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Frankenstein
By
Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
Contents
Frankenstein - or the Modern Prome=
theus
St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17--
TO Mrs. Saville,
England
You will rejoice =
to
hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise whi=
ch you
have regarded with such evil forebodings.&=
nbsp;
I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sis=
ter
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 wi=
th
delight. Do you understand th=
is feeling? This breeze, which has travelled f=
rom
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 ferven=
t and
vivid. I try in vain to be
persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presen=
ts
itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is foreve=
r visible,
its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual
splendour. There--for with yo=
ur
leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators--there snow=
and
frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land
surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the
habitable globe. Its producti=
ons
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 coun=
try of
eternal light? I may there di=
scover
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 a=
ll
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 ma=
tes,
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 passa=
ge
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 he=
art
glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven, for nothing contribute=
s so
much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose--a point on which the soul
may fix its intellectual eye. This
expedition has been the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with
ardour the accounts of the various voyages which have been made in the pros=
pect
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. M=
y education
was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study day and
night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had felt,=
as
a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden my unc=
le
to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.
These visions fad=
ed
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 disappointme=
nt. 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 pa=
ssed
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 com=
mon
sailors during the day and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, t=
he
theory of medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a nav=
al
adventurer might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself as a=
n under-mate
in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I must own I fel=
t 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 encouragi=
ng
voice would answer in the affirmative!&nbs=
p;
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 w=
ill
demand all my fortitude: I am
required not only to raise the spirits of others, but sometimes to sustain =
my
own, when theirs are failing.
This is the most
favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly over the snow in =
their
sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, far more agreeable than
that of an English stagecoach. The cold
is not excessive, if you are wrapped in furs--a dress which I have already
adopted, for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remai=
ning
seated motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actua=
lly
freezing in your veins. I hav=
e no ambition
to lose my life on the post-road between St. Petersburgh and Archangel. I s=
hall
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 a=
re
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 wi=
ll see
me again soon, or never. Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven show=
er
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
Archangel, 28th March, 17--
To Mrs. Saville,
England
How slowly the ti=
me
passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! Yet a second step is ta=
ken
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 wa=
nt
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 enthusi=
asm of
success, there will be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disa=
ppointment,
no one will endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thought=
s 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 d=
eem
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 th=
at I
perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than tha=
t 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 ha=
ve 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 s=
ense
enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeav=
our
to regulate my mind. Well, th=
ese 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 mi=
dst of
national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by cultivation, retains so=
me
of the noblest endowments of humanity.&nbs=
p;
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 p=
erson of
an excellent disposition and is remarkable in the ship for his gentleness a=
nd the
mildness of his discipline. T=
his
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 over=
come
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 Ru=
ssian
lady of moderate fortune, and having amassed a considerable sum in prize-mo=
ney,
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 t=
he
union. My generous friend rea=
ssured
the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her lover, instantly ab=
andoned
his pursuit. He had already b=
ought
a farm with his money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his
life; but he bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of =
his prize-money
to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to
consent to her marriage with her lover.&nb=
sp;
But the old man decidedly refused, thinking himself bound in honour =
to
my friend, who, when he found the father inexorable, quitted his country, n=
or returned
until he heard that his former mistress was married according to her
inclinations. "What a no=
ble
fellow!" you will exclaim. He
is so; but then he is wholly uneducated:&n=
bsp;
he is as silent as a Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness atten=
ds
him, which, while it renders his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from
the interest and sympathy which otherwise he would command.
Yet do not suppos=
e,
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 sev=
ere,
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 confid=
e 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, w=
ith
which I am preparing to depart. I
am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist and snow," b=
ut 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.&nb=
sp;
I have often attributed my attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm f=
or,
the dangerous mysteries of ocean to that production of the most imaginative=
of
modern poets. There is someth=
ing at
work in my soul which I do not understand.=
I am practically industrious--painstaking, a workman to execute with
perseverance and labour--but besides this there is a love for the marvellou=
s, 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 southe=
rn
cape of Africa or America? I =
dare
not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the reverse of the pi=
cture. Continue for the present to write =
to me
by every opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I n=
eed
them most to support my spirits. I
love you very tenderly. Remem=
ber me
with affection, should you never hear from me again.
Your affectionate=
brother,
Robert Walton
July 7th, 17--
To Mrs. Saville,
England
My dear Sister,
I write a few lin=
es
in haste to say that I am safe--and well advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a
merchantman now on its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than =
I,
who may not see my native land, perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits:
No incidents have
hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. One or two stiff gales and the spr=
inging
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, tr=
acing
a secure way over the pathless seas, the very stars themselves being witnes=
ses
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. Hea=
ven
bless my beloved sister!
R.W.
August 5th, 17--<= o:p>
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 sid=
es,
scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our situation was somewhat dangero=
us,
especially as we were compassed round by a very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that=
some
change would take place in the atmosphere and weather.
About two o'clock=
the
mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every direction, vast and
irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some of my comrades groaned, and m=
y own
mind began to grow watchful with anxious thoughts, when a strange sight
suddenly attracted our attention and diverted our solicitude from our own s=
ituation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed=
on a
sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of hal=
f a
mile; a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic stat=
ure,
sat in the sledge and guided the dogs.&nbs=
p;
We watched the rapid progress of the traveller with our telescopes u=
ntil
he was lost among the distant inequalities of the ice. This appearance excited our unqual=
ified
wonder. We were, as we believ=
ed,
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 af=
ter
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 masse=
s which
float about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest fo=
r 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 th=
at we had
seen before, which had drifted towards us in the night on a large fragment =
of
ice. Only one dog remained al=
ive;
but there was a human being within it whom the sailors were persuading to e=
nter
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 b=
rink
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 wea=
lth
the earth can afford. I repli=
ed,
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 ca=
rry
him into the cabin, but as soon as he had quitted the fresh air he
fainted. We accordingly broug=
ht him
back to the deck and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy a=
nd
forcing him to swallow a small quantity.&n=
bsp;
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 a=
te 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 suffer=
ings
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 gener=
ally
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 tri=
fling
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 weig=
ht
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 id=
le
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."<= o:p>
"Then I fanc=
y we
have seen him, for the day before we picked you up we saw some dogs drawing=
a
sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."
This aroused the
stranger's attention, and he asked a multitude of questions concerning the
route which the demon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon after, when he was alone with=
me,
he said, "I have, doubtless, excited your curiosity, as well as that of
these good people; but you are too considerate to make inquiries."
"Certainly; =
it
would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble you with any
inquisitiveness of mine."
"And yet you
rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have benevolently
restored me to life."
Soon after this he
inquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had destroyed the oth=
er
sledge. I replied that I coul=
d 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. Fr=
om
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 journa=
l of
what relates to this strange occurrence up to the present day. The stranger has gradually improve=
d in
health but is very silent and appears uneasy when anyone except myself ente=
rs
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 sympat=
hy
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 shou=
ld 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 incid=
ents
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, althou=
gh
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery but that he intere=
sts himself
deeply in the projects of others.
He has frequently conversed with me on mine, which I have communicat=
ed
to him without disguise. He e=
ntered
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 w=
hich
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 glad=
ly I
would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, my every hope, to the furtherance=
of
my enterprise. One man's life=
or
death were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge wh=
ich
I sought, for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental
foes of our race. As I spoke,=
a
dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. At first I perceived that he tried=
to
suppress his emotion; he placed his hands before his eyes, and my voice
quivered and failed me as I beheld tears trickle fast from between his fing=
ers;
a groan burst from his heaving breast.&nbs=
p;
I paused; at length he spoke, in broken accents: "Unhappy man! Do you share my madness? Have you drunk also of the intoxic=
ating
draught? Hear me; let me reve=
al my tale,
and you will dash the cup from your lips!"
Such words, you m=
ay
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 h=
is
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 m=
e 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 h=
ad
ever fallen to my lot, and expressed my conviction that a man could boast o=
f little
happiness who did not enjoy this blessing.=
"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are
unfashioned creatures, but half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than
ourselves--such a friend ought to be--do not lend his aid to perfectionate =
our
weak and faulty natures. I once had a friend, the most noble of human
creatures, and am entitled, therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world befor=
e you,
and have no cause for despair. But
I--I have lost everything and cannot begin life anew."
As he said this h=
is
countenance became expressive of a calm, settled grief that touched me to t=
he
heart. But he was silent and
presently retired to his cabin.
Even broken in sp=
irit
as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the beauties of nature.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The starry sky, the sea, and every=
sight
afforded by these wonderful regions seem still to have the power of elevati=
ng
his soul from earth. Such a m=
an has
a double existence: he may su=
ffer
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, wit=
hin
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 fastidi=
ous;
but this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary meri=
ts
of this wonderful man. Someti=
mes 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-subdui=
ng
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 k=
nowledge
and wisdom, as I once did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of yo=
ur
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 w=
hat
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 th=
ings
will appear possible in these wild and mysterious regions which would provo=
ke
the laughter of those unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature; n=
or
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 h=
ear 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 a=
nswer.
"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 alt=
er
my destiny; listen to my history, and you will perceive how irrevocably it =
is determined."
He then told me t=
hat
he would commence his narrative the next day when I should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warm=
est
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 duri=
ng
the day. If I should be engag=
ed, I
will at least make notes. This
manuscript will doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure; but to me, who =
know
him, and who hear it from his own lips--with what interest and sympathy sha=
ll I
read it in some future day! E=
ven
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 th=
in
hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are irradiated by
the soul within.
Strange and harro=
wing
must be his story, frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on=
its
course and wrecked it--thus!
I am by birth a
Genevese, and my family is one of the most distinguished of that republic.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> My ancestors had been for many yea=
rs 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 busine=
ss. He passed his younger days perpetu=
ally
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 circumstan=
ces
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 numerou=
s 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 lo=
ved
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 ende=
avouring
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 disc=
overy,
he hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the
Reuss. But when he entered, m=
isery
and despair alone welcomed him.
Beaufort had saved but a very small sum of money from the wreck of h=
is
fortunes, but it was sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some mon=
ths,
and in the meantime he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a me=
rchant's
house. The interval was,
consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more deep and rankli=
ng
when he had leisure for reflection, and at length it took so fast hold of h=
is
mind that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of sickness, incapable=
of
any exertion.
His daughter atte=
nded
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 Beaufor=
t 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 pa=
ssed
in this manner. Her father gr=
ew
worse; her time was more entirely occupied in attending him; her means of
subsistence decreased; and in the tenth month her father died in her arms,
leaving her an orphan and a beggar.
This last blow overcame her, and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin weep=
ing
bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a protecting spirit t=
o 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 circumstan=
ce
seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. There was a sense of justice in my
father's upright mind which rendered it necessary that he should approve hi=
ghly
to love strongly. Perhaps dur=
ing
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 o=
f age,
for it was inspired by reverence for her virtues and a desire to be the mea=
ns
of, in some degree, recompensing her for the sorrows she had endured, but w=
hich
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 tranquill=
ity 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 o=
n 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 u=
pon
me. My mother's tender caress=
es and
my father's smile of benevolent pleasure while regarding me are my first
recollections. I was their
plaything and their idol, and something better--their child, the innocent a=
nd helpless
creature bestowed on them by heaven, whom to bring up to good, and whose fu=
ture
lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or misery, according as th=
ey
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 wa=
s so
guided by a silken cord that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me. F=
or 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 Com=
o. Their benevolent disposition often=
made
them enter the cottages of the poor.
This, to my mother, was more than a duty; it was a necessity, a
passion--remembering what she had suffered, and how she had been relieved--=
for
her to act in her turn the guardian angel to the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor c=
ot in
the foldings of a vale attracted their notice as being singularly disconsol=
ate,
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 an=
d his
wife, hard working, bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty mea=
l 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, ha=
rdy
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 distincti=
on
on her head. Her brow was cle=
ar 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 di=
ed on
giving her birth. The infant =
had
been placed with these good people to nurse: they were better off then. They ha=
d not
been long married, and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one=
of
those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy--one among
the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of his
country. He became the victim=
of
its weakness. Whether he had =
died
or still lingered in the dungeons of Austria was not known. His property was confiscated; his =
child
became an orphan and a beggar. She
continued with her foster parents and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer t=
han
a garden rose among dark-leaved brambles.&=
nbsp;
When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the =
hall
of our villa a child fairer than pictured cherub--a creature who seemed to =
shed
radiance from her looks and whose form and motions were lighter than the
chamois of the hills. The
apparition was soon explained. With
his permission my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their
charge to her. They were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing=
to
them, but it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want when
Providence afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village pries=
t, and
the result was that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents'
house--my more than sister--the beautiful and adored companion of all my
occupations and my pleasures.
Everyone loved
Elizabeth. The passionate and
almost reverential attachment with which all regarded her became, while I
shared it, my pride and my delight.
On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother h=
ad
said playfully, "I have a pretty present for my Victor--tomorrow he sh=
all
have it." And when, on t=
he
morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her promised gift, I, with childis=
h seriousness,
interpreted her words literally and looked upon Elizabeth as mine--mine to
protect, love, and cherish. A=
ll
praises bestowed on her I received as made to a possession of my own. We called each other familiarly by=
the
name of cousin. No word, no
expression could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me--=
my
more than sister, since till death she was to be mine only.
We were brought up
together; there was not quite a year difference in our ages. I need not say that we were strang=
ers to
any species of disunion or dispute. Harmony was the soul of our
companionship, and the diversity and contrast that subsisted in our charact=
ers
drew us nearer together. Eliz=
abeth
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 creation=
s of
the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which surrounded our Swi=
ss
home --the sublime shapes of the mountains, the changes of the seasons, tem=
pest
and calm, the silence of winter, and the life and turbulence of our Alpine
summers--she found ample scope for admiration and delight. While my compani=
on
contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit the magnificent appearance=
s 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 th=
e 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, an=
d a
campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore of the lake, at the distance of rath=
er
more than a league from the city.
We resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents we=
re
passed in considerable seclusion.
It was my temper to avoid a crowd and to attach myself fervently to a
few. I was indifferent, there=
fore,
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 s=
on
of a merchant of Geneva. He w=
as 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 chi=
valry
and romance. He composed hero=
ic
songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly
adventure. He tried to make u=
s 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 co=
uld
have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents were possessed by the v=
ery
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 fortuna=
te
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 temperat=
ure
they were turned not towards childish pursuits but to an eager desire to le=
arn,
and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess that neither the structu=
re 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 virtue=
s of
heroes, and the actions of men were his theme; and his hope and his dream w=
as to
become one among those whose names are recorded in story as the gallant and
adventurous benefactors of our species.&nb=
sp;
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 Clerval--=
could
aught ill entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? Yet he might not have been so perf=
ectly
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 h=
is
soaring ambition.
I feel exquisite
pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, before misfortune h=
ad
tainted my mind and changed its bright visions of extensive usefulness into
gloomy and narrow reflections upon self.&n=
bsp;
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 rule=
d 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 whi=
ch,
in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius t=
hat
has regulated my fate; I desire, therefore, in this narration, to state tho=
se
facts which led to my predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age w=
e 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 seeme=
d to
dawn upon my mind, and bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my
father. My father looked care=
lessly
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 th=
is
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 a=
nd
practical, under such circumstances I should certainly have thrown Agrippa
aside and have contented my imagination, warmed as it was, by returning wit=
h 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 great=
est
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 appea=
red
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 Ne=
wton
is said to have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside t=
he
great and unexplored ocean of truth.
Those of his successors in each branch of natural philosophy with wh=
om I
was acquainted appeared even to my boy's apprehensions as tyros engaged in =
the
same pursuit.
The untaught peas=
ant
beheld the elements around him and was acquainted with their practical
uses. The most learned philos=
opher
knew little more. He had part=
ially
unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still a wonder
and a mystery. He might disse=
ct, anatomize,
and give names; but, not to speak of a final cause, causes in their seconda=
ry
and tertiary grades were utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortification=
s and
impediments that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of
nature, and rashly and ignorantly I had repined.
But here were boo=
ks,
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 centu=
ry;
but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of Geneva, I w=
as,
to a great degree, self-taught with regard to my favourite studies. My father was not scientific, and =
I was
left to struggle with a child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for
knowledge. Under the guidance=
of my
new preceptors I entered with the greatest diligence into the search of the=
philosopher's
stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon obtained my undivided
attention. Wealth was an infe=
rior
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. T=
he
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 incantati=
ons
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 t=
ime 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 reason=
ing,
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 sudde=
n I
beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak which stood abo=
ut
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 mornin=
g, we
found the tree shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock=
, but
entirely reduced to thin ribbons of wood.&=
nbsp;
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 re=
search
in natural philosophy was with us, and excited by this catastrophe, he ente=
red
on the explanation of a theory which he had formed on the subject of electr=
icity
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 woul=
d or
could ever be known. All that=
had
so long engaged my attention suddenly grew despicable. By one of those caprices of the mi=
nd
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 defor=
med and
abortive creation, and entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be scie=
nce
which could never even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I betook myse=
lf to
the mathematics and the branches of study appertaining to that science as b=
eing
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 prosper=
ity
or ruin. When I look back, it=
seems
to me as if this almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the i=
mmediate
suggestion of the guardian angel of my life--the last effort made by the sp=
irit
of preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars =
and
ready to envelop me. Her vict=
ory
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 taugh=
t 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 poten=
t,
and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction.
When I had attain=
ed
the age of seventeen my parents resolved that I should become a student at =
the
university of Ingolstadt. I h=
ad 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 cust=
oms
than those of my native country. My
departure was therefore fixed at an early date, but before the day resolved
upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life occurred--an omen, as it
were, of my future misery.
Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and =
she
was in the greatest danger. D=
uring
her illness many arguments had been urged to persuade my mother to refrain =
from
attending upon her. She had a=
t 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 sick=
bed;
her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity of the
distemper--Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this imprudence were
fatal to her preserver. On the
third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied by the most alarmin=
g 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 y=
our
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 befitti=
ng me;
I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death and will indulge a ho=
pe
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 exhibite=
d 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 forever--that t=
he
brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished and the sound of a v=
oice
so familiar and dear to the ear can be hushed, never more to be heard. These are the reflections of the f=
irst
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 gr=
ief is
rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile that plays upon the li=
ps,
although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not banished. My mother was dead, but we had sti=
ll duties
which we ought to perform; we must continue our course with the rest and le=
arn
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 determin=
ed
upon. I obtained from my fath=
er a
respite of some weeks. It app=
eared
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 no=
t the
less alarm me. I was unwillin=
g to
quit the sight of those that remained to me, and above all, I desired to se=
e 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 ambit=
ion
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 f=
rom
each other nor persuade ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said, and we retired under =
the
pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the other was deceived; but =
when
at morning's dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me away, =
they
were all there--my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my hand once
more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often and to
bestow the last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.
I threw myself in=
to
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 be=
stow
mutual pleasure--I was now alone.
In the university whither I was going I must form my own friends and=
be
my own protector. My life had=
hitherto
been remarkably secluded and domestic, and this had given me invincible rep=
ugnance
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 comm=
enced
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 Ingolstad=
t,
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 princi=
pal
professors. Chance--or rather=
the
evil influence, the Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway ov=
er
me from the moment I turned my reluctant steps from my father's door--led me
first to M. Krempe, professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply =
imbued
in the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my
progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural
philosophy. I replied careles=
sly,
and partly in contempt, mentioned the names of my alchemists as the princip=
al
authors I had studied. The pr=
ofessor
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 dese=
rt
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 ste=
pped
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 t=
he
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 fe=
llow
professor, would lecture upon chemistry the alternate days that he omitted.=
I returned home n=
ot
disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered those authors usel=
ess
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 t=
he
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 dis=
coveries
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 w=
hen
the masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, althou=
gh
futile, were grand; but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the inquirer seeme=
d to
limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which my interest in s=
cience
was chiefly founded. I was re=
quired
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 Ingolstad=
t,
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 whic=
h M.
Krempe had given me concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent t=
o 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 curio=
sity
and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing room, which M. Waldman
entered shortly after. This
professor was very unlike his colleague.&n=
bsp;
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.&nb=
sp;
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.
Such were the
professor's words--rather let me say such the words of the fate--enounced to
destroy me. As he went on I f=
elt 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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> So much has been done, exclaimed t=
he
soul of Frankenstein--more, far more, will I achieve; treading in the steps=
already
marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, and unfold to the
world the deepest mysteries of creation.
I closed not my e=
yes
that night. My internal being=
was
in a state of insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence aris=
e,
but I had no power to produce it.
By degrees, after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I awoke, and my yesternight's thou=
ghts
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 whic=
h 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, howe=
ver
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 affectatio=
n,
and then added that his lecture had removed my prejudices against modern
chemists; I expressed myself in measured terms, with the modesty and defere=
nce
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 bra=
nch
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 t=
he
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 a=
pply
to every branch of natural philosophy, including mathematics." He then took me into his laborator=
y 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.
From this day nat=
ural
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 lect=
ures
and cultivated the acquaintance of the men of science of the university, an=
d 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 w=
ith
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 applicati=
on was
at first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded and s=
oon
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 astonishm=
ent of
the students, and my proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, w=
ith a
sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on, whilst M. Waldman expressed the m=
ost
heartfelt exultation in my progress.
Two years passed in this manner, during which I paid no visit to Gen=
eva,
but was engaged, heart and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries which I=
hoped
to make. None but those who h=
ave
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 pr=
oficiency
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 in=
struments,
which procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this point a=
nd had
become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of natural philosoph=
y 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 phenom=
ena
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 b=
een
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 inqu=
iries. 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 a=
lmost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been irkso=
me
and almost intolerable. To ex=
amine
the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the scien=
ce 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 great=
est
precautions that my mind should be impressed with no supernatural horrors.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I do not ever remember to have tre=
mbled
at a tale of superstition or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no effect upon my fan=
cy,
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 examin=
e the
cause and progress of this decay and forced to spend days and nights in vau=
lts
and charnel-houses. My attent=
ion
was fixed upon every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the h=
uman
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 an=
d analysing
all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in the change from life to de=
ath,
and death to life, until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light bro=
ke
in upon me--a light so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I
became dizzy with the immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was
surprised that among so many men of genius who had directed their inquiries
towards the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so
astonishing a secret.
Remember, I am not
recording the vision of a madman.
The sun does not more certainly shine in the heavens than that which=
I
now affirm is true. Some mira=
cle
might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct and
probable. After days and nigh=
ts 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 lifele=
ss
matter.
The astonishment
which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave place to delig=
ht
and rapture. After so much ti=
me
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 a=
ll
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. =
span>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 wh=
y I
am reserved upon that subject. I
will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destructi=
on
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 concern=
ing
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 a=
ll
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 exa=
lted
by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an
animal as complex and wonderful as man.&nb=
sp;
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 fo=
r a
multitude of reverses; my operations might be incessantly baffled, and at l=
ast
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 a=
ttempts
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 resolve=
d,
contrary to my first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature, th=
at
is to say, about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this determina=
tion
and having spent some months in successfully collecting and arranging my
materials, I began.
No one can concei=
ve
the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a hurricane, in the fir=
st
enthusiasm of success. Life a=
nd
death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and =
pour
a torrent of light into our dark world.&nb=
sp;
A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy a=
nd
excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitud=
e of
his child so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections, I thou=
ght
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 appare=
ntly
devoted the body to corruption.
These thoughts
supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with unremitting ardou=
r. 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 t=
he
moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eag=
erness,
I pursued nature to her hiding-places.&nbs=
p;
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; ne=
ver
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 wer=
e 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:&nb=
sp;
"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 there=
fore
what would be my father's feelings, but I could not tear my thoughts from my
employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an irresistible hold o=
f my
imagination. I wished, as it =
were,
to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the gre=
at
object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.
I then thought th=
at
my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to vice or faultiness o=
n my
part, but I am now convinced that he was justified in conceiving that I sho=
uld
not be altogether free from blame.
A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peac=
eful
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 yo=
urself
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 remin=
d me
to proceed. My father made no
reproach in his letters and only took notice of my silence by inquiring int=
o my
occupations more particularly than before.=
Winter, spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did =
not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights which before always yield=
ed
me supreme delight--so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had wither=
ed
before my work drew near to a close, and now every day showed me more plain=
ly
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. Eve=
ry
night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painf=
ul degree;
the fall of a leaf startled me, and I shunned my fellow creatures as if I h=
ad
been guilty of a crime. Somet=
imes 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 th=
en
drive away incipient disease; and I promised myself both of these when my
creation should be complete.
It was on a dreary
night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amount=
ed 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 ou=
t,
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 describ=
e 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!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His yellow skin scarcely covered t=
he
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. Unable to endure the aspect of the=
being
I had created, I rushed out of the room and continued a long time traversin=
g my
bed-chamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded to t=
he
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 embrace=
d her,
but as I imprinted the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the h=
ue
of death; her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the co=
rpse
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 w=
ith
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 forc=
ed
its way through the window shutters, I beheld the wretch--the miserable mon=
ster
whom I had created. He held u=
p 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 ref=
uge in
the courtyard belonging to the house which I inhabited, where I remained du=
ring
the rest of the night, walking up and down in the greatest agitation, liste=
ning
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 aga=
in
endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfinishe=
d; 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 puls=
e beat
so quickly and hardly that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at other=
s, I
nearly sank to the ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt t=
he
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 rap=
id,
the overthrow so complete!
Morning, dismal a=
nd
wet, at length dawned and discovered to my sleepless and aching eyes the ch=
urch
of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which indicated the sixth
hour. The porter opened the g=
ates of
the court, which had that night been my asylum, and I issued into the stree=
ts,
pacing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I fea=
red
every turning of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apart=
ment
which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the =
rain
which poured from a black and comfortless sky.
I continued walki=
ng
in this manner for some time, endeavouring by bodily exercise to ease the l=
oad
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:
&n=
bsp;
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 kn=
ows a
frightful fiend Doth cl=
ose
behind him tread.
[Coleridge's "Ancient
Mariner."]
Continuing thus, I came at length
opposite to the inn at which the various diligences and carriages usually
stopped. Here I paused, I kne=
w not
why; but I remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was com=
ing
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 Frankenste=
in,"
exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be h=
ere at
the very moment of my alighting!"
Nothing could equ=
al
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 h=
and,
and in a moment forgot my horror and misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for t=
he
first time during many months, calm and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, i=
n 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 com=
e to
Ingolstadt. "You may eas=
ily
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 vo=
yage
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 ga=
zing
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 s=
ee
him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes at the bottom of th=
e 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 shiverin=
g came
over me. I threw the door for=
cibly
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 be=
droom
was also freed from its hideous guest.&nbs=
p;
I could hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befal=
len
me, but when I became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my h=
ands
for joy and ran down to Clerval.
We ascended into =
my
room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I was unable to cont=
ain
myself. It was not joy only t=
hat
possessed me; I felt my flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my p=
ulse
beat rapidly. I was unable to
remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs,
clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my unusual
spirits to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more attentively, he=
saw
a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account, and my loud,
unrestrained, heartless laughter frightened and astonished him.
"My dear
Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?&quo=
t;
"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?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> A meeting, which he anticipated wi=
th
such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not the witness of his g=
rief,
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 t=
hat,
knowing my father's advanced age and unfitness for so long a journey, and h=
ow
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 h=
imself;
and, firm in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instea=
d of
doing harm, he performed the kindest action that he could towards them.
But I was in real=
ity
very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions o=
f 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 distu=
rbed
imagination, but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the s=
ame
subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncom=
mon
and terrible event.
By very slow degr=
ees,
and with frequent relapses that alarmed and grieved my friend, I
recovered. I remember the fir=
st
time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasur=
e, I
perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared and that the young buds we=
re
shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring, and the se=
ason
contributed greatly to my convalescence.&n=
bsp;
I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom; my g=
loom
disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attac=
ked
by the fatal passion.
"Dearest
Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me. Th=
is
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 fee=
l the
greatest remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion, =
but
you will forgive me."
"You will re=
pay
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 subjec=
t,
may I not?"
I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on wh=
om I
dared not even think? "C=
ompose
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 sup=
pose
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."=
Clerval then put =
the
following letter into my hands. It
was from my own Elizabeth:
"My dearest
Cousin,
"You have be=
en
ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear kind Henry are not
sufficient to reassure me on your account.=
You are forbidden to write--to hold a pen; yet one word from you, de=
ar
Victor, is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought tha=
t 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 dan=
gers
of so long a journey, yet how often have I regretted not being able to perf=
orm
it myself! I figure to myself=
that
the task of attending on your sickbed has devolved on some mercenary old nu=
rse,
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 wri=
tes
that indeed you are getting better.
I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligence soon in your =
own
handwriting.
"Get well--a=
nd
return to us. You will find a
happy, cheerful home and friends who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, =
and he
asks but to see you, but to be assured that you are well; and not a care wi=
ll
ever cloud his benevolent countenance.&nbs=
p;
How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of our Ernest!
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 y=
ou
left us. The blue lake and
snow-clad mountains--they never change; and I think our placid home and our
contented hearts are regulated by the same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my=
time
and amuse me, and I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none but happy,
kind faces around me. Since y=
ou
left us, but one change has taken place in our little household. Do you remember on what occasion J=
ustine
Moritz entered our family? Pr=
obably
you do not; I will relate her history, therefore in a few words. Madame Moritz, her mother, was a w=
idow
with four children, of whom Justine was the third. This girl had always been the favo=
urite
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 Ju=
stine
was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our
house. The republican institu=
tions
of our country have produced simpler and happier manners than those which p=
revail
in the great monarchies that surround it.&=
nbsp;
Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its
inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, t=
heir
manners are more refined and moral.
A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant in Fra=
nce
and England. Justine, thus re=
ceived
in our family, learned the duties of a servant, a condition which, in our f=
ortunate
country, does not include the idea of ignorance and a sacrifice of the dign=
ity
of a human being.
"Justine, you
may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I recollect you once rema=
rked
that if you were in an ill humour, one glance from Justine could dissipate =
it,
for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--s=
he
looked so frank-hearted and happy.
My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was induc=
ed
to give her an education superior to that which she had at first intended.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> This benefit was fully repaid; Jus=
tine
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 gestur=
e 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 dea=
rest
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 v=
ery
ill; but other trials were reserved for her.
"One by one,=
her
brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception of her neglect=
ed
daughter, was left childless. The conscience
of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favour=
ites
was a judgement from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I be=
lieve
her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after yo=
ur
departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Poor girl! She wept when she quitted our hous=
e; 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 residen=
ce at
her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillatin=
g 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 retu=
rned
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 ve=
ry
tall of his age, with sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling
hair. When he smiles, two lit=
tle
dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has already had one or two litt=
le
WIVES, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five year=
s of
age.
"Now, dear
Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip concerning the
good people of Geneva. The pr=
etty
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 re=
covered
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 writ=
ten
myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety returns upon me as I
conclude. Write, dearest
Victor,--one line--one word will be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for h=
is 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, Mar=
ch
18, 17--."
"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I
exclaimed, when I had read her letter:&nbs=
p;
"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 en=
d 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 restore=
d 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.&nbs=
p;
He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquir=
ed a
dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were ma=
de of no
avail when I visited the professors.
M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warm=
th,
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 desi=
re,
as I evidently saw, of drawing me out.&nbs=
p;
What could I do? He me=
ant to
please, and he tormented me. =
I felt
as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments whi=
ch were
to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I writhed under his words, yet dar=
ed 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 exc=
use,
his total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart,=
but I
did not speak. I saw plainly =
that
he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and
although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew no
bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide in him that event which
was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared the detail to
another would only impress more deeply.
M. Krempe was not
equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost insupportable
sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain than the
benevolent approbation of M. Waldman.
"D--n the fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assu=
re
you he has outstript us all. =
Ay,
stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years a=
go,
believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himse=
lf
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 qual=
ity
in a young man. Young men sho=
uld 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 thu=
s he
should open a field for the plan of life he had marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious c=
areer,
he turned his eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his spirit of
enterprise. The Persian, Arab=
ic,
and Sanskrit languages engaged his attention, and I was easily induced to e=
nter
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.&=
nbsp;
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 o=
f 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 awa= y 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 be= come acquainted with any of its inhabitants.&nb= sp; The winter, however, was spent cheerfully; and although the spring w= as uncommonly late, when it came its beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.<= o:p>
The month of May =
had
already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which was to fix the dat=
e 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 lo=
ng
inhabited. I acceded with ple=
asure
to this proposition: I was fo=
nd 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 fortn=
ight
in these perambulations: my h=
ealth
and spirits had long been restored, and they gained additional strength from
the salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and t=
he
conversation of my friend. St=
udy
had before secluded me from the intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and
rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the better feelings of my he=
art;
he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of
children. Excellent friend! h=
ow
sincerely you did love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind until it was on=
a
level with your own. A selfis=
h 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, lo=
ved
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 fi=
lled
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 amu=
se
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 imitati=
on
of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and
passion. At other times he re=
peated
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 bo=
unded
along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.
On my return, I f=
ound
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 so=
n,
when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the contrary, tea=
rs
and wretchedness? And how, Vi=
ctor,
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 woef=
ul
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 wa=
s so
gentle, yet so gay! Victor, h=
e is
murdered!
"I will not
attempt to console you; but will simply relate the circumstances of the
transaction.
"Last Thursd=
ay
(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 thou=
ght 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 enquire=
d 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, an=
d 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; f=
or 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 mo=
rning
I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I had seen blooming and a=
ctive
in health, stretched on the grass livid and motionless; the print of the
murder's finger was on his neck.
"He was conv=
eyed
home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance betrayed the secre=
t to
Elizabeth. She was very earne=
st to see
the corpse. At first I attemp=
ted 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!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I have murdered my darling child!'=
"She fainted,
and was restored with extreme difficulty.&=
nbsp;
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, deare=
st
Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth.&n=
bsp;
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 yo=
u,
my son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not l=
ive to
witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!
"Come, Victo=
r;
not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but with feelings =
of
peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of festering, the wounds of o=
ur
minds. Enter the house of mou=
rning,
my friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not =
with
hatred for your enemies.
=
"Your affectionate and afflicted father, =
&nb=
sp; "Alpho=
nse
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 o=
n the table,
and covered my face with my hands.
"My dear
Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with bittern=
ess,
"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 irreparabl=
e. What do you intend to do?"
"To go insta=
ntly
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 ang=
el
mother! Who that had seen him
bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely
loss! To die so miserably; to=
feel
the murderer's grasp! How muc=
h more
a murdered that could destroy radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only conso=
lation
have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, h=
is
sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he kno=
ws
no pain. He can no longer be a
subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors."
Clerval spoke thu=
s as
we hurried through the streets; the words impressed themselves on my mind a=
nd I
remembered them afterwards in solitude.&nb=
sp;
But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriolet, =
and
bade farewell to my friend.
My journey was ve=
ry
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 multitu=
de of
feelings that crowded into my mind.
I passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not se=
en for
nearly six years. How altered=
every
thing might be during that time!
One sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand lit=
tle
circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations, which, althou=
gh
they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared no advan=
ce,
dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was una=
ble
to define them. I remained tw=
o 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 s=
cene
restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva.
The road ran by t=
he
side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the b=
lack sides
of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! my own beaut=
iful
lake! how do you welcome your wanderer?&nb=
sp;
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 beho=
lding
thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake!
Yet, as I drew ne=
arer
home, grief and fear again overcame me.&nb=
sp;
Night also closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mount=
ains,
I felt still more gloomily. T=
he
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 onl=
y in
one single circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I d=
id
not conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.
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 Jur=
as,
and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illumina=
ting
the lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant e=
very
thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself from the
preceding flash. The storm, a=
s is
often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the
heavens. The most violent sto=
rm
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 pea=
ked
mountain to the east of the lake.
While I watched t=
he
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 perceiv=
ed
in the gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I s=
tood
fixed, gazing intently: I cou=
ld not
be mistaken. A flash of light=
ning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its gigantic
stature, and the deformity of its aspect more hideous than belongs to human=
ity,
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?&nb=
sp;
No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convince=
d 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 presen=
ce of
the idea was an irresistible proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; b=
ut it
would have been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging amo=
ng
the rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that bo=
unds
Plainpalais on the south. He =
soon
reached the summit, and disappeared.
I remained
motionless. The thunder cease=
d; but
the rain still continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable
darkness. I revolved in my mi=
nd the
events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole train of my progre=
ss
toward the creation; the appearance of the works of my own hands at my beds=
ide;
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 concei=
ve
the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night, which I spent, co=
ld
and wet, in the open air. But=
I did
not feel the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scene=
s of
evil and despair. I considere=
d 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 fo=
rced
to destroy all that was dear to me.
Day dawned; and I
directed my steps towards the town.
The gates were open, and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to discover w=
hat I
knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I reflected on t=
he
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 t=
he
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 kn=
ew
that if any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have loo=
ked
upon it as the ravings of insanity.
Besides, the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, e=
ven
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, a=
nd I
resolved to remain silent.
It was about five=
in
the morning when I entered my father's house. I told the servants not to disturb=
the
family, and went into the library to attend their usual hour of rising.
Six years had
elapsed, passed in a dream but for one indelible trace, and I stood in the =
same
place where I had last embraced my father before my departure for
Ingolstadt. Beloved and vener=
able
parent! He still remained to
me. I gazed on the picture of=
my
mother, which stood over the mantel-piece.=
It was an historical subject, painted at my father's desire, and
represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffi=
n 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 w=
hen
I looked upon it. While I was=
thus
engaged, Ernest entered: he h=
ad
heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome me: "Welcome, my dearest Victor,&=
quot;
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 persuas=
ions
will induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusation=
s.--Poor
William! he was our darling and our pride!"
Tears, unrestrain=
ed,
fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wr=
etchedness
of my desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terri=
ble,
disaster. I tried to calm Ern=
est; 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.&nb=
sp;
I saw him too; he was free last night!"
"I do not kn=
ow
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 c=
redit that
Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all the family, could sudde=
nly
become so capable of so frightful, so appalling a crime?"
"Justine
Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is s=
he 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 convicti=
on
upon us; and her own behaviour has been so confused, as to add to the evide=
nce
of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried today, and y=
ou
will then hear all."
He then related t=
hat,
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 judge=
d 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 suspicio=
n 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 unhappi=
ness
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 fat=
her,
you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."
"If she is, =
God
forbid that she should suffer as guilty.&n=
bsp;
She is to be tried today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she wil=
l 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, theref=
ore,
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 ex=
ist,
except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses convinced him, =
in
the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash ignorance whic=
h I
had let loose upon the world?
We were soon join=
ed
by Elizabeth. Time had altere=
d 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 certain=
ly as
I do upon my own. Our misfort=
une 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 deat=
h 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 prejudic=
ed 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, innocen=
t,
rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity with which I shall prevent
the slightest shadow of partiality."
We passed a few s=
ad
hours until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to commence. My father and the rest of the fami=
ly
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 r=
esult
of my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the death of two of my fell=
ow
beings: one a smiling babe fu=
ll 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 g=
irl
of merit and possessed qualities which promised to render her life happy; n=
ow
all was to be obliterated in an ignominious grave, and I the cause! A thousand times rather would I ha=
ve
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 dre=
ssed
in mourning, and her countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the
solemnity of her feelings, exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in inno=
cence
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 t=
he
minds of the spectators by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed=
to
have committed. She was tranq=
uil,
yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; and as her confusion had be=
fore
been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she worked up her mind to an appearan=
ce
of courage. When she entered =
the court
she threw her eyes round it and quickly discovered where we were seated.
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 pr=
oof of
her innocence as I had. She h=
ad
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 t=
here,
but she looked very strangely and only returned a confused and unintelligib=
le
answer. She returned to the h=
ouse
about eight o'clock, and when one inquired where she had passed the night, =
she replied
that she had been looking for the child and demanded earnestly if anything =
had
been heard concerning him. Wh=
en shown
the body, she fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several
days. The picture was then pr=
oduced
which the servant had found in her pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a falteri=
ng
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 calle=
d on
for her defence. As the trial=
had
proceeded, her countenance had altered.&nb=
sp;
Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly expressed. Sometimes she struggled with her te=
ars,
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 nig=
ht
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 o'clo=
ck,
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 Gene=
va
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 n=
ight
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 quit=
ted
her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find my brother. If she had gone near the spot wher=
e his
body lay, it was without her knowledge.&nb=
sp;
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 Wil=
liam
was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could give no account.
"I know,&quo=
t;
continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this one
circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining it; and w=
hen
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 wi=
th
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 wit=
nesses
examined concerning my character, and if their testimony shall not overweig=
h my
supposed guilt, I must be condemned, although I would pledge my salvation o=
n my
innocence."
Several witnesses
were called who had known her for many years, and they spoke well of her; b=
ut
fear and hatred of the crime of which they supposed her guilty rendered them
timorous and unwilling to come forward.&nb=
sp;
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. I=
t may
therefore be judged indecent in me to come forward on this occasion, but wh=
en 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 acquaint=
ed
with the accused. I have live=
d in
the same house with her, at one time for five and at another for nearly two
years. During all that period=
she
appeared to me the most amiable and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame Frankenstein, my=
aunt,
in her last illness, with the greatest affection and care and afterwards
attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a manner that excited =
the
admiration of all who knew her, after which she again lived in my uncle's
house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was warmly attached to the chi=
ld who
is now dead and acted towards him like a most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate=
to
say that, notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe =
and
rely on her perfect innocence. She had
no temptation for such an action; as to the bauble on which the chief proof
rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I should have willingly given it to
her, so much do I esteem and value her."
A murmur of
approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal, but it was exc=
ited
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 her=
self
wept as Elizabeth spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish was e=
xtreme
during the whole trial. I bel=
ieved in
her innocence; I knew it. Cou=
ld 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 cou=
rt
in agony. The tortures of the
accused did not equal mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs o=
f 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 u=
pon 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 t=
o 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 who=
le
world would believe me to be if I disclosed the object of my suspicions?
"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 esca=
pe. But she has confessed."
This was a dire b=
low
to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she. "How shall I ever again belie=
ve in
human goodness? Justine, whom=
I
loved and esteemed as my sister, how could she put on those smiles of innoc=
ence
only to betray? Her mild eyes seemed incapable of any severity or guile, and
yet she has committed a murder."
Soon after we hea=
rd
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, &=
quot;I
will go, although she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me; I can=
not
go alone." The idea of t=
his
visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse. We entered the gloomy prison chamb=
er and
beheld Justine sitting on some straw at the farther end; her hands were man=
acled,
and her head rested on her knees.
She rose on seeing us enter, and when we were left alone with her, s=
he
threw herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also.
"Oh,
Justine!" said she. &quo=
t;Why
did you rob me of my last consolation? I relied on your innocence, and alth=
ough
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?&nb=
sp;
Do you also join with my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a
murderer?" Her voice was suffocated with sobs.
"Rise, my po=
or
girl," said Elizabeth; "why do you kneel, if you are innocent?
"I did confe=
ss,
but I confessed a lie. I conf=
essed,
that I might obtain absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my h=
eart
than all my other sins. The G=
od 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 m=
e; 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, weepi=
ng,
and then continued, "I thought with horror, my sweet lady, that you sh=
ould
believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so highly honoured, and wh=
om
you loved, was a creature capable of a crime which none but the devil himse=
lf
could have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heav=
en,
where we shall all be happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer
ignominy and death."
"Oh,
Justine! Forgive me for havin=
g 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 st=
ony hearts
of your enemies by my tears and prayers.&n=
bsp;
You shall not die! You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, peri=
sh
on the scaffold! No! No! I never could survive so horrible a
misfortune."
Justine shook her
head mournfully. "I do n=
ot 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 submi=
t 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 appro=
ached
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,&qu=
ot;
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 tha=
nk
him. In these last moments I =
feel
the sincerest gratitude towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection of othe=
rs to
such a wretch as I am! It rem=
oves
more than half my misfortune, and I feel as if I could die in peace now tha=
t 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 murd=
erer,
felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or co=
nsolation. Elizabeth also wept and was unhapp=
y, 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 he=
rself
away. "I wish," cri=
ed
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She embraced Elizabeth and said in=
a
voice of half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest
Elizabeth, my beloved and only friend; may heaven, in its bounty, bless and=
preserve
you; may this be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make others
so."
And on the morrow
Justine died. Elizabeth's
heart-rending eloquence failed to move the judges from their settled convic=
tion
in the criminality of the saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeal=
s were
lost upon them. And when I re=
ceived
their cold answers and heard the harsh, unfeeling reasoning of these men, my
purposed avowal died away on my lips.
Thus I might proclaim myself a madman, but not revoke the sentence
passed upon my wretched victim. She
perished on the scaffold as a murderess!
From the tortures=
of
my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and voiceless grief of my
Elizabeth. This also was my
doing! And my father's woe, a=
nd the
desolation of that late so smiling home all was the work of my thrice-accur=
sed
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 blessi=
ngs
and spend his life in serving you--he bids you weep, to shed countless tear=
s;
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.
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 whi=
ch
follows and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine died, she rested, and I was
alive. The blood flowed freel=
y in
my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart which not=
hing
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 y=
et behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindn=
ess
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. N=
ow 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 promis=
e of
new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense of guilt, which hurried me
away to a hell of intense tortures such as no language can describe.
This state of mind
preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely recovered from the
first shock it had sustained. I shunned
the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude
was my only consolation--deep, dark, deathlike solitude.
My father observed
with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits and
endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience=
and
guiltless life to inspire me with fortitude and awaken in me the courage to
dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think, Victor," =
said
he, "that I do not suffer also?
No one could love a child more than I loved your brother"--tears
came into his eyes as he spoke--"but is it not a duty to the survivors
that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of
immoderate grief? It is also =
a duty
owed to yourself, for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or
even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for
society."
This advice, alth=
ough
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 regularl=
y at ten
o'clock and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour had
rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was now free. Often, after the rest of the famil=
y 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 lak=
e, I
left the boat to pursue its own course and gave way to my own miserable
reflections. I was often temp=
ted,
when all was at peace around me, and I the only unquiet thing that wandered
restless in a scene so beautiful and heavenly--if I except some bat, or the
frogs, whose harsh and interrupted croaking was heard only when I approached
the shore--often, I say, I was tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that=
the
waters might close over me and my calamities forever. But I was restrained, when I thoug=
ht of
the heroic and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existe=
nce
was bound up in mine. I thoug=
ht
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 loos=
e 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.&nbs=
p;
But that could not be.
Remorse extinguished every hope.&nb=
sp;
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 li=
fe
which I had so thoughtlessly bestowed.&nbs=
p;
When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred and revenge bur=
st
all bounds of moderation. I w=
ould
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 mournin=
g. My father's
health was deeply shaken by the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was =
sad and
desponding; she no longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all
pleasure seemed to her sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she
then thought was the just tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted and
destroyed. She was no longer =
that
happy creature who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks of the la=
ke
and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of those sorrows which a=
re
sent to wean us from the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence
quenched her dearest smiles.
"When I refl=
ect,
my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of Justine Mor=
itz,
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 familia=
r to
reason than to the imagination; but now misery has come home, and men appea=
r to
me as monsters thirsting for each other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Everybody believed that poor girl =
to be
guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she suffered,
assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. For the sake of a few jewels, to h=
ave
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 o=
f any
human being, but certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to r=
emain
in the society of men. But sh=
e 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 pl=
unge
me into the abyss. William and
Justine were assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the wor=
ld
free, and perhaps respected. =
But
even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for the same crimes, I w=
ould
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 co=
untenance,
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 renderin=
g you
happy? Ah! While we love, while we are true t=
o each
other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native country, we may r=
eap
every tranquil blessing--what can disturb our peace?"
And could not such
words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift of fortune suff=
ice
to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as she spoke I drew near to h=
er, as
if in terror, lest at that very moment the destroyer had been near to rob m=
e of
her.
Thus not the
tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven, could red=
eem
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 ty=
pe
of me.
Sometimes I could
cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me, but sometimes the whirlwi=
nd
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 ki=
nd
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 toward=
s the
valley of Chamounix. I had vi=
sited
it frequently during my boyhood.
Six years had passed since then:&nb=
sp;
I was a wreck, but nought had changed in those savage and enduring
scenes.
I performed the f=
irst
part of my journey on horseback. I
afterwards hired a mule, as the more sure-footed and least liable to receiv=
e injury
on these rugged roads. The we=
ather
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 spiri=
t was
sensibly lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains and precipic=
es
that overhung me on every side, the sound of the river raging among the roc=
ks,
and the dashing of the waterfalls around spoke of a power mighty as Omnipot=
ence--and
I ceased to fear or to bend before any being less almighty than that which =
had
created and ruled the elements, here displayed in their most terrific
guise. Still, as I ascended h=
igher,
the valley assumed a more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined cas=
tles
hanging on the precipices of piny mountains, the impetuous Arve, and cottag=
es
every here and there peeping forth from among the trees formed a scene of
singular beauty. But it was a=
ugmented
and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and shining pyramids a=
nd
domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, the habitations of
another race of beings.
I passed the brid=
ge
of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river forms, opened before me, an=
d 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 Serv=
ox,
through which I had just passed.
The high and snowy mountains were its immediate boundaries, but I sa=
w no
more ruined castles and fertile fields.&nb=
sp;
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 magnif=
icent
Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its tremendous
dome overlooked the valley.
A tingling long-l=
ost
sense of pleasure often came across me during this journey. Some turn in the road, some new ob=
ject
suddenly perceived and recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were
associated with the lighthearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothi=
ng accents,
and maternal Nature bade me weep no more.&=
nbsp;
Then again the kindly influence ceased to act--I found myself fetter=
ed
again to grief and indulging in all the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striv=
ing so
to forget the world, my fears, and more than all, myself--or, in a more
desperate fashion, I alighted and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by
horror and despair.
At length I arriv=
ed
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, sl=
eep
crept over me; I felt it as it came and blessed the giver of oblivion.
I spent the follo=
wing
day roaming through the valley. I
stood beside the sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacie=
r,
that with slow pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills to barri=
cade
the valley. The abrupt sides =
of
vast mountains were before me; the icy wall of the glacier overhung me; a f=
ew
shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn silence of this glori=
ous 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, reverber=
ated
along the mountains, of the accumulated ice, which, through the silent work=
ing
of immutable laws, was ever and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a
plaything in their hands. The=
se
sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that I =
was
capable of receiving. They el=
evated
me from all littleness of feeling, and although they did not remove my grie=
f,
they subdued and tranquillized it.
In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over w=
hich
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 d=
uring
the day. They congregated rou=
nd me;
the unstained snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, =
and
ragged bare ravine, the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds--they all gathered
round me and bade me be at peace.
Where had they fl=
ed
when the next morning I awoke? All
of soul-inspiriting fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thou=
ght. The rain was pouring in torrents, =
and
thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that I even saw not the fa=
ces
of those mighty friends. Stil=
l I
would penetrate their misty veil and seek them in their cloudy retreats.
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 t=
he
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 abo=
ve;
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 d=
estruction
upon the head of the speaker. The
pines are not tall or luxuriant, but they are sombre and add an air of seve=
rity
to the scene. I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from t=
he
rivers which ran through it and curling in thick wreaths around the opposit=
e mountains,
whose summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured from the da=
rk
sky and added to the melancholy impression I received from the objects arou=
nd
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 ma=
y convey
to us.
&n=
bsp;
We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand'ring
thought pollutes the day. We
feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or ca=
st our
cares away; It is the
same: for, be it joy or sorro=
w, The path of its departu=
re
still is free. Man's
yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but
mutability!
It was nearly noon when I arrived a=
t the
top of the ascent. For some t=
ime I
sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both that and the
surrounding mountains. Presen=
tly 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 lea=
gue;
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 glitt=
ering peaks
shone in the sunlight over the clouds.&nbs=
p;
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 bou=
nded
over the crevices in the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his st=
ature,
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 co=
ld
gale of the mountains. I perc=
eived,
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 a=
nd
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?&=
nbsp;
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 diabolical=
ly
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 mankin=
d. If you will comply with my conditi=
ons, 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. Wre=
tched
devil! You reproach me with y=
our
creation, come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so neglige=
ntly
bestowed."
My rage was witho=
ut
bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings which can arm one bei=
ng
against the existence of another.
He easily eluded =
me
and said,
"Be calm!
"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between =
you and
me; we are enemies. Begone, o=
r let
us try our strength in a fight, in which one must fall."
"How can I m=
ove
thee? Will no entreaties caus=
e thee
to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and c=
ompassion? Believe me, Frankenstein, I was
benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity; but am I not alone,
miserably alone? You, my crea=
tor,
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 y=
ou
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 o=
nly
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 gui=
lty
are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own defen=
ce
before they are condemned. Li=
sten to
me, Frankenstein. You accuse =
me of
murder, and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own
creature. Oh, praise the eter=
nal
justice of man! Yet I ask you=
not
to spare me; listen to me, and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy t=
he
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! Cu=
rsed
(although I curse myself) be the hands that formed you! You have made me
wretched beyond expression. Y=
ou
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 reli=
eve
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 wh=
ich
you abhor. Still thou canst l=
isten
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 stran=
ge,
and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your fine sensations; c=
ome
to the hut upon the mountain. The
sun is yet high in the heavens; before it descends to hide itself behind yo=
ur
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.&qu=
ot;
As he said this he
led the way across the ice; I followed.&nb=
sp;
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 par=
tly
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 th=
is
opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what the duties of a creator towa=
rds his
creature were, and that I ought to render him happy before I complained of =
his
wickedness. These motives urg=
ed me
to comply with his demand. We
crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain aga=
in
began to descend; we entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I
with a heavy heart and depressed spirits.&=
nbsp;
But I consented to listen, and seating myself by the fire which my
odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.
"It is with
considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my being; all t=
he
events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange multiplicit=
y of
sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt at the same time; a=
nd
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. Dark=
ness
then came over me and troubled me, but hardly had I felt this when, by open=
ing
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 opa=
que
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 sou=
ght
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 m=
y 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, instinctiv=
ely,
finding myself so desolate. B=
efore
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 nig=
ht. 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 gent=
le
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. [T=
he moon] I gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightene=
d 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 dist=
inct ideas
occupied my mind; all was confused.
I felt light, and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable soun=
ds
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 w=
ith pleasure.
"Several cha=
nges
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, procee=
ded
from the throats of the little winged animals who had often intercepted the
light from my eyes. I began a=
lso 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 br=
oke
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. M=
y 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 spa=
rrow
uttered none but harsh notes, whilst those of the blackbird and thrush were
sweet and enticing.
"One day, wh=
en 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 han=
d into
the live embers, but quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the s=
ame
cause should produce such opposite effects! I examined the materials of the fi=
re,
and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected some branches,=
but
they were wet and would not burn. =
span>I
was pained at this and sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had placed ne=
ar the
heat dried and itself became inflamed.&nbs=
p;
I reflected on this, and by touching the various branches, I discove=
red
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 sle=
ep with
it, I was in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered it carefully with dry wo=
od and
leaves and placed wet branches upon it; and then, spreading my cloak, I lay=
on
the ground and sank into sleep.
"It was morn=
ing
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 nig=
ht
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 fo=
od in
the same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were spoi=
led by
this operation, and the nuts and roots much improved.
"Food, howev=
er,
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 want=
s 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 ga=
ve
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 rambl=
es and
at length discovered the open country.&nbs=
p;
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 f=
or
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 appeara=
nce of
the hut; here the snow and rain could not penetrate; the ground was dry; an=
d it
presented to me then as exquisite and divine a retreat as Pandemonium appea=
red
to the demons of hell after their sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants o=
f the
shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the
latter, however, I did not like.
Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among some straw and fell asle=
ep.
"It was noon
when I awoke, and allured by the warmth of the sun, which shone brightly on=
the
white ground, I determined to recommence my travels; and, depositing the
remains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I proceeded across =
the
fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a village. How miraculous did this appear!
"Here, then,=
I
retreated and lay down happy to have found a shelter, however miserable, fr=
om
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 r=
emain
in the habitation I had found. It
was situated against the back of the cottage and surrounded on the sides wh=
ich
were exposed by a pig sty and a clear pool of water. One part was open, and by that I h=
ad crept
in; but now I covered every crevice by which I might be perceived with ston=
es
and wood, yet in such a manner that I might move them on occasion to pass o=
ut;
all the light I enjoyed came through the sty, and that was sufficient for m=
e.
"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 n=
ight
before to trust myself in his power.
I had first, however, provided for my sustenance for that day by a l=
oaf 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 litt=
le
raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the chimn=
ey
of the cottage it was tolerably warm.
"Being thus
provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel until something should occur w=
hich
might alter my determination. It
was indeed a paradise compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the
rain-dropping branches, and dank earth.&nb=
sp;
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 sm=
all
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 coar=
se
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, whos=
e countenance
expressed a deeper despondence.
Uttering a few sounds with an air of melancholy, he took the pail fr=
om
her head and bore it to the cottage himself. She followed, and they disappeared=
. Presently I saw the young man agai=
n,
with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the cottage; and the gi=
rl
was also busied, sometimes in the house and sometimes in the yard.
"On examinin=
g my
dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the cottage had formerly occup=
ied
a part of it, but the panes had been filled up with wood. In one of these w=
as a
small and almost imperceptible chink through which the eye could just penet=
rate.
Through this crevice a small room was visible, whitewashed and clean but ve=
ry
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 occupi=
ed
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 wret=
ch
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, help=
ed to
relieve him of his burden, and taking some of the fuel into the cottage, pl=
aced
it on the fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottag=
e, and
he showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased and went into t=
he
garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then upon =
the
fire. She afterwards continue=
d 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 symme=
try,
yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and despondency. The old man returned to the cottag=
e, and
the youth, with tools different from those he had used in the morning, dire=
cted
his steps across the fields.
"Night quick=
ly
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 watc=
hing
my human neighbours. In the e=
vening
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 prod=
uced
the divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had finished, the yo=
uth
began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were monotonous, and neither
resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument nor the songs of the bir=
ds;
I since found that he read aloud, but at that time I knew nothing of the sc=
ience
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."
"I lay on my
straw, but I could not sleep. I
thought of the occurrences of the day.&nbs=
p;
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 qui=
etly
in my hovel, watching and endeavouring to discover the motives which influe=
nced
their actions.
"The cottage=
rs
arose the next morning before the sun.&nbs=
p;
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 occupat=
ions
within. The old man, whom I s=
oon 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 per=
formed
towards him every little office of affection and duty with gentleness, and =
he
rewarded them by his benevolent smiles.
"They were n=
ot
entirely happy. The young man=
and
his companion often went apart and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappine=
ss, but
I was deeply affected by it. =
If
such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less strange that I, an imperf=
ect
and solitary being, should be wretched.&nb=
sp;
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 clot=
hes;
and, still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchangi=
ng
each day looks of affection and kindness.&=
nbsp;
What did their tears imply?
Did they really express pain?
I was at first unable to solve these questions, but perpetual attent=
ion
and time explained to me many appearances which were at first enigmatic.
"A considera=
ble
period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the uneasiness of t=
his
amiable family: it was povert=
y, and
they suffered that evil in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entire=
ly of
the vegetables of their garden and the milk of one cow, which gave very lit=
tle
during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to support
it. They often, I believe, su=
ffered
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 f=
or
themselves.
"This trait =
of
kindness moved me sensibly. I=
had
been accustomed, during the night, to steal a part of their store for my ow=
n 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 gather=
ed
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 gre=
at
part of each day in collecting wood for the family fire, and during the nig=
ht I
often took his tools, the use of which I quickly discovered, and brought ho=
me 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 wor=
ds 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.&=
nbsp;
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 sp=
oke
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 w=
ith
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 the=
ir
reference. By great applicati=
on,
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 ea=
ch of
them several names, but the old man had only one, which was 'father.' The g=
irl
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 ge=
ntle
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 afte=
r having
listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with Felix. He was always the saddest of the g=
roup,
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 men=
tion
innumerable instances which, although slight, marked the dispositions of th=
ese
amiable cottagers. In the mid=
st of
poverty and want, Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first littl=
e white
flower that peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she h=
ad
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 invisib=
le 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 ga=
rden, 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 utte=
red
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 unders=
tand
the sounds for which they stood as signs?&=
nbsp;
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 discov=
er
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 th=
em overlook
the deformity of my figure, for with this also the contrast perpetually
presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.
"I had admir=
ed
the perfect forms of my cottagers--their grace, beauty, and delicate
complexions; but how was I terrified when I viewed myself in a transparent
pool! At first I started back,
unable to believe that it was indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and
when I became fully convinced that I was in reality the monster that I am, I
was filled with the bitterest sensations of despondence and mortification. =
Alas! I did not yet entirely know the fa=
tal
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 indicat=
ions
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 t=
he
season advanced.
"The old man,
leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did not rain, as I fou=
nd
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. Duri=
ng the
morning I attended the motions of the cottagers, and when they were dispers=
ed
in various occupations, I slept; the remainder of the day was spent in obse=
rving
my friends. When they had ret=
ired
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 t=
hat
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 th=
ese
lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to know why Felix appeared so miserable=
and
Agatha so sad. I thought (foo=
lish
wretch!) that it might be in my power to restore happiness to these deservi=
ng
people. When I slept or was a=
bsent,
the forms of the venerable blind father, the gentle Agatha, and the excelle=
nt
Felix flitted before me. I lo=
oked
upon them as superior beings who would be the arbiters of my future
destiny. I formed in my imagi=
nation
a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their reception of me=
. I imagined that they would be disg=
usted,
until, by my gentle demeanour and conciliating words, I should first win th=
eir
favour and afterwards their love.
"These thoug=
hts
exhilarated me and led me to apply with fresh ardour to the acquiring the a=
rt
of language. My organs were i=
ndeed
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 eas=
e. 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 ch=
ange
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!
"I now haste=
n to
the more moving part of my story. =
span>I
shall relate events that impressed me with feelings which, from what I had
been, have made me what I am.
"Spring adva=
nced
rapidly; the weather became fine and the skies cloudless. It surprised me that what before w=
as
desert and gloomy should now bloom with the most beautiful flowers and
verdure. My senses were grati=
fied
and refreshed by a thousand scents of delight and a thousand sights of beau=
ty.
"It was on o=
ne
of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from labour--the old m=
an
played on his guitar, and the children listened to him--that I observed the
countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression; he sighed frequently,
and once his father paused in his music, and I conjectured by his manner th=
at
he inquired the cause of his son's sorrow.=
Felix replied in a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing=
his
music when someone tapped at the door.
"It was a la=
dy
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 s=
he
saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty and
expression. Her hair of a shi=
ning
raven black, and curiously braided; her eyes were dark, but gentle, although
animated; her features of a regular proportion, and her complexion wondrous=
ly
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.
"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. The=
y 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, ki=
ssed 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 the=
m,
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 abo=
ut
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 ca=
me
on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early.&=
nbsp;
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 desi=
red 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 Agat=
ha
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 t=
ears
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 v=
oice
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 ban=
ks
interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the scent and the eyes, sta=
rs
of pale radiance among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, the nigh=
ts
clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure to me,
although they were considerably shortened by the late setting and early ris=
ing
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; a=
nd 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 imi=
tate
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 fr=
om
which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's Ruins of Empires. I should not have understood the p=
urport
of this book had not Felix, in reading it, given very minute explanations.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 a=
t present
existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the manners, governments,=
and
religions of the different nations of the earth. I heard of the slothful Asiatics, =
of the
stupendous genius and mental activity of the Grecians, of the wars and
wonderful virtue of the early Romans--of their subsequent degenerating--of =
the
decline of that mighty empire, of chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the Am=
erican
hemisphere and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original
inhabitants.
"These wonde=
rful
narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, indeed, at once so powerf=
ul, so
virtuous and magnificent, yet so vicious and base? He appeared at one time a mere sci=
on of
the evil principle and at another as all that can be conceived of noble and=
godlike. To be a great and virtuous man app=
eared
the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being; to be base and viciou=
s,
as many on record have been, appeared the lowest degradation, a condition m=
ore abject
than that of the blind mole or harmless worm. For a long time I could not concei=
ve 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 ceas=
ed
and I turned away with disgust and loathing.
"Every
conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While I listene=
d 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 p=
overty,
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 r=
are
instances, as a vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the
profits of the chosen few! An=
d what
was I? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant, but I knew tha=
t I possessed
no money, no friends, no kind of property.=
I was, besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsom=
e; I
was not even of the same nature as man.&nb=
sp;
I was more agile than they and could subsist upon coarser diet; I bo=
re
the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my frame; my stature far
exceeded theirs. When I looke=
d around
I saw and heard of none like me.
Was I, then, a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all men fl=
ed
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 s=
hake
off all thought and feeling, but I learned that there was but one means to
overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death--a state which I feared =
yet
did not understand. I admired
virtue and good feelings and loved the gentle manners and amiable qualities=
of
my cottagers, but I was shut out from intercourse with them, except through
means which I obtained by stealth, when I was unseen and unknown, and which
rather increased than satisfied the desire I had of becoming one among my
fellows. The gentle words of =
Agatha
and the animated smiles of the
charming Arabian were not for me.
The mild exhortations of the old man and the lively conversation of =
the
loved Felix were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!
"Other lesso=
ns
were impressed upon me even more deeply.&n=
bsp;
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 gaine=
d knowledge,
of brother, sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human
being to another in mutual bonds.
"But where w=
ere
my friends and relations? No =
father
had watched my infant days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caress=
es;
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 resem=
bling
me or who claimed any intercourse with me.=
What was I? The questi=
on
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 revere=
nce
for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half-painful self-deceit=
, to
call them)."
"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 inexperienc=
ed
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 the=
y 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, accompa=
nied
by a moderate fortune, could afford.
"The father =
of
Safie had been the cause of their ruin.&nb=
sp;
He was a Turkish merchant and had inhabited Paris for many years, wh=
en,
for some reason which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the governm=
ent.
He was seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from Con=
stantinople
to join him. He was tried and
condemned to death. The injus=
tice
of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant; and it was judg=
ed
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 g=
ain 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, loa=
ded
with chains, waited in despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at night a=
nd
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 of=
fers
with contempt, yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit h=
er
father and who by her gestures expressed her lively gratitude, the youth co=
uld
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 delicat=
e 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 t=
he
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 th=
e most
ardent terms for his intended services towards her parent, and at the same =
time
she gently deplored her own fate.
"I have copi=
es
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 dep=
art 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 subst=
ance
of them to you.
"Safie relat=
ed
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 s=
poke
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 forbi=
dden
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 Christi=
an and
remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in society w=
as
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 th=
e 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 condu=
cted
the fugitives through France to Lyons and across Mont Cenis to Leghorn, whe=
re
the merchant had decided to wait a favourable opportunity of passing into s=
ome
part of the Turkish dominions.
"Safie resol=
ved
to remain with her father until the moment of his departure, before which t=
ime
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 con=
versed
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 daugh=
ter
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 wh=
ich he
should be enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessa=
ry,
and secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans were facilitated by the =
news
which arrived from Paris.
"The governm=
ent
of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their victim and spared no
pains to detect and punish his deliverer.&=
nbsp;
The plot of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha we=
re 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 dun=
geon
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 a=
nd
Agatha by this proceeding.
"He did not
succeed. They remained confin=
ed 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 treach=
erous
Turk, for whom he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on dis=
covering
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 t=
he
events that preyed on the heart of Felix and rendered him, when I first saw
him, the most miserable of his family.&nbs=
p;
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 lo=
ss of
his beloved Safie were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now inf=
used
new life into his soul.
"When the ne=
ws
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 ret=
urn
to her native country. The ge=
nerous
nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to expostulate =
with
her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate.
"A few days
after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment and told her hastily that =
he
had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been divulged and t=
hat
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. H=
e 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 arrive=
d 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 r=
esidence
in Turkey was abhorrent to her; her religion and her feelings were alike av=
erse
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.&nb=
sp;
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 ho=
use
in which they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at the
cottage of her lover."
"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 lo=
oked
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 pr=
ogress
of my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the begin=
ning
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 ret=
urned
with it to my hovel. Fortunat=
ely
the books were written in the language, the elements of which I had acquire=
d at
the cottage; they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of Plutarch's Lives,=
and
the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures gave me extreme
delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histori=
es,
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 bee=
n 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 am=
ong
my protectors and with the wants which were forever alive in my own bosom.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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.&=
nbsp;
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 recurr=
ed,
but I was unable to solve them.
"The volume =
of
Plutarch's Lives which I possessed contained the histories of the first
founders of the ancient republics.
This book had a far different effect upon me from the Sorrows of Wer=
ter. I learned from Werter's imaginatio=
ns
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 her=
oes
of past ages. Many things I r=
ead
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 concern=
ed in
public affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for vir=
tue
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. Indu=
ced by
these feelings, I was of course led to admire peaceable lawgivers, Numa, So=
lon,
and Lycurgus, in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protec=
tors
caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my fir=
st
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 a=
nd awe
that the picture of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capabl=
e 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 ha=
d come
forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guard=
ed
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, t=
he
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 yo=
ur
laboratory. At first I had ne=
glected
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 mo=
nths
that preceded my creation. Yo=
u 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. Everyt=
hing
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 a=
nd
alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more
horrid even from the very resemblance.&nbs=
p;
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 comp=
assionate
me and overlook my personal deformity.&nbs=
p;
Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, who solicited
their compassion and friendship? I
resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for an
interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some =
months
longer, for the importance attached to its success inspired me with a dread
lest I should fail. Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much
with every day's experience that I was unwilling to commence this undertaki=
ng 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 hap=
piness
among its inhabitants, and I also found that a greater degree of plenty rei=
gned
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 discove=
red 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 endeavour=
ed
to crush these fears and to fortify myself for the trial which in a few mon=
ths
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 soo=
thed
my sorrows nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam's supplication t=
o his
Creator. But where was mine?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He had abandoned me, and in the
bitterness of my heart I cursed him.
"Autumn pass=
ed
thus. I saw, with surprise and
grief, the leaves decay and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bl=
eak
appearance it had worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness o=
f the
weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of cold t=
han
heat. But my chief delights w=
ere
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 t=
o be
known and loved by these amiable creatures; to see their sweet looks direct=
ed
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 utter=
ly
unworthy of it.
"The winter
advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place since I a=
woke
into life. My attention at th=
is
time was solely directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cot=
tage
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, th=
at
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 protector=
s.
"One day, wh=
en
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 illum=
inated
with pleasure, but as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at
length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.
"My heart be=
at
quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my hopes or
realize my fears. The servant=
s 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 exe=
rting all
the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had placed
before my hovel to conceal my retreat.&nbs=
p;
The fresh air revived me, and with renewed determination I approached
the door of their cottage.
"I knocked.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Who is there?' said the old man.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 'Come in.'
"I entered.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> '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,' sa=
id
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 tro=
uble
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 comm=
ence
the interview, when the old man addressed me. 'By your language, stranger, I sup=
pose
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 protec=
tion
of some friends, whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hop=
es.'
"'Are they
Germans?'
"'No, they a=
re
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 t=
o 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; an=
d if
these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.'
"'They are
kind--they are the most excellent creatures in the world; but, unfortunatel=
y,
they are prejudiced against me. I
have good dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless and in some degr=
ee beneficial;
but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feel=
ing
and kind friend, they behold only a detestable monster.' "'That is in=
deed
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 overwhel=
ming
terrors. I tenderly love these
friends; I have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of dai=
ly kindness
towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that
prejudice which I wish to overcome.' "'Where do t=
hese
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 y=
ou
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 y=
our
generous offer. You raise me =
from
the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be dr=
iven
from the society and sympathy of your fellow creatures.' "'Heaven
forbid! Even if you were real=
ly
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?&nb=
sp;
From your lips first have I heard the voice of kindness directed tow=
ards
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. T=
his,
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> At that moment I heard the steps o=
f my
younger protectors. I had not=
a
moment to lose, but seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, 'Now is the t=
ime! Save and protect me! You and your family are the friend=
s whom
I seek. Do not you desert me =
in the
hour of trial!'
"'Great God!'
exclaimed the old man. 'Who a=
re
you?'
"At that ins=
tant
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 ou=
t of
the cottage. Felix darted for=
ward,
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 wit=
h 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 p=
oint
of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the
cottage, and in the general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel."
"Cursed, cur=
sed
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 ta=
ken
possession of me; my feelings were those of rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroy=
ed 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 restraine=
d by
the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had b=
roken the
toils, destroying the objects that obstructed me and ranging through the wo=
od
with a stag-like swiftness.
Oh! What a miserable n=
ight 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 destructi=
on
around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.
"But this wa=
s 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 t=
han
all, against him who had formed me and sent me forth to this insupportable
misery.
"The sun ros=
e; I
heard the voices of men and knew that it was impossible to return to my ret=
reat
during that day. Accordingly =
I hid myself
in some thick underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours to reflect=
ion
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 conversati=
on had
interested the father in my behalf, and&nb=
sp;
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 myse=
lf
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 thoug=
hts
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 precedin=
g day
was forever acting before my eyes; the females were flying and the enraged
Felix tearing me from his father's feet.&n=
bsp;
I awoke exhausted, and finding that it was already night, I crept fo=
rth
from my hiding-place, and went in search of food.
"When my hun=
ger
was appeased, I directed my steps towards the well-known path that conducte=
d to
the cottage. All there was at
peace. I crept into my hovel and remained in silent expectation of the accu=
stomed
hour when the family arose. T=
hat
hour passed, the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the cottagers did not
appear. I trembled violently,
apprehending some dreadful misfortune.&nbs=
p;
The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I cannot
describe the agony of this suspense.
"Presently t=
wo
countrymen passed by, but pausing near the cottage, they entered into
conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not understand what t=
hey
said, as they spoke the language of the country, which differed from that o=
f my
protectors. Soon after, howev=
er,
Felix approached with another man; I was surprised, as I knew that he had n=
ot quitted
the cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover from his discour=
se
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 utte=
rly
useless,' replied Felix; 'we can never again inhabit your cottage. The life of my father is in the gr=
eatest
danger, owing to the dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and my sister will never r=
ecover
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 tremb=
led
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 sa=
w 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, b=
ut
allowing myself to be borne away by the stream, I bent my mind towards inju=
ry
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 inanim=
ate
objects. As night advanced I =
placed
a variety of combustibles around the cottage, and after having destroyed ev=
ery
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 clou=
ds
that had loitered in the heavens; the blast tore along like a mighty avalan=
che
and produced a kind of insanity in my spirits that burst all bounds of reas=
on
and reflection. I lighted the=
dry
branch of a tree and danced with fury around the devoted cottage, my eyes s=
till
fixed on the western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly touched.
"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, wi=
th
the world before me, whither should I bend my steps? I resolved to fly far from the sce=
ne of
my misfortunes; but to me, hated and despised, every country must be equally
horrible. At length the thoug=
ht of
you crossed my mind. I learne=
d 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 b=
estowed
upon Safie, geography had not been omitted; I had learned from these the
relative situations of the different countries of the earth. You had mentio=
ned
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 s=
un
was my only guide. I did not =
know
the names of the towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask informat=
ion
from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you only could I hope for suc=
cour,
although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! You had endowed me with perception=
s and
passions and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of mank=
ind.
But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I determ=
ined
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 o=
n the
cause of my being! The mildne=
ss of
my nature had fled, and all within me was turned to gall and bitterness.
"I generally
rested during the day and travelled only when I was secured by night from t=
he
view of man. One morning, how=
ever,
finding that my path lay through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my jou=
rney
after the sun had risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, che=
ered
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 t=
hese
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 kno=
wing
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 gi=
rl
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 pers=
on
from whom she had playfully fled.
On seeing me, he darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arm=
s, 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 injur=
er,
with increased swiftness, escaped into the wood.
"This was th=
en
the reward of my benevolence! I had
saved a human being from destruction, and as a recompense I now writhed und=
er
the miserable pain of a wound which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and gentl=
eness
which I had entertained but a few moments before gave place to hellish rage=
and
gnashing of teeth. Inflamed b=
y 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 we=
eks
I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to cure the wound which I=
had
received. The ball had entere=
d my
shoulder, and I knew not whether it had remained there or passed through; at
any rate I had no means of extracting it.&=
nbsp;
My sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of the
injustice and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for revenge--a =
deep
and deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate for the outrages and ang=
uish
I had endured.
"After some
weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The labours I endured were no long=
er to
be alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of spring; all joy was bu=
t a
mockery which insulted my desolate state and made me feel more painfully th=
at 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 envir=
ons
of Geneva.
"It was even=
ing
when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the fields that surro=
und
it to meditate in what manner I should apply to you. I was oppressed by fatigue and hun=
ger
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 tim=
e 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 id=
ea
seized me that this little creature was unprejudiced and had lived too shor=
t a
time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, therefore, I could seize him a=
nd educate
him as my companion and friend, I should not be so desolate in this peopled
earth.
"Urged by th=
is
impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed and drew him towards me. As soon as he beheld my form, he p=
laced
his hands before his eyes and uttered a shrill scream; I drew his hand forc=
ibly
from his face and said, 'Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; liste=
n to
me.'
"He struggled
violently. 'Let me go,' he cr=
ied;
'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 w=
ill
never see your father again; you must come with me.'
"'Hideous
monster! Let me go. My papa is a syndic--he is M. Fran=
kenstein--he
will punish you. You dare not=
keep
me.'
"'Frankenste=
in!
you belong then to my enemy--to him towards whom I have sworn eternal reven=
ge;
you shall be my first victim.'
"The child s= till 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.<= o:p>
"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 invulnera=
ble;
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.&n=
bsp;
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 t=
hat
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 affri=
ght.
"Can you won=
der
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 murde=
r,
and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I entered a barn which had appear=
ed
to me to be empty. A woman wa=
s 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 o=
ne of
those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but me. And then I bent over her and whisp=
ered,
'Awake, fairest, thy lover is near--he who would give his life but to obtain
one look of affection from thine eyes; my beloved, awake!'
"The sleeper
stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she indeed awake, and see m=
e, and
curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus would she assuredly act if her
darkened eyes opened and she beheld me. The thought was madness; it stirred=
the
fiend within me--not I, but she, shall suffer; the murder I have committed
because I am forever robbed of all that she could give me, she shall
atone. The crime had its sour=
ce 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 he=
r and
placed the portrait securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled.
"For some da=
ys I
haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place, sometimes wishing to s=
ee
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 pro=
mised
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 s=
pecies
and have the same defects. Th=
is
being you must create."
The being finished
speaking and fixed his looks upon me in the expectation of a reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, a=
nd
unable to arrange my ideas sufficiently to understand the full extent of hi=
s proposition. He continued,
"You must cr=
eate
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 t=
o concede."
The latter part of
his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died away while he narra=
ted
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 yourse=
lf,
whose joint wickedness might desolate the world. Begone! I have answered you; you may tortu=
re me,
but I will never consent."
"You are in =
the
wrong," replied the fiend; "and instead of threatening, I am cont=
ent
to reason with you. I am mali=
cious
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 re=
spect
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.
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 detri=
mental
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; f=
or
that one creature's sake I would make peace with the whole kind! But I now indulge in dreams of bli=
ss
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 t=
hey
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 ex=
cite
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 cons=
ent,
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 n=
ature
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 pe=
aceful
and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness =
of
power and cruelty. Pitiless a=
s 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.&qu=
ot;
"You
propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwel=
l 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?&=
nbsp;
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 ha=
ve a
companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be; cease to argue the
point, for I cannot consent."
"How inconst=
ant
are your feelings! But a mome=
nt 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 evi=
l passions
will have fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! My life will flow quietly away, an=
d 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 loo=
ked
upon him, when I saw the filthy mass that moved and talked, my heart sicken=
ed
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 w=
ith,
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 s=
ensitive
being and become linked to the chain of existence and events from which I am
now excluded."
I paused some tim=
e to
reflect on all he had related and the various arguments which he had
employed. I thought of the pr=
omise
of virtues which he had displayed on the opening of his existence and the s=
ubsequent
blight of all kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors=
had
manifested towards him. His p=
ower
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 ridge=
s 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 creat=
ures
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 pl=
ace
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,&qu=
ot;
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 u=
nutterable
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 occu=
pied
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 li=
ttle
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 advan=
ced
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 m=
e,
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 h=
ands
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 a=
nd
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 be=
fore
I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, but returned immedia=
tely
to Geneva. Even in my own hea=
rt I
could give no expression to my sensations--they weighed on me with a mounta=
in's
weight and their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned ho=
me,
and entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild appearance awo=
ke
intense alarm, but I answered no question, scarcely did I speak. I felt as if I were placed under a
ban--as if I had no right to claim their sympathies--as if never more might=
I
enjoy companionship with them. Yet
even thus I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedica=
te myself
to my most abhorred task. The
prospect of such an occupation made every other circumstance of existence p=
ass
before me like a dream, and that thought only had to me the reality of life=
.
Day after day, we=
ek
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 overcom=
e 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 wh=
ich
was material to my success, and I sometimes thought of obtaining my father's
consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung to every pretence of
delay and shrank from taking the first step in an undertaking whose immedia=
te
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 spiri=
ts,
when unchecked by the memory of my unhappy promise, rose proportionably.
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 t=
o be
returning to yourself. And ye=
t you
are still unhappy and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in conjec=
ture
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 tre=
ble
misery on us all."
I trembled violen=
tly
at his exordium, and my father continued--"I confess, my son, that I h=
ave
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 fr=
om
your earliest infancy; you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions =
and
tastes, entirely suited to one another.&nb=
sp;
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 s=
ister,
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 fat=
her,
reassure yourself. I love my =
cousin
tenderly and sincerely. I nev=
er saw
any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration and affecti=
on. My future hopes and prospects are =
entirely
bound up in the expectation of our union."
"The express=
ion
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, t=
herefore,
whether you object to an immediate solemnization of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and rece=
nt
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 wi=
sh 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 sincer=
ity."
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.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Alas! To me the idea of an immediate uni=
on
with my Elizabeth was one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn promise wh=
ich I
had not yet fulfilled and dared not break, or if I did, what manifold miser=
ies
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 l=
et the
monster depart with his mate before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight o=
f a
union from which I expected peace.
I remembered also=
the
necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to England or entering into a
long correspondence with those philosophers of that country whose knowledge=
and
discoveries were of indispensable use to me in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the
desired intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory; besides, I had an
insurmountable aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task=
in
my father's house while in habits of familiar intercourse with those I love=
d. I knew that a thousand fearful acc=
idents
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 o=
f 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, whi=
le I
urged my desire with an earnestness that easily induced my father to comply=
. After so long a period of an absor=
bing
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, a=
nd
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 pate=
rnal
kind precaution he had taken to ensure my having a companion. Without previously communicating w=
ith
me, he had, in concert with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me=
at
Strasbourg. This interfered w=
ith
the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of my task; yet at the commencem=
ent
of my journey the presence of my friend could in no way be an impediment, a=
nd
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.&nb=
sp;
If I were alone, would he not at times force his abhorred presence o=
n me
to remind me of my task or to contemplate its progress?
To England,
therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union with Elizabeth
should take place immediately on my return. My father's age rendered him extre=
mely
averse to delay. For myself, =
there
was one reward I promised myself from my detested toils--one consolation fo=
r 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 ene=
my
and unprotected from his attacks, exasperated as he might be by my departur=
e. But he had promised to follow me w=
herever
I might go, and would he not accompany me to England? This imagination was dreadful in i=
tself,
but soothing inasmuch as it supposed the safety of my friends. I was agoniz=
ed
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 t=
he
fiend would follow me and exempt my family from the danger of his machinati=
ons.
It was in the lat=
ter
end of September that I again quitted my native country. My journey had been my own suggest=
ion,
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 provide=
d me a
companion in Clerval--and yet a man is blind to a thousand minute circumsta=
nces
which call forth a woman's sedulous attention. She longed to bid me hasten my ret=
urn; a
thousand conflicting emotions rendered her mute as she bade me a tearful,
silent farewell.
I threw myself in=
to
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 o=
f my
travels and the work which was to occupy me whilst they endured.
After some days s=
pent
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 b=
etween
us! He was alive to every new
scene, joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy w=
hen
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,&=
quot;
he cried; "how I enjoy existence!&nbs=
p;
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, wo=
uld 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 t=
ake
shipping for London. During t=
his 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 st=
eep,
and of beautiful forms. We sa=
w many
ruined castles standing on the edges of precipices, surrounded by black woo=
ds,
high and inaccessible. This p=
art 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 rushi=
ng
beneath; and on the sudden turn of a promontory, flourishing vineyards with
green sloping banks and a meandering river and populous towns occupy the sc=
ene.
We travelled at t=
he
time of the vintage and heard the song of the labourers as we glided down t=
he
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, w=
ho can
describe those of Henry? He f=
elt as
if he had been transported to fairy-land and enjoyed a happiness seldom tas=
ted
by man. "I have seen,&qu=
ot; 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 verda=
nt
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 ide=
a of
what the water-spout must be on the great ocean; and the waves dash with fu=
ry
the base of the mountain, where the priest and his mistress were overwhelme=
d by
an avalanche and where their dying voices are still said to be heard amid t=
he
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 bank=
s of
this divine river that I never before saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhang=
s yon
precipice; and that also on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliag=
e 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 inhabit=
s and
guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man than those who pile t=
he
glacier or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own
country." Clerval! Belov=
ed
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 for=
med in
the "very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination
was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent af=
fections,
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 ar=
dour:--
----The sounding
cataract Haunted him=
like
a passion: the tall rock,
=
[Wordsworth's "Tintern Abbey".]
And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lo=
st forever? Has this mind, so replete with ide=
as,
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; y=
our
form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but your sp=
irit
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 wi=
ll 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 gent=
le
to aid us. Our journey here l=
ost 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 remembr=
ance
of some story. We saw Tilbury=
Fort
and remembered the Spanish Armada, Gravesend, Woolwich, and Greenwich--plac=
es
which I had heard of even in my country.
At length we saw =
the
numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's towering above all, and the Tower f=
amed
in English history.
London was our
present point of rest; we determined to remain several months in this wonde=
rful
and celebrated city. Clerval
desired the intercourse of the men of genius and talent who flourished at t=
his 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 promi=
se
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 h=
ad
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 w=
as
so terribly profound. Company=
was
irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the sights of heaven a=
nd
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 pl=
aced
between me and my fellow men; this barrier was sealed with the blood of Wil=
liam
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 experie=
nce
and instruction. The differen=
ce of manners
which he observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and
amusement. He was also pursui=
ng 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 t=
he execution
of his plan. He was forever b=
usy,
and the only check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind.
After passing some
months in London, we received a letter from a person in Scotland who had fo=
rmerly
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, wher=
e he
resided. Clerval eagerly desi=
red 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 ad=
orns
her chosen dwelling-places. W=
e had
arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now February.
We quitted London=
on
the 27th of March and remained a few days at Windsor, rambling in its beaut=
iful
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 en=
tered
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 ci=
ty had
remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had forsaken his cause to =
join
the standard of Parliament and liberty.&nb=
sp;
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 d=
welling
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 sc=
ene,
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 w=
as
ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in nature or the stu=
dy
of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man could always
interest my heart and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a blasted tree; the bolt =
has entered
my soul; and I felt then that I should survive to exhibit what I shall soon
cease to be--a miserable spectacle of wrecked humanity, pitiable to others =
and
intolerable to myself.
We passed a consi=
derable
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 the=
mselves. We visited the tomb of the illustr=
ious
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 spiri=
t,
but the iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopel=
ess,
into my miserable self.
We left Oxford wi=
th
regret and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place of rest. The country in the neighbourhood o=
f this
village resembled, to a greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but eve=
rything
is on a lower scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant white Al=
ps
which always attend on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous cave and t=
he
little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are disposed in t=
he
same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The latter name made me tremble wh=
en
pronounced by Henry, and I hastened to quit Matlock, with which that terrib=
le
scene was thus associated.
From Derby, still
journeying northwards, we passed two months in Cumberland and Westmorland.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I could now almost fancy myself am=
ong
the Swiss mountains. The litt=
le
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 sigh=
ts
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 tha=
n he
could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his =
inferiors. "I could pass my life here,&q=
uot;
said he to me; "and among these mountains I should scarcely regret
Switzerland and the Rhine."
But he found that=
a
traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its enjoyments. His feelings are forever on the st=
retch;
and when he begins to sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit th=
at
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 wi=
th
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 daemon's disappointment. He might remain in Switzerland and=
wreak
his vengeance on my relatives. This
idea pursued me and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwi=
se
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 ascert=
ain
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 rag=
e 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 Edinbur=
gh
with languid eyes and mind; and yet that city might have interested the most
unfortunate being. Clerval di=
d not
like it so well as Oxford, for the antiquity of the latter city was more
pleasing to him. But the beau=
ty and
regularity of the new town of Edinburgh, its romantic castle and its enviro=
ns,
the most delightful in the world, Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the
Pentland Hills compensated him for the change and filled him with cheerfuln=
ess
and admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my jour=
ney.
We left Edinburgh=
in
a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's, and along the banks of the Ta=
y,
to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no mood to laugh and t=
alk
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.
Henry wished to
dissuade me, but seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to remonstrate. He entreated me to write often.
Having parted fro=
m my
friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of Scotland and finish my wo=
rk
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 t=
he
northern highlands and fixed on one of the remotest of the Orkneys as the s=
cene
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, who=
se
gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they in=
dulged
in such luxuries, and even fresh water, was to be procured from the mainlan=
d,
which was about five miles distant.
On the whole isla=
nd
there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was vacant when I
arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and th=
ese
exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had fallen in, the wall=
s were
unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I ordered it to be repaired, bough=
t some
furniture, and took possession, an incident which would doubtless have occa=
sioned
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 clot=
hes 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 permitt=
ed,
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 th=
ought
of Switzerland; it was far different from this desolate and appalling
landscape. Its hills are cove=
red
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 m=
yself
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 wen=
t 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 whi=
ch I
was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my p=
ersecutor. Sometimes I sat with my eyes fixed=
on
the ground, fearing to raise them lest they should encounter the object whi=
ch I
so much dreaded to behold. I =
feared
to wander from the sight of my fellow creatures lest when alone he should c=
ome
to claim his companion.
In the mean time I
worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. I looked towards its completion wi=
th a
tremulous and eager hope, which I dared not trust myself to question but wh=
ich
was intermixed with obscure forebodings of evil that made my heart sicken i=
n my
bosom.
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 i=
ts
conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As I sat, a train of reflection oc=
curred
to me which led me to consider the effects of what I was now doing. Three y=
ears
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 alre=
ady
lived loathed his own deformity, and might he not conceive a greater abhorr=
ence
for it when it came before his eyes in the female form? She also might turn with disgust f=
rom
him to the superior beauty of man; she might quit him, and he be again alon=
e,
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 resul=
ts
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 existe=
nce
of the species of man a condition precarious and full of terror. Had I right, for my own benefit, t=
o inflict
this curse upon everlasting generations?&n=
bsp;
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 t=
ime,
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 b=
uy
its own peace at the price, perhaps, of the existence of the whole human ra=
ce.
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 gha=
stly
grin wrinkled his lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task w=
hich
he had allotted to me. Yes, h=
e 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 hi=
m,
his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and treachery. I thought with a sensation of madn=
ess on
my promise of creating another like to him, and trembling with passion, tor=
e to
pieces the thing on which I was engaged.&n=
bsp;
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 labo=
urs;
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 pas=
sed,
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 a=
lone 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 th=
e sensation
of helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeav=
our
to fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot. Presently I he=
ard
the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, and the wretch w=
hom
I dreaded appeared.
Shutting the door=
, he
approached me and said in a smothered voice, "You have destroyed the w=
ork
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 he=
aths
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 be=
fore
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, i=
n 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 affe=
ction,
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 w=
hich
must ravish from you your happiness forever. Are you to be happy while I grovel=
in
the intensity of my wretchedness?
You can blast my other passions, but revenge remains--revenge,
henceforth dearer than light or food!
I may die, but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the s=
un
that gazes on your misery. Be=
ware,
for I am fearless and therefore powerful.&=
nbsp;
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, ceas=
e;
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 s=
hall
be with you on your wedding-night."
I started forward=
and
exclaimed, "Villain! Bef=
ore
you sign my death-warrant, be sure that you are yourself safe."
I would have seiz=
ed
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 ami=
dst
the waves.
All was again sil=
ent,
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 do=
wn my
room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a thousand ima=
ges
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 f=
or 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 fe=
ar;
yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, of her tears and endless sorrow,
when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, tears, the
first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I resolved not=
to
fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle.
The night passed
away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became calmer, if it may=
be
called calmness when the violence of rage sinks into the depths of
despair. I left the house, the
horrid scene of the last night's contention, and walked on the beach of the
sea, which I almost regarded as an insuperable barrier between me and my fe=
llow
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 uninterrup=
ted
by any sudden shock of misery. If I
returned, it was to be sacrificed or to see those whom I most loved die und=
er
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 no=
on,
and the sun rose higher, I lay down on the grass and was overpowered by a d=
eep 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 rac=
e 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 Genev=
a,
and one from Clerval entreating me to join him. He said that he was wearing away h=
is
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 cou=
ld not
any longer delay his departure; but as his journey to London might be follo=
wed,
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 leav=
e my
solitary isle and to meet him at Perth, that we might proceed southwards
together. This letter in a de=
gree
recalled me to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of
two days. Yet, before I depar=
ted,
there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to reflect; I must pack u=
p 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 suffic=
ient
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 fe=
lt
as if I had mangled the living flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself and then
entered the chamber. With tre=
mbling
hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room, but I reflected that I oug=
ht 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.&nbs=
p;
I had before regarded my promise with a gloomy despair as a thing th=
at,
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 di=
d 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 t=
hat
could lead to a different conclusion.
Between two and t=
hree
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 commi=
ssion
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 a=
nd
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 hi=
d 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 soundl=
y. 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 northeas=
t 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 situa=
ted,
my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt a few sensat=
ions
of terror. I had no compass w=
ith me
and was so slenderly acquainted with the geography of this part of the world
that the sun was of little benefit to me.&=
nbsp;
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 alr=
eady
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 fath=
er,
and of Clerval--all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his
sanguinary and merciless passions.
This idea plunged me into a reverie so despairing and frightful that
even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me forever, I
shudder to reflect on it.
Some hours passed
thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the horizon, the wind died
away into a gentle breeze and the sea became free from breakers. But these gave place to a heavy sw=
ell; 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 t=
ears
gushed from my eyes.
How mutable are o=
ur
feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the
excess of misery! I construct=
ed
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 easi=
ly 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 entere=
d,
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 surpri=
sed 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, a=
nd 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 kn=
ow
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 n=
ot 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 dialo=
gue
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 wa=
y to
the inn, but no one replied. =
I then
moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they followed =
and
surrounded me, when an ill-looking man approaching tapped me on the shoulder
and said, "Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's to give an
account of yourself."
"Who is Mr.
Kirwin? Why am I to give an a=
ccount
of myself? Is not this a free
country?"
"Ay, sir, fr=
ee
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 start=
led
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 constr=
ued
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 desp=
air
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.
I was soon introd=
uced
into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent man with calm and mi=
ld
manners. He looked upon me,
however, with some degree of severity, and then, turning towards my conduct=
ors,
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 tha=
t he
had been out fishing the night before with his son and brother-in-law, Dani=
el
Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed a strong northerly blast ris=
ing,
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 fir=
st, carrying
a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions followed him at some dista=
nce.
As he was proceed=
ing
along the sands, he struck his foot against something and fell at his lengt=
h 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 c=
ottage
of an old woman near the spot and endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to
life. It appeared to be a han=
dsome
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 n=
eck.
The first part of
this deposition did not in the least interest me, but when the mark of the
fingers was mentioned I remembered the murder of my brother and felt myself
extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my eyes, which
obliged me to lean on a chair for support.=
The magistrate observed me with a keen eye and of course drew an
unfavourable augury from my manner.
The son confirmed=
his
father's account, but when Daniel Nugent was called he swore positively that
just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, with a single man in =
it,
at a short distance from the shore; and as far as he could judge by the lig=
ht
of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had just landed. A woman deposed that she lived nea=
r 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 hou=
se;
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 sa=
me
spot from which I had departed. Besides, they observed that it appeared tha=
t 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 corps=
e.
Mr. Kirwin, on
hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the room where t=
he
body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect the sight of =
it
would produce upon me. This i=
dea 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 s=
truck
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 corps=
e lay and
was led up to the coffin. How=
can I
describe my sensations on beholding it?&nb=
sp;
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 murdero=
us
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--&q=
uot;
The human frame c=
ould
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 entreate=
d 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 scre=
amed
aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr.
Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficien=
t 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 youth=
ful
lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a pr=
ey
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 th=
us
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 distur=
bed
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 t=
hat
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 fan= cy it will go hard with you! How= ever, that's none of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it were well if everybody did the same."<= o:p>
I turned with
loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to a person j=
ust
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 realit=
y.
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 p=
hysician
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 fat=
e of a
murderer but the hangman who would gain his fee?
These were my fir=
st
reflections, but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown me extreme
kindness. He had caused the b=
est
room in the prison to be prepared for me (wretched indeed was the best); an=
d 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 c=
reature,
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 wi=
th
long intervals. One day, whil=
e I
was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes half open and my
cheeks livid like those in death. =
span>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 M=
r.
Kirwin entered. His countenan=
ce
expressed sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine and addres=
sed
me in French, "I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I d=
o 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 c=
omfort
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. B=
ut you
will, I hope, soon quit this melancholy abode, for doubtless evidence can e=
asily
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 miserab=
le
of mortals. Persecuted and to=
rtured
as I am and have been, can death be any evil to me?"
"Nothing ind=
eed
could be more unfortunate and agonizing than the strange chances that have
lately occurred. You were thr=
own,
by some surprising accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality, s=
eized
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 so=
me
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 supp=
ose
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; nearl=
y two
months have elapsed since the departure of my letter. But you are ill; even now you trem=
ble;
you are unfit for agitation of any kind."
"This suspen=
se
is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event; tell me what new sc=
ene
of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament?"
"Your family=
is
perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin with gentleness; "and someone, a
friend, is come to visit you."
I know not by what
chain of thought the idea presented itself, but it instantly darted into my
mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery and taunt me with the
death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply with his hellish
desires. I put my hand before=
my
eyes, and cried out in agony, "Oh! Take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, =
do not
let him enter!"
Mr. Kirwin regard=
ed
me with a troubled countenance. He
could not help regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and sa=
id
in rather a severe tone, "I should have thought, young man, that the p=
resence
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 do=
es he
not hasten to me?"
My change of mann=
er
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 ro=
se 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 ha=
nd to
him and cried, "Are you, then, safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?" =
My
father calmed me with assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by dwell=
ing
on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirit=
s; but
he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness.
"What a plac=
e is
this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking mournfully at the bar=
red
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 fa=
ther,"
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 allow=
ed
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 th=
at my strength
should not be exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father wa=
s 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 co=
uld
dissipate. The image of Clerv=
al was
forever before me, ghastly and murdered.&n=
bsp;
More than once the agitation into which these reflections threw me m=
ade
my friends dread a dangerous relapse.
Alas! Why did they pre=
serve
so miserable and detested a life?
It was surely that I might fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing t=
o a
close. Soon, oh, very soon, w=
ill
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 alr=
eady
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.&nbs=
p;
Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting witnesses a=
nd
arranging my defence. I was s=
pared 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 fr=
iend
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, tha=
t I
was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere and permitted to return t=
o my
native country. I did not par=
ticipate
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, cloud=
ed
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.&nb=
sp;
He talked of Geneva, which I should soon visit, of Elizabeth and Ern=
est;
but these words only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish f=
or
happiness and thought with melancholy delight of my beloved cousin or longe=
d,
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 fee=
ling
was a torpor in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the divinest s=
cene
in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted but by paroxysms of angui=
sh
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 drea=
dful
act of violence.
Yet one duty rema=
ined
to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over my selfish
despair. It was necessary tha=
t I
should return without delay to Geneva, there to watch over the lives of tho=
se 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 e=
ndued
with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still desired to delay o=
ur
departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues of a journey, for I
was a shattered wreck--the shadow of a human being. My strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton, and fever n=
ight
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 ves=
sel
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 s=
tars
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 lig=
ht 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 d=
earest
companion, had fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my memory, my whole
life--my quiet happiness while residing with my family in Geneva, the death=
of
my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, shuddering, the mad
enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my hideous enemy, and I ca=
lled
to mind the night in which he first lived.=
I was unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pre=
ssed
upon me, and I wept bitterly. Ever
since my recovery from the fever I had been in the custom of taking every n=
ight
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. Towar=
ds
morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend's grasp in=
my
neck and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was watching over m=
e,
perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around, the cl=
oudy
sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a tr=
uce
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.
The voyage came t=
o an
end. We landed, and proceeded=
to
Paris. I soon found that I had
overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I could continue my
journey. My father's care and
attentions were indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferi=
ngs
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 b=
eings,
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, abho=
r 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 ban=
ish
my despair. Sometimes he thou=
ght
that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of m=
urder,
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 wre=
tch as
I felt pride. Justine, poor u=
nhappy
Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died f=
or
it; and I am the cause of this--I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry--they =
all
died by my hands."
My father had oft=
en,
during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accus=
ed
myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appe=
ared
to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, s=
ome
idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance o=
f which
I preserved in my convalescence.
I avoided explana=
tion
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 my=
self
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 hav=
e confided
the fatal secret. Yet, still,=
words
like those I have recorded would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no explanation of th=
em,
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 infatuatio=
n 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 in=
nocent
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 fat=
her,
indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race."
The conclusion of
this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, and he instant=
ly
changed the subject of our conversation and endeavoured to alter the course=
of
my thoughts. He wished as muc=
h 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 aw=
ay I
became more calm; misery had her dwelling in my heart, but I no longer talk=
ed
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 so=
metimes
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, ho=
w much
you must have suffered! I exp=
ect 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 p=
eace
in your countenance and to find that your heart is not totally void of comf=
ort
and tranquillity.
"Yet I fear =
that
the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year ago, even per=
haps
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 Eli=
zabeth
have to explain? If you reall=
y say this,
my questions are answered and all my doubts satisfied. But you are distant from me, and i=
t is
possible that you may dread and yet be pleased with this explanation; and i=
n 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 n=
ever
had the courage to begin.
"You well kn=
ow,
Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of your parents ever sin=
ce
our infancy. We were told thi=
s when
young, and taught to look forward to it as an event that would certainly ta=
ke place. We were affectionate playfellows d=
uring
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 mu=
tual happiness,
with simple truth--Do you not love another?
"You have
travelled; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I
confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flyi=
ng
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 ful=
fil
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 dre=
ams
of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I d=
esire
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, bor=
ne
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 b=
eing
an obstacle to your wishes. A=
h!
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 ob=
ey me
in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth will have the p=
ower
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 nee=
d no
other happiness.
=
&nb=
sp; =
&nb=
sp;
"Elizabeth Lavenza
"Geneva, May 18th,
17--"
This letter revived in my memory wh=
at 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 daem=
on
employ every art to destroy me and tear me from the glimpse of happiness wh=
ich
promised partly to console my sufferings.&=
nbsp;
On that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my
death. Well, be it so; a dead=
ly
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 la=
id
waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, penniless, and alone, but free. S=
uch
would be my liberty except that in my Elizabeth I possessed a treasure, ala=
s,
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 t=
he angel's
arm bared to drive me from all hope.
Yet I would die to make her happy.&=
nbsp;
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 drea=
dful
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, therefor=
e,
that if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my
father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my life should not retar=
d it
a single hour.
In this state of =
mind
I wrote to Elizabeth. My lett=
er 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 dr=
eadful
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 plac=
e, 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 a=
fter
the arrival of Elizabeth's letter we returned to Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with wa=
rm
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 s=
oft
looks of compassion made her a more fit companion for one blasted and miser=
able
as I was. The tranquillity wh=
ich I
now enjoyed did not endure. M=
emory
brought madness with it, and when I thought of what had passed, a real insa=
nity
possessed me; sometimes I was furious and burnt with rage, sometimes low and
despondent. I neither spoke n=
or
looked at anyone, but sat motionless, bewildered by the multitude of miseri=
es that
overcame me.
Elizabeth alone h=
ad
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 torp=
or. 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 th=
ere
is no peace. The agonies of r=
emorse
poison the luxury there is otherwise sometimes found in indulging the exces=
s of
grief. Soon after my arrival =
my
father spoke of my immediate marriage with Elizabeth. I remained silent.
"Have you, t=
hen,
some other attachment?"
"None on
earth. I love Elizabeth and l=
ook
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 Vic=
tor,
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 les=
sons
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 inv=
incible,
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.
Great God! If for one instant I had thought w=
hat
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 powe=
rs,
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 fix=
ed
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 l=
ooked
forward to our union with placid contentment, not unmingled with a little f=
ear,
which past misfortunes had impressed, that what now appeared certain and ta=
ngible
happiness might soon dissipate into an airy dream and leave no trace but de=
ep
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 in=
to
the plans of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations o=
f my
tragedy. Through my father's
exertions a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth had been restored to her by
the Austrian government. A sm=
all possession
on the shores of Como belonged to her.&nbs=
p;
It was agreed that, immediately after our union, we should proceed to
Villa Lavenza and spend our first days of happiness beside the beautiful la=
ke
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, a=
nd 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 appear=
ance
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 perva=
ded
her; and perhaps also she thought of the dreadful secret which I had promis=
ed
to reveal to her on the following day.&nbs=
p;
My father was in the meantime overjoyed and in the bustle of prepara=
tion
only recognized in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of a bride.
After the ceremony
was performed a large party assembled at my father's, but it was agreed that
Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water, sleeping that night at
Evian and continuing our voyage on the following day. The day was fair, the wind favoura=
ble; all
smiled on our nuptial embarkation.
Those were the la=
st
moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of happiness. We passed rapidly along; the sun w=
as
hot, but we were sheltered from its rays by a kind of canopy while we enjoy=
ed
the beauty of the scene, sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw Mo=
nt
Saleve, the pleasant banks of Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting al=
l,
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 nati=
ve
country, and an almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wis=
h to
enslave it.
I took the hand of Elizabeth. "You are sorr= owful, my love. Ah! If you knew what I have suffered a= nd 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."<= o:p>
"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 Mo=
nt
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 di=
vine
day! How happy and serene all
nature appears!"
Thus Elizabeth
endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection upon melanc=
holy
subjects. But her temper was
fluctuating; joy for a few instants shone in her eyes, but it continually g=
ave
place to distraction and reverie.
The sun sank lowe=
r 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 l=
ake,
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 h=
ad
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 am=
ong
the trees as we approached the shore, from which it wafted the most delight=
ful
scent of flowers and hay. The=
sun
sank beneath the horizon as we landed, and as I touched the shore I felt th=
ose
cares and fears revive which soon were to clasp me and cling to me forever.=
It was eight o'cl=
ock
when we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, enjoying the trans=
itory
light, and then retired to the inn and contemplated the lovely scene of wat=
ers,
woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet still displaying their black
outlines.
The wind, which h=
ad
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 th=
an
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 thou=
sand
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?&=
quot;
"Oh! Peace, peace, my love," repli=
ed 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 a=
nd 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 sc=
ream. It came from the room into which
Elizabeth had retired. As I h=
eard
it, the whole truth rushed into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of eve=
ry
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 destru=
ction
of the best hope and the purest creature on earth? She was there, lifeless and inanim=
ate,
thrown across the bed, her head hanging down and her pale and distorted
features half covered by her hair.
Everywhere I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless arms and rela=
xed
form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could I behold this and live? Alas! Life is obstinate and clings close=
st where
it is most hated. For a momen=
t 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 expres=
sed
a breathless terror, but the horror of others appeared only as a mockery, a
shadow of the feelings that oppressed me.&=
nbsp;
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 postur=
e in
which I had first beheld her, and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm an=
d a
handkerchief thrown across her face and neck, I might have supposed her asl=
eep.
I rushed towards her and embraced her with ardour, but the deadly languor a=
nd
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.&=
nbsp;
The murderous mark of the fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the bre=
ath
had ceased to issue from her lips.
While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to l=
ook
up. The windows of the room h=
ad
before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic on seeing the pale yellow
light of the moon illuminate the chamber.&=
nbsp;
The shutters had been thrown back, and with a sensation of horror no=
t to
be described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and
abhorred. A grin was on the f=
ace of
the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish finger he pointed towa=
rds
the corpse of my wife. I rush=
ed
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 h=
ours,
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 diffe=
rent
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 st=
ate 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 va=
rious
subjects, reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes and their cause. I was bewildered, in a cloud of wo=
nder
and horror. The death of Will=
iam,
the execution of Justine, the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; eve=
n 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 gras=
p,
and Ernest might be dead at his feet.
This idea made me shudder and recalled me to action. I started up and resolved to retur=
n to
Geneva with all possible speed.
There were no hor=
ses
to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the wind was unfavourabl=
e,
and the rain fell in torrents.
However, it was hardly morning, and I might reasonably hope to arriv=
e 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.&nbs=
p;
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 h=
ad
contemplated but the day before in the company of her who was now but a sha=
dow
and a recollection. Tears str=
eamed
from my eyes. The rain had ce=
ased
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 a=
s it
had done the day before. A fi=
end
had snatched from me every hope of future happiness; no creature had ever b=
een
so miserable as I was; so frightful an event is single in the history of ma=
n.
But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelm=
ing
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, on=
e 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 vener=
able
old man! His eyes wandered in
vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight--his Elizabeth, his
more than daughter, whom he doted on with all that affection which a man fe=
els,
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 g=
rey
hairs and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could not live under the horror=
s 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 sensat=
ion,
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 du=
ring
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 m=
emory
of past misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause--the
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 ardent=
ly
prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak a great and signal re=
venge
on his cursed head.
Nor did my hate l=
ong
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 repai=
red
to a criminal judge in the town and told him that I had an accusation to ma=
ke,
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 hav=
e 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 m=
istaken
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 ago=
ny
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 other=
s a
lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his countenance.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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, a=
nd I
believe and hope that your feelings as a man will not revolt from the execu=
tion
of those functions on this occasion."=
This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my o=
wn
auditor. He had heard my stor=
y with
that half kind of belief that is given to a tale of spirits and supernatura=
l events;
but when he was called upon to act officially in consequence, the whole tid=
e of
his incredulity returned. He,
however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in y=
our
pursuit, but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which wo=
uld
put all my exertions to defiance.
Who can follow an animal which can traverse the sea of ice and inhab=
it
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 do=
ubt
that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit, and if he has indeed taken re=
fuge
in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois and destroyed as a beast of
prey. But I perceive your tho=
ughts;
you do not credit my narrative and do not intend to pursue my enemy with th=
e punishment
which is his desert." As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magist=
rate
was intimidated. "You are
mistaken," said he. &quo=
t;I
will exert myself, and if it is in my power to seize the monster, be assure=
d that
he shall suffer punishment proportionate to his crimes. But I fear, from what you have you=
rself
described to be his properties, that this will prove impracticable; and thu=
s,
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 re=
fuse
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 t=
o a
Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those o=
f devotion
and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe me as a n=
urse
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 act=
ion.
My present situat=
ion
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 al=
lowed
me to be calculating and calm at periods when otherwise delirium or death w=
ould
have been my portion.
My first resoluti=
on
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 mo=
ney,
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 wh=
ich travellers
in deserts and barbarous countries are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; ma=
ny times
have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain and prayed for
death. But revenge kept me al=
ive; I
dared not die and leave my adversary in being.
When I quitted Ge=
neva
my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my
fiendish enemy. But my plan w=
as
unsettled, and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncert=
ain what
path I should pursue. As night
approached I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William,
Elizabeth, and my father reposed. =
span>I
entered it and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Everything was silent except the l=
eaves
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 uninter=
ested
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 wh=
ich
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 gra=
ss and
kissed the earth and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred ear=
th
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 pres=
ide
over thee, to pursue the daemon who caused this misery, until he or I shall
perish in mortal conflict. Fo=
r 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 vengea=
nce,
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 ass=
ured
me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion, b=
ut
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 heavil=
y; 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 m=
ore
than mortal speed.
I pursued him, and
for many months this has been my task.&nbs=
p;
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 di=
e, left
some mark to guide me. The sn=
ows
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, wa=
nt,
and fatigue were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was curs=
ed
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 dese=
rt
that restored and inspirited me.
The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country at=
e,
but I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoke=
d to
aid me. Often, when all was d=
ry,
the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would be=
dim
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, a=
s 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 f=
ood
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 pa=
ssed
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 reta=
in
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, an=
d my
beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard=
the
silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and
youth. Often, when wearied by=
a
toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should c=
ome
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 thei=
r dear
forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself =
that
they still lived! At such mom=
ents
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 ar=
dent
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 instig=
ated
my fury. "My reign is no=
t yet over"--these
words were legible in one of these inscriptions--"you live, and my pow=
er
is complete. Follow me; I see=
k 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 ene=
my; we
have yet to wrestle for our lives, but many hard and miserable hours must y=
ou
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 unt=
il 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 pursue=
d 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 t=
heir
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.&=
nbsp;
The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours.=
One inscription that he left was i=
n these
words: "Prepare! Your toils only begin; wrap yourse=
lf in
furs and provide food, for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your su=
fferings
will satisfy my everlasting hatred."
My courage and
perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fa=
il
in my purpose, and calling on heaven to support me, I continued with unabat=
ed
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! Co=
vered
with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness
and ruggedness. The Greeks we=
pt for
joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed w=
ith rapture
the boundary of their toils. =
I did
not weep, but I knelt down and with a full heart thanked my guiding spirit =
for
conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my
adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him.
Some weeks before
this period I had procured a sledge and dogs and thus traversed the snows w=
ith
inconceivable speed. I know n=
ot
whether the fiend possessed the same advantages, but I found that, as befor=
e I
had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him, so much so that =
when
I first saw the ocean he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped =
to
intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pre=
ssed
on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I inquired of the inhabitants conc=
erning
the fiend and gained accurate information.=
A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed w=
ith
a gun and many pistols, putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cot=
tage
through fear of his terrific appearance.&n=
bsp;
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 village=
rs,
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 fros=
ts.
On hearing this
information I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had escaped me, an=
d I
must commence a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountaino=
us
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 li=
ke 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 plenti=
ful
stock of provisions, I departed from land.
I cannot guess how
many days have passed since then, but I have endured misery which nothing b=
ut
the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning within my heart could h=
ave
enabled me to support. Immens=
e 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 week=
s 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 be=
fore
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 fille=
d 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 hour's rest, which was absolutely
necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 m=
ile
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 thunde=
r of
its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every mom=
ent
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 f=
ew
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 yo=
ur
vessel riding at anchor and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I had no conception that vessels e=
ver came
so far north and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sle=
dge to
construct oars, and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to m=
ove
my ice raft in the direction of your ship.=
I had determined, if you were going southwards, still to trust mysel=
f 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.&=
nbsp;
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, f=
or
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, swe=
ar to
me, Walton, that he shall not escape, that you will seek him and satisfy my
vengeance in his death. And d=
o I
dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that=
I
have undergone? No; I am not so selfish.&n=
bsp;
Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear, if the ministers of vengea=
nce
should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live--swear that he shall
not triumph over my accumulated woes and survive to add to the list of his =
dark
crimes. He is eloquent and
persuasive, and once his words had even power over my heart; but trust him
not. His soul is as hellish a=
s 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.
&n=
bsp;
=
Walton,
in continuation.
=
&nb=
sp; =
&nb=
sp;
August 26th, 17--
You have read this strange and terr=
ific
story, Margaret; and do you not feel your blood congeal with horror, like t=
hat
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 fin=
e and
lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast
sorrow and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his counten=
ance
and tones and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice,
suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, h=
is
face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage as he shrie=
ked
out imprecations on his persecutor.
His tale is conne=
cted
and told with an appearance of the simplest truth, yet I own to you that the
letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the apparition of the
monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the truth=
of
his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster has, then, really
existence! I cannot doubt it,=
yet I
am lost in surprise and admiration.
Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of=
his
creature's formation, but on this point he was impenetrable. "Are you =
mad,
my friend?" said he. &qu=
ot;Or
whither does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself=
and the
world a demoniacal enemy? Pea=
ce,
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 pla=
ces,
but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held =
with
his enemy. "Since you have preserved my narration," said he, &quo=
t;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 imaginat=
ion
formed. My thoughts and every
feeling of my soul have been drunk up by the interest for my guest which th=
is
tale and his own elevated and gentle manners have created. I wish to soothe him, yet can I co=
unsel
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 off=
spring
of solitude and delirium; he believes that when in dreams he holds converse
with his friends and derives from that communion consolation for his miseri=
es
or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fan=
cy,
but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a remote
world. This faith gives a sol=
emnity
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 literatu=
re he
displays unbounded knowledge and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touc=
hing;
nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident or endeavours to mo=
ve
the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he h=
ave
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 ent=
erprise. My feelings are profound, but I
possessed a coolness of judgm=
ent
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 crimina=
l to
throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow
creatures. When I reflected o=
n 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 withou=
t 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; b=
ut
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 hav=
e 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 infanti=
ne
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, ho=
wever
strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with
suspicion. But I enjoyed frie=
nds,
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 C=
lerval
will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead, and but one feeling in suc=
h 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 creature=
s,
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 pers=
uaded
to be my companions look towards me for aid, but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appall=
ing 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, Margare=
t,
will be the state of your mind? You
will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return.
But you have a husband and lovely children; you may be happy. Heaven bless you and make you so!<= o:p>
My unfortunate gu=
est
regards me with the tenderest compassion.&=
nbsp;
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 w=
ho
have attempted this sea, and in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful
auguries. Even the sailors fe=
el the
power of his eloquence; when he speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses t=
heir
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; eac=
h day
of expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny ca=
used
by this despair.
September 5th
A scene has just passed of such unc=
ommon
interest that, although it is highly probable that these papers may never r=
each
you, yet I cannot forbear recording it.
We are still
surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being crushed in
their conflict. The cold is
excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave
amidst this scene of desolation.
Frankenstein has daily declined in health; a feverish fire still
glimmers in his eyes, but he is exhausted, and when suddenly roused to any
exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness.
I mentioned in my
last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat
watching the wan countenance of my friend--his eyes half closed and his lim=
bs
hanging listlessly--I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who demand=
ed
admission into the cabin. The=
y 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 f=
eared
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 fr=
esh
dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I s=
hould
engage with a solemn promise that if the vessel should be freed I would
instantly direct my course southwards.
This speech troub=
led
me. I had not despaired, nor =
had I
yet conceived the idea of returning if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even i=
n possibility,
refuse this demand? I hesitat=
ed
before I answered, when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and ind=
eed
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 y=
ou,
then, so easily turned from your design?&n=
bsp;
Did you not call this a glorious expedition?
"And wherefo=
re
was it glorious? Not because =
the
way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dan=
gers
and terror, because at every new incident your fortitude was to be called f=
orth
and your courage exhibited, because danger and death surrounded it, and the=
se
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, w=
ith
the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terr=
ific
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, t=
hey
were chilly and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires not this prepar=
ation;
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 purpos=
es and
firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; i=
t is
mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families wit=
h the
stigma of disgrace marked on your brows.&n=
bsp;
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 ano=
ther
and were unable to reply. I s=
poke;
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 hop=
ed
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 purp=
ose
unfulfilled. Yet I fear such =
will
be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never wi=
llingly
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.&=
nbsp;
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 enti=
rely
confined to his bed. The ice
cracked behind us and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze spr=
ang
from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfect=
ly
free. When the sailors saw th=
is 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, awok=
e and
asked the cause of the tumult.
"They shout," I said, "because they will soon return =
to
England."
"Do you, the=
n,
really return?"
"Alas! Yes; I cannot withstand their
demands. I cannot lead them u=
nwillingly
to danger, and I must return."
"Do so, if y=
ou
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 spr=
ing
from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back and fain=
ted.
It was long befor=
e 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 d=
raught
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; hi=
s eyes
were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a fee=
ble
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 bei=
ng. Think not, Walton, that in the last
moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred and ardent desire of rev=
enge
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 creat=
e a
companion for the first creature.
He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness in evil; he destroy=
ed
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.&n=
bsp;
When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to underta=
ke
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 t=
hat
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 sho=
uld
live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other respects, this h=
our,
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 yo=
u to
understand the depth of my sorrow?
All that I should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshad=
owed
by a cloud of disappointment. But I
journey towards England, and I may there find consolation.
I am
interrupted. What do these so=
unds
portend? It is midnight; the =
breeze
blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again there is a sound as of a hum=
an
voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of Frankenste=
in
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 t=
ale
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 hu=
ng a form
which I cannot find words to describe--gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and
distorted in its proportions. As he
hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; =
but
one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a m=
ummy.
When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of =
grief
and horror and sprung towards the window.&=
nbsp;
Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathso=
me
yet appalling hideousness. I =
shut
my eyes involuntarily and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with
regard to this destroyer. I c=
alled
on him to stay.
He paused, lookin=
g 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 instigat=
ed
by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.
"That is als=
o 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 irretrie=
vably
destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! He is cold, he cannot answer me.&q=
uot;
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 a=
nd
unearthly in his ugliness. I
attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wil=
d and
incoherent self-reproaches. At
length I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his
passion.
"Your repent=
ance,"
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 t=
o 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.&=
nbsp;
Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susce=
ptible
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 ev=
en
imagine.
"After the
murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amo=
unted
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 e=
nvy
and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat and resolv=
ed
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, subdue=
d all
anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice bu=
t to
adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal de=
sign
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 rekin=
dled
within me. "Wretch!"=
; I
said. "It is well that y=
ou
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 t=
he
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 tha=
t you
feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from
your power."
"Oh, it is n=
ot
thus--not thus," interrupted the being. "Yet such must be the impress=
ion
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 f=
orm,
would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of
unfolding. I was nourished wi=
th
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 cata=
logue
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 maj=
esty
of goodness. But it is even s=
o; the
fallen angel becomes a malignant devil.&nb=
sp;
Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his
desolation; I am alone.
"You, who ca=
ll
Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his mis=
fortunes.
But in the detail which he gave you of them he could not sum up the hours a=
nd
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 ar=
dent
and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> 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 y=
ou
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 abandone=
d,
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 t=
rue
that I am a wretch. I have mu=
rdered
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 crea=
tor,
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 li=
es,
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 imaginati=
on
will haunt my thoughts no more.
"Fear not th=
at I
shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death =
is
needed to consummate the series of my being and accomplish that which must =
be done,
but it requires my own. Do not
think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ic=
e 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 wo=
uld
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 s=
tars
or feel the winds play on my cheeks.
"Light, feel=
ing,
and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the images wh=
ich
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 woul=
dst
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,&q=
uot;
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. =
span>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 t=
hink
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 awa=
y by
the waves and lost in darkness and distance.