concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for
Mr. Kirwin hastened to say,
“Immediately upon your
being taken ill, all the papers that were on your person were brought me, and I
examined them that I might discover some trace by which I could send to your
relations an account of your misfortune and illness. I found several letters,
and, among others, one which I discovered from its commencement to be from your
father. I instantly wrote to Geneva; nearly two months have elapsed since the
departure of my letter. But you are ill; even now you tremble; you are unfit
for agitation of any kind.”
“This suspense is a
thousand times worse than the most horrible event; tell me what new scene of
death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament?”
“Your family is perfectly
well,” said Mr. Kirwin with gentleness; “and someone, a friend, is come to
visit you.”
I know not by what chain of
thought the idea presented itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that
the murderer had come to mock at my misery and taunt me with the death of
Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put
my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony,
“Oh! Take him away! I
cannot see him; for God’s sake, do not let him enter!”
Mr. Kirwin regarded me with
a troubled countenance. He could not help regarding my exclamation as a
presumption of my guilt and said in rather a severe tone,
“I should have thought,
young man, that the presence of your father would have been welcome instead of
inspiring such violent repugnance.”
“My father!” cried I, while
every feature and every muscle was relaxed from anguish to pleasure. “Is my
father indeed come? How kind, how very kind! But where is he, why does he not
hasten to me?”
My change of manner
surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he thought that my former
exclamation was a momentary return of delirium, and now he instantly resumed
his former benevolence. He rose and quitted the room with my nurse, and in a
moment my father entered it.
Nothing, at this moment,
could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival of my father. I stretched
out my hand to him and cried,
“Are you then safe—and
Elizabeth—and Ernest?”
My father calmed me with
assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by dwelling on these subjects so
interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits; but he soon felt that
a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. “What a place is this that you
inhabit, my son!” said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows and
wretched appearance of the room. “You travelled to seek happiness, but a
fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval—”
The name of my unfortunate
and murdered friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state;
I shed tears.
“Alas! Yes, my father,”
replied I; “some destiny of the most horrible kind hangs over me, and I must
live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on the coffin of Henry.”
We were not allowed to
converse for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health rendered
every precaution necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in
and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But
the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I gradually
recovered my health.
As my sickness quitted me,
I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy that nothing could dissipate.
The image of Clerval was for ever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than
once the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread
a dangerous relapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a
life? It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a
close. Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings and relieve
me from the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in
executing the award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance
of death was distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I
often sat for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty
revolution that might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.
The season of the assizes
approached. I had already been three months in prison, and although I was still
weak and in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a
hundred miles to the country town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged
himself with every care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence. I was
spared the disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not
brought before the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury
rejected the bill, on its being proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the
hour the body of my friend was found; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated
from prison.
My father was enraptured on
finding me freed from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again
allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere and permitted to return to my native
country. I did not participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a
dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned for ever,
and although the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw
around me nothing but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but
the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive
eyes of Henry, languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids
and the long black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery,
clouded eyes of the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken
in me the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soon
visit, of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me.
Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness and thought with melancholy
delight of my beloved cousin or longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to
see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in
early childhood; but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a prison
was as welcome a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were
seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I
often endeavoured to put an end to the existence I loathed, and it required
unceasing attendance and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful
act of violence.
Yet one duty remained to
me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over my selfish despair. It was
necessary that I should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the
lives of those I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if
any chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to
blast me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the
existence of the monstrous image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul
still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay our departure, fearful
that I could not sustain the fatigues of a journey, for I was a shattered
wreck—the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton,
and fever night and day preyed upon my wasted frame.
Still, as I urged our
leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience, my father thought it best
to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound for Havre-de-Grace and
sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was midnight. I lay on the
deck looking at the stars and listening to the dashing of the waves. I hailed
the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight, and my pulse beat with a feverish
joy when I reflected that I should soon see Geneva. The past appeared to me in
the light of a frightful dream; yet the vessel in which I was, the wind that
blew me from the detested shore of Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me,
told me too forcibly that I was deceived by no vision and that Clerval, my
friend and dearest companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my
creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while
residing with my family in Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for
Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to
the creation of my hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in which he
first lived. I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings
pressed upon me, and I wept bitterly.
Ever since my recovery from
the fever, I had been in the custom of taking every night a small quantity of
laudanum, for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the
rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of
my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept
profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my
dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was
possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend’s grasp in my neck and could
not free myself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was
watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were
around, the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a
feeling that a truce was established between the present hour and the
irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of
which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible.
Chapter 22
The voyage came to an end.
We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my
strength and that I must repose before I could continue my journey. My father’s
care and attentions were indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my
sufferings and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished
me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred!
They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most
repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial
mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had
unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel
in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the
world, did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source
in me!
My father yielded at length
to my desire to avoid society and strove by various arguments to banish my
despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being
obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the
futility of pride.
“Alas! My father,” said I,
“how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would
indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy
Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for
it; and I am the cause of this—I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry—they
all died by my hands.”
My father had often, during
my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself,
he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to
consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some
idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of
which I preserved in my convalescence. I avoided explanation and maintained a
continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion that
I should be supposed mad, and this in itself would for ever have chained my
tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which would
fill my hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the
inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy
and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal
secret. Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably
from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved
the burden of my mysterious woe.
Upon this occasion my
father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder, “My dearest Victor, what
infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion
again.”
“I am not mad,” I cried
energetically; “the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations, can
bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims;
they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood,
drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed I
could not sacrifice the whole human race.”
The conclusion of this
speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly
changed the subject of our conversation and endeavoured to alter the course of
my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the
scenes that had taken place in Ireland and never alluded to them or suffered me
to speak of my misfortunes.
As time passed away I
became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked
in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the
consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence I curbed the imperious voice
of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world,
and my manners were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my
journey to the sea of ice.
A few days before we left
Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the following letter from Elizabeth:
“My dear Friend,
“It gave me the greatest
pleasure to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at
a formidable distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My
poor cousin, how much you must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even
more ill than when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most
miserably, tortured as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace
in your countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort
and tranquillity.
“Yet I fear that the same
feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps
augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this period, when so many
misfortunes weigh upon you, but a conversation that I had with my uncle
previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we meet.
Explanation! You may
possibly say, What can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my
questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from
me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet be pleased with this
explanation; and in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer
postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to
you but have never had the courage to begin.
“You well know, Victor,
that our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our
infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an
event that would certainly take place. We were affectionate playfellows during
childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew
older. But as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards
each other without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our
case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual
happiness, with simple truth—Do you not love another?
“You have travelled; you
have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my
friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the
society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our
connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your
parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is
false reasoning. I confess to you, my friend, that I love you and that in my
airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it
is your happiness I desire as well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage
would render me eternally miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free
choice. Even now I weep to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest
misfortunes, you may stifle, by the word honour, all hope of that love and
happiness which would alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so
disinterested an affection for you, may increase your miseries tenfold by being
an obstacle to your wishes. Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and
playmate has too sincere a love for you not to be made miserable by this
supposition. Be happy, my friend; and if you obey me in this one request,
remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the power to interrupt my
tranquillity.
“Do not let this letter
disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, or even until you come,
if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health, and if I
see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other
exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness.
“Elizabeth Lavenza.
“Geneva, May 18th, 17—”
This letter revived in my
memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of the fiend—“I will be with you
on your wedding-night!” Such was my sentence, and on that night would the dæmon
employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of happiness which
promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he had determined to
consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle would then
assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I should be at peace and
his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should be a free man.
Alas! What freedom? Such as the peasant enjoys when his family have been
massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is
turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my
liberty except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced by
those horrors of remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.
Sweet and beloved
Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some softened feelings stole into
my heart and dared to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the
apple was already eaten, and the angel’s arm bared to drive me from all hope.
Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed his threat, death
was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage would hasten my
fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner, but if my
torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his menaces, he
would surely find other and perhaps more dreadful means of revenge. He had
vowed to be with me on my wedding-night, yet he did not consider that threat as
binding him to peace in the meantime, for as if to show me that he was not yet
satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval immediately after the enunciation
of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that if my immediate union with my
cousin would conduce either to hers or my father’s happiness, my adversary’s
designs against my life should not retard it a single hour.
In this state of mind I
wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and affectionate. “I fear, my beloved
girl,” I said, “little happiness remains for us on earth; yet all that I may
one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase away your idle fears; to you alone do I
consecrate my life and my endeavours for contentment. I have one secret,
Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed to you, it will chill your frame with
horror, and then, far from being surprised at my misery, you will only wonder
that I survive what I have endured. I will confide this tale of misery and
terror to you the day after our marriage shall take place, for, my sweet
cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. But until then, I conjure you,
do not mention or allude to it. This I most earnestly entreat, and I know you
will comply.”
In about a week after the
arrival of Elizabeth’s letter we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me
with warm affection, yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated
frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner and had
lost much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her
gentleness and soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one
blasted and miserable as I was.
The tranquillity which I
now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought
of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and
burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I neither spoke nor looked at
anyone, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseries that
overcame me.
Elizabeth alone had the
power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice would soothe me when
transported by passion and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor.
She wept with me and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate and
endeavour to inspire me with resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to
be resigned, but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse
poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of
grief.
Soon after my arrival my
father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent.
“Have you, then, some other
attachment?”
“None on earth. I love
Elizabeth and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be
fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness
of my cousin.”
“My dear Victor, do not
speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us, but let us only cling closer to
what remains and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet
live. Our circle will be small but bound close by the ties of affection and
mutual misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear
objects of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly
deprived.”
Such were the lessons of my
father. But to me the remembrance of the threat returned; nor can you wonder
that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should
almost regard him as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words “I
shall be with you on your wedding-night,” I should regard the threatened fate
as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced
with it, and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance,
agreed with my father that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take
place in ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.
Great God! If for one instant
I had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary, I
would rather have banished myself for ever from my native country and wandered
a friendless outcast over the earth than have consented to this miserable
marriage. But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to
his real intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death,
I hastened that of a far dearer victim.
As the period fixed for our
marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my
heart sink within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity
that brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly
deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of Elizabeth. She looked forward to our
union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little fear, which past
misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and tangible
happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream and leave no trace but deep
and everlasting regret.
Preparations were made for
the event, congratulatory visits were received, and all wore a smiling
appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart the anxiety that
preyed there and entered with seeming earnestness into the plans of my father,
although they might only serve as the decorations of my tragedy. Through my
father’s exertions a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to
her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the shores of Como
belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should
proceed to Villa Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside the
beautiful lake near which it stood.
In the meantime I took
every precaution to defend my person in case the fiend should openly attack me.
I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about me and was ever on the watch to
prevent artifice, and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity.
Indeed, as the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not
to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for
in my marriage wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed for its
solemnisation drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence
which no accident could possibly prevent.
Elizabeth seemed happy; my
tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that
was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment
of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which
I had promised to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the
meantime overjoyed, and, in the bustle of preparation, only recognised in the
melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony was
performed a large party assembled at my father’s, but it was agreed that
Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at
Evian and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the
wind favourable; all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.
Those were the last moments
of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly
along; the sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy
while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake,
where we saw Mont Salêve, the pleasant banks of Montalègre, and at a distance,
surmounting all, the beautiful Mont Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy
mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the
opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition
that would quit its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the
invader who should wish to enslave it.
I took the hand of
Elizabeth. “You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If you knew what I have suffered
and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and
freedom from despair that this one day at least permits me to enjoy.”
“Be happy, my dear Victor,”
replied Elizabeth; “there is, I hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured
that if a lively joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented.
Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened
before us, but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we
move along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above
the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting.
Look also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters, where
we can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! How
happy and serene all nature appears!”
Thus Elizabeth endeavoured
to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects.
But her temper was fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but
it continually gave place to distraction and reverie.
The sun sank lower in the
heavens; we passed the river Drance and observed its path through the chasms of
the higher and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the
lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern
boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the
range of mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.
The wind, which had
hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity, sank at sunset to a light
breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water and caused a pleasant motion among
the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful
scent of flowers and hay. The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as
I touched the shore I felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to
clasp me and cling to me for ever.
Chapter 23
It was eight o’clock when
we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the transitory
light, and then retired to the inn and contemplated the lovely scene of waters,
woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black
outlines.
The wind, which had fallen
in the south, now rose with great violence in the west. The moon had reached
her summit in the heavens and was beginning to descend; the clouds swept across
it swifter than the flight of the vulture and dimmed her rays, while the lake
reflected the scene of the busy heavens, rendered still busier by the restless waves
that were beginning to rise. Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.
I had been calm during the
day, but so soon as night obscured the shapes of objects, a thousand fears
arose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while my right hand grasped a pistol
which was hidden in my bosom; every sound terrified me, but I resolved that I
would sell my life dearly and not shrink from the conflict until my own life or
that of my adversary was extinguished.
Elizabeth observed my
agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence, but there was something
in my glance which communicated terror to her, and trembling, she asked, “What
is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it you fear?”
“Oh! Peace, peace, my
love,” replied I; “this night, and all will be safe; but this night is
dreadful, very dreadful.”
I passed an hour in this
state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how fearful the combat which I
momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to
retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the
situation of my enemy.
She left me, and I
continued some time walking up and down the passages of the house and
inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my adversary. But I
discovered no trace of him and was beginning to conjecture that some fortunate
chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his menaces when suddenly I
heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the room into which Elizabeth
had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms
dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was suspended; I could feel the
blood trickling in my veins and tingling in the extremities of my limbs. This
state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed into the
room.
Great God! Why did I not
then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction of the best hope and the
purest creature on earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across
the bed, her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features half covered
by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure—her bloodless arms and
relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and
live? Alas! Life is obstinate and clings closest where it is most hated. For a
moment only did I lose recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.
When I recovered I found
myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their countenances expressed a
breathless terror, but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a
shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where
lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so
worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her,
and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across her
face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards her and
embraced her with ardour, but the deadly languor and coldness of the limbs told
me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be the Elizabeth whom I had
loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the fiend’s grasp was on her neck,
and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips.
While I still hung over her
in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. The windows of the room had
before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow
light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The shutters had been thrown back,
and with a sensation of horror not to be described, I saw at the open window a
figure the most hideous and abhorred. A grin was on the face of the monster; he
seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towards the corpse of my
wife. I rushed towards the window, and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired;
but he eluded me, leaped from his station, and running with the swiftness of
lightning, plunged into the lake.
The report of the pistol
brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot where he had disappeared,
and we followed the track with boats; nets were cast, but in vain. After
passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of my companions believing it
to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After having landed, they
proceeded to search the country, parties going in different directions among
the woods and vines.
I attempted to accompany
them and proceeded a short distance from the house, but my head whirled round,
my steps were like those of a drunken man, I fell at last in a state of utter
exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin was parched with the heat of
fever. In this state I was carried back and placed on a bed, hardly conscious
of what had happened; my eyes wandered round the room as if to seek something
that I had lost.
After an interval I arose,
and as if by instinct, crawled into the room where the corpse of my beloved
lay. There were women weeping around; I hung over it and joined my sad tears to
theirs; all this time no distinct idea presented itself to my mind, but my
thoughts rambled to various subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes
and their cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wonder and horror. The death
of William, the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my
wife; even at that moment I knew not that my only remaining friends were safe
from the malignity of the fiend; my father even now might be writhing under his
grasp, and Ernest might be dead at his feet. This idea made me shudder and
recalled me to action. I started up and resolved to return to Geneva with all
possible speed.
There were no horses to be
procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavourable, and the
rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably
hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row and took an oar myself, for I had
always experienced relief from mental torment in bodily exercise. But the
overflowing misery I now felt, and the excess of agitation that I endured
rendered me incapable of any exertion. I threw down the oar, and leaning my
head upon my hands, gave way to every gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I
saw scenes which were familiar to me in my happier time and which I had
contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now but a shadow
and a recollection. Tears streamed from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a
moment, and I saw the fish play in the waters as they had done a few hours
before; they had then been observed by Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the
human mind as a great and sudden change. The sun might shine or the clouds
might lower, but nothing could appear to me as it had done the day before. A
fiend had snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever
been so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of
man.
But why should I dwell upon
the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event? Mine has been a tale
of horrors; I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can but be
tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was
left desolate. My own strength is exhausted, and I must tell, in a few words,
what remains of my hideous narration.
I arrived at Geneva. My
father and Ernest yet lived, but the former sunk under the tidings that I bore.
I see him now, excellent and venerable old man! His eyes wandered in vacancy,
for they had lost their charm and their delight—his Elizabeth, his more than
daughter, whom he doted on with all that affection which a man feels, who in
the decline of life, having few affections, clings more earnestly to those that
remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought misery on his grey hairs and
doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horrors that
were accumulated around him; the springs of existence suddenly gave way; he was
unable to rise from his bed, and in a few days he died in my arms.
What then became of me? I
know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness were the only objects that
pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I wandered in flowery meadows
and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth, but I awoke and found myself
in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by degrees I gained a clear conception
of my miseries and situation and was then released from my prison. For they had
called me mad, and during many months, as I understood, a solitary cell had
been my habitation.
Liberty, however, had been
a useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to reason, at the same time
awakened to revenge. As the memory of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began
to reflect on their cause—the monster whom I had created, the miserable dæmon
whom I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a
maddening rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I
might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his
cursed head.
Nor did my hate long
confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of
securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired
to a criminal judge in the town and told him that I had an accusation to make,
that I knew the destroyer of my family, and that I required him to exert his
whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer.
The magistrate listened to
me with attention and kindness. “Be assured, sir,” said he, “no pains or
exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain.”
“I thank you,” replied I;
“listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed a tale
so strange that I should fear you would not credit it were there not something
in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is too
connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.” My
manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my own
heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose quieted my
agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history
briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy and
never deviating into invective or exclamation.
The magistrate appeared at
first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and
interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror; at others a lively
surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance.
When I had concluded my
narration, I said, “This is the being whom I accuse and for whose seizure and
punishment I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a
magistrate, and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt
from the execution of those functions on this occasion.”
This address caused a
considerable change in the physiognomy of my own auditor. He had heard my story
with that half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and
supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act officially in
consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered
mildly, “I would willingly afford you every aid in your pursuit, but the
creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would put all my
exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of
ice and inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to intrude? Besides,
some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, and no one can
conjecture to what place he has wandered or what region he may now inhabit.”
“I do not doubt that he
hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if he has indeed taken refuge in the
Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I
perceive your thoughts; you do not credit my narrative and do not intend to
pursue my enemy with the punishment which is his desert.”
As I spoke, rage sparkled
in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated. “You are mistaken,” said he. “I
will exert myself, and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assured
that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from
what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this will prove
impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you should make
up your mind to disappointment.”
“That cannot be; but all
that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you; yet,
while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only
passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer,
whom I have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand;
I have but one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to
his destruction.”
I trembled with excess of agitation
as I said this; there was a frenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of
that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed.
But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than
those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance
of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child and reverted to
my tale as the effects of delirium.
“Man,” I cried, “how
ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you
say.”
I broke from the house
angry and disturbed and retired to meditate on some other mode of action.
Chapter 24
My present situation was
one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried
away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded
my feelings and allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise
delirium or death would have been my portion.
My first resolution was to
quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear
to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of
money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and
departed.
And now my wanderings began
which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth
and have endured all the hardships which travellers in deserts and barbarous
countries are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I
stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and prayed for death. But
revenge kept me alive; I dared not die and leave my adversary in being.
When I quitted Geneva my
first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my
fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled, and I wandered many hours round the
confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached
I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my
father reposed. I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their graves.
Everything was silent except the leaves of the trees, which were gently
agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark, and the scene would have been
solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the
departed seemed to flit around and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not
seen, around the head of the mourner.
The deep grief which this
scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were
dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag
out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth and with
quivering lips exclaimed, “By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades
that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by
thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the dæmon who
caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this
purpose I will preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will I again
behold the sun and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should
vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on
you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let
the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair
that now torments me.”
I had begun my adjuration
with solemnity and an awe which almost assured me that the shades of my
murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, but the furies possessed me as
I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.
I was answered through the
stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rang on my ears long and
heavily; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me
with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed
by frenzy and have destroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard
and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away, when a
well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an
audible whisper, “I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have determined to
live, and I am satisfied.”
I darted towards the spot
from which the sound proceeded, but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the
broad disk of the moon arose and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted
shape as he fled with more than mortal speed.
I pursued him, and for many
months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings
of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange
chance, I saw the fiend enter by night and hide himself in a vessel bound for
the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not
how.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary
and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track.
Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his
path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace of him I should
despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head,
and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering
on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand what I
have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue were the least pains which I
was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil and carried about with me my
eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps and
when I most murmured would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable
difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the
exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert that restored and
inspirited me. The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the
country ate, but I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I
had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I
was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops
that revived me, and vanish.
I followed, when I could,
the courses of the rivers; but the dæmon generally avoided these, as it was
here that the population of the country chiefly collected. In other places
human beings were seldom seen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals
that crossed my path. I had money with me and gained the friendship of the
villagers by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed,
which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided
me with fire and utensils for cooking.
My life, as it passed thus,
was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy.
O blessed sleep! Often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams
lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these
moments, or rather hours, of happiness that I might retain strength to fulfil
my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships.
During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in
sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the
benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth’s
voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a
toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come
and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What
agonising fondness did I feel for them! How did I cling to their dear forms, as
sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they
still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my
heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the dæmon more as a
task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was
unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul.
What his feelings were whom
I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the
barks of the trees or cut in stone that guided me and instigated my fury. “My
reign is not yet over”—these words were legible in one of these
inscriptions—“you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the
everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and
frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow
not too tardily, a dead hare; eat and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have
yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable hours must you endure
until that period shall arrive.”
Scoffing devil! Again do I
vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death.
Never will I give up my search until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy
shall I join my Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me
the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!
As I still pursued my
journey to the northward, the snows thickened and the cold increased in a
degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels,
and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom
starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers
were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off
from my chief article of maintenance.
The triumph of my enemy
increased with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left was
in these words: “Prepare! Your toils only begin; wrap yourself in furs and
provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will
satisfy my everlasting hatred.”
My courage and perseverance
were invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose,
and calling on Heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to
traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed the
utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seasons of
the south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its
superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the
Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of
their toils. I did not weep, but I knelt down and with a full heart thanked my
guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped,
notwithstanding my adversary’s gibe, to meet and grapple with him.
Some weeks before this
period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus traversed the snows with
inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same
advantages, but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit,
I now gained on him, so much so that when I first saw the ocean he was but one
day’s journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the
beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a
wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the
fiend and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had
arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols, putting to flight
the inhabitants of a solitary cottage through fear of his terrific appearance.
He had carried off their store of winter food, and placing it in a sledge, to
draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed
them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had
pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they
conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice or
frozen by the eternal frosts.
On hearing this information
I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had escaped me, and I must
commence a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices
of the ocean, amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure and
which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive.
Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and
vengeance returned, and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling.
After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round and
instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.
I exchanged my land-sledge
for one fashioned for the inequalities of the Frozen Ocean, and purchasing a
plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from land.
I cannot guess how many
days have passed since then, but I have endured misery which nothing but the
eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning within my heart could have
enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my
passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my
destruction. But again the frost came and made the paths of the sea secure.
By the quantity of
provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had passed three weeks in
this journey; and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the
heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair
had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this
misery. Once, after the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil
gained the summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his
fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my
eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover
what it could be and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge
and the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! With what a
burning gush did hope revisit my heart! Warm tears filled my eyes, which I
hastily wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of the dæmon;
but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the
emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud.
But this was not the time
for delay; I disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a
plentiful portion of food, and after an hour’s rest, which was absolutely
necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The
sledge was still visible, nor did I again lose sight of it except at the
moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening
crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it, and when, after nearly two days’
journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded
within me.
But now, when I appeared
almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost
all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was
heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath
me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain.
The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake,
it split and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was
soon finished; in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my
enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually
lessening and thus preparing for me a hideous death.
In this manner many
appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died, and I myself was about to sink
under the accumulation of distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and
holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels
ever came so far north and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part
of my sledge to construct oars, and by these means was enabled, with infinite
fatigue, to move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined,
if you were going southwards, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas
rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with
which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me
on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my
multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread, for my task is
unfulfilled.
Oh! When will my guiding
spirit, in conducting me to the dæmon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or
must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not
escape, that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do I
dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I
have undergone? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should
appear, if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he
shall not live—swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes and
survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive,
and once his words had even power over my heart; but trust him not. His soul is
as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiend-like malice. Hear him not;
call on the names of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of
the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near
and direct the steel aright.
Walton, in continuation.
August 26th, 17—.
You have read this strange
and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel your blood congeal with
horror, like that which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden
agony, he could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet
piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with anguish. His fine
and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast
sorrow and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his
countenance and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil
voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting
forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage as
he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.
His tale is connected and
told with an appearance of the simplest truth, yet I own to you that the
letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the apparition of the
monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of
his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a
monster has, then, really existence! I cannot doubt it, yet I am lost in
surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the
particulars of his creature’s formation, but on this point he was impenetrable.
“Are you mad, my friend?”
said he. “Or whither does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also
create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! Learn my
miseries and do not seek to increase your own.”
Frankenstein discovered
that I made notes concerning his history; he asked to see them and then himself
corrected and augmented them in many places, but principally in giving the life
and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. “Since you have
preserved my narration,” said he, “I would not that a mutilated one should go
down to posterity.”
Thus has a week passed
away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed.
My thoughts and every feeling of my soul have been drunk up by the interest for
my guest which this tale and his own elevated and gentle manners have created.
I wish to soothe him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so
destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! The only joy that he
can now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death.
Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium; he believes
that when in dreams he holds converse with his friends and derives from that
communion consolation for his miseries or excitements to his vengeance, that
they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves who visit
him from the regions of a remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his
reveries that render them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.
Our conversations are not
always confined to his own history and misfortunes. On every point of general
literature he displays unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing
apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when
he relates a pathetic incident or endeavours to move the passions of pity or
love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of
his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his
own worth and the greatness of his fall.
“When younger,” said he, “I
believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound,
but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious
achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me when others
would have been oppressed, for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless
grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow creatures. When I
reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a
sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common
projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my
career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and
hopes are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am
chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis
and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the
idea and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect without
passion my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my
thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their
effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but
how am I sunk! Oh! My friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not
recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart;
a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise.”
Must I then lose this
admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have sought one who would
sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a
one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his value and lose him. I would
reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.
“I thank you, Walton,” he
said, “for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch; but when you
speak of new ties and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those
who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth?
Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence,
the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds
which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions,
which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they
can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of
our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have
been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another
friend, however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be
contemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit
and association, but from their own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing
voice of my Elizabeth and the conversation of Clerval will be ever whispered in
my ear. They are dead, and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me
to preserve my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design,
fraught with extensive utility to my fellow creatures, then could I live to
fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to
whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled and I may die.”
My beloved Sister,
September 2d.
I write to you, encompassed
by peril and ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England and
the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice which
admit of no escape and threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave
fellows whom I have persuaded to be my companions look towards me for aid, but
I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation,
yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that
the lives of all these men are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad
schemes are the cause.
And what, Margaret, will be
the state of your mind? You will not hear of my destruction, and you will
anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of
despair and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! My beloved sister, the sickening
failing of your heart-felt expectations is, in prospect, more terrible to me
than my own death. But you have a husband and lovely children; you may be
happy. Heaven bless you and make you so!
My unfortunate guest
regards me with the tenderest compassion. He endeavours to fill me with hope
and talks as if life were a possession which he valued. He reminds me how often
the same accidents have happened to other navigators who have attempted this
sea, and in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the
sailors feel the power of his eloquence; when he speaks, they no longer
despair; he rouses their energies, and while they hear his voice they believe
these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills which will vanish before the
resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation
delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this
despair.
September 5th.
A scene has just passed of
such uncommon interest that, although it is highly probable that these papers
may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it.
We are still surrounded by
mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being crushed in their conflict.
The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a
grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in
health; a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and
when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent
lifelessness.
I mentioned in my last
letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the
wan countenance of my friend—his eyes half closed and his limbs hanging
listlessly—I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission
into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he
and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation
to me to make me a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were
immured in ice and should probably never escape, but they feared that if, as
was possible, the ice should dissipate and a free passage be opened, I should
be rash enough to continue my voyage and lead them into fresh dangers, after
they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I
should engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed I would
instantly direct my course southwards.
This speech troubled me. I
had not despaired, nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning if set free.
Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I
hesitated before I answered, when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent,
and indeed appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself;
his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning
towards the men, he said,
“What do you mean? What do
you demand of your captain? Are you, then, so easily turned from your design?
Did you not call this a glorious expedition? “And wherefore was it glorious?
Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was
full of dangers and terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to
be called forth and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded
it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for
this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the
benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men who
encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with
the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific
trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content to be handed down as men
who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they
were chilly and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires not this
preparation; ye need not have come thus far and dragged your captain to the
shame of a defeat merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or be more
than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made
of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if
you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of
disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered
and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe.”
He spoke this with a voice
so modulated to the different feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so
full of lofty design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were
moved? They looked at one another and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them
to retire and consider of what had been said, that I would not lead them
farther north if they strenuously desired the contrary, but that I hoped that,
with reflection, their courage would return.
They retired and I turned
towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and almost deprived of life.
How all this will
terminate, I know not, but I had rather die than return shamefully, my purpose
unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of
glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure their present
hardships.
September 7th.
The die is cast; I have
consented to return if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by
cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires
more philosophy than I possess to bear this injustice with patience.
September 12th.
It is past; I am returning
to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory; I have lost my friend.
But I will endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister;
and while I am wafted towards England and towards you, I will not despond.
September 9th, the ice
began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance as the
islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril,
but as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my
unfortunate guest whose illness increased in such a degree that he was entirely
confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us and was driven with force
towards the north; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the 11th the passage
towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this and that
their return to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of
tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was
dozing, awoke and asked the cause of the tumult. “They shout,” I said, “because
they will soon return to England.”
“Do you, then, really
return?”
“Alas! Yes; I cannot
withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must
return.”
“Do so, if you will; but I
will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by Heaven,
and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will
endow me with sufficient strength.” Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from
the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fainted.
It was long before he was
restored, and I often thought that life was entirely extinct. At length he
opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty and was unable to speak. The
surgeon gave him a composing draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed.
In the meantime he told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.
His sentence was
pronounced, and I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching
him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to
me in a feeble voice, and bidding me come near, said, “Alas! The strength I
relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor,
may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my
existence I feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once
expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary.
During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor
do I find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational
creature and was bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his
happiness and well-being. This was my duty, but there was another still
paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater
claims to my attention because they included a greater proportion of happiness
or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create
a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and
selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings
who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know where
this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that he may render no
other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I
have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to
undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now, when I am only
induced by reason and virtue.
“Yet I cannot ask you to
renounce your country and friends to fulfil this task; and now that you are
returning to England, you will have little chance of meeting with him. But the
consideration of these points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem
your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the
near approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may
still be misled by passion.
“That he should live to be
an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other respects, this hour, when I
momentarily expect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for
several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to
their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid
ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing
yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been
blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.”
His voice became fainter as
he spoke, and at length, exhausted by his effort, he sank into silence. About
half an hour afterwards he attempted again to speak but was unable; he pressed
my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle
smile passed away from his lips.
Margaret, what comment can
I make on the untimely extinction of this glorious spirit? What can I say that
will enable you to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express
would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a
cloud of disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find
consolation.
I am interrupted. What do
these sounds portend? It is midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on
deck scarcely stir. Again there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it
comes from the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise
and examine. Good night, my sister.
Great God! what a scene has
just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know
whether I shall have the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded
would be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe.
I entered the cabin where
lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a form
which I cannot find words to describe—gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and
distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was
concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in
colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my
approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror and sprung
towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of
such loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily and
endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I
called on him to stay.
He paused, looking on me
with wonder, and again turning towards the lifeless form of his creator, he
seemed to forget my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed instigated
by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.
“That is also my victim!”
he exclaimed. “In his murder my crimes are consummated; the miserable series of
my being is wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted
being! What does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who
irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold,
he cannot answer me.”
His voice seemed
suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested to me the duty of
obeying the dying request of my friend in destroying his enemy, were now
suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this
tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was
something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but
the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and
incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address him in a
pause of the tempest of his passion.
“Your repentance,” I said,
“is now superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience and heeded
the stings of remorse before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this
extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived.”
“And do you dream?” said
the dæmon. “Do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse? He,” he
continued, pointing to the corpse, “he suffered not in the consummation of the
deed. Oh! Not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during
the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on,
while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval
were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and
sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the
violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine.
“After the murder of
Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied
Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror; I abhorred myself. But when I
discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable
torments, dared to hope for happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness
and despair upon me he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from
the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter
indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my
threat and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing
for myself a deadly torture, but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse
which I detested yet could not disobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not
miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the
excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no
choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The
completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is
ended; there is my last victim!”
I was at first touched by
the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had
said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes
on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled within me.
“Wretch!” I said. “It is well that you come here to whine over the desolation
that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings, and when they
are consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend!
If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he
become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you
lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power.”
“Oh, it is not thus—not
thus,” interrupted the being. “Yet such must be the impression conveyed to you
by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow
feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it
was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my
whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue
has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am content to
suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am well satisfied
that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed
with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet
with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent
qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts
of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest
animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable
to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe
that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and
transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even
so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and
man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.
“You, who call Frankenstein
your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But in
the detail which he gave you of them he could not sum up the hours and months
of misery which I endured wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed
his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and
craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was
there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all
humankind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend
from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to
destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate
beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at,
and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood boils at the recollection of
this injustice.
“But it is true that I am a
wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the
innocent as they slept and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or
any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all
that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him
even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You
hate me, but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I
look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the
imagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these hands will
meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.
“Fear not that I shall be
the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours
nor any man’s death is needed to consummate the series of my being and
accomplish that which must be done, but it requires my own. Do not think that I
shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice
raft which brought me thither and shall seek the most northern extremity of the
globe; I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable
frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch
who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer
feel the agonies which now consume me or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied,
yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no
more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer
see the sun or stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and
sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some
years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when
I felt the cheering warmth of summer and heard the rustling of the leaves and
the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die;
now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes and torn by the bitterest
remorse, where can I find rest but in death?
“Farewell! I leave you, and
in you the last of humankind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell,
Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive and yet cherished a desire of revenge
against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction. But
it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater
wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to
think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than
that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine,
for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until
death shall close them for ever.
“But soon,” he cried with
sad and solemn enthusiasm, “I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt.
Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile
triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that
conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds.
My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.
Farewell.”
He sprang from the
cabin-window as he said this, upon the ice raft which lay close to the vessel.
He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.