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FRANKENSTEIN,
or the Modern Prometheus
By Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
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Letter 1
St. Petersburgh,
Dec. 11th, 17
TO Mrs. Saville, England
You will rejoice to hear that no
disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise
which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday,
and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing
confidence in the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London,
and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play
upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do
you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions
towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes.
Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid.
I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation;
it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight.
There, Margaret, the sun is forever visible, its broad disk just skirting
the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. Therefor with
your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigatorsthere
snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be
wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region
hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features
may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly
are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country
of eternal light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the
needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require
only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent
forever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of
a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never
before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my enticements, and they
are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me
to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when
he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery
up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false,
you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all
mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those
countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining
the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by
an undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled
the agitation with which I began my letter, and I feel my heart glow with an
enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contributes so much to tranquillize
the mind as a steady purposea 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 fathers
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 fursa 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
Archangel, 28th
March, 17
To Mrs. Saville, England
How slowly the time passes here,
encompassed as I am by frost and snow! Yet a second step is taken towards
my enterprise. I have hired a vessel and am occupied in collecting my
sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to be men on whom I can depend
and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.
But I have one want which I have
never yet been able to satisfy, and the absence of the object of which I now
feel as a most severe evil, I have no friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with
the enthusiasm of success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am
assailed by disappointment, no one will endeavour to sustain me
in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it is true; but that
is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire the company of a
man who could sympathize with me, whose eyes would reply to mine. You may deem
me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want of a friend. I have
no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a cultivated as well as
of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to approve or amend my plans.
How would such a friend repair the faults of your poor brother! I am too ardent
in execution and too impatient of difficulties. But it is a still greater evil
to me that I am self-educated: for the first fourteen years of my life I ran
wild on a common and read nothing but our Uncle Thomas books of voyages.
At that age I became acquainted with the celebrated poets of our own country;
but it was only when it had ceased to be in my power to derive its most important
benefits from such a conviction that I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted
with more languages than that of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight and
am in reality more illiterate than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that
I have thought more and that my daydreams are more extended and magnificent,
but they want (as the painters call it) KEEPING; and I greatly need a friend
who would have sense enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough
for me to endeavour to regulate my mind. Well, these are useless complaints;
I shall certainly find no friend on the wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel,
among merchants and seamen. Yet some feelings, unallied to the dross
of human nature, beat even in these rugged bosoms. My lieutenant, for
instance, is a man of wonderful courage and enterprise; he is madly desirous
of glory, or rather, to word my phrase more characteristically, of advancement
in his profession. He is an Englishman, and in the midst of national and professional
prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments
of humanity. I first became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel; finding
that he was unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.
The master is a person of an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the
ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance,
added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very
desirous to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under
your gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of
my character that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual
brutality exercised on board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary,
and when I heard of a mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart
and the respect and obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly
fortunate in being able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather
a romantic manner, from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This,
briefly, is his story. Some years ago he loved a young Russian lady of moderate
fortune, and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of
the girl consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined
ceremony; but she was bathed in tears, and throwing herself at his feet, entreated
him to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that
he was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous
friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of
her lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with
his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he
bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money
to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young womans 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 industriouspainstaking, a workman
to execute with perseverance and labourbut 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
July 7th, 17
To Mrs. Saville, England
My dear Sister,
I write a few lines in haste
to say that I am safeand 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
August 5th, 17
To Mrs. Saville, England
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 oclock 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 strangers
attention, and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the route which
the demon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with
me, he said, I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that
of these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries.
Certainly; it would indeed
be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any inquisitiveness
of mine.
And yet you rescued me from
a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently restored
me to life.
Soon after this he inquired
if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the other sledge.
I replied that I could not answer with any degree of certainty, for the ice
had not broken until near midnight, and the traveller might have arrived at
a place of safety before that time; but of this I could not judge. From this
time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the stranger. He manifested
the greatest eagerness to be upon deck to watch for the sledge which
had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in the cabin, for he
is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I have promised that
someone should watch for him and give him instant notice if any new object should
appear in sight.
Such is my journal of what relates
to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually
improved in health but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except
myself enters his cabin. Yet his manners are so conciliating and gentle
that the sailors are all interested in him, although they have had very little
communication with him. For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother, and
his constant and deep grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have
been a noble creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive
and amiable. I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find
no friend on the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had
been broken by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother
of my heart.
I shall continue my journal concerning
the stranger at intervals, should I have any fresh incidents to record.
August 13th, 17
My affection for my guest increases
every day. He excites at once my admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree.
How can I see so noble a creature destroyed by misery without feeling
the most poignant grief? He is so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated,
and when he speaks, although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet
they 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 mans 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
listeners 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 ourselvessuch a friend
ought to bedo 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 II have lost everything and cannot
begin life anew.
As he said this his countenance
became expressive of a calm, settled grief that touched me to the heart. But
he was silent and presently retired to his cabin.
Even broken in spirit as he is,
no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature. The starry
sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these wonderful regions seem still
to have the power of elevating his soul from earth. Such a man has a double
existence: he may suffer misery and be overwhelmed by disappointments, yet when
he has retired into himself, he will be like a celestial spirit that
has a halo around him, within whose circle no grief or folly ventures.
Will you smile at the enthusiasm
I express concerning this divine wanderer? You would not if you saw him. You
have been tutored and refined by books and retirement from the world, and you
are therefore somewhat fastidious; but this only renders you the more fit to
appreciate the extraordinary merits of this wonderful man. Sometimes I have
endeavoured to discover what quality it is which he possesses that elevates
him so immeasurably above any other person I ever knew. I believe it to be an
intuitive discernment, a quick but never-failing power of judgment, a penetration
into the causes of things, unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this
a facility of expression and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing
music.
August 19, 17
Yesterday the stranger said to me,
You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, that I have suffered great and
unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined at one time that the memory of these
evils should die with me, but you have won me to alter my determination. You
seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification
of your wishes may not be a serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not
know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect
that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers
which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral
from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and
console you in case of failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually
deemed marvellous. Were we among the tamer scenes of nature I might fear to
encounter your unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear
possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provoke the laughter
of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature; nor can I doubt
but that my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the
events of which it is composed.
You may easily imagine that I was
much gratified by the offered communication, yet I could not endure that he
should renew his grief by a recital of his misfortunes. I felt the greatest
eagerness to hear the promised narrative, partly from curiosity and partly from
a strong desire to ameliorate his fate if it were in my power. I expressed these
feelings in my answer.
I thank you, he replied,
for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is nearly fulfilled. I wait
but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. I understand your
feeling, continued he, perceiving that I wished to interrupt him; but
you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to name you; nothing
can alter my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably
it is determined.
He then told me that he would commence
his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from
me the warmest thanks. I have resolved every night, when I am not imperatively
occupied by my duties, to record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what
he has related during the day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make
notes. This manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but
to me, who know him, and who hear it from his own lipswith 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 itthus!
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 merchants
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 Beauforts 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 fathers
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 mothers
tender caresses and my fathers smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding
me are my first recollections. I was their plaything and their idol, and something
bettertheir 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 passionremembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relievedfor
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
Italyone 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 cheruba
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 housemy more than sisterthe 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 Victortomorrow 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 minemine
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 memy 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 summersshe 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, rought through the ardour
of my nature, but that she was there to subdue me to a semblance of her own
gentleness. And Clervalcould 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 boys apprehensions as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.
The untaught peasant beheld the
elements around him and was acquainted with their practical uses. The most learned
philosopher knew little more. He had partially unveiled the face of Nature,
but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect,
anatomize, and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their
secondary and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon
the fortifications and impediments that seemed to keep human beings from entering
the citadel of nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined.
But here were books, and here were
men who had penetrated deeper and knew more. I took their word for all that
they averred, and I became their disciple. It may appear strange that such should
arise in the eighteenth century; but while I followed the routine of education
in the schools of Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self-taught with regard
to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle
with a childs blindness, added to a students thirst for knowledge.
Under the guidance of my new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence
into the search of the philosophers 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 lifethe
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 occurredan 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 distemperElizabeth 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 foreverthat
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 mornings dawn I descended
to the carriage which was to convey me away, they were all theremy 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 pleasureI 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.
Chanceor rather the evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted
omnipotent sway over me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my
fathers doorled 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 professors wordsrather
let me say such the words of the fateenounced 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 Frankensteinmore,
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
mornings dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternights 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 mea 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 realize. One secret which I alone possessed
was the hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to
her hiding-places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil as I dabbled
among the unhallowed damps of the grave or tortured the living animal to animate
the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance;
but then a resistless and almost frantic impulse urged me forward; I seemed
to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but
a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as,
the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits.
I collected bones from charnel-houses and disturbed, with profane fingers, the
tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell,
at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a gallery
and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting
from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting
room and the slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my
human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by
an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a conclusion.
The summer months passed while I
was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season;
never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest or the vines yield a more
luxuriant vintage, but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And
the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also
to forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen
for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them, and I well remembered
the words of my father: I know that while you are pleased with yourself
you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear regularly from you. You
must pardon me if I regard any interruption in your correspondence as a proof
that your other duties are equally neglected.
I knew well therefore what would
be my fathers feelings, but I could not tear my thoughts from my employment,
loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination.
I wished, as it were, to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection
until the great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should
be completed.
I then thought that my father would
be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice or faultiness on my part, but I
am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether
free from blame. A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm
and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb
his tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an
exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency
to weaken your affections and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures
in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that
is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were always observed;
if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity
of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Caesar would have
spared his country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the
empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.
But I forget that I am moralizing
in the most interesting part of my tale, and your looks remind me to proceed.
My father made no reproach in his letters and only took notice of my 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 leavessights which before always yielded me supreme delightso
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 wretchthe 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.
[Coleridges 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 Gods 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 fathers
advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey, and how wretched my sickness
would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of
my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than
himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that,
instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards
them.
But I was in reality very ill, and
surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could
have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence
was forever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless
my words surprised Henry; he at first believed them to be the wanderings of
my disturbed imagination, but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred
to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to
some uncommon and terrible event.
By very slow degrees, and with frequent
relapses that alarmed and grieved my friend, I recovered. I remember the first
time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure,
I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds were
shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring,
and the season contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments
of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short
time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.
Dearest Clerval, exclaimed
I, how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of
being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has been consumed in my sick
room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment
of which I have been the occasion, but you will forgive me.
You will repay me entirely
if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can; and since
you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not?
I trembled. One subject! What could
it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think? Compose
yourself, said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, I will
not mention it if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very
happy if they received a letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly
know how ill you have been and are uneasy at your long silence.
Is that all, my dear Henry?
How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear,
dear friends whom I love and who are so deserving of my love?
If this is your present temper,
my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here
some days for you; it is from your cousin, I believe.
Chapter 6
Clerval then put the following letter
into my hands. It was from my own Elizabeth:
My dearest
Cousin,
You have been ill, very ill,
and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure
me on your account. You are forbidden to writeto 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 welland return to
us. You will find a happy, cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your
fathers 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 mountainsthey 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 Angelicashe 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 mothers
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 lineone word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand
thanks to Henry for his kindness, his affection, and his many letters; we are
sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; take care of your self; and, I entreat
you, write!
Elizabeth
Lavenza.
Geneva, March
18, 17.
Dear, dear Elizabeth!
I exclaimed, when I had read her letter: I will write instantly and relieve
them from the anxiety they must feel. I wrote, and this exertion greatly
fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and proceeded regularly. In
another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.
One of my first duties on my recovery
was to introduce Clerval to the several professors of the university. In doing
this, I underwent a kind of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind
had sustained. Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning
of my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural
philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical
instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this,
and had removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment;
for he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously
been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I
visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness
and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived
that I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, he attributed
my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement, to the
science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me out. What could
I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as if he had placed carefully,
one by one, in my 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. Dn the fellow! cried he; why, M. Clerval,
I assure you he has outstript us all. Ay, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless
true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, believed in Cornelius Agrippa as
firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university;
and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.Ay,
ay, continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, M.
Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men should
be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was myself when young; but
that wears out in a very short time.
M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy
on himself, which happily turned the conversation from a subject that was so
annoying to me.
Clerval had never sympathized in
my tastes for natural science; and his literary pursuits differed wholly from
those which had occupied me. He came to the university with the design of making
himself complete master of the oriental languages, and thus he should open a
field for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue
no inglorious career, he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope
for his spirit of enterprise. The Persian, Arabic, and 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 murders 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 murderers
grasp! How much more a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little
fellow! one only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is
at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers
his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity;
we must reserve that for his miserable survivors.
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried
through the streets; the words impressed themselves on my mind and I remembered
them afterwards in solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried
into a cabriolet, and bade farewell to my friend.
My journey was very melancholy.
At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to console and sympathise with my
loved and sorrowing friends; but when I drew near my native town, I slackened
my progress. I could hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into
my mind. I passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen
for nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time! One
sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances
might have by degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were done
more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared no
advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I
was unable to define them. I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful
state of mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was
calm; and the snowy mountains, the palaces of nature, were not changed.
By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey
towards Geneva.
The road ran by the side of the
lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more
distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept
like a child. Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome
your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid.
Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?
I fear, my friend, that I shall
render myself tedious by dwelling on these preliminary circumstances; but they
were days of comparative happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country,
my beloved country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding
thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake!
Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief
and fear again overcame me. Night also closed around; and when I could hardly
see the dark mountains, I felt still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast
and dim scene of evil, and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become
the most wretched of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only
in one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I
did not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of
the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron,
a village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky was serene;
and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor William
had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged to cross
the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw
the lightning playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures.
The storm appeared to approach rapidly, and, on landing, I ascended a low hill,
that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were clouded, and
I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its violence quickly
increased.
I quitted my seat, and walked on,
although the darkness and storm increased every minute, and the thunder burst
with a terrific crash over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and
the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating
the lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant every
thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the preceding
flash. The storm, as is often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various
parts of the heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town,
over the part of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the
village of Copet. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another
darkened and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of
the lake.
While I watched the tempest, so
beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a hasty step. This noble war in the
sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, and exclaimed aloud, William,
dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy dirge! As I said these words,
I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near
me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic
stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs to humanity,
instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the filthy daemon, to whom I had
given life. What did he there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the
murderer of my brother? No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I
became convinced of its truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean
against a tree for support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the
gloom.
Nothing in human shape could have
destroyed the fair child. HE was the murderer! I could not doubt it. The mere
presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing
the devil; but it would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him
to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve,
a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and
disappeared.
I remained motionless. The thunder
ceased; but the rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable
darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget:
the whole train of my progress toward the creation; the appearance of the works
of my own hands at my bedside; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed
since the night on which he first received life; and was this his first crime?
Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was
in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my brother?
No one can conceive the anguish
I suffered during the remainder of the night, which I spent, cold and wet, in
the open air. But I did not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination
was busy in scenes of evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast
among mankind, and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror,
such as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire,
my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear
to me.
Day dawned; and I directed my steps
towards the town. The gates were open, and I hastened to my fathers house.
My first thought was to discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant
pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to
tell. A being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered also
the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time that I dated
my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a tale otherwise so
utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had communicated such a relation
to me, I should have looked upon it as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the
strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far
credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it. And then of what use would
be pursuit? Who could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides
of Mont Saleve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.
It was about five in the morning
when I entered my fathers 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 fathers
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
brothers 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 oclock, 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 oclock, and when one inquired where she had passed
the night, she replied that she had been looking for the child and demanded
earnestly if anything had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she
fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days. The picture was
then produced which the servant had found in her pocket; and when Elizabeth,
in a faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an hour before the
child had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and
indignation filled the court.
Justine was called on for her defence.
As the trial had proceeded, her countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and
misery were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her tears, but
when she was desired to plead, she collected her powers and spoke in an audible
although variable voice.
God knows, she said,
how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend that my protestations
should acquit me; I rest my innocence on a plain and simple explanation of the
facts which have been adduced against me, and I hope the character I have always
borne will incline my judges to a favourable interpretation where any circumstance
appears doubtful or suspicious.
She then related that, by the permission
of Elizabeth, she had passed the evening of the night on which the murder had
been committed at the house of an aunt at Chene, a village situated at about
a league from Geneva. On her return, at about nine oclock, 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 uncles 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
Elizabeths simple and powerful appeal, but it was excited by her generous
interference, and not in favour of poor Justine, on whom the public indignation
was turned with renewed violence, charging her with the blackest ingratitude.
She herself wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation
and anguish was extreme during the whole trial. I believed in her innocence;
I knew it. Could the demon who had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my
brother also in his hellish sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy?
I could not sustain the horror of my situation, and when I perceived that the
popular voice and the countenances of the judges had already condemned my unhappy
victim, I rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did
not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore
my bosom and would not forgo their hold.
I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness.
In the morning I went to the court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared
not ask the fatal question, but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause
of my visit. The ballots had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was
condemned.
I cannot pretend to describe what
I then felt. I had before experienced sensations of horror, and I have endeavoured
to bestow upon them adequate expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of
the heart-sickening despair that I then endured. The person to whom I addressed
myself added that Justine had already confessed her guilt. That evidence,
he observed, was hardly required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of
it, and, indeed, none of our judges like to condemn a criminal upon circumstantial
evidence, be it ever so decisive.
This was strange and unexpected
intelligence; what could it mean? Had my eyes deceived me? And was I really
as mad as the whole world would believe me to be if I disclosed the object of
my suspicions? I hastened to return home, and Elizabeth eagerly demanded the
result.
My cousin, replied I,
it is decided as you may have expected; all judges had rather that ten
innocent should suffer than that one guilty should escape. But she has confessed.
This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth,
who had relied with firmness upon Justines 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.
Elizabeths 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 fathers 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 youhe 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 consolationdeep, 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 oclock 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 heavenlyif I except some bat, or the frogs,
whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached the shoreoften,
I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close
over me and my calamities forever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the
heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was
bound up in mine. I thought also of my father and surviving brother; should
I by my base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the
fiend whom I had let loose among them?
At these moments I wept bitterly
and wished that peace would revisit my mind only that I might afford them consolation
and happiness. But that could not be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had
been the author of unalterable evils, and I lived in daily fear lest the monster
whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling
that all was not over and that he would still commit some signal crime, which
by its enormity should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was
always scope for fear so long as anything I loved remained behind. My abhorrence
of this fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of him I gnashed my teeth,
my eyes became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which
I had so thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice,
my hatred and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage
to the highest peak of the Andes, could I when there have precipitated him to
their base. I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent
of abhorrence on his head and avenge the deaths of William and Justine. Our
house was the house of mourning. My fathers 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 others 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 blessingwhat 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 Omnipotenceand I ceased to fear or to
bend before any being less almighty than that which had created and ruled the
elements, here displayed in their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended
higher, the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined
castles hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and
cottages every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene
of singular beauty. But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty
Alps, whose white and shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging
to another earth, the habitations of another race of beings.
I passed the bridge of Pelissier,
where the ravine, which the river forms, opened before me, and I began to ascend
the mountain that overhangs it. Soon after, I entered the valley of Chamounix.
This valley is more wonderful and sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque
as that of Servox, through which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains
were its immediate boundaries, but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile
fields. Immense glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of
the falling avalanche and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme
and magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and
its tremendous dome overlooked the valley.
A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure
often came across me during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new object
suddenly perceived and recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated
with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing
accents, and maternal Nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence
ceased to actI 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, myselfor, in a more desperate
fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and
despair.
At length I arrived at the village
of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the extreme fatigue both of body and of
mind which I had endured. For a short space of time I remained at the window
watching the pallid lightnings that played above Mont Blanc and listening to
the rushing of the Arve, which pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling
sounds acted as a lullaby to my too keen sensations; when I placed my head upon
my pillow, sleep crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of
oblivion.
Chapter 10
I spent the following day roaming
through the valley. I stood beside the sources of the Arveiron, which take their
rise in a glacier, that with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of
the hills to barricade the valley. The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before
me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered
around; and the solemn silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial
nature was broken only by the brawling waves or the fall of some vast fragment,
the thunder sound of the avalanche or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains,
of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws,
was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their
hands. These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation
that I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling,
and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillized it.
In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it
had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as
it were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which
I had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained
snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare
ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the cloudsthey all gathered round me
and bade me be at peace.
Where had they fled when the next
morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy
clouded every thought. The rain was pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid
the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the faces of those mighty
friends. Still I would penetrate their misty veil and seek them in their cloudy
retreats. What were rain and storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and
I resolved to ascend to the summit of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that
the view of the tremendous and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind
when I first saw it. It had then filled me with a sublime ecstasy that gave
wings to the soul and allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and
joy. The sight of the awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect
of solemnizing my mind and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I
determined to go without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and
the presence of another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.
The ascent is precipitous, but the
path is cut into continual and short windings, which enable you to surmount
the perpendicularity of the mountain. It is a scene terrifically desolate. In
a thousand spots the traces of the winter avalanche may be perceived, where
trees lie broken and strewed on the ground, some entirely destroyed, others
bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks of the mountain or transversely upon other
trees. The path, as you ascend 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 wandring 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.
Mans yesterday may neer be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!
It was nearly noon when I arrived
at the top of the ascent. For some time I sat upon the rock that overlooks the
sea of ice. A mist covered both that and the surrounding mountains. Presently
a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I descended upon the glacier. The surface
is very uneven, rising like the waves of a troubled sea, descending low, and
interspersed by rifts that sink deep. The field of ice is almost a league in
width, but I spent nearly two hours in crossing it. The opposite mountain is
a bare perpendicular rock. From the side where I now stood Montanvert was exactly
opposite, at the distance of a league; and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful
majesty. I remained in a recess of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous
scene. The sea, or rather the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains,
whose aerial summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks
shone in the sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before sorrowful,
now swelled with something like joy; I exclaimed, Wandering spirits, if
indeed ye wander, and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness,
or take me, as your companion, away from the joys of life.
As I said this I suddenly beheld
the figure of a man, at some distance, advancing towards me with superhuman
speed. He bounded over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with
caution; his stature, also, as he approached, seemed to exceed that of man.
I was troubled; a mist came over my eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me, but
I was quickly restored by the cold gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the
shape came nearer (sight tremendous and abhorred!) that it was the wretch whom
I had created. I trembled with rage and horror, resolving to wait his approach
and then close with him in mortal combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke
bitter anguish, combined with disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness
rendered it almost too horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this;
rage and hatred had at first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only
to overwhelm him with words expressive of furious detestation and contempt.
Devil, I exclaimed,
do you dare approach me? And do not you fear the fierce vengeance
of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! Or rather, stay,
that I may trample you to dust! And, oh! That I could, with the extinction of
your miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so diabolically
murdered!
I expected this reception,
said the daemon. All men hate the wretched; how, then, must I be hated,
who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my creator, detest and spurn
me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties only dissoluble by the annihilation
of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How dare you sport thus with life? Do
your duty towards me, and I will do mine towards you and the rest of mankind.
If you will comply with my conditions, I will leave them and you at peace; but
if you refuse, I will glut the maw of death, until it be satiated with the blood
of your remaining friends.
Abhorred monster! Fiend that
thou art! The tortures of hell are too mild a vengeance for thy crimes.
Wretched devil! You reproach me with your creation, come on, then, that I may
extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed.
My rage was without bounds; I sprang
on him, impelled by all the feelings which can arm one being against the existence
of another.
He easily eluded me and said,
Be calm! I entreat you to
hear me before you give vent to your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered
enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an
accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it. Remember, thou
hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my
joints more supple. But I will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to
thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even mild and docile to my natural lord
and king if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein,
be not equitable to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice,
and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature;
I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest
from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably
excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy,
and I shall again be virtuous.
Begone! I will not hear you.
There can be no community between you and me; we are enemies. Begone, or let
us try our strength in a fight, in which one must fall.
How can I move thee? Will
no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores
thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was benevolent; my
soul glowed with love and humanity; but am I not alone, miserably alone? You,
my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures, who
owe me nothing? They spurn and hate me. The desert mountains and dreary glaciers
are my refuge. I have wandered here many days; the caves of ice, which I only
do not fear, are a dwelling to me, and the only one which man does not grudge.
These bleak skies I hail, for they are kinder to me than your fellow beings.
If the multitude of mankind knew of my existence, they would do as you do, and
arm themselves for my destruction. Shall I not then hate them who abhor me?
I will keep no terms with my enemies. I am miserable, and they shall share my
wretchedness. Yet it is in your power to recompense me, and deliver them from
an evil which it only remains for you to make so great, that not only you and
your family, but thousands of others, shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds
of its rage. Let your compassion be moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to
my tale; when you have heard that, abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge
that I deserve. But hear me. The guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as
they are, to speak in their own defence before they are condemned. Listen to
me, Frankenstein. You accuse me of murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied
conscience, destroy your own creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man!
Yet I ask you not to spare me; listen to me, and then, if you can, and if you
will, destroy the work of your hands.
Why do you call to my remembrance,
I rejoined, circumstances of which I shudder to reflect, that I have been
the miserable origin and author? Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which
you first saw light! Cursed (although I curse myself) be the hands that formed
you! You have made me wretched beyond expression. You have left me no power
to consider whether I am just to you or not. Begone! Relieve me from the sight
of your detested form.
Thus I relieve thee, my creator,
he said, and placed his hated hands before my eyes, which I flung from me with
violence; thus I take from thee a sight which you abhor. Still thou canst
listen to me and grant me thy compassion. By the virtues that I once possessed,
I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it is long and strange, and the temperature
of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; come to the hut upon the
mountain. The sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends to hide itself
behind your snowy precipices and illuminate another world, you will have heard
my story and can decide. On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighbourhood
of man and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures
and the author of your own speedy ruin.
As he said this he led the way across
the ice; I followed. My heart was full, and I did not answer him, but as I proceeded,
I weighed the various arguments that he had used and determined at least to
listen to his tale. I was partly urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed
my resolution. I had hitherto supposed him to be the murderer of my brother,
and I eagerly sought a confirmation or denial of this opinion. For the first
time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and
that I ought to render him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These
motives urged me to comply with his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and
ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend;
we entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart
and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen, and seating myself by the
fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.
Chapter 11
It is with considerable difficulty
that I remember the original era of my being; all the events of that period
appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicity of sensations seized
me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt at the same time; and it was, indeed,
a long time before I learned to distinguish between the operations of my various
senses. By degrees, I remember, a stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so
that I was obliged to shut my eyes. Darkness then came over me and troubled
me, but hardly had I felt this when, by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the
light poured in upon me again. I walked and, I believe, descended, but I presently
found a great alteration in my sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies had
surrounded me, impervious to my touch or sight; but I now found that I could
wander on at liberty, with no obstacles which I could not either surmount or
avoid. The light became more and more oppressive to me, and the heat wearying
me as I walked, I sought a place where I could receive shade. This was the forest
near Ingolstadt; and here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my fatigue,
until I felt tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me from my nearly dormant
state, and I ate some berries which I found hanging on the trees or lying on
the ground. I slaked my thirst at the brook, and then lying down, was overcome
by sleep.
It was dark when I awoke;
I felt cold also, and half frightened, as it were, instinctively, finding myself
so desolate. Before I had quitted your apartment, on a sensation of cold, I
had covered myself with some clothes, but these were insufficient to secure
me from the dews of night. I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew,
and could distinguish, nothing; but feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat
down and wept.
Soon a gentle light stole
over the heavens and gave me a sensation of pleasure. I started up and beheld
a radiant form rise from among the trees. [The moon] I gazed with a kind of
wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path, and I again went out in
search of berries. I was still cold when under one of the trees I found a huge
cloak, with which I covered myself, and sat down upon the ground. No distinct
ideas occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, and hunger, and thirst,
and darkness; innumerable sounds rang in my ears, and on all sides various scents
saluted me; the only object that I could distinguish was the bright moon, and
I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure.
Several changes of day and
night passed, and the orb of night had greatly lessened, when I began to distinguish
my sensations from each other. I gradually saw plainly the clear stream that
supplied me with drink and the trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was
delighted when I first discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted
my ears, proceeded from the throats of the little winged animals who had often
intercepted the light from my eyes. I began also to observe, with greater accuracy,
the forms that surrounded me and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof
of light which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs
of the birds but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in
my own mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened
me into silence again.
The moon had disappeared from
the night, and again, with a lessened form, showed itself, while I still remained
in the forest. My sensations had by this time become distinct, and my mind received
every day additional ideas. My eyes became accustomed to the light and to perceive
objects in their right forms; I distinguished the insect from the herb, and
by degrees, one herb from another. I found that the sparrow uttered none but
harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing.
One day, when I was oppressed
by cold, I found a fire which had been left by some wandering beggars, and was
overcome with delight at the warmth I experienced from it. In my joy I thrust
my hand into the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain.
How strange, I thought, that the same cause should produce such opposite effects!
I examined the materials of the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed
of wood. I quickly collected some branches, but they were wet and would not
burn. I was pained at this and sat still watching the operation of the fire.
The wet wood which I had placed near the heat dried and itself became inflamed.
I reflected on this, and by touching the various branches, I discovered the
cause and busied myself in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might
dry it and have a plentiful supply of fire. When night came on and brought sleep
with it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered
it carefully with dry wood and leaves and placed wet branches upon it; and then,
spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground and sank into sleep.
It was morning when I awoke,
and my first care was to visit the fire. I uncovered it, and a gentle breeze
quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed this also and contrived a fan of
branches, which roused the embers when they were nearly extinguished. When night
came again I found, with pleasure, that the fire gave light as well as heat
and that the discovery of this element was useful to me in my food, for I found
some of the offals that the travellers had left had been roasted, and tasted
much more savoury than the berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore,
to dress my food in the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found
that the berries were spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots much
improved.
Food, however, became scarce,
and I often spent the whole day searching in vain for a few acorns to assuage
the pangs of hunger. When I found this, I resolved to quit the place that I
had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one where the few wants I experienced would
be more easily satisfied. In this emigration I exceedingly lamented the loss
of the fire which I had obtained through accident and knew not how to reproduce
it. I gave several hours to the serious consideration of this difficulty, but
I was obliged to relinquish all attempt to supply it, and wrapping myself up
in my cloak, I struck across the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three
days in these rambles and at length discovered the open country. A great fall
of snow had taken place the night before, and the fields were of one uniform
white; the appearance was disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold
damp substance that covered the ground.
It was about seven in the
morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter; at length I perceived a small
hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless been built for the convenience
of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me, and I examined the structure with
great curiosity. Finding the door open, I entered. An old man sat in it, near
a fire, over which he was preparing his breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise,
and perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and quitting the hut, ran across the fields
with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance,
different from any I had ever before seen, and his flight somewhat surprised
me. But I was enchanted by the appearance of the hut; here the snow and rain
could not penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite
and divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the demons of hell after their
sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the shepherds
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 peasants
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 mans 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 anothers company
and speech, interchanging each day looks of affection and kindness. What did
their tears imply? Did they really express pain? I was at first unable to solve
these questions, but perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances
which were at first enigmatic.
A considerable period elapsed
before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of this amiable family:
it was poverty, and they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their
nourishment consisted entirely of the vegetables of their garden and the milk
of one cow, which gave very little during the winter, when its masters could
scarcely procure food to support it. They often, I believe, suffered
the pangs of hunger very poignantly, especially the two younger cottagers, for
several times they placed food before the old man when they reserved none for
themselves.
This trait of kindness moved
me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their
store for my own consumption, but when I found that in doing this I inflicted
pain on the cottagers, I abstained and satisfied myself with berries, nuts,
and roots which I gathered from a neighbouring wood.
I discovered also another
means through which I was enabled to assist their labours. I found that the
youth spent a great part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire,
and during the night I often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered,
and brought home firing sufficient for the consumption of several days.
I remember, the first time
that I did this, the young woman, when she opened the door in the morning, appeared
greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of wood on the outside. She uttered
some words in a loud voice, and the youth joined her, who also expressed surprise.
I observed, with pleasure, that he did not go to the forest that day, but spent
it in repairing the cottage and cultivating the garden.
By degrees I made a discovery
of still greater moment. I found that these people possessed a method of communicating
their experience and feelings to one another by articulate sounds. I perceived
that the words they spoke sometimes produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness,
in the minds and countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science,
and I ardently desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every
attempt I made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick, and the words
they uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was
unable to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference.
By great application, however, and after having remained during the space of
several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were
given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned and applied
the words, fire, milk, bread, and wood.
I learned also the names of the cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion
had each of them several names, but the old man had only one, which was father.
The girl was called sister or Agatha, and the youth
Felix, brother, or son. I cannot describe
the delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of these sounds
and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other words without
being able as yet to understand or apply them, such as good, dearest,
unhappy.
I spent the winter in this
manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the cottagers greatly endeared them
to me; when they were unhappy, I felt depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathized
in their joys. I saw few human beings besides them, and if any other happened
to enter the cottage, their harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me
the superior accomplishments of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often
endeavoured to encourage his children, as sometimes I found that he called
them, to cast off their melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with
an expression of goodness that bestowed pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened
with respect, her eyes sometimes filled with tears, which she endeavoured
to wipe away unperceived; but I generally found that her countenance and tone
were more cheerful after having listened to the exhortations of her father.
It was not thus with Felix. He was always the saddest of the group, and even
to my unpractised senses, he appeared to have suffered more deeply than his
friends. But if his countenance was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful
than that of his sister, especially when he addressed the old man.
I could mention innumerable
instances which, although slight, marked the dispositions of these amiable cottagers.
In the midst of poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister
the first little white flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground.
Early in the morning, before she had risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed
her path to the milk-house, drew water from the well, and brought the wood from
the outhouse, where, to his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always
replenished by an invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes
for a neighbouring farmer, because he often went forth and did not return until
dinner, yet brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden,
but as there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man and
Agatha.
This reading had puzzled me
extremely at first, but by degrees I discovered that he uttered many of the
same sounds when he read as when he talked. I conjectured, therefore, that he
found on the paper signs for speech which he understood, and I ardently longed
to comprehend these also; but how was that possible when I did not even understand
the sounds for which they stood as signs? I improved, however, sensibly in this
science, but not sufficiently to follow up any kind of conversation, although
I applied my whole mind to the endeavour, for I easily perceived that,
although I eagerly longed to discover myself to the cottagers, I ought not to
make the attempt until I had first become master of their language, which knowledge
might enable me to make them overlook the deformity of my figure, for with this
also the contrast perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.
I had admired the perfect
forms of my cottagerstheir 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 labourthe old man played on
his guitar, and the children listened to himthat 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 sons 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 mans 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 Volneys 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 Romansof their subsequent degeneratingof the decline of that
mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery
of the American hemisphere and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its
original inhabitants.
These wonderful narrations
inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerful, so
virtuous and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a
mere scion of the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived
of noble and godlike. To be a great and virtuous man appeared the highest honour
that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and vicious, as many on record
have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition more abject than that
of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not conceive how
one man could go forth to murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and
governments; but when I heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased
and I turned away with disgust and loathing.
Every conversation of the
cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While I listened to the instructions
which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian, the strange system of human society was
explained to me. I heard of the division of property, of immense wealth and
squalid poverty, of rank, descent, and noble blood.
The words induced me to turn
towards myself. I learned that the possessions most esteemed by your fellow
creatures were high and unsullied descent united with riches. A man might be
respected with only one of these advantages, but without either he was considered,
except in very rare instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his
powers for the profits of the chosen few! And what was I? Of my creation and
creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew that I possessed no money, no
friends, no kind of property. I was, besides, endued with a figure hideously
deformed and loathsome; I was not even of the same nature as man. I was more
agile than they and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bore the extremes of
heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far exceeded theirs.
When I looked around I saw and heard of none like me. Was I, then, a monster,
a blot upon the earth, from which all men fled and whom all men disowned?
I cannot describe to you the
agony that these reflections inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but
sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I had forever remained in my
native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the sensations of hunger, thirst, and
heat!
Of what a strange nature is
knowledge! It clings to the mind when it has once seized on it like a lichen
on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off all thought and feeling, but I
learned that there was but one means to overcome the sensation of pain, and
that was deatha 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 daughters 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 Plutarchs Lives, and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession
of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised
my mind upon these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary
occupations.
I can hardly describe to you
the effect of these books. They produced in me an infinity of new images and
feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, but more frequently sunk me into
the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of Werter, besides the interest
of its simple and affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed and so many
lights thrown upon what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects that I found
in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle and
domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and feelings,
which had for their object something out of self, accorded well with my experience
among my protectors and with the wants which were forever alive in my own bosom.
But I thought Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined;
his character contained no pretension, but it sank deep. The disquisitions upon
death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend
to enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of
the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it.
As I read, however, I applied
much personally to my own feelings and condition. I found myself similar yet
at the same time strangely unlike to the beings concerning whom I read and to
whose conversation I was a listener. I sympathized with and partly understood
them, but I was unformed in mind; I was dependent on none and related to none.
The path of my departure was free, and there was none to lament
my annihilation. My person was hideous and my stature gigantic. What did this
mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my destination? These
questions continually recurred, but I was unable to solve them.
The volume of Plutarchs
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 Werters 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 days experience that I was unwilling to commence this
undertaking until a few more months should have added to my sagacity.
Several changes, in the meantime,
took place in the cottage. The presence of Safie diffused happiness among its
inhabitants, and I also found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there.
Felix and Agatha spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted
in their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were contented
and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while mine became every
day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly
what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true, but it vanished
when I beheld my person reflected in water or my shadow in the moonshine, even
as that frail image and that inconstant shade.
I endeavoured to crush
these fears and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few months I resolved
to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble
in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing
with my feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows nor
shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adams supplication to his
Creator. But where was mine? He had abandoned me, and in the bitterness of my
heart I cursed him.
Autumn passed thus. I saw,
with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume
the barren and bleak appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and
the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better
fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief
delights were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of
summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the cottagers.
Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer. They loved and sympathized
with one another; and their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted
by the casualties that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater
became my desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to
be known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks directed
towards me with affection was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not think
that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that stopped
at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater treasures
than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I did not
believe myself utterly unworthy of it.
The winter advanced, and an
entire revolution of the seasons had taken place since I awoke into life. My
attention at this time was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself
into the cottage of my protectors. I revolved many projects, but that on which
I finally fixed was to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone.
I had sagacity enough to discover that the unnatural hideousness of my person
was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice,
although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if in
the absence of his children I could gain the good will and mediation of the
old De Lacey, I might by his means be tolerated by my younger protectors.
One day, when the sun shone
on the red leaves that strewed the ground and diffused cheerfulness, although
it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix departed on a long country walk,
and the old man, at his own desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his
children had departed, he took up his guitar and played several mournful but
sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At
first his countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness
and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed
in reflection.
My heart beat quick; this
was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes or realize my
fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All was silent in and
around the cottage; it was an excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to
execute my plan, my limbs failed me and I sank to the ground. Again I rose,
and exerting all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which
I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me,
and with renewed determination I approached the door of their cottage.
I knocked. Who is there?
said the old man. Come in.
I entered. Pardon this
intrusion, said I; I am a traveller in want of a little rest; you
would greatly oblige me if you would allow me to remain a few minutes before
the fire.
Enter, said De
Lacey, and I will try in what manner I can to relieve your wants; but,
unfortunately, my children are from home, and as I am blind, I am afraid I shall
find it difficult to procure food for you.
Do not trouble yourself,
my kind host; I have food; it is warmth and rest only that I need.
I sat down, and a silence
ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to me, yet I remained irresolute
in what manner to commence the interview, when the old man addressed me. By
your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; are you French?
No; but I was educated
by a French family and understand that language only. I am now going to claim
the protection of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I
have some hopes.
Are they Germans?
No, they are French.
But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and deserted creature, I
look around and I have no relation or friend upon earth. These amiable people
to whom I go have never seen me and know little of me. I am full of fears, for
if I fail there, I am an outcast in the world forever.
Do not despair. To
be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate, but the hearts of men, when unprejudiced
by any obvious self-interest, are full of brotherly love and charity. Rely,
therefore, on your hopes; and if these friends are good and amiable, do not
despair.
They are kindthey
are the most excellent creatures in the world; but, unfortunately, they are
prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless
and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and
where they ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable
monster.
That is indeed unfortunate;
but if you are really blameless, cannot you undeceive them?
I am about to undertake
that task; and it is on that account that I feel so many overwhelming terrors.
I tenderly love these friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months
in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to
injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.
Where do these friends
reside?
Near this spot.
The old man paused and then
continued, If you will unreservedly confide to me the particulars of your
tale, I perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them. I am blind and cannot judge
of your countenance, but there is something in your words which persuades me
that you are sincere. I am poor and an exile, but it will afford me true pleasure
to be in any way serviceable to a human creature.
Excellent man! I thank
you and accept your generous offer. You raise me from the dust by this kindness;
and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be driven from the society and sympathy
of your fellow creatures.
Heaven forbid! Even
if you were really criminal, for that can only drive you to desperation, and
not instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I and my family have been
condemned, although innocent; judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.
How can I thank you,
my best and only benefactor? From your lips first have I heard the voice of
kindness directed towards me; I shall be forever grateful; and your present
humanity assures me of success with those friends whom I am on the point of
meeting.
May I know the names
and residence of those friends?
I paused. This, I thought,
was the moment of decision, which was to rob me of or bestow happiness on me
forever. I struggled vainly for firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort
destroyed all my remaining strength; I sank on the chair and sobbed aloud. At
that moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to
lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, Now is the time! Save
and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I seek. Do not you
desert me in the hour of trial!
Great God! exclaimed
the old man. Who are you?
At that instant the cottage
door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha entered. Who can describe their
horror and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted, and Safie, unable
to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and
with supernatural force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung, in
a transport of fury, he dashed me to the ground and struck me violently with
a stick. I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope.
But my heart sank within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw
him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish,
I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel.
Chapter 16
Cursed, cursed creator! Why
did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not extinguish the spark of existence
which you had so wantonly bestowed? I know not; despair had not yet taken possession
of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have
destroyed the cottage and its inhabitants and have glutted myself with their
shrieks and misery.
When night came I quitted
my retreat and wandered in the wood; and now, no longer restrained by the fear
of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild
beast that had broken the toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and
ranging through the wood with a 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 unsympathized with, wished to tear
up the trees, spread havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down
and enjoyed the ruin.
But this was a luxury of sensation
that could not endure; I became fatigued with excess of bodily exertion and
sank on the damp grass in the sick impotence of despair. There was none among
the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel
kindness towards my enemies? No; from that moment I declared everlasting war
against the species, and more than all, against him who had formed me and sent
me forth to this insupportable misery.
The sun rose; I heard the
voices of men and knew that it was impossible to return to my retreat during
that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some thick underwood, determining to devote
the ensuing hours to reflection on my situation.
The pleasant sunshine and
the pure air of day restored me to some degree of tranquillity; and when
I considered what had passed at the cottage, I could not help believing that
I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had certainly acted imprudently. It
was apparent that my conversation had interested the father in my behalf, and
I was a fool in having exposed my person to the horror of his children. I ought
to have familiarized the old De Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered
myself to the rest of his family, when they should have been prepared for my
approach. But I did not believe my errors to be irretrievable, and after much
consideration I resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by
my representations win him to my party.
These thoughts calmed me,
and in the afternoon I sank into a profound sleep; but the fever of my blood
did not allow me to be visited by peaceful dreams. The horrible scene of the
preceding day was forever acting before my eyes; the females were flying and
the enraged Felix tearing me from his fathers 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 revengea 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 syndiche is M. Frankensteinhe will punish you.
You dare not keep me.
Frankenstein! you belong
then to my enemyto him towards whom I have sworn eternal revenge; you
shall be my first victim.
The child still struggled
and loaded me with epithets which carried despair to my heart; I grasped his
throat to silence him, and in a moment he lay dead at my feet.
I gazed on my victim, and
my heart swelled with exultation and hellish triumph; clapping my hands, I exclaimed,
I too can create desolation; my enemy is not invulnerable; this death
will carry despair to him, and a thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy
him.
As I fixed my eyes on the
child, I saw something glittering on his breast. I took it; it was a portrait
of a most lovely woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and attracted
me. For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed by deep
lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my rage returned; I remembered that
I was forever deprived of the delights that such beautiful creatures could bestow
and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, in regarding me, have changed
that air of divine benignity to one expressive of disgust and affright.
Can you wonder that such thoughts
transported me with rage? I only wonder that at that moment, instead of venting
my sensations in exclamations and agony, I did not rush among mankind and perish
in the attempt to destroy them.
While 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 nearhe 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
menot I, but she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed because I
am forever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall atone. The crime
had its source in her; be hers the punishment! Thanks to the lessons of Felix
and the sanguinary laws of man, I had learned now to work mischief. I bent over
her and placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved
again, and I fled.
For some days I haunted the
spot where these scenes had taken place, sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes
resolved to quit the world and its miseries forever. At length I wandered towards
these mountains, and have ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by
a burning passion which you alone can gratify. We may not part until you have
promised to comply with my requisition. I am alone and miserable; man will not
associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny
herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects.
This being you must create.
Chapter 17
The being finished speaking and
fixed his looks upon me in the expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered,
perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full
extent of his proposition. He continued,
You must create a female for
me with whom I can live in the interchange of those sympathies necessary for
my being. This you alone can do, and I demand it of you as a right which you
must not refuse to concede.
The latter part of his tale had
kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narrated his peaceful
life among the cottagers, and as he said this I could no longer suppress the
rage that burned within me.
I do refuse it, I replied;
and no torture shall ever extort a consent from me. You may render me
the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me base in my own eyes.
Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint wickedness might desolate
the world. Begone! I have answered you; you may torture me, but I will never
consent.
You are in the wrong,
replied the fiend; and instead of threatening, I am content to reason
with you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated
by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces and triumph; remember
that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he pities me? You would not
call it murder if you could precipitate me into one of those ice-rifts and destroy
my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I respect man when he condemns me?
Let him live with me in the interchange of kindness, and instead of injury I
would bestow every benefit upon him with tears of gratitude at his acceptance.
But that cannot be; the human senses are insurmountable barriers to our union.
Yet mine shall not be the submission of abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries;
if I cannot inspire love, I will cause fear, and chiefly towards you my 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 creatures sake I
would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bliss that
cannot be realized. What I ask of you is reasonable and moderate; I demand a
creature of another sex, but as hideous as myself; the gratification is small,
but it is all that I can receive, and it shall content me. It is true, we shall
be monsters, cut off from all the world; but on that account we shall be more
attached to one another. Our lives will not be happy, but they will be harmless
and free from the misery I now feel. Oh! My creator, make me happy; let me feel
gratitude towards you for one benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy
of some existing thing; do not deny me my request!
I was moved. I shuddered when I
thought of the possible consequences of my consent, but I felt that there was
some justice in his argument. His tale and the feelings he now expressed proved
him to be a creature of fine sensations, and did I not as his maker owe him
all the portion of happiness that it was in my power to bestow? He saw my change
of feeling and continued,
If you consent, neither you
nor any other human being shall ever see us again; I will go to the vast wilds
of South America. My food is not that of man; I do not destroy the lamb and
the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and berries afford me sufficient nourishment.
My companion will be of the same nature as myself and will be content with the
same fare. We shall make our bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as
on man and will ripen our food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and
human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power
and cruelty. Pitiless as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your
eyes; let me seize the favourable moment and persuade you to promise what I
so ardently desire.
You propose, replied
I, to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in those wilds where the
beasts of the field will be your only companions. How can you, who long for
the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? You will return and again
seek their kindness, and you will meet with their detestation; your evil passions
will be renewed, and you will then have a companion to aid you in the task of
destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the point, for I cannot consent.
How inconstant are your feelings!
But a moment ago you were moved by my representations, and why do you again
harden yourself to my complaints? I swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit,
and by you that made me, that with the companion you bestow I will quit the
neighbourhood of man and dwell, as it may chance, in the most savage of places.
My evil passions will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will
flow quietly away, and in my dying moments I shall not curse my maker.
His words had a strange effect upon
me. I compassionated him and sometimes felt a wish to console him, but when
I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart
sickened and my feelings were altered to those of horror and hatred. I tried
to stifle these sensations; I thought that as I could not sympathize with him,
I had no right to withhold from him the small portion of happiness which was
yet in my power to bestow.
You swear, I said, to
be harmless; but have you not already shown a degree of malice that should reasonably
make me distrust you? May not even this be a feint that will increase your triumph
by affording a wider scope for your revenge?
How is this? I must not be
trifled with, and I demand an answer. If I have no ties and no affections, hatred
and vice must be my portion; the love of another will destroy the cause of my
crimes, and I shall become a thing of whose existence everyone will be ignorant.
My vices are the children of a forced solitude that I abhor, and my virtues
will necessarily arise when I live in communion with an equal. I shall feel
the affections of a sensitive being and 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 forever, and every other place in the neighbourhood
of man, as soon as I shall deliver into your hands a female who will accompany
you in your exile.
I swear, he cried, by
the sun, and by the blue sky of heaven, and by the fire of love that burns my
heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they exist you shall never behold
me again. Depart to your home and commence your labours; I shall watch their
progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not but that when you are ready
I shall appear.
Saying this, he suddenly quitted
me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my sentiments. I saw him descend the
mountain with greater speed than the flight of an eagle, and quickly lost among
the undulations of the sea of ice.
His tale had occupied the whole
day, and the sun was upon the verge of the horizon when he departed. I knew
that I ought to hasten my descent towards the valley, as I should soon be encompassed
in darkness; but my heart was heavy, and my steps slow. The labour of winding
among the little paths of the mountain and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced
perplexed me, occupied as I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the
day had produced. Night was far advanced when I came to the halfway resting-place
and seated myself beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals as the clouds
passed from over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there
a broken tree lay on the ground; it was a scene of wonderful solemnity and stirred
strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly, and clasping my hands in agony,
I exclaimed, Oh! Stars and clouds and winds, ye are all about to mock
me; if ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought;
but if not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness.
These were wild and miserable thoughts,
but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed
upon me and how I listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly
siroc on its way to consume me.
Morning dawned before I arrived
at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immediately to Geneva.
Even in my own heart I could give no expression to my sensationsthey weighed
on me with a mountains 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 banas
if I had no right to claim their sympathiesas 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 fathers consent to visit England
for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of delay and shrank from taking
the first step in an undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less
absolute to me. A change indeed had taken place in me; my health, which had
hitherto declined, was now much restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by
the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this change
with pleasure, and he turned his thoughts towards the best method of eradicating
the remains of my melancholy, which every now and then would return by fits,
and with a devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At these moments
I took refuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake
alone in a little boat, watching the clouds and listening to the rippling of
the waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed
to restore me to some degree of composure, and on my return I met the salutations
of my friends with a readier smile and a more cheerful heart.
It was after my return from one
of these rambles that my father, calling me aside, thus addressed me,
I am happy to remark, my dear
son, that you have resumed your former pleasures and seem to be returning to
yourself. And yet you are still unhappy and still avoid our society. For some
time I was lost in conjecture as to the cause of this, but yesterday an idea
struck me, and if it is well founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such
a point would be not only useless, but draw down treble misery on us all.
I trembled violently at his exordium,
and my father continued"I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward
to your marriage with our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort
and the stay of my declining years. You were attached to each other from your
earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and tastes,
entirely suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of man that what
I conceived to be the best assistants to my plan may have entirely destroyed
it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any wish that she might
become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another whom you may love; and
considering yourself as bound in honour to Elizabeth, this struggle may occasion
the poignant misery which you appear to feel.
My dear father, reassure yourself.
I love my cousin tenderly and sincerely. I never saw any woman who excited,
as Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration and affection. My future hopes and
prospects are entirely bound up in the expectation of our union.
The expression of your sentiments
of this subject, my dear Victor, gives me more pleasure than I have for some
time experienced. If you feel thus, we shall assuredly be happy, however present
events may cast a gloom over us. But it is this gloom which appears to have
taken so strong a hold of your mind that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore,
whether you object to an immediate solemnization of the marriage. We have been
unfortunate, and recent events have drawn us from that everyday tranquillity
befitting my years and infirmities. You are younger; yet 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 fathers house while in habits of familiar intercourse with those
I loved. I knew that a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest
of which would disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror.
I was aware also that I should often lose all self-command, all capacity of
hiding the harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of
my unearthly occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved while thus employed.
Once commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be restored to my
family in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the monster would depart
forever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile occur to
destroy him and put an end to my slavery forever.
These feelings dictated my answer
to my father. I expressed a wish to visit England, but concealing the true reasons
of this request, I clothed my desires under a guise which excited no suspicion,
while I urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to
comply. After so long a period of an absorbing melancholy that resembled madness
in its intensity and effects, he was glad to find that I was capable of taking
pleasure in the idea of such a journey, and he hoped that change of scene and
varied amusement would, before my return, have restored me entirely to myself.
The duration of my absence was left
to my own choice; a few months, or at most a year, was the period contemplated.
One paternal kind precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without
previously communicating with me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth, arranged
that Clerval should join me at Strasbourg. This interfered with the solitude
I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the commencement of
my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be an impediment, and truly
I rejoiced that thus I should be saved many hours of lonely, maddening reflection.
Nay, Henry might stand between me and the intrusion of my foe. If I were alone,
would he not at times force his abhorred presence on me to remind me of my task
or to contemplate its progress?
To England, therefore, I was bound,
and it was understood that my union with Elizabeth should take place immediately
on my return. My fathers age rendered him extremely averse to delay. For
myself, there was one reward I promised myself from my detested toilsone
consolation for my unparalleled sufferings; it was the prospect of that day
when, enfranchised from my miserable slavery, I might claim Elizabeth and forget
the past in my union with her.
I now made arrangements for my journey,
but one feeling haunted me which filled me with fear and agitation. During my
absence I should leave my friends unconscious of the existence of their enemy
and unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my departure.
But he had promised to follow me wherever I might go, and would he not accompany
me to England? This imagination was dreadful in itself, but soothing inasmuch
as it supposed the safety of my friends. I was agonized with the idea of the
possibility that the reverse of this might happen. But through the whole period
during which I was the slave of my creature I allowed myself to be governed
by the impulses of the moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated
that the fiend would follow me and exempt my family from the danger of his machinations.
It was in the latter end of September
that I again quitted my native country. My journey had been my own suggestion,
and Elizabeth therefore acquiesced, but she was filled with disquiet at the
idea of my suffering, away from her, the inroads of misery and grief. It had
been her care which provided me a companion in Clervaland yet a man is
blind to a thousand minute circumstances which call forth a womans sedulous
attention. She longed to bid me hasten my return; a thousand conflicting emotions
rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful, silent farewell.
I threw myself into the carriage
that was to convey me away, hardly knowing whither I was going, and careless
of what was passing around. I remembered only, and it was with a bitter anguish
that I reflected on it, to order that my chemical instruments should be packed
to go with me. Filled with dreary imaginations, I passed through many beautiful
and majestic scenes, but my eyes were fixed and unobserving. I could only think
of the bourne of my travels and the work which was to occupy me whilst they
endured.
After some days spent in listless
indolence, during which I traversed many leagues, I arrived at Strasbourg, where
I waited two days for Clerval. He came. Alas, how great was the contrast between
us! He was alive to every new scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the
setting sun, and more happy when he beheld it rise and recommence a new day.
He pointed out to me the shifting colours of the landscape and the appearances
of the sky. This is what it is to live, he cried; how I enjoy
existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful!
In truth, I was occupied by gloomy thoughts and neither saw the descent of the
evening star nor the golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine. And you, my friend,
would be far more amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery
with an eye of feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I,
a miserable wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment.
We had agreed to descend the Rhine
in a boat from Strasbourg to Rotterdam, whence we might take shipping for London.
During this voyage we passed many willowy islands and saw several beautiful
towns. We stayed a day at Mannheim, and on the fifth from our departure from
Strasbourg, arrived at Mainz. The course of the Rhine below Mainz becomes much
more picturesque. The river descends rapidly and winds between hills, not high,
but steep, and of beautiful forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on the
edges of precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This
part of the Rhine, indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one
spot you view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices,
with the dark Rhine rushing beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory,
flourishing vineyards with green sloping banks and a meandering river and populous
towns occupy the scene.
We travelled at the time of the
vintage and heard the song of the labourers as we glided down the stream. Even
I, depressed in mind, and my spirits continually agitated by gloomy feelings,
even I was pleased. I lay at the bottom of the boat, and as I gazed on the cloudless
blue sky, I seemed to drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been
a stranger. And if these were my sensations, who can describe those of Henry?
He felt as if he had been transported to fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness
seldom tasted by man. I have seen, he said, the most beautiful
scenes of my own country; I have visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where
the snowy mountains descend almost perpendicularly to the water, casting black
and impenetrable shades, which would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance
were it not for the most verdant islands that believe the eye by their gay appearance;
I have seen this lake agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds
of water and gave you an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean;
and the waves dash with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and
his mistress were overwhelmed by an avalanche and where their dying voices are
still said to be heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the
mountains of La Valais, and the Pays de Vaud; but this country, Victor, pleases
me more than all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic
and strange, but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river that I never
before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and
that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely
trees; and now that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that
village half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely the spirit that inhabits
and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who pile
the glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own
country. Clerval! Beloved friend! Even now it delights me to record your
words and to dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He
was a being formed in the very poetry of nature. His wild and enthusiastic
imagination was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed
with ardent affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous
nature that the world-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But
even human sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery
of external nature, which others regard only with admiration, he loved with
ardour:
The sounding
cataract
Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to him
An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrowd from the eye.
[Wordsworths Tintern Abbey .]
And where does he now exist? Is
this gentle and lovely being lost forever? Has this mind, so replete with ideas,
imaginations fanciful and magnificent, which formed a world, whose existence
depended on the life of its creator;has this mind perished? Does it now
only exist in my memory? No, it is not thus; your form so divinely wrought,
and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your spirit still visits and consoles
your unhappy friend.
Pardon this gush of sorrow; these
ineffectual words are but a slight tribute to the unexampled worth of Henry,
but they soothe my heart, overflowing with the anguish which his remembrance
creates. I will proceed with my tale.
Beyond Cologne we descended to the
plains of Holland; and we resolved to post the remainder of our way, for the
wind was contrary and the stream of the river was too gentle to aid us. Our
journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery, but we arrived
in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England. It was on
a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw the white
cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene; they were
flat but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the remembrance of some
story. We saw Tilbury Fort and remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich,
and Greenwichplaces which I had heard of even in my country.
At length we saw the numerous steeples
of London, St. Pauls towering above all, and the Tower famed in English
history.
Chapter 19
London was our present point of
rest; we determined to remain several months in this wonderful and celebrated
city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished
at this time, but this was with me a secondary object; I was principally occupied
with the means of obtaining the information necessary for the completion of
my promise and quickly availed myself of the letters of introduction that I
had brought with me, addressed to the most distinguished natural philosophers.
If this journey had taken place
during my days of study and happiness, it would have afforded me inexpressible
pleasure. But a blight had come over my existence, and I only visited these
people for the sake of the information they might give me on the subject in
which my interest was so terribly profound. Company was irksome to me; when
alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven and earth; the voice of
Henry soothed me, and I could thus cheat myself into a transitory peace. But
busy, uninteresting, joyous faces brought back despair to my heart. I saw an
insurmountable barrier placed between me and my fellow men; this barrier was
sealed with the blood of William and Justine, and to reflect on the events connected
with those names filled my soul with anguish.
But in Clerval I saw the image of
my former self; he was inquisitive and anxious to gain experience and instruction.
The difference of manners which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source
of instruction and amusement. He was also pursuing an object he had long had
in view. His design was to visit India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge
of its various languages, and in the views he had taken of its society, the
means of materially assisting the progress of European colonization and trade.
In Britain only could he further the execution of his plan. He was forever busy,
and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried
to conceal this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures
natural to one who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any care
or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging another engagement,
that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the materials necessary
for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture of single drops of
water continually falling on the head. Every thought that was devoted to it
was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in allusion to it caused
my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.
After passing some months in London,
we received a letter from a person in Scotland who had formerly been our visitor
at Geneva. He mentioned the beauties of his native country and asked us if those
were not sufficient allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north
as Perth, where he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation,
and I, although I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams
and all the wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.
We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now February.
We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the north at the expiration
of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to follow the great road
to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and the Cumberland lakes,
resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour about the end of July. I
packed up my chemical instruments and the materials I had collected, resolving
to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the northern highlands of Scotland.
We quitted London on the 27th of
March and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beautiful forest.
This was a new scene to us mountaineers; the majestic oaks, the quantity of
game, and the herds of stately deer were all novelties to us.
From thence we proceeded to Oxford.
As we entered this city our minds were filled with the remembrance of the events
that had been transacted there more than a century and a half before. It was
here that Charles I. had collected his forces. This city had remained faithful
to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to join the standard of
Parliament and liberty. The memory of that unfortunate king and his companions,
the amiable Falkland, the insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar
interest to every part of the city which they might be supposed to have inhabited.
The spirit of elder days found a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its
footsteps. If these feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance
of the city had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The
colleges are ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost magnificent; and
the lovely Isis, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure,
is spread forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic
assemblage of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees.
I enjoyed this scene, and yet my
enjoyment was embittered both by the memory of the past and the anticipation
of the future. I was formed for peaceful happiness. During my youthful days
discontent never visited my mind, and if I was ever overcome by ennui, the sight
of what is beautiful in nature or the study of what is excellent and sublime
in the productions of man could always interest my heart and communicate elasticity
to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I
felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon cease to bea
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 travellers
life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are
forever on the stretch; and when he begins to sink into repose , he finds
himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in pleasure for something new,
which again engages his attention, and which also he forsakes for other novelties.
We had scarcely visited the various
lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland and conceived an affection for some of the
inhabitants when the period of our appointment with our Scotch friend approached,
and we left them to travel on. For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected
my promise for some time, and I feared the effects of the daemons 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, Arthurs Seat, St. Bernards 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. Andrews, and along the banks of the Tay, to Perth,
where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and talk with strangers
or enter into their feelings or plans with the good humour expected from a guest;
and accordingly I told Clerval that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone.
Do you, said I, enjoy yourself, and let this be our rendezvous.
I may be absent a month or two; but do not interfere with my motions, I entreat
you; leave me to peace and solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope
it will be with a lighter heart, more congenial to your own temper.
Henry wished to dissuade me, but
seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write
often. I had rather be with you, he said, in your solitary
rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not know; hasten, then, my
dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself somewhat at home, which
I cannot do in your absence.
Having parted from my friend, I
determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland and finish my work in solitude.
I did not doubt but that the monster followed me and would discover himself
to me when I should have finished, that he might receive his companion. With
this resolution I traversed the northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest
of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted for such a
work, being hardly more than a rock whose high sides were continually beaten
upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording pasture for a few
miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which consisted of five persons,
whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables
and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to
be procured from the mainland, which was about five miles distant.
On the whole island there were but
three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I arrived. This I hired.
It contained but two rooms, and these exhibited all the squalidness of the most
miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and
the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture,
and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have occasioned some
surprise had not all the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid
poverty. As it was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the
pittance of food and clothes which I gave, so much does suffering blunt even
the coarsest sensations of men.
In this retreat I devoted the morning
to labour; but in the evening, when the weather permitted, I walked on the stony
beach of the sea to listen to the waves as they roared and dashed at my feet.
It was a monotonous yet ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was
far different from this desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered
with vines, and its cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes
reflect a blue and gentle sky, and when troubled by the winds, their tumult
is but as the play of a lively infant when compared to the roarings of the giant
ocean.
In this manner I distributed my
occupations when I first arrived, but as I proceeded in my labour, it became
every day more horrible and irksome to me. Sometimes I could not prevail on
myself to enter my laboratory for several days, and at other times I toiled
day and night in order to complete my work. It was, indeed, a filthy process
in which I was engaged. During my first experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy
had blinded me to the horror of my employment; my mind was intently fixed on
the consummation of my labour, and my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings.
But now I went to it in cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work
of my hands.
Thus situated, employed in the most
detestable occupation, immersed in a solitude where nothing could for an instant
call my attention from the actual scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became
unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor.
Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them lest
they should encounter the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared
to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when alone he should come
to claim his companion.
In the mean time I worked on, and
my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion
with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to question
but which was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart
sicken in my bosom.
Chapter 20
I sat one evening in my laboratory;
the sun had set, and the moon was just rising from the sea; I had not sufficient
light for my employment, and I remained idle, in a pause of consideration of
whether I should leave my labour for the night or hasten its conclusion by an
unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me
which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three years before,
I was engaged in the same manner and had created a fiend whose unparalleled
barbarity had desolated my heart and filled it forever with the bitterest remorse.
I was now about to form another being of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant;
she might become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate and
delight, for its own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit
the neighbourhood of man and hide himself in deserts, but she had not; and she,
who in all probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might
refuse to comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hate
each other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might
he not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in
the female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty
of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh
provocation of being deserted by one of his own species. Even if they were to
leave Europe and inhabit the deserts of the new world, yet one of the first
results of those sympathies for which the daemon thirsted would be children,
and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth who might make the very
existence of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had
I right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse upon everlasting generations?
I had before been moved by the sophisms of the being I had created; I had been
struck senseless by his fiendish threats; but now, for the first time, the wickedness
of my promise burst upon me; I shuddered to think that future ages might curse
me as their pest, whose selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at
the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human race.
I trembled and my heart failed within
me, when, on looking up, I saw by the light of the moon the daemon at the casement.
A ghastly grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the
task which he had allotted to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he
had loitered in forests, hid himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert
heaths; and he now came to mark my progress and claim the 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
daemon whose delight is in death and wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your
words will only exasperate my rage.
The monster saw my determination
in my face and gnashed his teeth in the impotence of anger. Shall each
man, cried he, find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his
mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by
detestation and scorn. Man! You may hate, but beware! Your hours will pass in
dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your
happiness forever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my
wretchedness? You can blast my other passions, but revenge remainsrevenge,
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 nights contention, and walked on the beach
of the sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and
my fellow creatures; nay, a wish that such should prove the fact stole across
me.
I desired that I might pass my life
on that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock
of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most
loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created.
I walked about the isle like a restless
spectre, separated from all it loved and miserable in the separation. When it
became noon, and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered
by a deep sleep. I had been awake the whole of the preceding night, my nerves
were agitated, and my eyes inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which
I now sank refreshed me; and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to
a race of human beings like myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed
with greater composure; yet still the words of the fiend rang in my ears like
a death-knell; they appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a
reality.
The sun had far descended, and I
still sat on the shore, satisfying my appetite, which had become ravenous, with
an oaten cake, when I saw a fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men
brought me a packet; it contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval
entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly
where he was, that letters from the friends he had formed in London desired
his return to complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian
enterprise. He could not any longer delay his departure; but as his journey
to London might be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer
voyage, he entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could spare.
He besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle and to meet him at Perth,
that we might proceed southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled
me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.
Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to
reflect; I must pack up my chemical instruments, and for that purpose I must
enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle
those utensils the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at
daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage and unlocked the door of my laboratory.
The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, lay scattered
on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human
being. I paused to collect myself and then entered the chamber. With trembling
hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room, but I reflected that I ought
not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror and suspicion of the
peasants; and I accordingly put them into a basket, with a great quantity of
stones, and laying them up, determined to throw them into the sea that very
night; and in the meantime I sat upon the beach, employed in cleaning and arranging
my chemical apparatus.
Nothing could be more complete than
the alteration that had taken place in my feelings since the night of the appearance
of the daemon. I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair as a thing
that, with whatever consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a
film had been taken from before my eyes and that I for the first time saw clearly.
The idea of renewing my labours did not for one instant occur to me; the threat
I had heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act
of mine could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind that to create another
like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most atrocious
selfishness, and I banished from my mind every thought that could lead to a
different conclusion.
Between two and three in the morning
the moon rose; and I then, putting my basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out
about four miles from the shore. The scene was perfectly solitary; a few boats
were returning towards land, but I sailed away from them. I felt as if I was
about the commission of a dreadful crime and avoided with shuddering anxiety
any encounter with my fellow creatures. At one time the moon, which had before
been clear, was suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of
the moment of darkness and cast my basket into the sea; I listened to the gurgling
sound as it sank and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded,
but the air was pure, although chilled by the northeast breeze that was then
rising. But it refreshed me and filled me with such agreeable sensations that
I resolved to prolong my stay on the water, and fixing the rudder in a direct
position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, everything
was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat as its keel cut through
the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept soundly. I do not
know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found that the
sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the waves continually
threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the wind was northeast
and must have driven me far from the coast from which I had embarked. I endeavoured
to change my course but quickly found that if I again made the attempt the boat
would be instantly filled with water. Thus situated, my only resource was to
drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensations of terror. I had
no compass with me and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this
part of the world that the sun was of little benefit to me. I might be driven
into the wide Atlantic and feel all the tortures of starvation or be swallowed
up in the immeasurable waters that roared and buffeted around me. I had already
been out many hours and felt the torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my
other sufferings. I looked on the heavens, which were covered by clouds that
flew before the wind, only to be replaced by others; I looked upon the sea;
it was to be my grave. Fiend, I exclaimed, your task is already
fulfilled! I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of Clervalall
left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his sanguinary and merciless
passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie so despairing and frightful that
even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me forever, I shudder
to reflect on it.
Some hours passed thus; but by degrees,
as the sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze
and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell;
I felt sick and hardly able to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of
high land towards the south.
Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue
and the dreadful suspense I endured for several hours, this sudden certainty
of life rushed like a flood of warm joy to my heart, and tears gushed from my
eyes.
How mutable are our feelings, and
how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery!
I constructed another sail with a part of my dress and eagerly steered my course
towards the land. It had a wild and rocky appearance, but as I approached nearer
I easily perceived the traces of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore and
found myself suddenly transported back to the neighbourhood of civilized man.
I carefully traced the windings of the land and hailed a steeple which I at
length saw issuing from behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme
debility, I resolved to sail directly towards the town, as a place where I could
most easily procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with me.
As I turned the promontory I perceived
a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, my heart bounding with
joy at my unexpected escape.
As I was occupied in fixing the
boat and arranging the sails, several people crowded towards the spot. They
seemed much surprised at my appearance, but instead of offering me any assistance,
whispered together with gestures that at any other time might have produced
in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it was, I merely remarked that they spoke
English, and I therefore addressed them in that language. My good friends,
said I, will you be so kind as to tell me the name of this town and inform
me where I am?
You will know that soon enough,
replied a man with a hoarse voice. Maybe you are come to a place that
will not prove much to your taste, but you will not be consulted as to your
quarters, I promise you.
I was exceedingly surprised on receiving
so rude an answer from a stranger, and I was also disconcerted on perceiving
the frowning and angry countenances of his companions. Why do you answer
me so roughly? I replied. Surely it is not the custom of Englishmen
to receive strangers so inhospitably.
I do not know, said
the man, what the custom of the English may be, but it is the custom of
the Irish to hate villains. While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived
the crowd rapidly increase. Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and
anger, which annoyed and in some degree alarmed me.
I inquired the way to the inn, but
no one replied. I then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd
as they followed and surrounded me, when an ill-looking man approaching tapped
me on the shoulder and said, Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwins
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 oclock, 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 fathers
account, but when Daniel Nugent was called he swore positively that just before
the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in it, at a short
distance from the shore; and as far as he could judge by the light of a few
stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed that
she lived near the beach and was standing at the door of her cottage, waiting
for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before she heard of the discovery
of the body, when she saw a boat with only one man in it push off from that
part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards found.
Another woman confirmed the account
of the fishermen having brought the body into her house; it was not cold. They
put it into a bed and rubbed it, and Daniel went to the town for an apothecary,
but life was quite gone.
Several other men were examined
concerning my landing, and they agreed that, with the strong north wind that
had arisen during the night, it was very probable that I had beaten about for
many hours and had been obliged to return nearly to the same spot from which
I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared that I had brought the
body from another place, and it was likely that as I did not appear to know
the shore, I might have put into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the
town of from the place where I had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence,
desired that I should be taken into the room where the body lay for interment,
that it might be observed what effect the sight of it would produce upon me.
This idea was probably suggested by the extreme agitation I had exhibited when
the mode of the murder had been described. I was accordingly conducted, by the
magistrate and several other persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck
by the strange coincidences that had taken place during this eventful night;
but, knowing that I had been conversing with several persons in the island I
had inhabited about the time that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil
as to the consequences of the affair. I entered the room where the corpse lay
and was led up to the coffin. How can I describe my sensations on beholding
it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor can I reflect on that terrible moment
without shuddering and agony. The examination, the presence of the magistrate
and witnesses, passed like a dream from my memory when I saw the lifeless form
of Henry Clerval stretched before me. I gasped for breath, and throwing myself
on the body, I exclaimed, Have my murderous machinations deprived you
also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I have already destroyed; other victims
await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor
The human frame could no longer
support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong
convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of
death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the
murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants
to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at
others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed
aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr.
Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient
to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man
ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches
away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many
brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope,
and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was
I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the
wheel, continually renewed the torture?
But I was doomed to live and in
two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a
wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable
apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding;
I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some
great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw
the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed
across my memory and I groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old woman
who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one
of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which
often characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like
that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery.
Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and
the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. Are
you better now, sir? said she.
I replied in the same language,
with a feeble voice, I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed
I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror.
For that matter, replied
the old woman, if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe
that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with
you! However, thats none of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get
you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did
the same.
I turned with loathing from the
woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person just saved, on the very
edge of death; but I felt languid and unable to reflect on all that had passed.
The whole series of my life appeared to me as a dream; I sometimes doubted if
indeed it were all true, for it never presented itself to my mind with the force
of reality.
As the images that floated before
me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a darkness pressed around me; no one
was near me who soothed me with the gentle voice of love; no dear hand supported
me. The physician came and prescribed medicines, and the old woman prepared
them for me; but utter carelessness was visible in the first, and the expression
of brutality was strongly marked in the visage of the second. Who could be interested
in the fate of a murderer but the hangman who would gain his fee?
These were my first reflections,
but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme kindness. He had caused
the best room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best);
and it was he who had provided a physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom
came to see me, for although he ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of
every human creature, he did not wish to be present at the agonies and miserable
ravings of a murderer. He came, therefore, sometimes to see that I was not neglected,
but his visits were short and with long intervals. One day, while I was gradually
recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open and my cheeks livid like
those in death. I was overcome by gloom and misery and often reflected I had
better seek death than desire to remain in a world which to me was replete with
wretchedness. At one time I considered whether I should not declare myself guilty
and suffer the penalty of the law, less innocent than poor Justine had been.
Such were my thoughts when the door of my apartment was opened and Mr. Kirwin
entered. His countenance expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair
close to mine and addressed me in French, I fear that this place is very
shocking to you; can I do anything to make you more comfortable?
I thank you, but all that
you mention is nothing to me; on the whole earth there is no comfort which I
am capable of receiving.
I know that the sympathy of
a stranger can be but of little relief to one borne down as you are by so strange
a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless
evidence can easily be brought to free you from the criminal charge.
That is my least concern;
I am, by a course of strange events, become the most miserable of mortals. Persecuted
and tortured as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?
Nothing indeed could be more
unfortunate and agonizing than the strange chances that have lately occurred.
You were thrown, by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its
hospitality, seized immediately, and charged with murder. The first sight that
was presented to your eyes was the body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable
a manner and placed, as it were, by some fiend across your path.
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding
the agitation I endured on this retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable
surprise at the knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some
astonishment was exhibited in my countenance, for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say,
Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on your
person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some trace
by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and illness.
I found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered from its
commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva; nearly
two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter. But you are ill; even
now you tremble; you are unfit for agitation of any kind.
This suspense is a thousand
times worse than the most horrible event; tell me what new scene of death has
been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament?
Your family is perfectly well,
said Mr. Kirwin with gentleness; and someone, a friend, is come to visit
you.
I know not by what chain of thought
the idea presented itself, but it instantly darted into my mind that the murderer
had come to mock at my misery and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new
incitement for me to comply with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my
eyes, and cried out in agony, Oh! Take him away! I cannot see him; for
Gods 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, safeand Elizabethand
Ernest? My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare and endeavoured,
by dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding
spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness.
What a place is this that
you inhabit, my son! said he, looking mournfully at the barred windows
and wretched appearance of the room. You travelled to seek happiness,
but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval
The name of my unfortunate and murdered
friend was an agitation too great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.
Alas! Yes, my father, replied I; some destiny of the most
horrible kind hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should
have died on the coffin of Henry.
We were not allowed to converse
for any length of time, for the precarious state of my health rendered every
precaution necessary that could ensure tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came
in and insisted that my strength should not be exhausted by too much exertion.
But the appearance of my father was to me like that of my good angel, and I
gradually recovered my health.
As my sickness quitted me, I was
absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy that nothing could dissipate. The
image of Clerval was forever before me, ghastly and murdered. More than once
the agitation into which these reflections threw me made my friends dread a
dangerous relapse. Alas! Why did they preserve so miserable and detested a life?
It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close.
Soon, oh, very soon, will death extinguish these throbbings and relieve me from
the mighty weight of anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the
award of justice, I shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was
distant, although the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat
for hours motionless and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that
might bury me and my destroyer in its ruins.
The season of the assizes approached.
I had already been three months in prison, and although I was still weak and
in continual danger of a relapse, I was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles
to the country town where the court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with
every care of collecting witnesses and arranging my defence. I was spared the
disgrace of appearing publicly as a criminal, as the case was not brought before
the court that decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill,
on its being proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of
my friend was found; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison.
My father was enraptured on finding
me freed from the vexations of a criminal charge, that I was again allowed to
breathe the fresh atmosphere and permitted to return to my native country. I
did not participate in these feelings, for to me the walls of a dungeon or a
palace were alike hateful. The cup of life was poisoned forever, and although
the sun shone upon me, as upon the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing
but a dense and frightful darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of
two eyes that glared upon me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry,
languishing in death, the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids and the long
black lashes that fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of
the monster, as I first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me
the feelings of affection. He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of
Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes,
indeed, I felt a wish for happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my
beloved cousin or longed, with a devouring maladie du pays, to see once more
the blue lake and rapid Rhone, that had been so dear to me in early childhood;
but my general state of feeling was a torpor in which a prison was as welcome
a residence as the divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted
but by paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured
to put an end to the existence I loathed, and it required unceasing attendance
and vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.
Yet one duty remained to me, the
recollection of which finally triumphed over my selfish despair. It was necessary
that I should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives
of those I so fondly loved and to lie in wait for the murderer, that if any
chance led me to the place of his concealment, or if he dared again to blast
me by his presence, I might, with unfailing aim, put an end to the existence
of the monstrous image which I had endued with the mockery of a soul still more
monstrous. My father still desired to delay our departure, fearful that I could
not sustain the fatigues of a journey, for I was a shattered wreckthe
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 lifemy 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
fiends 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 fathers 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 thisI murdered her. William, Justine, and Henrythey
all died by my hands.
My father had often, during my imprisonment,
heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed
to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring
of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented
itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence.
I avoided explanation and maintained
a continual silence concerning the wretch I had created. I had a persuasion
that I should be supposed mad, and this in itself would forever have chained
my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring myself to disclose a secret which
would fill my hearer with consternation and make fear and unnatural horror the
inmates of his breast. I checked, therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy
and was silent when I would have given the world to have confided the fatal
secret. Yet, still, words like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably
from me. I could offer no explanation of them, but their truth in part relieved
the burden of my mysterious woe. Upon this occasion my father said, with an
expression of unbounded wonder, My dearest Victor, what infatuation is
this? My dear son, I entreat you never to make such an assertion again.
I am not mad, I cried
energetically; the sun and the heavens, who have viewed my operations,
can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those most innocent victims;
they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I have shed my own blood,
drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could not, my father, indeed
I could not sacrifice the whole human race.
The conclusion of this speech convinced
my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instantly changed the subject
of our conversation and endeavoured to alter the course of my thoughts.
He wished as much as possible to obliterate the memory of the scenes that had
taken place in Ireland and never alluded to them or suffered me to speak of
my misfortunes.
As time passed away I became more
calm; misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talked in the same
incoherent manner of my own crimes; sufficient for me was the consciousness
of them. By the utmost self-violence I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness,
which sometimes desired to declare itself to the whole world, and my manners
were calmer and more composed than they had ever been since my journey to the
sea of ice. A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received
the following letter from Elizabeth:
My dear Friend,
It gave me the greatest pleasure
to receive a letter from my uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable
distance, and I may hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin,
how much you must have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than
when you quitted Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured
as I have been by anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance
and to find that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity.
Yet I fear that the same feelings
now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even perhaps augmented by time.
I would not disturb you at this period, when so many misfortunes weigh upon
you, but a conversation that I had with my uncle previous to his departure renders
some explanation necessary before we meet. Explanation! You may possibly say,
What can Elizabeth have to explain? If you really say this, my questions are
answered and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and it is
possible that you may dread and yet be pleased with this explanation; and in
a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing
what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you but have never
had the courage to begin.
You well know, Victor, that
our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever since our infancy.
We were told this when young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that
would certainly take place. We were affectionate playfellows during childhood,
and, I believe, dear and valued friends to one another as we grew older. But
as brother and sister often entertain a lively affection towards each other
without desiring a more intimate union, may not such also be our case? Tell
me, dearest Victor. Answer me, I conjure you by our mutual happiness, with simple
truthDo you not love another?
You have travelled; you have
spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend,
that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society
of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection
and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although
they opposed themselves to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I
confess to you, my friend, that I love you and that in my airy dreams of futurity
you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire
as well as my own when I declare to you that our marriage would render me eternally
miserable unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep
to think that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may stifle,
by the word honour, all hope of that love and happiness which would
alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an affection for
you, may increase your miseries tenfold by being an obstacle to your wishes.
Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love
for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and
if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will
have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.
Do not let this letter disturb
you; do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, or even until you come, if it
will give you pain. My uncle will send me news of your health, and if I see
but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion
of mine, I shall need no other happiness.
Elizabeth
Lavenza
Geneva, May 18th, 17
This letter revived in my memory
what I had before forgotten, the threat of the fiend"I WILL BE WITH YOU
ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT! Such was my sentence, and on that night would the
daemon employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of happiness
which promised partly to console my sufferings. On that night he had determined
to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be it so; a deadly struggle
would then assuredly take place, in which if he were victorious I should be
at peace and his power over me be at an end. If he were vanquished, I should
be a free man. Alas! What freedom? Such as the peasant enjoys when his family
have been massacred before his eyes, his cottage burnt, his lands laid waste,
and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. Such would
be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, alas, balanced
by those horrors of remorse and guilt which would pursue me until death.
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read
and reread her letter, and some softened feelings stole into my heart and dared
to whisper paradisiacal dreams of love and joy; but the apple was already eaten,
and the angels 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 fathers happiness, my adversarys 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 Elizabeths letter we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me
with warm affection, yet tears were in her eyes as she beheld my emaciated frame
and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in her also. She was thinner and had lost
much of that heavenly vivacity that had before charmed me; but her gentleness
and soft looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and
miserable as I was. The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure.
Memory brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real
insanity possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes
low and despondent. I neither spoke nor looked at anyone, but sat motionless,
bewildered by the multitude of miseries that overcame me.
Elizabeth alone had the power to
draw me from these fits; her gentle voice would soothe me when transported by
passion and inspire me with human feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with
me and for me. When reason returned, she would remonstrate and endeavour
to inspire me with resignation. Ah! It is well for the unfortunate to be resigned,
but for the guilty there is no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury
there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief. Soon after
my arrival my father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained
silent.
Have you, then, some other
attachment?
None on earth. I love Elizabeth
and look forward to our union with delight. Let the day therefore be fixed;
and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or death, to the happiness of my
cousin.
My dear Victor, do not speak
thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us, but let us only cling closer to what
remains and transfer our love for those whom we have lost to those who yet live.
Our circle will be small but bound close by the ties of affection and mutual
misfortune. And when time shall have softened your despair, new and dear objects
of care will be born to replace those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived.
Such were the lessons of my father.
But to me the remembrance of the threat returned; nor can you wonder that, omnipotent
as the fiend had yet been in his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him
as invincible, and that when he had pronounced the words I SHALL BE WITH
YOU ON YOUR WEDDING-NIGHT, I should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable.
But death was no evil to me if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it,
and I therefore, with a contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with
my father that if my cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in
ten days, and thus put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.
Great God! If for one instant I
had thought what might be the hellish intention of my fiendish adversary,
I would rather have banished myself forever from my native country and wandered
a friendless outcast over the earth than have consented to this miserable marriage.
But, as if possessed of magic powers, the monster had blinded me to his real
intentions; and when I thought that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened
that of a far dearer victim.
As the period fixed for our marriage
drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a prophetic feeling, I felt my heart
sink within me. But I concealed my feelings by an appearance of hilarity that
brought smiles and joy to the countenance of my father, but hardly deceived
the 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 fathers exertions a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth
had been restored to her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the
shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our union,
we should proceed to Villa Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside
the beautiful lake near which it stood.
In the meantime I took every precaution
to defend my person in case the fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols
and a dagger constantly about me and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice,
and by these means gained a greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as
the period approached, the threat appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded
as worthy to disturb my peace, while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage
wore a greater appearance of certainty as the day fixed for its solemnization
drew nearer and I heard it continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident
could possibly prevent.
Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil
demeanour contributed greatly to calm her mind. But on the day that was to fulfil
my wishes and my destiny, she was melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded
her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised
to reveal to her on the following day. My father was in the meantime overjoyed
and in the bustle of preparation only recognized in the melancholy of his niece
the diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony was performed
a large party assembled at my fathers, but it was agreed that Elizabeth
and I should commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at Evian and
continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favourable;
all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.
Those were the last moments of my
life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along;
the sun was hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while
we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where
we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant banks of Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting
all, the beautiful Mont Blanc and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in
vain endeavour to emulate her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks,
we saw the mighty Jura opposing its dark side to the ambition that would quit
its native country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who
should wish to enslave it.
I took the hand of Elizabeth. You
are sorrowful, my love. Ah! If you knew what I have suffered and what I may
yet endure, you would endeavour to let me taste the quiet and freedom
from despair that this one day at least permits me to enjoy.
Be happy, my dear Victor,
replied Elizabeth; there is, I hope, nothing to distress you; and be assured
that if a lively joy is not painted in my face, my heart is contented. Something
whispers to me not to depend too much on the prospect that is opened before
us, but I will not listen to such a sinister voice. Observe how fast we move
along and how the clouds, which sometimes obscure and sometimes rise above the
dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of beauty still more interesting. Look
also at the innumerable fish that are swimming in the clear waters, where we
can distinguish every pebble that lies at the bottom. What a divine day! How
happy and serene all nature appears!
Thus Elizabeth endeavoured
to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melancholy subjects.
But her temper was fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but
it continually gave place to distraction and reverie.
The sun sank lower in the heavens;
we passed the river Drance and observed its path through the chasms of the higher
and the glens of the lower hills. The Alps here come closer to the lake, and
we approached the amphitheatre of mountains which forms its eastern boundary.
The spire of Evian shone under the woods that surrounded it and the range of
mountain above mountain by which it was overhung.
The wind, which had hitherto carried
us along with amazing rapidity, sank at sunset to a light breeze; the soft air
just ruffled the water and caused a pleasant motion among the trees as we approached
the shore, from which it wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay.
The sun sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore I
felt those cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to me
forever.
Chapter 23
It was eight oclock 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 figureher 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 fiends 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 delighthis
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 causethe monster whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom
I had sent abroad into the world for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening
rage when I thought of him, and desired and ardently prayed that I might have
him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal revenge on his cursed head.
Nor did my hate long confine itself
to useless wishes; I began to reflect on the best means of securing him; and
for this purpose, about a month after my release, I repaired to a criminal judge
in the town and told him that I had an accusation to make, that I knew the destroyer
of my family, and that I required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension
of the murderer. The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness.
Be assured, sir, said
he, no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the villain.
I thank you, replied
I; listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to make. It is indeed
a tale so strange that I should fear you would not credit it were there not
something in truth which, however wonderful, forces conviction. The story is
too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have no motive for falsehood.
My manner as I thus addressed him was impressive but calm; I had formed in my
own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to death, and this purpose quieted
my agony and for an interval reconciled me to life. I now related my history
briefly but with firmness and precision, marking the dates with accuracy and
never deviating into invective or exclamation.
The magistrate appeared at first
perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he became more attentive and interested;
I saw him sometimes shudder with horror; at others a lively surprise, unmingled
with disbelief, was painted on his countenance. When I had concluded my narration
I said, This is the being whom I accuse and for whose seizure and punishment
I call upon you to exert your whole power. It is your duty as a magistrate,
and I believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the
execution of those functions on this occasion. This address caused a considerable
change in the physiognomy of my own auditor. He had heard my story with that
half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatural events;
but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tide
of his incredulity returned. He, however, answered mildly, I would willingly
afford you every aid in your pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears
to have powers which would put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow
an animal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhabit caves and dens where
no man would venture to intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the
commission of his crimes, and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered
or what region he may now inhabit.
I do not doubt that he hovers
near the spot which I inhabit, and if he has indeed taken refuge in the Alps,
he may be hunted like the chamois and destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive
your thoughts; you do not credit my narrative and do not intend to pursue my
enemy with the punishment which is his desert. As I spoke, rage sparkled
in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated. You are mistaken, said
he. I will exert myself, and if it is in my power to seize the monster,
be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But
I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his properties, that this
will prove impracticable; and thus, while every proper measure is pursued, you
should make up your mind to disappointment.
That cannot be; but all that
I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is of no moment to you; yet, while
I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is the devouring and only passion
of my soul. My rage is unspeakable when I reflect that the murderer, whom I
have turned loose upon society, still exists. You refuse my just demand; I have
but one resource, and I devote myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction.
I trembled with excess of agitation
as I said this; there was a frenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not,
of that haughty fierceness which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed.
But to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than
those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance
of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a nurse does a child and reverted
to my tale as the effects of delirium.
Man, I cried, how
ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know not what it is you
say.
I broke from the house angry and
disturbed and retired to meditate on some other mode of action.
Chapter 24
My present situation was one in
which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by
fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings
and allowed me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise delirium
or death would have been my portion.
My first resolution was to quit
Geneva forever; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to
me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money,
together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed. And
now my wanderings began which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a
vast portion of the earth and have endured all the hardships which travellers
in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly
know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and
prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die and leave my adversary
in being.
When I quitted Geneva my first labour
was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy.
But my plan was unsettled, and I wandered many hours round the confines of the
town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached I found myself
at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed.
I entered it and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Everything was
silent except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind;
the night was nearly dark, and the scene would have been solemn and affecting
even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit
around and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of
the mourner.
The deep grief which this scene
had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and
I lived; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary
existence. I knelt on the grass and kissed the earth and with quivering lips
exclaimed, By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander
near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O
Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the daemon who caused
this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose
I will preserve my life; to execute this dear revenge will I again behold the
sun and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from
my eyes forever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead, and on you, wandering
ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed
and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments
me. I had begun my adjuration with solemnity and an awe which almost assured
me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, but
the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.
I was answered through the stillness
of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rang on my ears long and heavily;
the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery
and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy and
have destroyed my miserable existence but that my vow was heard and that I was
reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away, when a well-known and
abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper,
I am satisfied, miserable wretch! You have determined to live, and I am
satisfied.
I darted towards the spot from which
the sound proceeded, but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk
of the moon arose and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape as he
fled with more than mortal speed.
I pursued him, and for many months
this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the
Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared, and by a strange chance,
I saw the fiend enter by night and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black
Sea. I took my passage in the same ship, but he escaped, I know not how.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and
Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track.
Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his
path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace of him I should
despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head,
and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering
on life, to whom care is new and agony unknown, how can you understand what
I have felt and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue were the least pains which
I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil and carried about with
me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps
and when I most murmured would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable
difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sank under the exhaustion,
a repast was prepared for me in the desert that restored and inspirited me.
The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate, but I
will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid
me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst,
a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and
vanish.
I followed, when I could, the courses
of the rivers; but the daemon generally avoided these, as it was here that the
population of the country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were
seldom seen, and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path.
I had money with me and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing
it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a
small part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils
for cooking.
My life, as it passed thus, was
indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy.
O blessed sleep! Often, when most miserable, I sank to repose , and my
dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these
moments, or rather hours, of happiness that I might retain strength to fulfil
my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships.
During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night, for in sleep
I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent
countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeths voice,
and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome
march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come and that
I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonizing
fondness did I feel for them! How did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes
they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived!
At such moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and
I pursued my path towards the destruction of the daemon more as a task enjoined
by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious,
than as the ardent desire of my soul. What his feelings were whom I pursued
I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the
trees or cut in stone that guided me and instigated my fury. My reign
is not yet over these words were legible in one of these inscriptions"you
live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the
north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive.
You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat
and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives, but
many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive.
scoffing devil! Again do
I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture
and death. Never will I give up my search until he or I perish; and then with
what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth and my departed friends, who even now
prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!
As I still pursued my journey to
the northward, the snows thickened and the cold increased in a degree almost
too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a
few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had
forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with
ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief
article of maintenance. The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty
of my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words: Prepare!
Your toils only begin; wrap yourself in furs and provide food, for we shall
soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting
hatred.
My courage and perseverance were
invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in
my purpose, and calling on heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour
to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance and formed
the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! How unlike it was to the blue seasons
of the south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by
its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld
the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary
of their toils. I did not weep, but I knelt down and with a full heart thanked
my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding
my adversarys 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 days journey
in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With
new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched
hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend and
gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the
night before, armed with a gun and many pistols, putting to flight the inhabitants
of a solitary cottage through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried
off their store of winter food, and placing it in a sledge, to draw which he
had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the
same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey
across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that
he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice or frozen by the eternal
frosts.
On hearing this information I suffered
a temporary access of despair. He had escaped me, and I must commence a destructive
and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean, amidst
cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure and which I, the native of
a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that
the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned,
and like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose
, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round and instigated me to toil
and revenge, I prepared for my journey. I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned
for the inequalities of the frozen ocean, and purchasing a plentiful stock of
provisions, I departed from land.
I cannot guess how many days have
passed since then, but I have endured misery which nothing but the eternal sentiment
of a just retribution burning within my heart could have enabled me to support.
Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often
heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again
the frost came and made the paths of the sea secure.
By the quantity of provision which
I had consumed, I should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey;
and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart, often
wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed
almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once,
after the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the
summit of a sloping ice mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue, died,
I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark
speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be
and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge and the distorted
proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! With what a burning gush did hope
revisit my heart! Warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that
they might not intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my sight was
dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed
me, I wept aloud.
But this was not the time for delay;
I disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion
of food, and after an hours rest, which was absolutely necessary, and
yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still
visible, nor did I again lose sight of it except at the moments when for a short
time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly
gained on it, and when, after nearly two days journey, I beheld my enemy
at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me.
But now, when I appeared almost
within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all
trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard;
the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became
every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind
arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split
and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished;
in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was
left drifting on a scattered piece of ice that was continually lessening and
thus preparing for me a hideous death. In this manner many appalling hours passed;
several of my dogs died, and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation
of distress when I saw your vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me
hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far
north and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge
to construct oars, and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to
move my ice raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were
going southwards, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than
abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could
pursue my enemy. But your direction was northwards. You took me on board when
my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships
into a death which I still dread, for my task is unfulfilled.
Oh! When will my guiding spirit,
in conducting me to the daemon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must
I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape,
that you will seek him and satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do
I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that
I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should
appear, if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear
that he shall not liveswear 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 creatures formation, but on this point he was impenetrable. Are
you mad, my friend? said he. Or whither does your senseless curiosity
lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy?
Peace, peace! Learn my miseries and do not seek to increase your own.
Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history; he asked to
see them and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places, but principally
in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. Since
you have preserved my narration, said he, I would not that a mutilated
one should go down to posterity.
Thus has a week passed away, while
I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts
and every feeling of my soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest
which this tale and his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish
to soothe him, yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of
every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! The only joy that he can now know
will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys
one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium; he believes that when in
dreams he holds converse with his friends and derives from that communion consolation
for his miseries or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the
creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions
of a remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render
them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.
Our conversations are not always
confined to his own history and misfortunes. On every point of general literature
he displays unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence
is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident
or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without tears. What
a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity, when he
is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his own worth and the greatness
of his fall.
When younger, said he,
I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings
are profound, but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious
achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me when others
would have been oppressed, for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless
grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow creatures. When I reflected
on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive
and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors.
But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career,
now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes
are as nothing, and like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained
in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and
application were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea
and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect without passion
my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now
exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy
I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! My
friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognize me in this
state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed
to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise. Must I then lose
this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have sought one who would
sympathize with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such
a one, but I fear I have gained him only to know his value and lose him. I would
reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.
I thank you, Walton,
he said, for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch; but when
you speak of new ties and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those
who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was, or any woman another Elizabeth?
Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence,
the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds
which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions,
which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they
can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of
our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have
been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another
friend, however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated
with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and association,
but from their own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth
and the conversation of Clerval will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead,
and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life.
If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive
utility to my fellow creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is
not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence;
then my lot on earth will be fulfilled and I may die.
September 2nd
My beloved Sister,
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 friendhis eyes half closed and his limbs hanging listlesslyI
was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin.
They entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions
had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me to make me
a requisition which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice
and should probably never escape, but they feared that if, as was possible,
the ice should dissipate and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough
to continue my voyage and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily
have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a
solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my
course southwards.
This speech troubled me. I had not
despaired, nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning if set free. Yet could
I, in justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before
I answered, when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and indeed appeared
hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled,
and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said,
What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you, then, so
easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition?
And wherefore was it glorious?
Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it
was full of dangers and terror, because at every new incident your fortitude
was to be called forth and your courage exhibited, because danger and death
surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious,
for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as
the benefactors of your species, your names adored as belonging to brave men
who encountered death for honour and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold,
with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and
terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away and are content to be handed
down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor
souls, they were chilly and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires
not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far and dragged your captain
to the shame of a defeat merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! Be men, or
be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is
not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand
you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma
of disgrace marked on your brows. Return as heroes who have fought and conquered
and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe. He spoke this
with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in his speech,
with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you wonder that these
men were moved? They looked at one another and were unable to reply. I spoke;
I told them to retire and consider of what had been said, that I would not lead
them farther north if they strenuously desired the contrary, but that I hoped
that, with reflection, their courage would return. They retired and I turned
towards my friend, but he was sunk in languor and almost deprived of life.
How all this will terminate, I know
not, but I had rather die than return shamefully, my purpose unfulfilled. Yet
I fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour,
can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships.
September 7th
The die is cast; I have consented
to return if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and
indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy
than I possess to bear this injustice with patience.
September 12th
It is past; I am returning to England.
I have lost my hopes of utility and glory; I have lost my friend. But I will
endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister;
and while I am wafted towards England and towards you, I will not despond.
September 9th, the ice began to
move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance as the islands split
and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril, but as we
could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate
guest whose illness increased in such a degree that he was entirely confined
to his bed. The ice cracked behind us and was driven with force towards the
north; a breeze sprang from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the
south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this and that their return
to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke
from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke and
asked the cause of the tumult. They shout, I said, because
they will soon return to England.
Do you, then, really return?
Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand
their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return.
Do so, if you will; but I
will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by heaven,
and I dare not. I am weak, but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance
will endow me with sufficient strength. Saying this, he endeavoured
to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back
and fainted.
It was long before he was restored,
and I often thought that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his
eyes; he breathed with difficulty and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave
him a composing draught and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the meantime
he told me that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.
His sentence was pronounced, and
I could only grieve and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes
were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble
voice, and bidding me come near, said, Alas! The strength I relied on
is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may
still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence
I feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of revenge I once expressed; but
I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During
these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I
find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature
and was bound towards him to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness
and well-being.
This was my duty, but there
was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own
species had greater claims to my attention because they included a greater proportion
of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing,
to create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity
and selfishness in evil; he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction
beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know
where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself that he may
render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine,
but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you
to undertake my unfinished work, and I renew this request now, when I am only
induced by reason and virtue.
Yet I cannot ask you to renounce
your country and friends to fulfil this task; and now that you are returning
to England, you will have little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration
of these points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties,
I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near approach
of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may still be misled
by passion.
That he should live to be
an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other respects, this hour, when I
momentarily expect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for
several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to
their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity and avoid
ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself
in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been blasted
in these hopes, yet another may succeed.
His voice became fainter as he spoke,
and at length, exhausted by his effort, he sank into silence. About half an
hour afterwards he attempted again to speak but was unable; he pressed my hand
feebly, and his eyes closed forever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile
passed away from his lips.
Margaret, what comment can I make
on the untimely extinction of this glorious spirit? What can I say that will
enable you to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would
be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud
of disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find consolation.
I am interrupted. What do these
sounds portend? It is midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck
scarcely stir. Again there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes
from the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise and
examine. Good night, my sister.
Great God! what a scene has just
taken place! I am yet dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether
I shall have the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would
be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe. I entered the cabin
where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a
form which I cannot find words to describegigantic in stature, yet uncouth
and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed
by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and
apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach,
he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror and sprung towards the window.
Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome yet appalling
hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily and endeavoured to recollect
what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on him to stay.
He paused, looking on me with wonder,
and again turning towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget
my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest
rage of some uncontrollable passion.
That is also my victim!
he exclaimed. In his murder my crimes are consummated; the miserable
series of my being is wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! Generous and self-devoted
being! What does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably
destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer
me. His voice seemed suffocated, and my first impulses, which had suggested
to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend in destroying his enemy,
were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this
tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was something
so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words
died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches.
At length I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of
his passion.
Your repentance, I said,
is now superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience and
heeded the stings of remorse before you had urged your diabolical vengeance
to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived.
And do you dream? said
the daemon. Do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse? He,
he continued, pointing to the corpse, he suffered not in the consummation
of the deed. Oh! Not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine
during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried
me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of
Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love
and sympathy, and when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure
the violence of the change without torture such as you cannot even imagine.
After the murder of Clerval
I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein;
my pity amounted to horror; I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he,
the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to
hope for happiness, that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon
me he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence
of which I was forever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation
filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat
and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for
myself a deadly torture, but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse
which I detested yet could not disobey. Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not
miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess
of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice
but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion
of my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there
is my last victim!
I was at first touched by the expressions
of his misery; yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his
powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on
the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled within me.
Wretch! I said. It is well that you come here to whine over
the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings,
and when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins and lament the fall. Hypocritical
fiend! If he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again
would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity
that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn
from your power.
Oh, it is not thusnot
thus, interrupted the being. Yet such must be the impression conveyed
to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow
feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it
was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my
whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now that virtue
has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into
bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am content
to suffer alone while my sufferings shall endure; when I die, I am well satisfied
that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed
with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet
with beings who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent
qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts
of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal.
No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine.
When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I
am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent
visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen
angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had
friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.
You, who call Frankenstein
your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But
in the detail which he gave you of them he could not sum up the hours and months
of misery which I endured wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed
his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were forever ardent and craving;
still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice
in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all humankind sinned against
me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely?
Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his
child? Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the
abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even
now my blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.
But it is true that I am a
wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent
as they slept and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other
living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is
worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even
to that irremediable ruin.
There he lies, white and cold
in death. You hate me, but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard
myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in
which the imagination of it was conceived and long for the moment when these
hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.
Fear not that I shall be the
instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor
any mans death is needed to consummate the series of my being and
accomplish that which must be done, but it requires my own. Do not think that
I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice
raft which brought me thither and shall seek the most northern extremity of
the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile and consume to ashes this miserable
frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch
who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer
feel the agonies which now consume me or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied,
yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no
more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer
see the sun or stars or feel the winds play on my cheeks.
Light, feeling, and sense
will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago,
when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the
cheering warmth of summer and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling
of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is
my only consolation. Polluted by crimes and torn by the bitterest remorse, where
can I find rest but in death?
Farewell! I leave you, and
in you the last of humankind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein!
If thou wert yet alive and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it
would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so;
thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness;
and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel,
thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which
I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine, for the
bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall
close them forever.
But soon, he cried with
sad and solemn enthusiasm, I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer
felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral
pile triumphantly and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light
of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by
the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace, or if it thinks, it will not surely
think thus. Farewell.
He sprang from the cabin window
as he said this, upon the ice raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon
borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
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